We saw her longing and knew her lost.
Oh little sister, would you leave us for a man?
What has he, that we can’t offer –
come, let us braid your hair
let us sing together
swaying like soft weed to the songs
that loop and flow, ribbons of seduction
velvet handcuffs we lock
each of us fast to the other.
Why would you leave us,
little lost note
in our loving harmony?
We reach for you
but you evade our pale fingers
as though they were sticky tentacles.
The sweet, unearthly chorus of voices shattered the velvet darkness.
This time, she wasn't sleeping.
....Was she?
On the uppermost floor of her home, the clear water filling her sunken-in stone bath (rather large, she supposed, but it suited her current tastes) steamed in the cool air of twilight. The scent of jasmine hung in the air; delicate bowls of heated oils sending additional, lazy spirals of steam up towards the ceiling.
One moment, she rested languidly against the cool granite of the bath; water droplets and bits of petal beading and glimmering upon her rosy skin and creating spiderwebbed patterns across her uncovered wings. Her hair streamed smoothly down her back and over delicate shoulders in sleek crimson rivulets, the water adding darker dimensions to her coppery mane. Toying with a small, simple golden bead, rolling it between slender fingers, her amber eyes were faraway.
The next moment, however, she was...
Elsewhere.
The voices surrounded her, charming but lethal; like a graceful blade bedecked with goldleaf and dripping with honey. Her vision darkened and blurred, gradually clearing to reveal a wholly different scene.
The Throne of Tears and Hysteria lay before her, twisted and dark, living metal covered by organic thorns of every shape, color, and size. The thorns dripped with a substance that, to the eye, resembled fey blood; but simultaneously carried the scents of a thousand wines across the clearing to her. She swayed a little on her feet, thankful for the automatic reactions of her wings -- they flared out and kept her from stumbling to one knee.
It was unoccupied, the throne; sprays of firechasm, glowing, gargantuan fungi in a hundred different shades, and elaborately-twisted, quicksilver spiderwebs draped over, behind, and above it.
Thunder without sound -- a wordless thrum of power.
This time, she was brought to her knees -- the jagged obsidian path beneath her biting in, drawing out droplets of crimson-amethyst blood. Katya gasped for breath, the feelings of power -- a sheet of crackling electricity -- enveloping her skin.
She could hear a bacchanal, better and more wild, uncontrolled, than any in her very long remembrance, nearby. Laughter, moans, here and there a voice raised in hoarse song, wild strings and pipes and drums. The scents of blood, smoke, sweat, and feasting hung heavily in the air about her. Her wings shuddered violently, and she worked to catch her breath.
Promise, we promise.
Promise you.
Little one. Oh, little one, what you could and will be.
What you are.
She remained kneeling there for an amount of time that later, she could never name. It hurt, and she welcomed the pain.
What I am.
Closing her eyes, lips and cheeks stained red, she could smell the sea. Feel the playful crosswinds and hear the roar of the uncontrollable surf, and...
What I am.
Once more, thunder without sound. And... she was home. The bathwater was still pleasantly warm, and night had fallen. She stepped out, paying no mind to the stack of plush towels nearby. She slipped from her bedchamber and out onto the balcony, her steps light and her wings causing her to rise a few inches above the ground every so often.
The night air was cool upon her porcelain skin, the beaded water tracing down her body glimmering like shattered diamonds in the moonlight. Her wings were soft, crumpled, trailing down her bare back; a cloak of amber edged with silver. Droplets of blood marred the smooth marble beneath her feet. She paid this no mind, looking out across the darkened courtyard absently.
Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O mortal child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
Go with her.
Come with me.
Oh little sister, would you leave us for a man?
What has he, that we can’t offer –
come, let us braid your hair
let us sing together
swaying like soft weed to the songs
that loop and flow, ribbons of seduction
velvet handcuffs we lock
each of us fast to the other.
Why would you leave us,
little lost note
in our loving harmony?
We reach for you
but you evade our pale fingers
as though they were sticky tentacles.
The sweet, unearthly chorus of voices shattered the velvet darkness.
This time, she wasn't sleeping.
....Was she?
On the uppermost floor of her home, the clear water filling her sunken-in stone bath (rather large, she supposed, but it suited her current tastes) steamed in the cool air of twilight. The scent of jasmine hung in the air; delicate bowls of heated oils sending additional, lazy spirals of steam up towards the ceiling.
One moment, she rested languidly against the cool granite of the bath; water droplets and bits of petal beading and glimmering upon her rosy skin and creating spiderwebbed patterns across her uncovered wings. Her hair streamed smoothly down her back and over delicate shoulders in sleek crimson rivulets, the water adding darker dimensions to her coppery mane. Toying with a small, simple golden bead, rolling it between slender fingers, her amber eyes were faraway.
The next moment, however, she was...
Elsewhere.
The voices surrounded her, charming but lethal; like a graceful blade bedecked with goldleaf and dripping with honey. Her vision darkened and blurred, gradually clearing to reveal a wholly different scene.
The Throne of Tears and Hysteria lay before her, twisted and dark, living metal covered by organic thorns of every shape, color, and size. The thorns dripped with a substance that, to the eye, resembled fey blood; but simultaneously carried the scents of a thousand wines across the clearing to her. She swayed a little on her feet, thankful for the automatic reactions of her wings -- they flared out and kept her from stumbling to one knee.
It was unoccupied, the throne; sprays of firechasm, glowing, gargantuan fungi in a hundred different shades, and elaborately-twisted, quicksilver spiderwebs draped over, behind, and above it.
Thunder without sound -- a wordless thrum of power.
This time, she was brought to her knees -- the jagged obsidian path beneath her biting in, drawing out droplets of crimson-amethyst blood. Katya gasped for breath, the feelings of power -- a sheet of crackling electricity -- enveloping her skin.
She could hear a bacchanal, better and more wild, uncontrolled, than any in her very long remembrance, nearby. Laughter, moans, here and there a voice raised in hoarse song, wild strings and pipes and drums. The scents of blood, smoke, sweat, and feasting hung heavily in the air about her. Her wings shuddered violently, and she worked to catch her breath.
Promise, we promise.
Promise you.
Little one. Oh, little one, what you could and will be.
What you are.
She remained kneeling there for an amount of time that later, she could never name. It hurt, and she welcomed the pain.
What I am.
Closing her eyes, lips and cheeks stained red, she could smell the sea. Feel the playful crosswinds and hear the roar of the uncontrollable surf, and...
What I am.
Once more, thunder without sound. And... she was home. The bathwater was still pleasantly warm, and night had fallen. She stepped out, paying no mind to the stack of plush towels nearby. She slipped from her bedchamber and out onto the balcony, her steps light and her wings causing her to rise a few inches above the ground every so often.
The night air was cool upon her porcelain skin, the beaded water tracing down her body glimmering like shattered diamonds in the moonlight. Her wings were soft, crumpled, trailing down her bare back; a cloak of amber edged with silver. Droplets of blood marred the smooth marble beneath her feet. She paid this no mind, looking out across the darkened courtyard absently.
Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O mortal child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
Go with her.
Come with me.
Contrary to popular belief, the wings of demons are the same as the wings of angels, although they're often better groomed.
--Neil Gaiman
--Neil Gaiman