thesoullesssiren:
The tap of metal against stone is her herald these days. There is a predictable metronome to her gait, neither furtive nor sluggish, the simple patience of one foot after the other that only seems to enhance her regal grace. Her silence commands respect, her passage uncontested by those who prefer to slink back into the shadows rather than challenge the Waking Death. In all but the most literal, she is a ghost, leaning heavily on a walking cane to stay one step ahead of fate’s fetid breath.
She pushes open the door.
The slow, serpentine approach of the room’s sole, surprised occupant brings a faint smile to her gentle lips.
“Two days in a row.”
The voice holds a mixture of awe and wariness, the mistrust of one far too familiar with life’s sense of humour.
Cin’s eyes burn into hers.
“Is it working then?”
The twist of her torso slips her through the doorway far enough to enclose them within. From there, she seeks her place, the slight sway of steps that favour her left side performing a swan’s dance before she sinks into the chair beside the vast throne and exhales softly through her nose.
“You know, I think it might be. I feel…different.”
Lithe suspicion slinks its way to kneel at her feet, calloused hands over-burdened with their adornments laid over each of hers. Stella smiles again, recognising that narrowed gleam that seeks to pierce her in two.
“I am fine, Hyacinthe. As you can see, the treatment seems to be doing me some good. Why, I feel positively alive.”
“Don’t jest so.”
In a heartbeat, the silent sentiment that passes between them is very nearly felt by both but, as habits have proved hard to break, neither makes mention of it. That does not keep Stella from absorbing it, craving it. To worry Hyacinthe is a rarity, at least without the rage that followed.
She turns her hand just enough to allow the intertwining of fingertips.
“We take our victories as they come and, when they refuse, we leech them dry. Nothing has changed, I will not them win. Now, tell me.”
Her hazel eyes cloud with dark hatred.
“Is it true?”
A hand, in all its adorned, glittering glory, is pulled from Stella’s, moving to flip the woman’s palm upward, cradled by scarred fingers. Rough lips are pressed reverently into that pale, cupped palm, lingering in their duty if only to delay the worst of the news both women already know.
“It is, sweet Stella. I had hoped to shield you from this, at least until you were a bit stronger...”
Cin’s head dipped low, coming to rest atop their entwined hands upon Stella’s other knee. She took deep, even breaths, but nothing could remove the disdain, the blood-curdling anger that boiled in those icy green eyes, so pale they were almost white with rage as they rolled up to meet the hazel gaze of her first mate, her best friend.
That strong, square jaw was clenched so tightly that Cin’s next words had to nearly be spat out, the scar running down from her cupid’s bow to trail over her lips, chin, and throat standing out in an angry white line.
“Measures are being taken. Plans are in motion. Tell me, what would you have of me now, Stella?”
Her cheek practically nuzzled the woman’s knee as she turned her face upward, to gaze fully upon Stella. Oh, how she trembled with anger, with the will and the want to make the Admiral and her plaything pay for what they had done to Stella.
Her Stella.
Cin blinked slowly, watching the mesmer gather herself regally in the chair, shadows flitting across her face and eyes whilst in thought. The raven returned with a mournful caw, perching upon Stella’s upturned hand.
She watched.
And waited.
Their vengeance would be a sweet, slow dagger.
