idalie
ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ʙᴀʙʏʟᴏɴ
Magnhild of Thirsk
“Good answer.” Her gaze flickered up through full lashes, wariness waning further still in the face of kindly conversation; the partner of which had such clarity in his answers, she’d not pained herself to act uncordial. Rather, perhaps the attention elicited a wish to know more from a stranger on a night where the air was heavy with cloves and spice, and the tune of distant strings became heavenly in favourable company, “About the music, that is. You can’t blame me for testing the limits to a nobleman's interests—they’re either madmen or find a new hobby every few months,” Magnhild paused, a small lull where she held her breath for no particular reason, “I suppose you must be mad.”
The battle maiden’s mouth twisted into a positively riotous grin, crooked where the scar split thin albeit shapely lips, “I should hope I find plenty of things, secret things and sweet things and perhaps, song things.” A laugh followed, brash and unladylike where it wavered and made her belly ache. No tittering allure, but of something weathered—worn until comfortable, where it sat at the back of her throat in wait for joy, melting off the disdain on the topic of fathers.
Nevertheless, the stranger did away with his mystery, all but failing to remove his mask. He gave her a name.
“Mateo,” It rolled clumsily off Magnhild’s tongue with the abrasive Ajnan accent sharpening all rounded sounds, “Wanderers need gold to buy passage on a ship, you must know this.” Her fingertip lightly tapped against his sternum, “Mercenary work pays, so I come to this party to follow my patrons—and my patrons dismiss me, so I, being a wanderer, have to linger until I see them home safe.” A sharp exhale preceded her next words, “That’s how. And every time the clock strikes, I lose no glass slipper—instead I think I must be turning into a pumpkin."
Distant hubbub tore Mag’s attention in the direction of the shards, squinting across the ballroom and over the crowding heads, “Speaking of patrons, I’d be glad to release you from your contracted game. You played it well,” Within the first few steps she made ahead, a glance stole across her shoulder back to Mateo, “Where there's shock, trouble isn’t far behind—unless you’d care to see it with me?”
“I’d be a very pleasant man to hold your acquaintance longer,” Mateo said, letting a sharp laugh fall from his lips. The intrigue in his eyes hidden still beneath the mask was more than apparent. Though, clearly the slow rising sounds of alarm managed to get under his skin. “Though, something seems wrong.”
He strode forward, hand boldly clasping Mag’s wrist, and led the way.
Toward the disarray of worried partygoers, two girls collapsed amidst the fray. Magnhild not accustomed to being led forth, fleetingly darkening her expression to believe herself in need of guidance—and yet the soft palm of stabilising warmth provided an overwhelming sense of calm. They passed the fragments, Mag’s mind caught in a spin as they encroached nearer the display, as if what they walked upon was hallowed ground and she were seconds from catching flame. The maiden’s head felt as if stuffed with cotton, breathless as her chest struggled to catch up with her panic.
She tugged away from Mateo, until the gleam of sapphire enraptured her—clear as the old glaciers which formed the fjords and had once worn down mountains, endlessly caught in a pryzm of changing blue. Blood rushed to her ears, thundering with a pulse that seemed to altogether cease as Magnhild’s remaining iris rolled upward.
Magnhild stood atop the grey slate cliffs of home, far removed from the warmth and celebration of that distant masquerade. A splinter of stone caught her toe, skipping against the gravelled ledge until it fell free; rounding and cascading until it hit the tumultuous waters below. Swallowed whole without so much as a splash. A sharp wind tugged at her tunic, driving closer toward its steep drop until a pale hand reached out to clasp Mag’s shoulders. Navy locks whipped and twisted over themselves, accustomed to the bitter cold before lips parted to speak.
No louder than a whisper, nearly lost to the noise of the growing tempest, “I have long dwelled on futures long since past, and pasts which have become long-suffering presents. Of tomorrows occurring yesterday, and years happening in fortnights.” Her skin was icy, the touch bleeding it’s frigid temperature until Magnhild felt as if her heart had become the early morning frost; a frozen pond to be shattered with a child’s wayward pebble, “Take up arms, girl of no blood, no house nor lord, take up arms and see, past where your tired feet tread. There—the sunrise as it falls in another time, another place, there where men kill, see now the distances you may not cross and faces from afar closer. The stars and their flaring, how warm they ought to make you feel.”
The woman fell to lingering silence, her lull occupied by Magnhild's remark: “Why?”
“Why is said by all who come to live through the passing of such times. Let it be known that fate hath its plans, and love hath its delights, to weather the storms of midwinter nights. Be safe, my lark. Be sturdy. You will find, the way down is most terrifying for it’s progress to climb—”
A sharp push against the small of her back sent Magnhild careening over the cliff, down and down again until she swore to hit the water—-warm light and sound flooded back with nauseous consequence, teetering forward until her vision tunnelled completely, collapsing hard into the varnished floors whilst her arm remained raised in Mateo’s grasp; yanking against his sturdy frame.
