Fantasy //the lives of many, the lives of few (persephone & sim)

[persimmon]

a thread for myself and Persephones Grief
fantastic gay ideas ahead, you have been warned​

 

[persimmon]

• silyan, snow viper
• valja, autumn witch
• "Bed a Red" Kathy Loo

• 
  After five godforsaken days spent far away from all the creature comforts Silyan is well and truly used to, he's entrenched deeply in a tremendously, unmistakably sour mood. Five days apart from his princely, somewhat volatile charge and he feels entirely entitled to (literally) bite off the head of the next caravan guard who so much as breathes in his direction. He's worried about Dez, he's worried about the whole damned kingdom falling apart while he's away, he's worried about his priceless collection. Actually, he's far past worry. He is anxiety incarnate and it's only sheer, bloodcurdling fear which keeps his current comrades-in-arms from poking fun at him. Silyan laughs sharply at the thought, making the guard riding beside him visibly start. Poor soul.
  
  And none of them have even really seen me, he muses, expending more of his magic to hide his aura and calm the horses. They're a lot more savvy about monsters like himself, and he's noticed how the poor creatures twitch and whinny when he's around them too long. And all it takes for the guards to fear him is his icy demeanor, and the rumours that he prefers the company of men.
  
  While the rumours may be entirely correct, his sexual dalliances are decidedly less scary than him being an enormous snake monster completely able to swallow a man whole.
  
  And literally eat one, too.
  
  Nevertheless, the guards' close-minded attitudes and the highly noticeable lack of his usual riding companion have all amounted to five days of no one to talk to but himself, no one whose flirtations he could gently but decidedly turn down, none of that positively childish whining when Dez doesn't get to go to some party or visit some lower class friend because of 'those precious security measures, Yan! I feel so stifled!' He supposes he should see it as a welcome break, a holiday away from his mad Djinni ward, a chance to rest his scales from Dez's relentless desire for sparring... but all he feels is loneliness. Silyan knows very well that trying to keep up with the young prince's fast and furious lifestyle is the most exciting thing about his employment at the palace. And the most entertaining, now that they've managed to steer away from the darker waters of Dez's disposition (with no small sense of pride for the younger man's determination).
  
  But the prince's bodyguard does not get sent away on a five day trip for any random matter, and this is possibly the most vital quest the king could place on his shoulders - the retrieval of the Summer Stone from its sacred resting site, to see it safely delivered to the palace for the Ceremony of Incandescent Light. Glancing at the ornate, gilded carriage, he feels very much like this relic is to him, what he is to those poor, terrified horses. Focusing on its absolutely awesome power for too long makes him feel like he's about to suffocate, so he decides to glare resolutely at the road ahead for the next three hours, until the city finally appears in the distance.
  
  And then he releases a breath he didn't know he was holding.
  
  Home.
  
  With his eyes focused resolutely on the palace spires, the rest of the trip is child's play. And though he likely won't ever admit this out loud, all the pomp and ceremony of delivering the Stone safely to the Grand Cathedral of Glorious Hope and making nice with religious officials is just... noise. After all, he can't truly be expected to care about the Summer Court's stunning ceremonies, having seen both the cost, and the effect, of such hedonic decadence. He still wears the scars. So, it is just noise that finally fades to blessed silence when he ascends the steps to the study of his master (and dearest friend) where he finds Dez flicking through some... eyebrow raising literature. The kind with pictures.
  
  Clearing his throat, he steps towards the desk and nudges the prince's feet none-too-delicately off it. He adopts his favourite tone of mock censure and arches an eyebrow like the stuffy lecturers he knows Dez absolutely despises. "When your father, our liege, suggested that you study the customs of the Winter Court... I highly doubt he had their preferred sexual positions in mind. Your highness," he adds with the smallest quirk of a smile, not entirely prepared to face the immense relief he feels at coming home to find his prince unharmed. But then, he supposes, Nagas are known for being protective of their treasure.
  
• 
  There are shapes to be discerned and futures to be gleaned, in the polished reflections on a surface of sticky, black blood. Hard won truths and mysteries unraveling twist and sink beneath the surface, muscles and fragile bones yielding under her strength. She's lost in the reading, she's lost to the slow, steady current of time, flowing across aeons. The eternal river is deep, the sand unsteady beneath her confidence and grace. With every step, the currents grow stronger, and whispers of distant futures curl around her form silky smooth and incomprehensible. She wades further than the other girls in the hearth-home and they fear her for it, they don't have the touch of the trance like she does, the flame of the Old Ones like a wreath around her head. "Valja, Marowit's daughter," they hiss behind her back and throw ill-wishes into her footprints in the mud. Daughter of the nightmare bringer, night-father, blood-drinker.
  
  Their petty jealousy is of no concern to her - she knows what she would see in their readings, dreams of red knights and harvest princesses, peasant girl dreams, hollow vanity. She reaches for different times, different truths, for the worlds beyond her own... for shaping such a future would be a grand victory indeed. A Yaga is made of achievements such as this. She would gladly give her hand to Marowit for such power.
  
  There is a thread which appears to her, unlike any other she's ever seen before - it stands out bright and stark like a sun-bleached bone in the black bog, a diamond to a future-seeker trawling the river... no, there are two! She gasps, sharply, breaking her ponderous stride to push herself faster through the waves. The effort is great, the waters deeper and deeper until she can feel the thick black water at her breast, and the taste of copper floods her mouth. There's no time to decide, she may drown at the slightest turn of the tide - with a tremendous push, she grasps both threads... and screams as her soul stretches to its very limits.
  
  "Valja...! Valja, stupid girl, stop your howling!"
  
  The waters drain away. The search is over, and she is a blood-covered, filthy girl again, hunched over a steaming bowl of guts and smeared with their stench. What a sight she must be, she realises, looking up with tired eyes at her father. He towers over her, dressed in his hunting pelts, two poached rabbits dripping at his belt. He looks down at her disapprovingly, lips a grim line under his thick grey moustache. She can summon no response, still lost in the few stolen glimpses she secured before the pain drove her from her trance. A snake-whisperer, bound to the heir of the golden court... a young woman, a heretic, pretending to wield powers beyond her understanding.
  
  Vitoval, her father, crouches down and places a heavy hand on her shoulder. "Did you hear me, girl? Do you not realise what danger we're in? One wrong turn and.." Though she's a woman grown, she knows he still can't bear to voice the reality of their hidden lives, their stolen livelihoods in the impenetrable marshes dotted around the Summer Rivers, where discovery would surely mean a return to slavery for her father, and unimaginable punishments for herself, a beautiful girl with her virginity still intact.
  
  Perhaps she didn't want him to say it out loud, anyway. A sudden chill drives a shiver through her body and she resurfaces fully into their shared desperate reality. "Papa, I'm sorry," she says softly. She wants to hold his hand like when she was a little girl... but her own are still twisted around rapidly cooling entrails, gristle and grime ground into her nails, every inch of skin up to her elbows smeared with stinking black blood.
  
  "Nothing to be done about it now. Go wash yourself, child. No more fooling around with the spirits today." He sounds grim but she can read Vitoval's moods, and knows she's forgiven. Grinning brightly, she places one messy kiss on his rough cheek before bounding out of their small wooden hut, leaving her father to clean the mess left by her divining.
  
  The air is fresh following a long rain, and the ground particularly treacherous, but she knows this land. They've been fortunate here. Between her father's traps and her own malicious tricks, they turn away would-be intruders with threats of punishments worse than death. There are many, many stories about the Summer people in this community, about their pride and their cruelty, their need to subjugate others in creative, gruesome ways. Everyone Valja's grown up with has their own lived nightmare haunting their every waking moment. They are bound by shared suffering and they work hard to ensure that none of their own fall into the hands of a Summer Lord again.
  
  But the marshes offer protection through secrecy to everyone, and the Autumn folk are not the only ones to recieve their blessings. Carried by swift steps to her favourite bend in the river, Valja pushes through a thick bramble and suddenly feels the blood drain from her face. She stops and stills her limbs into utter submission despite the sudden panicked beating of her heart.
  
  There is a disfigured shape hunched over at the river. It's humanlike enough to fool the untrained eye and stinks so awfully she has no idea how she missed it. She knows what it is. The half-rotten body, grossly distended from within by river water, the gray, veiny skin, leathery and wrinkled. Slow, jerky movements and ragged breathing. Topielec. Drowner. Sunk One. The body of a man who died in the river, filled with the evil intent of whatever spirit got to him first; a heartless demon which feeds only on mortal flesh, crouching over a limp body. Tears well up in her eyes as she watches the monster raise one clawed hand, torn apart by terror and pity for the girl lying unconscious on the shore. She aches to run forward and help, guilt already clawing away at her heart, but there is no magic strong enough in her to stop this fiend.
  
  The power of the moment keeps her stuck in place, a frozen rabbit watching a wolf from the bushes. Terrified to her very core. Helpless.
  
  Apparently more helpless than the unconscious girl, whose hand twitches and sends the drowner scuttling away, howling in despair as it dives back into the water. Before Valja's very eyes, wildflowers spring up around the girl's still body, more beautiful than anything that naturally lives in these sickly lands.
  
  The moment turns, and dissipates. The marsh springs back into life, and leaves Valja dumbstruck. There is no one she knows who has such powerful magic. There are no charms she could craft to do this. Her rituals and curses take days, weeks, of intense concentration and dozens of rare and precious ingredients, not the minute twitch of a finger. Drawn by power, before she realises what she's doing, Valja leaves the relative safety of her hiding place and crouches just outside the steadily spreading circle of wildflowers. Her hands are shaking madly, and her heart is lodged in her throat. As she takes in the face of the most beautiful girl she's ever seen, she realises how filthy she still is. Arms stained to the elbow, streaks of gore across her face, the stench of death clinging to her like a cloud.
  
  She reaches out and places a trembling finger on the girl's throat, feeling impossibly smooth skin and a slow, steady pulse. Hot shame fills her stomach - she's too disgusting to touch someone so perfect. Just a filthy Autumn outcast, no better than a decaying leaf swept to the side of the road. Still. She's enchanted, and she can't leave the girl to be swarmed by more drowners. Her other hand retrieves a bag of strengthening salts from her pocket. She places them under the girl's nose, and waits.
  
• 
  There's nothing better than a cheap, leaky apartment ("Perfectly ventilated!" "Compact, modern design!"), one smudged and greasy window overlooking a rainy afternoon ("Stylish city views!"), and a half full bottle of gin (at least this one's honest) for a lady to have all by herself. Kathy sits cross legged on her awful pallet bed, on that one spot where the boards haven't snapped yet, and ponders. There's a dusty bowler hat slanted precariously over her brow, because she feels melancholic, and she skips the one scratched, yellow tumbler she dug out of a cupboard and periodically takes burning swigs straight from the bottle. At least Monsieur Ginelli is always keen to keep me company, she thinks, and feels all the more pathetic for it. But. There's a trick to playing pathetic, and the scene she's crafting is a masterpiece. When the hired toughs come to bust the door down and take out her kneecaps, they will really see something special.
  
  Not that they'll appreciate it anyway.
  
  How does one come to sit in a rat-hole apartment drinking her Last Gin, anyway? Waiting for the inevitable when Torsin's damned thugs come around to enact his petty stupid fucking revenge? No prospects, hardly any hope?
  
  Well. One needs a certain appreciation for the art of melodrama, primarily.
  
  Secondly, thirdly, fourthly, and fifthly, one needs to act out a series of (perfectly) thought out plans which ruin every single one of your former business partner's impeccably planned plays, executed with a masterful dedication to the art of absolutely wrecking the everloving shit out of something. You seduce the leading lady. You sneak in like some kind of vengeful spectre, and you saw through almost every single prop (but not all the way, that would ruin the fun). On the day of the performance, you add a laxative to everything the caterer plans to provide for the actors. You carry on ruining Jaques Torsin's day, every day, until he either quits the business (what Kathy was one hundred percent certain would happen) or... hires thugs to kill you, apparently.
  
  She sighs, and shifts uncomfortably on the pallet. Talk about one hell of a plot twist.
  
  Perfectly on time, the door bursts open. Three tall, inconspicuously dressed, dark, and handsome lads stride in like they own the place - they're bloody well welcome to it - and simultaneously block the door and window while one of them comes up to tower menacingly over her. She couldn't have directed the scene better herself. With a groan, she stretches out her legs from the position she'd kept them for a good couple of hours, and makes sure her kneecaps are nicely arranged for a good, old-fashioned smashing. "Well, lads... have at it. I hope fucking Jaques gets his money's worth. Oh, what, he didn't give you his real name? Well it's Jaques Torsin. J-a-c-q-u-e-s T-O-R-S-I-N, I hope you got that, I hope he fucking chokes on his fucking caviar canapes and his priceless vintage champagne when he celebrates getting one over me, the old fart, I hope he chokes!" Her slow slurring quickly gives way to true drunkard's tirade, and when the closest thug comes close to put a hand on her shoulder, she bites it for good measure.
  
  He jumps away with a satisfying yelp. "Gods damn you woman!" He cries, retreating to a safer distance. "Take it! We're not getting paid enough for this shit!" He throws a sealed parchment at Kathy's feet, and the trio departs without another word. It takes her a few liquid minutes of staring at the golden paper, the cherry red wax seal, before she has the presence of mind to crawl over and pull it open.
  
  "Kathryn Louremonde,
  Her Majesty, Queen Kor Na'Akin the First, Sovereign Ruler of the Seven United Lands, cordially invites you to the Royal Palace at your earliest convenience. Please do take care to dress appropriately for the occasion. What follows is a list of acceptable times to visit, and daily dress codes for her Majesty's visiting rooms..."
  
  She doesn't know how long she sits in the middle of the floor, clutching the letter, but it's long enough for her hands to go numb. She watches the paper slide across the floor. She can feel the information ticking over in her brain. She sobers up, smiles, and begins to plan her visit to the palace. The visit that she joked and jeered about with her parents so many nights ago, the plan sure to deliver a perfect, stinging little slap right across the face of that conquering, bloodthirsty bitch of a monarch. They never thought it would happen, but here it is, and Kathy decides if she's this out of options, she might as well go out with a bang. They'll kill her quicker at the palace than in the docks. First things first. A suitable outfit is in order, certainly, and she still has friends she can call to arrange that. It occurs to her that some escorts would be a nice addition. Though meagre, there are savings she can gather to pull this off perfectly, and it never even crosses her mind to question why the queen would want to see her in the first place.
  
  Every kindred spirit of the artist is with her on that special day, as she sails past every courtier looking powerful, resplendent, and positively queen-like in a brand new, heavy fur coat. Her four hired hands are actors of consummate skill, friends from the theatre days who, once their suspicions were silenced with gold, are perfectly happy to act along. They're dressed in black like four matching stallions, silent and brooding as they accompany their 'mistress'. She couldn't have picked finer props if she'd tried.
  
  Once she is shown to the Queen's personal visiting chambers, she waits pointedly until her guide strides off with a disapproving glare. It wouldn't do, after all, to ruin the surprise. Then, the pièce de résistance. Her opening night entrance, the moment the audience has been waiting for. As the doors swing open, she throws the plush coat to the floor like garbage, where her assistants swiftly bend to recover it, and in one smooth movement, places a gleaming, pointed black crown on her head. It really is a work of art, wrapped with barbed wire and spattered with fake blood, exactly the kind of over the top message which her brand of theatre is famous for. And it matches the rest of her decadent, midnight black attire perfectly. The dress is a lacy, long sleeved and high necked number, yet dangerously, deliciously see through in all the appropriate places.
  
  'Bed a Red' Kathy Loo delivers what is certainly her final performance, starting with a bored, insolent sigh, and a casual look around the resplendent sitting room. She takes in the perfectly sculpted pillars, the delicate golden details on the priceless statuettes dotted around the room. The masterwork high-backed chairs, the lacquered mahogany table complete with an immaculate silver tea set already laid out in preparation. She takes it all in, and kisses her teeth.
  
  "Really, Kor, darling, you must do something about the decor in here. How awfully stuffy."
  

 

[Persephones Grief]

• Dez, The Prince
• Lilianna, The Healer
• Kor, The Queen

• 
  Now, let it never be said that Dez was not a lover of parties. He both adored them, and adored many, many others at them. He put the love into the concept, so to speak. He did it with his smiles, his slinking body language, his outrageous attire, and more than anything, with his mouth. Nothing like a little lip service, yes?
  
  And wasn't it fun? There were few things quite like the thrill of thrilling others, of getting to put something alive and fantastic and exhilarating into the world. Even those who loathed him and his more than a little controversial ways adored him in their own sense, for why else would they gossip so furiously, or attend every gathering he appeared at just so that they could chastise him? He was honoured to provide them with the distraction. Thankless work, once you'd developed a reputation, but rewarding nonetheless.
  
  After all, it was infinitely better than... well. Wallowing. Casting out all of his energy into others, into living, had proven much less destructive than targeting it all inwards. So long as he kept moving quick enough, he could spare himself from the torture that was thinking.
  
  Yet this was not a party he was looking forward to.
  
  Especially since all the mind games and shameless flirting all got a lot harder and a lot more boring when a certain Snake of a Man went and abandoned him.
  
  Bastard.
  
  "Remind me to have him fired," Dez muttered to the tailor who was running two fingers up his inner thigh, supposedly to fit him with a seventh 'back up' robe for the evening. He was a beautiful, sensous slip of a blonde pixie, with all the fixings of a good fuck. But what was the point in bedding anyone if Silyan wasn't there to make jealous?
  
  Shaking his head to usher those curious fingers away, Dez pouted into the mirror. What did he have to do to make himself worthy of that man? He knew - hells, the whole Kingdom knew - that the Naga was inclined towards the low-lit, whispered company of men, not women. So he wasn't failing there.
  
  Plus, he had been informed upon many occasions that he himself was attractive. Even when looking in the mirror made him sick with self-loathing, he could understand in theory that he had the laws of symmetry and the fine-care of wealth going for him. He had yet to meet anyone besides himself for whom he was not the correct 'type'.
  
  Silyan had seen him naked. Dez made sure of it at every possible occasion, just incase... just incase it sparked some realisation in the dunce's thick skull. I'm right here, he wanted to shout. I'm right here. But he couldn't. They were not supposed to be. Even if not being able to win the man's affections left him feeling like a child all over again, humiliated and embarrassed, yet stuck in a habit he would never be able to shake.
  
  It was a dangerous sort of habit. One that grew more and more obvious by the day, as he fell further and further down the rabbit hole of bleeding hearts and love. So far, he had managed to keep it publicly unknown that he was just as intoxicated by the sloping limbs of men as he was by women's. If he really was going to do this whole King business...
  
  In a rather foul mood - a common symptom of snake-withdrawal - he dismissed the tailor with a snap and flounced - a movement he had perfected now that he was a royal and infinitely more encouraged to be a self-centered twat (awkwardness or perceivable insecurity would get him devoured in a court such as this) - off of the stool. "I'm not in the mood today, Daniel," he said, sadly. "Everything is quite out of place today. After all," he sighed, "this year is the year it all begins."
  
  It was tradition in the Summer Court for the future heir of the throne to undergo one year of 'ascendance'. In this year, he was officially crowned Crown Prince, and his journey to ascend to the throne was due to begin now that he had come of 'Prime Age'. It was a trial of sorts, presided over by his ever watchful father. He would be expected to attend every one of his father's duties; To attend every vile council meeting, stuffy dance, execution trial, and religious ceremony.
  
  He would be expected to attend them alone.
  
  No Silyan to act as his shadow. No Silyan to keep him sane amongst the ever-scrutinising gazes of the wolves that populated this godsforesaken palace.
  
  Ignoring what felt like a most childish impulse to cry, Dez watched Daniel out and then turned back to the mirror.
  
  He does not look away.
  
  It is a moment he knows all to well. A warping. A sinking. A curse he thinks he might have received beneath the scalding bathwater, held down by too-familiar hands, ones he has not felt for years now.
  
  As if on puppet strings, he finds himself being pulled forward, closer to the reflection. Two fingers touch a mirrored pair, and his mind screams mockery at him for his vanity. It starts quietly, masquerading at just an innocent check that he hasn't changed too much since Sil left, hasn't indulged too much in this disgustingly decadent lifestyle. Hasn't-
  
  He swallows, and turns away. Sil would murder him if he started going down that path again.
  
  Yet mentally he vows not to eat tonight, because no way is he looking bloated during the night of his Ascension Coronation. And who knows what kind of entrancing waifs Silyan has been surrounded by on his journeys? A horde of divinely beautiful creatures all blessed with something he is lacking. With whatever is keeping Sil back from taking him and using him as everyone else has seen fit to do. The only person he wants to use him.
  
  Stripping, because everything suddenly feels too tight, Dez grabs one of his most favourite books and plops down at the desk, kicking his feet up. His most favourite book is his father's least favourite book, and it is heavenly. Filled with all kinds of devious pin-ups and spreads of Winter Court beauties, his not so subtle favourite is a Naga that, with a bit of squinting, looks just like Silyan. Silyan, if he was stretching out, covered in frost and dew, fucking some faceless boy, and so unfairly stunning...
  
  "My father should have been more specific then," he drawls when some disloyal heathen pushes his feet off of their perch, purposefully not looking up immediately because no way is he that desperate; Even if his instant response is for his heart to clench, his stomach to soar, and a child's urge to hug kicks in. But despite that stuffy lecturer tone, SIlyan has too much sway over him. And more importantly: he's home.
  
  Dez flies off of his chair with a swiftness he swears is not desperate, and all at once he is hugging the big, grumpy Naga and squeezing him. Relief washes through every pore of his body. He is mumble-screaming a long stream of welcoming nonsense into the man's broad chest, and his emotional state can be neatly summed up by the onomatopere: 'hnnng'.
  
  And as he is squeezing the abandoner-returned, he realises with a small flush that really isn't deserved given what a slut he likes to think himself to be, he is naked.
  
  Another point for team 'oh look, oh woe, I appear to be naked in front of Silyan!'.
  
  "You asshole," he snaps, pulling back and pretending he did not just act like a street girl of six. "You said this ridiculous thing would last three days. Three days. Perhaps I might not study the material my dear father wishes, but even I am well aware that took four. Or was it six?" He is grinning and tilting his head, because playing stupid is fun and easier than people thinking he's worth anything other than a pretty face and body to enjoy.
  
  It has worked on everyone else, so why won't it work on the Naga?
  
  "My point is," he says sternly, as he sweeps about and scoops up his kimono-style dressing gown, a slip of transparent gold silk and a mockery of modesty, "you, my good knight, are late." Collapsing back on his far too ornate bed theatrically, he wiggles his toes and peers over them at Sil, raising a playful brow. "Now, I wonder whom out there was dashing enough to keep you parted from me for so very long? Was he handsome? More handsome than me? Oh, how readily you break my heart, Sils."
  
  Head flopping back upon the bed, he tries to sound wounded but glee has taken a firm hold of his chest because:
  
  Silyan is back.
  
  And this might be the last chance they get to really talk.
  
  Holding out a hand without looking up, Dez covers his temples with the back of his other hand and sighs. "I might be persuaded to forgive you, Silly, if you hurry up and come tell me all about it. I haven't been allowed out of the Palace since you left and it is driving me quite mad. Come," he cannot suppress a smirk as he lowers his tone to a voice that has dropped the underwear of more noble women than poor elastic, "join me on the bed."
  
  
• 
  The meat beneath her hands is still screaming, so Lilianna knows she must help it. According to the recipe scribed in neat cursive, she is supposed to be beating it with the rolling pin to tenderise it, but how can she do that to a soul so scared? True, the meat is dead, thus the soul is only half there, clinging to its physical form even now that it is but a fragment of its former self. But it lingers, traumatised by what it has endured, haunting the fibres with whispers of terror and confusion. She can hear it, though there are no words. It wants to know where it is. Why it cannot see. Why it cannot even breathe.
  
  With no implements of cooking or violence, Lilianna rests her floury fingers atop of the meat. Closing her eyes, she presses gently. Hushes it. She speaks no incantation, no clever spell, just listens. Listens to the screaming, the confusion. Soothes. Consoles. I am here, she assures it through her touch. And you are passing on. Do not fret; I shall make sure you serve a higher purpose. You shall return to the earth. The mothers shall look after you. And you shall be born again, see again, breathe again. But you can no longer do that with this body. Let go.
  
  She rubs and massages out the tension in the meat, unknots the trapped shrieks that knot together the muscle and fat, until the meat falls quiet. Her body relaxes. At least that is one cry less to listen to. "If you didn't manage to make that bloody cow taste that good, I'd fire you on the spot, you know," Meg, the head cook, sniffs as she looks over Lily's shoulder. "You look like you enjoy touching it far too much."
  
  "I enjoy my work," Lily answers with a serene smile, because it is true. Not only does she love the reward of aiding stuck souls on their way back to the Mothers, but she finds there to be something sacred about allowing them a higher purpose. Letting them not only feed more life, but to nourish it, to give it warmth and pleasure through the sense of taste and smell and sight. It is a simple kind of artwork that she feels honoured every day to partake in.
  
  But that does not mean she enjoys her job. When she fled Spring, the natural place to take refuge in was a convent of Holy Women. She'd been too scared to go somewhere to see men for the first time, and besides, two of her commune sisters had fled here too. Yet it could not be more different from home.
  
  Here, she has a job. Not a role, a job. And she must rise for prayers in the morning for two hours, and worship a God she does not really trust. She is not guided by the whims of the wind, nor the sacred word of the Diviners, but by rules and a clock. Her body nor her intuition are not considered sacred here. Her connection to The Mothers is barely tolerated at best, mocked more often.
  
  And worst of all is the stone.
  
  At the convent, sisters are forbidden to venture outside of the walls. And this would not be too terrible - there is a garden in the courtyard, at least - were it not for the stone. The chapel is new, the stone freshly sourced from a quarry out in one of Summer's City's. The Holy Matron says the Chapel is the pride of Summer, one of the most beautiful buildings ever constructed, an architectural miracle.
  
  But the stone is so new, and so far from home. It still does not trust the earth it rests upon, and thus it keeps to itself. It will not even whisper to the soil, not yet. It has not learned to trust the roots, the pebbles, the dirt beneath it, and so it has withdrawn inside of itself and fallen silent. It is cold stone. Shivering. Quiet.
  
  So as she stands and works the pain from the meat and produce for the Women's meals, Lily cannot hear what the earth is saying. All she feels beneath her toes is the fear of the rock. The screams of the meat. The isolation of the garden, trapped within this stone fortress.
  
  And it is all a bad kind of quiet until she hears something on the wind. Something wrong. Something broken.
  
  Stilling, she strains her ears and listens. There are no words - she knows this is no person - but there is a call carried on the breeze, blowing in through the propped-open backdoor. One that nearly brings her to tears. A call so desperate that even at this distance, she can feel the agony behind it.
  
  "I'm just going out to forage the lavender!" She calls, wiping her hands on the cloth and dashing to the door. On her way, she sweeps up the woven basket they use for collecting herbs from the surrounding forest. It is the only time they are allowed beyond the Chapel walls.
  
  "Child!" Meg yells after her. "You'd best be back in ten minutes this time, else I'm telling Matron! And you bring any pests back with you, and I'll-" but the rest of the insult is lost on Lily, because that fateful call is far louder than any spoken words could hope to be.
  
  Barefoot, she flies across the grass, leaving a trail of loose flour and wildflowers behind her. Though pain draws her onwards, she cannot help but grin from happiness. Beneath her feet, the earth sings. Life sings to her. Miles away, she can feel the contented sighs of a wildcat finishing labour, licking her younglings clean. Down by the river, the water is-
  
  The water is blissfully warmed by the sun, but something is wrong. Something is in it. And Lily's good mood is felled.
  
  Not again, she thinks, with more bitterness than she is prone to. But people here try her patience like no other. Why must they insist on throwing their waste and foulness into things that have done them no harm, into things that provide them with life and fresh water? She is sure that is what this is, though she has never heard it quite so pained before.
  
  I'm coming, she tries to say, running faster, breaking into a sprint. Roots and brambles catch her legs, slowing her. She pleads with them; why? Why are you trying to stop me? Nettles clutch at her ankles and even the branches sink to try and knock her from her path. Do you no longer care for each other too?
  
  Exhausted by frustration, she tears out of the forest to barrel straight into the river, panting and near-tears for the screams are so loud. Where is it? She asks, spinning around to try and spot whatever violation the Summer people have forced upon the waters. Where are you hurt?
  
  The screaming reaches the peak of its crescendo right as two hands grasp her ankles, and pull her under.
  
  Logically, she knows that she is in pain. In the back of her mind, she knows that water is filling her throat and lungs, and that powerful, sharp fingers are clawing at her. Teeth are ravaging her skin. Someone is pulling her upon shore and devouring her. Yet she feels only a mild surprise at the destruction of her body.
  
  What dominates her consciousness is the screaming. Memories of a young girl, running from strange men. A girl with skirts that are soon torn from her body. Memories of being held under water by hands that have done far far worse. Memories of unclaimed vengeance. Memories of such pain, she does not think it will ever be over.
  
  The Summer Court never fails to horrify her.
  
  Lily does not try to fight the girl off. The girl who's form is no longer that of a girl, but of river waste made flesh, of pungent water given terrible, monstrous form. With all the agency her limbs retain, she tries to bring her closer. It will not help, she wishes she could say, but only fluid bubbles from her lips. It will not appease you. Drowning them will not save you. She is met only by furious shrieks, spoken not through the teeth that now rip her flesh from her.
  
  Go to the Mothers, Lily wills. They will heal you. They will let you rest. And they will give you strength, so you can protect those who come after you. I will not forget you. I will protect the others. I will protect everyone I can. I'm sorry I couldn't save you. She is crying, because she has been stuck feeding women who think other women monsters, instead of saving girls stuck beneath dark waters.
  
  Her chest a gash of an open wound, both physically and emotionally, she sung silently to the aching girl and thrust her hand into the air. In response, the river called the girl back, promising her resolve. And through the haze of pain, both her own and foreign, she could see the vengeful spirit lope back into the waters, descending down back to the Mothers.
  
  Lily's breath caught in her throat when she felt her audience. She had assumed the forest had frozen in fear of the water spirit, but it did not relax now. Instead, it bristled cautiously at the approach of another. Another that this time, with the screams subsiding, Lily could see.
  
  She had never seen a creature so beautiful.
  
  Is it a good thing she needs not think to control her magic. Healing, in pure energetic form, seeps from her like water from a squeezed sponge, leaking into the wounded marsh ground, into the petrified vegetation and angered river. It soothes, and knits together her own torn flesh some, without her even having to bat an eyelash.
  
  Which is good, because she has thoughts and eyes and heart only for this woman.
  
  A dark, unspeakable power ebbs from her without work, without trace, so that even Lily cannot sense it. But she can sense the world's reaction to it. The wildlife of the forest runs in fear from it, the trees curl away, even the grass parts submissively beneath her very feet. The river calls to her, recognises her, as if she is as much a part of the eternal, cycling earth as it itself. She is dark as night, as eternal as death, and as dangerous as the plague. And yet instead of reeling back in uncertain apprehension as the forest does, Lily finds herself swept up, entranced.
  
  Enchanted.
  
  She is barely conscious - her eyes are closed, and she is stuck in a world of dreams and shadows - yet she can see the woman through the world's eyes. This woman is no foolish, hurtful beast like Summer seems to be populated with. Something bright is wrapped around her. A thread of light and life, coiled around her bones. The energy of the earth conducts up into her, tasting her, fueling her, worshipping her.
  
  Lily wonders if she is dead, for she seems to be being visited by a god.
  
  And then something strange and strong is beneath her nose, and her eyes jolt open. She sits up like lightning. Her eyes are struck with visions of dark skin, cool features, eyes as deep and wondrous as the ocean. On instinct, she leans in. Leans close.
  
  Presses lips to lips.
  
  So this is how she dies.
  
  Raising a trembling hand, she cups the woman's cheek in her palm. Stares into her eyes. Exhales with a smile. "I am not ready," she says softly. She is not scared of reasoning with death. "I have too much to do." Staring into those eyes, that frame the coil of brilliant light wrapped beneath flesh and bone, she smiles. "This girl was not the only one."
  
  Certain as she is, she realises she should have kept a mental hand upon her magic. Too much has seeped out into the ground, restoring the sodden, sour grass, the animals devoured by the Drowner. Her own life is drifting from her like the tide. Her grip slipping, she collapses upon the woman's chest. "Please," she whispers quietly. "Protect them."
  
  
• 
  "I fear you do not understand, your Highness," Alana says through gritted teeth. "My men have slept in horse corpses to remain hidden. Haven slain men who raped their own daughters. Have trudged through battlefields of month old corpses. And even they were terrified by what they found." She leans further into the dresser. "They were convinced they saw a spirit. A ghoul. Some monster bent on vengeance. Your precious actress is mad."
  
  Her insistence is lost upon the Queen, however, who though impatient, stares serenely back at her own reflection. This has to work. "Maybe she was just having a bad day," Syan, who stands brushing her mistress's hair, suggests.
  "Demons do not have bad days. They have bad- bad everything."
  "Demons do not exist," Kor says a little more briskly than she normally would when addressing one of her two closest companions. "Not in the form of a scared, beautiful women at least."
  
  Sighing in frustration, Alana fiddles the the rosary hung around her neck and mutters, "I confess, I regret ever suggesting you go and see her. I should have known she was bad luck from the start. A woman in the theatre-"
  "You were right to tell me to visit her," Kor says calmly, "she is the mirror image of the High Priestess."
  "But not the same in soul."
  "Thank goodness," Kor drawls. "This Kingdom would quickly fall if I had to rely upon that particular Narcissist."
  
  The true High Priestess - who now lay locked within a coma - was undeniably beautiful, but mostly on the outside. Entirely on the outside, if Kor's experiences were anything to go by. But she'd been vain and hormonal when she'd been engaged to the late King, and fearful of being wed to one so brutal. Before deciding to take matters into her own hands, there had been solace to be found in the arms of a reassuring, preaching Priestess. Especially one so easy on the eye.
  
  Sighing at the foolish mistakes of her younger self, Kor narrowes her eyes at her reflection. "This woman is different," she says with certainty. She says with a little too much fondness. But... how could she not...? When she'd gone to see Kathy perform...
  
  Like a mere child, she'd fallen in love. Such fiery passion... she hadn't seen it once since coming over to this strange land, not in man nor woman. She'd never seen such stubborn eyes, such wicked a smile, such commanding a body. She'd longed to hold that body close, to melt against it and know what it felt like to meet someone deserving of her submission.
  
  But - she shakes her head - that was not why she'd called the actress here. She has a kingdom to rule, and a way of thinking to revolutionise. "Remind me why I cannot serve as your religious advisor," Alana says dryly. "I am more than qualified."
  "Because, my dear," Kor says tightly, "you used to kill people for a living."
  "So did you."
  "Yes, but that was on the respectable field of battle. You did so in shadows, and far more cleverly. And people hate to think they can die because of the cleverness of others."
  
  "But why her?" Alana demands, pressing the issue more than Kor has patience for today. "We don't need wild, insane women to show men we are worth giving a chance. We need people like you. Before you, even I thought the idea of a woman ruling was ridiculous. But you-"
  "If you dare say I am 'not like other women'," Kor says quietly, "I will have you locked up for the night."
  "I wasn't going to say that," Alana says, scowling. "For I have never met two women the same. I was going to say, you show the best of our sex. The best of all sexes. You are more worthy a ruler than any man or woman I have ever met. And that is why I think you can be Queen."
  
  "Then you understand exactly why I have chosen Kathy," Kor replies with a small, victorious smile. "To me, she shows the best of people too. She-"
  
  As if she had timed it, Kathy chooses that exact moment to burst in. Burst being the gentle term. More storm, storm with a fluffy of fur and insults.
  
  "Oh my," Alana says, with such condescension that Kor could slap her did she not cherish her so dearly. Not to mention, she felt utterly humiliated. "I dearly hope you are mistaken, your highness."
  
  Clearing her throat, Kor stands. She stands, and takes a deep breath.
  
  Kathy is... Kathy is breathtaking. Not just for her face - although it is rather lovely - but for her presence. She is a storm incarnate, a hurricane and bonfire made flesh. Even with this entrance, Kor would trust no other force of nature to guarantee her her throne.
  
  But then, she has always been one to play on the dangerous side.
  
  "Miss Louremonde," she says, rising and bowing in greeting. Alana clears her throat, and she quickly turns the bow in to a curtsey. "A pleasure to have you. I apologise if the decor is not to your liking."
  
  "I thought she was poor," Syan says. Honestly. Not unkindly. But still not very appropriately.
  
  She is not wrong, however. Kor would never had done anything this foolish had she not heard that Miss Kathy had been turned out of her own theatre, and now lived penniless is a shack of a home. Had her heart not clenched and bled at the idea of one so talented and awe-inspiring suffering, she never would have even entertained the idea of actually inviting her... yet here she is. Dressed in finery.
  
  And it serves to reassure her. In fact, despite Syan's words, Kor smiles. "Miss Kathy is an expert at playing the part," she says quietly, cross over to the silver tea set. She pours them both a cup of tea, and waves to dismiss her two handmaidens. They cough, and instead take seats by the two doors. Well... so long as they're discreet.
  
  "Please," Kor says, nodding to Miss Kathy. "Have a seat. We have much to discuss. I was hoping you might... read over this proposal I had drawn up for you. A contract, really." She moves the scroll of parchment from the tea tray to sit before the other chair, taking a seat and sipping her tea as calmly and regally as she can manage for one whose stomach is cluttered with butterflies.
  

 

[persimmon]

• Silyan, snow viper

• 
  Both his good humour, and his relief, fade into sharp alarm when Silyan is pushed back a step with the sheer force of Dez's welcome. There are many worries which melt into the background when he's away, mainly because he prefers to dwell on them as little as possible, and they're all orchestrated by a certain lovesick puppy of a prince who's currently wrapped around him, naked, for everyone to see, like twenty-odd years of lessons on proper behaviour have taught him nothing.
  
  Now, working with narcissistic, obscenely wealthy Summer nobles has never been a particularly offending task for Silyan. They have their delusions, and their power-plays, and that damnable pride. But a different, more fearsome shadow stalks the dark recesses of his mind. There are memories bound to threads infinitely finer than those which make up his brain, memories of bitter cold and steaming blood and the gruesome excesses of the party games which the Winter Court is so partial to.
  
  Silyan knows, by way of a myriad desperate deaths suffered by his ancestors, that he hasn't ever really been inconvenienced by his many masters. As a prized possession, and a status symbol which this region's nobility regard with particular interest on account of his exotic nature, he has never truly suffered. He's been made to jump through hoops, yes, and yes his truest form bears the scars of those trials, but overall, physically he is as good as new.
  
  Emotionally, however...
  
  Never in his life - and it's important to take into account that Nagas, like most Fae, age much slower than mortals - has he come across a trial like this. It is the most fiendishly difficult task he's ever faced, purely because he cannot simply grin and bear it and wait for it to pass. There is no trance he can enter, no inner passageway in his soul he can sink into until it's all over. The trial won't ever continue without his active participation, a mark of truly masterful torture.
  
  Simply put, he has to continue being Dez's watchful guardian, his closest friend, his advisor, and staunchest defender, despite the fact that the prince's all-too-obvious affections and the raw, exposed mess of his emotions play havoc with Silyan's soul. He loves the boy more than anything, he's sure he will die for Dez one day, in his long and treacherous ascent to the throne. But he sees the high and ornate pedestal he's been placed upon. Five years of struggle have brought the prince to a somewhat stable place, in Silyan's eyes, but they've also brought him to a point of utter, desperate infatuation with the one figure in his life who dared to reach out a hand and help him.
  
  A Winter Court snake demon who is barely tolerated at the palace, acknowledged only through his connection to the king. Unanimously suspected of being a spy. A player of many games, some of them secret even to the prince. He can't even allow himself to dwell on those treacherous pursuits in the presence of his charge, for fear of implicating him.
  
  He will be discarded, in one twist of fate or another, and he can feel that day drawing ever-closer. In the meanwhile he does the best he can to protect Dez's heart, and more importantly his mind, from shattering when he finally has to leave his side.
  
  With these thoughts hounding him, he follows Dez around the room with his eyes. He's wearing that ridiculous excuse for a dressing gown again, a telling contrast to Silyan's well-worn, full body riding leathers. The naga firmly keeps his eyes from straying, especially when Dez falls onto the bed. The boy's open, inviting body language makes the predator within him lick his lips, and it's the last thing his poor, overworked heart needs at the moment. With a practised, positively professional smile, he ignores the offered hand and instead sits himself on a stool beside the bed, where there is at least some distance between them.
  
  "Now, my prince, that would be telling. And I am certain that your poor, wounded heart has been carefully tended to by your scores of attendants. I remember your tailor being especially keen to, ah, soothe your distress. Daniel, was it? Or perhaps that squire you're so fond of... Joyce?" The trial continues, and Silyan uses his words carefully to create distance and build walls between them. It is imperative that the prince thinks his attendant is out of reach. It will be much less painful for the pair of them this way. Or so Silyan tells himself.
  
  After a brief recounting of his journey, which really was as standard as they come, he falls silent for a moment and considers his next words carefully. Because he's learned through trial and error that 'you're looking rather thin' is possibly the worst way to continue. "I suppose I could be persuaded to... let slip just how handsome someone would have to be to keep your valiant knight from your side. I don't suppose the price of a hot meal is too high for a Summer Court prince?" And he immediately suppresses a wince, because he's beautifully outmanoeuvred himself, and to Dez's ears he's just invited him out to dinner.
  
  A former master tried to tie him in a knot once. That was easier to get out of than the tangled webs he weaves to deal with Dez.
  
  "I'll give you some time to decide. And get dressed," he adds pointedly, with a glance at the boy's current state of undress which he hopes looks disapproving, not wanton, "While I change out of these damned leathers."