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An eerie sense of familiarity bristled across the air, even as she mustered audacity all over again, even as she presided on an invisible throne, even as she wandered in between the snowy squalls of the unknown and the impudent, because her words crooned deep against his mind – like a song, like a dance, like a ghost, unwinding and unraveling truths and lies. It coaxed his blood, his veins, in a vivid, wild pursuit, trembled and touched and vibrated against his soul, until his widened eyes seemed incapable of taking any more of her in.
My mother was Psyche the DarkEmpress.
He hadn’t known the past Queen, hadn’t been born beneath her reign. He’d come after all the invasions, all the follies, all the perils and strife; a true prince, designated in a glorious state of triumph, conquest, and the strange, unnerving peace in between. But his mother had whispered stories, the grand mythos, of the Empress who’d led them from the hollowed hills of ice where they’d been banished, cast off, away, and into the region of glacial persecution that was the Basin, had christened them more than just the enduring crowd of pariahs and rebels. Psyche had been powerful, potent, a jackal, an asp, all rolled into one – and while he’d never met her – he could still revere the stories she left behind. The little beast reveled in segments of might, of strength, of enduring capabilities, and nearly ignored the way the thrones had changed after Psyche’s failure (for his father and the Engineer had been a part of it, but Huyana had never given any more details, and the enigma stuck) – and here, after the Empress had disappeared, had been polished and lacquered into death, was her daughter.
At first, the child was speechless: too many things bristled and bundled and bound through his skull. How had she come to be? Where did she come from? What did she want? How had she arrived at the Basin all by herself? What were her goals, her intentions? Would she become like her mother one day, another legend molded into the glaciers? Would she defy the words and whims of her past, and sculpt her path in a different garden? None of these notions, these queries, these questions, however, managed to make it past his lips. Instead, he bowed his head in a regretful, rueful display, his crown extended in a peace offering, an art of repose. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he mumbled into the ground, eyes peeking over the rim of his muzzle to stare the lost girl, and wondering what to do, what to say, how to commit anything to someone who’d already been scripted into a world so different from his own. His words came quieter, no longer the boisterous caprice of a boy, of a scion, of a fledgling wrapped in ebullience and devilry, but of a child brimming along the uncertainty of another – all the more unsure himself. “I didn’t know your mother, but I’ve heard of her.” Erebos nodded, granting a solemn vow of the plunging convictions, of the myths surrounding the legendary namesake. “She helped make the Basin strong.” The tiny beast paused once more, gathered his thoughts, and thrust one more inquiry into the fray, relinquishing a subtle wave into the pulsing anarchy, tending to one of his wishes, and wondering about hers. “Is that what you want to do?”
@[Själ]
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[O] Dear Mother, As This Noose Is Placed Around My Neck | open
