Chapter 80: 80
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Lady Mikhail's heartbroken laments echo around the stables, drawing the curious attention of young stallions, and the much less wanted attention of elvish butlers outside the stables, who raise their heads in voiceless surprise to hear such a delicate confession pass their way. The blue skinned vampire pauses for a second, gulping down tears quickly in an effort to compose herself, and for a second- just one second, my heart pangs with the restless chords of guilt.
I have to withdraw myself from the conversation for a moment to assess the situation logically.
One the one hand, this could be a trick, a guilty plea to give up Soren- vampires are known for committing much worse acts of fraudulence, yet her voice is raw with cracks of emotion, so much so that after this long time in the palace, even with the hardness of my own heart, I begin to feel inklings of sympathy towards her. And after all this time, whoever thought I would hold sympathies with a vampire?
"I suppose you must have been furious when he asked for my hand to dance that first day," I laugh nervously, straining to lighten the grim atmosphere that runs thick with grief and keen to avert the tentative gazes of onlookers, who have since rathered they watch a small patch of drama unfold than actually do their jobs in the stables. My horse whinnies in discontented impatience.
"Yes," she sniffs with a light, fragile laugh, wiping her eyes with the back of her white frilled blouse. "I was distraught, angry, to find out this was the girl in which I was to be replaced. I refused to believe it, thinking I could make you back down, that somehow you would give him up, or he you. I tried everything. But my efforts were for none."
Then I say something that surprises even myself.
"What about Azrael? You two seem good friends,"
Mikhail's head jerks up from where she tends to her horse, red iris's glimmering with the unexpected nature of my suggestion. She wrangles her dainty hands.
"Azrael he's... he's good, but he's sly. Like a fox, I never really know if what I am seeing is the real him,"
I bare my teeth a little. Sly indeed. Next time I see Azrael I am certainly going to have to have words with him about his posing's as me, maybe threaten him with some new silver induced scars, depending on how lenient I am feeling. A faint whisper catches my attention:
"He used to be so much gentler, what happened to you Azrael?"
Slowly, I raise my eyes.
"Gentler?-" but my voice, and any acknowledgement of the latter statement quickly gets dismissed as Lady Mikhail takes a hold of her horses reins firmly, and I realise with a pang of understanding that the statement wasn't meant for me- she was talking to herself.
With a further bout of discontented sighs, she begins to lead her horse out of the stables, tugging on the reins and whistling to catch it's attention as she trudges out into the sunlight, blue skin shining under the enamoured golden rays. Ithuriel scampers away, yipping his disapproval into open air as I follow suit, my white stallion nickering to himself about something or another that I am not privy to understanding. I mount my horse, boosting myself over the straddle the saddle, fixing the sachet containing Soren's book, the letter and a couple of silver vials into the horse's carrier bag and lean round to give a soothing pat on its head.
Horses were never creatures that were too fond of vampires; even when I first arrived here, they always expressed an invariable distaste towards the kind that would not breathe. Perhaps they saw something in the vampires that most could not see, privy to the evil within the depths of their souls and forced away by some unnaturalness in their state of being, spooked by the empty rhythm of a body that lacks a heart.
It seems Mikhail's horse however, for reasons unbeknownst to me, controversy rather enjoys her company.
I start to wonder if our conversation is best left here, neither abridged nor consoled, and Ithuriel seems to think so too, his constant urges pleading in the back of my mind, clamouring to be free of this place he so dearly loathes. But there is something, a small spec of benignancy or mutual understanding that forces me to linger on a second longer.
"Perhaps it is better. You have freed yourself from marrying an unpredictable tyrant Prince. That is more than I can say," I laugh a little atop my horse. She smiles inwardly, pulling her face into a sorrowful, but somehow thankful expression. Gently, she whisks away a long strand of navy hair, tilting her head to glance up at me through the fervent rays of the overhead sun.
"He may be a tyrant, but much less so around you. He used to be so wild, so authoritarian, executions used to be done on the weekly, he would hunt daily, drain half the forest in his hunger, some say. And he used to be so cold, so very cold that even I couldn't thaw the winter that laid waste to his heart. He never used to accept calamity and anarchy in his court- and he still doesn't. But, Serena, you have softened him, chipped away at his stone heart and uncovered something warm underneath. That is something I could never achieve."
Mikhail bows her head one last time in silent leave, and I mirror her, smiling a little as I bring myself up level.
"Perhaps I shall see you around the palace on better terms," she offers, leaning herself up against the horse's rigid flank, extending her long, pale hand in open question. I nod my head dimly.
"It would be my pleasure, Lady Mikhail,"
But she shakes her head,
"Please, call me Delina."
At that I crack a small smile.
"Then it would be my pleasure, Delina,"
To that, she looks content, and she smiles blissfully to herself. Ithuriel's fluffy tail brushes past my legs, curling around the upper portion of my calf and jolting me back into focus. His two toned eyes stare me down, boring into my skin, searing my soul with a look that almost seems to say:
'Serena, get a move on. I am the one who is exhausted and here you are wasting time with ample banter.'
I roll my eyes at him and Ithuriel heaves a low grunt in response. Right. Our mission. Tightening my grip on the horse's reins, I straighten myself up, tensing my body for whatever onslaught of beings in the end I will soon be facing and breathe out a long, disjointed breath. The beginnings of unease brews in my stomach.
I take one last look at Ithuriel, who relays his understanding with a firm nod, before cracking the whips of the reins and away we fly.
***
Passing through the Sezerian towns at high speed on the back of a horse I suppose is like the way a comet must see the world as it passes over the atmosphere. Shops and quaint little town houses flash by in a blur, streaked with the light from the overhead sun that is midway in its path across the cloudless sky.
On my first arrival here, I did not pay much attention to the shops or the houses or anything much at all, staunchly keen on avoiding the inhabitants of the hellhole I was about to enter and appealing rather strongly to the idea that if I did not look at them, they would not look at me. A childish thought, really.
Now, the residents of Sezeria are impossible to avoid. Even galloping through the town streets at a speed that one would assume would be too fast to train with the naked eye, somehow I still catch glimmers of the glacial cold red that swims in the depths of their eyes, the soured look of judgement, and the enigmatic foreboding that lingers in the sideways of their smirk. Even some creatures from around Faey stop to watch the speeding comet pass through the town, pointing, waving, or yelling their congratulations to their new-to-be queen. Others offer only blank stares of isolation and bitter resent, hurling unsavoury looks in my general direction along with fresh produce from the stand-up markets.
A terrible waste really.
But jealousy is a harsh creature that knows no bounds, only the capability of its host, and the aging of time. So for that, I cannot blame there dissatisfaction.
Ithuriel, the gods thank him, for all his credit ignores the happenings around us, instead striving to dart ahead of the crowds, parting the swarms of vampires, nymphs, elves and all other manner of folk to clear a trail for the white stallion behind him. If he desired it so, I have no doubt he could use his powers to subdue all manner of creatures as we weave through the town streets, sending them falling back into that same aberrant, restful state that I often find myself in under the influence of his hand. Ithuriel's magic is powerful, as is his spectacular swordsmanship, but he rarely uses even a fraction of his power, something that sets him apart from the other magic welders in my clan.
Fortunately for me and the citizens roaming Sezeria, we soon make it out of the bustling streets and gardens of orchids and roses and exit through the main gate, leaving the towering walls encompassing the city and the looming shadow of the cold, white palace long behind us.
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Lady Mikhail's heartbroken laments echo around the stables, drawing the curious attention of young stallions, and the much less wanted attention of elvish butlers outside the stables, who raise their heads in voiceless surprise to hear such a delicate confession pass their way. The blue skinned vampire pauses for a second, gulping down tears quickly in an effort to compose herself, and for a second- just one second, my heart pangs with the restless chords of guilt.
I have to withdraw myself from the conversation for a moment to assess the situation logically.
One the one hand, this could be a trick, a guilty plea to give up Soren- vampires are known for committing much worse acts of fraudulence, yet her voice is raw with cracks of emotion, so much so that after this long time in the palace, even with the hardness of my own heart, I begin to feel inklings of sympathy towards her. And after all this time, whoever thought I would hold sympathies with a vampire?
"I suppose you must have been furious when he asked for my hand to dance that first day," I laugh nervously, straining to lighten the grim atmosphere that runs thick with grief and keen to avert the tentative gazes of onlookers, who have since rathered they watch a small patch of drama unfold than actually do their jobs in the stables. My horse whinnies in discontented impatience.
"Yes," she sniffs with a light, fragile laugh, wiping her eyes with the back of her white frilled blouse. "I was distraught, angry, to find out this was the girl in which I was to be replaced. I refused to believe it, thinking I could make you back down, that somehow you would give him up, or he you. I tried everything. But my efforts were for none."
Then I say something that surprises even myself.
"What about Azrael? You two seem good friends,"
Mikhail's head jerks up from where she tends to her horse, red iris's glimmering with the unexpected nature of my suggestion. She wrangles her dainty hands.
"Azrael he's... he's good, but he's sly. Like a fox, I never really know if what I am seeing is the real him,"
I bare my teeth a little. Sly indeed. Next time I see Azrael I am certainly going to have to have words with him about his posing's as me, maybe threaten him with some new silver induced scars, depending on how lenient I am feeling. A faint whisper catches my attention:
"He used to be so much gentler, what happened to you Azrael?"
Slowly, I raise my eyes.
"Gentler?-" but my voice, and any acknowledgement of the latter statement quickly gets dismissed as Lady Mikhail takes a hold of her horses reins firmly, and I realise with a pang of understanding that the statement wasn't meant for me- she was talking to herself.
With a further bout of discontented sighs, she begins to lead her horse out of the stables, tugging on the reins and whistling to catch it's attention as she trudges out into the sunlight, blue skin shining under the enamoured golden rays. Ithuriel scampers away, yipping his disapproval into open air as I follow suit, my white stallion nickering to himself about something or another that I am not privy to understanding. I mount my horse, boosting myself over the straddle the saddle, fixing the sachet containing Soren's book, the letter and a couple of silver vials into the horse's carrier bag and lean round to give a soothing pat on its head.
Horses were never creatures that were too fond of vampires; even when I first arrived here, they always expressed an invariable distaste towards the kind that would not breathe. Perhaps they saw something in the vampires that most could not see, privy to the evil within the depths of their souls and forced away by some unnaturalness in their state of being, spooked by the empty rhythm of a body that lacks a heart.
It seems Mikhail's horse however, for reasons unbeknownst to me, controversy rather enjoys her company.
I start to wonder if our conversation is best left here, neither abridged nor consoled, and Ithuriel seems to think so too, his constant urges pleading in the back of my mind, clamouring to be free of this place he so dearly loathes. But there is something, a small spec of benignancy or mutual understanding that forces me to linger on a second longer.
"Perhaps it is better. You have freed yourself from marrying an unpredictable tyrant Prince. That is more than I can say," I laugh a little atop my horse. She smiles inwardly, pulling her face into a sorrowful, but somehow thankful expression. Gently, she whisks away a long strand of navy hair, tilting her head to glance up at me through the fervent rays of the overhead sun.
"He may be a tyrant, but much less so around you. He used to be so wild, so authoritarian, executions used to be done on the weekly, he would hunt daily, drain half the forest in his hunger, some say. And he used to be so cold, so very cold that even I couldn't thaw the winter that laid waste to his heart. He never used to accept calamity and anarchy in his court- and he still doesn't. But, Serena, you have softened him, chipped away at his stone heart and uncovered something warm underneath. That is something I could never achieve."
Mikhail bows her head one last time in silent leave, and I mirror her, smiling a little as I bring myself up level.
"Perhaps I shall see you around the palace on better terms," she offers, leaning herself up against the horse's rigid flank, extending her long, pale hand in open question. I nod my head dimly.
"It would be my pleasure, Lady Mikhail,"
But she shakes her head,
"Please, call me Delina."
At that I crack a small smile.
"Then it would be my pleasure, Delina,"
To that, she looks content, and she smiles blissfully to herself. Ithuriel's fluffy tail brushes past my legs, curling around the upper portion of my calf and jolting me back into focus. His two toned eyes stare me down, boring into my skin, searing my soul with a look that almost seems to say:
'Serena, get a move on. I am the one who is exhausted and here you are wasting time with ample banter.'
I roll my eyes at him and Ithuriel heaves a low grunt in response. Right. Our mission. Tightening my grip on the horse's reins, I straighten myself up, tensing my body for whatever onslaught of beings in the end I will soon be facing and breathe out a long, disjointed breath. The beginnings of unease brews in my stomach.
I take one last look at Ithuriel, who relays his understanding with a firm nod, before cracking the whips of the reins and away we fly.
***
Passing through the Sezerian towns at high speed on the back of a horse I suppose is like the way a comet must see the world as it passes over the atmosphere. Shops and quaint little town houses flash by in a blur, streaked with the light from the overhead sun that is midway in its path across the cloudless sky.
On my first arrival here, I did not pay much attention to the shops or the houses or anything much at all, staunchly keen on avoiding the inhabitants of the hellhole I was about to enter and appealing rather strongly to the idea that if I did not look at them, they would not look at me. A childish thought, really.
Now, the residents of Sezeria are impossible to avoid. Even galloping through the town streets at a speed that one would assume would be too fast to train with the naked eye, somehow I still catch glimmers of the glacial cold red that swims in the depths of their eyes, the soured look of judgement, and the enigmatic foreboding that lingers in the sideways of their smirk. Even some creatures from around Faey stop to watch the speeding comet pass through the town, pointing, waving, or yelling their congratulations to their new-to-be queen. Others offer only blank stares of isolation and bitter resent, hurling unsavoury looks in my general direction along with fresh produce from the stand-up markets.
A terrible waste really.
But jealousy is a harsh creature that knows no bounds, only the capability of its host, and the aging of time. So for that, I cannot blame there dissatisfaction.
Ithuriel, the gods thank him, for all his credit ignores the happenings around us, instead striving to dart ahead of the crowds, parting the swarms of vampires, nymphs, elves and all other manner of folk to clear a trail for the white stallion behind him. If he desired it so, I have no doubt he could use his powers to subdue all manner of creatures as we weave through the town streets, sending them falling back into that same aberrant, restful state that I often find myself in under the influence of his hand. Ithuriel's magic is powerful, as is his spectacular swordsmanship, but he rarely uses even a fraction of his power, something that sets him apart from the other magic welders in my clan.
Fortunately for me and the citizens roaming Sezeria, we soon make it out of the bustling streets and gardens of orchids and roses and exit through the main gate, leaving the towering walls encompassing the city and the looming shadow of the cold, white palace long behind us.
Lady Mikhail's heartbroken laments echo around the stables, drawing the curious attention of young stallions, and the much less wanted attention of elvish butlers outside the stables, who raise their heads in voiceless surprise to hear such a delicate confession pass their way. The blue skinned vampire pauses for a second, gulping down tears quickly in an effort to compose herself, and for a second- just one second, my heart pangs with the restless chords of guilt.I have to withdraw myself from the conversation for a moment to assess the situation logically.One the one hand, this could be a trick, a guilty plea to give up Soren- vampires are known for committing much worse acts of fraudulence, yet her voice is raw with cracks of emotion, so much so that after this long time in the palace, even with the hardness of my own heart, I begin to feel inklings of sympathy towards her. And after all this time, whoever thought I would hold sympathies with a vampire? "I suppose you must have been furious when he asked for my hand to dance that first day," I laugh nervously, straining to lighten the grim atmosphere that runs thick with grief and keen to avert the tentative gazes of onlookers, who have since rathered they watch a small patch of drama unfold than actually do their jobs in the stables. My horse whinnies in discontented impatience."Yes," she sniffs with a light, fragile laugh, wiping her eyes with the back of her white frilled blouse. "I was distraught, angry, to find out this was the girl in which I was to be replaced. I refused to believe it, thinking I could make you back down, that somehow you would give him up, or he you. I tried everything. But my efforts were for none."Then I say something that surprises even myself."What about Azrael? You two seem good friends,"Mikhail's head jerks up from where she tends to her horse, red iris's glimmering with the unexpected nature of my suggestion. She wrangles her dainty hands."Azrael he's... he's good, but he's sly. Like a fox, I never really know if what I am seeing is the real him,"I bare my teeth a little. Sly indeed. Next time I see Azrael I am certainly going to have to have words with him about his posing's as me, maybe threaten him with some new silver induced scars, depending on how lenient I am feeling. A faint whisper catches my attention:"He used to be so much gentler, what happened to you Azrael?"Slowly, I raise my eyes."Gentler?-" but my voice, and any acknowledgement of the latter statement quickly gets dismissed as Lady Mikhail takes a hold of her horses reins firmly, and I realise with a pang of understanding that the statement wasn't meant for me- she was talking to herself.With a further bout of discontented sighs, she begins to lead her horse out of the stables, tugging on the reins and whistling to catch it's attention as she trudges out into the sunlight, blue skin shining under the enamoured golden rays. Ithuriel scampers away, yipping his disapproval into open air as I follow suit, my white stallion nickering to himself about something or another that I am not privy to understanding. I mount my horse, boosting myself over the straddle the saddle, fixing the sachet containing Soren's book, the letter and a couple of silver vials into the horse's carrier bag and lean round to give a soothing pat on its head.Horses were never creatures that were too fond of vampires; even when I first arrived here, they always expressed an invariable distaste towards the kind that would not breathe. Perhaps they saw something in the vampires that most could not see, privy to the evil within the depths of their souls and forced away by some unnaturalness in their state of being, spooked by the empty rhythm of a body that lacks a heart.It seems Mikhail's horse however, for reasons unbeknownst to me, controversy rather enjoys her company.I start to wonder if our conversation is best left here, neither abridged nor consoled, and Ithuriel seems to think so too, his constant urges pleading in the back of my mind, clamouring to be free of this place he so dearly loathes. But there is something, a small spec of benignancy or mutual understanding that forces me to linger on a second longer."Perhaps it is better. You have freed yourself from marrying an unpredictable tyrant Prince. That is more than I can say," I laugh a little atop my horse. She smiles inwardly, pulling her face into a sorrowful, but somehow thankful expression. Gently, she whisks away a long strand of navy hair, tilting her head to glance up at me through the fervent rays of the overhead sun."He may be a tyrant, but much less so around you. He used to be so wild, so authoritarian, executions used to be done on the weekly, he would hunt daily, drain half the forest in his hunger, some say. And he used to be so cold, so very cold that even I couldn't thaw the winter that laid waste to his heart. He never used to accept calamity and anarchy in his court- and he still doesn't. But, Serena, you have softened him, chipped away at his stone heart and uncovered something warm underneath. That is something I could never achieve."Mikhail bows her head one last time in silent leave, and I mirror her, smiling a little as I bring myself up level."Perhaps I shall see you around the palace on better terms," she offers, leaning herself up against the horse's rigid flank, extending her long, pale hand in open question. I nod my head dimly."It would be my pleasure, Lady Mikhail,"But she shakes her head,"Please, call me Delina."At that I crack a small smile."Then it would be my pleasure, Delina,"To that, she looks content, and she smiles blissfully to herself. Ithuriel's fluffy tail brushes past my legs, curling around the upper portion of my calf and jolting me back into focus. His two toned eyes stare me down, boring into my skin, searing my soul with a look that almost seems to say:'Serena, get a move on. I am the one who is exhausted and here you are wasting time with ample banter.'I roll my eyes at him and Ithuriel heaves a low grunt in response. Right. Our mission. Tightening my grip on the horse's reins, I straighten myself up, tensing my body for whatever onslaught of beings in the end I will soon be facing and breathe out a long, disjointed breath. The beginnings of unease brews in my stomach.I take one last look at Ithuriel, who relays his understanding with a firm nod, before cracking the whips of the reins and away we fly.***Passing through the Sezerian towns at high speed on the back of a horse I suppose is like the way a comet must see the world as it passes over the atmosphere. Shops and quaint little town houses flash by in a blur, streaked with the light from the overhead sun that is midway in its path across the cloudless sky. On my first arrival here, I did not pay much attention to the shops or the houses or anything much at all, staunchly keen on avoiding the inhabitants of the hellhole I was about to enter and appealing rather strongly to the idea that if I did not look at them, they would not look at me. A childish thought, really.Now, the residents of Sezeria are impossible to avoid. Even galloping through the town streets at a speed that one would assume would be too fast to train with the naked eye, somehow I still catch glimmers of the glacial cold red that swims in the depths of their eyes, the soured look of judgement, and the enigmatic foreboding that lingers in the sideways of their smirk. Even some creatures from around Faey stop to watch the speeding comet pass through the town, pointing, waving, or yelling their congratulations to their new-to-be queen. Others offer only blank stares of isolation and bitter resent, hurling unsavoury looks in my general direction along with fresh produce from the stand-up markets. A terrible waste really.But jealousy is a harsh creature that knows no bounds, only the capability of its host, and the aging of time. So for that, I cannot blame there dissatisfaction.Ithuriel, the gods thank him, for all his credit ignores the happenings around us, instead striving to dart ahead of the crowds, parting the swarms of vampires, nymphs, elves and all other manner of folk to clear a trail for the white stallion behind him. If he desired it so, I have no doubt he could use his powers to subdue all manner of creatures as we weave through the town streets, sending them falling back into that same aberrant, restful state that I often find myself in under the influence of his hand. Ithuriel's magic is powerful, as is his spectacular swordsmanship, but he rarely uses even a fraction of his power, something that sets him apart from the other magic welders in my clan. Fortunately for me and the citizens roaming Sezeria, we soon make it out of the bustling streets and gardens of orchids and roses and exit through the main gate, leaving the towering walls encompassing the city and the looming shadow of the cold, white palace long behind us.
