#ic. kassandra

[walkpathe-arch]

eivor: the less you know about my life, the better. (to kass!)

kassandra allows herself to be selfish tonight.  instead of retreating to the familiar loneliness of her duties: she sits at eivor wolfsmal's table, drinks her mead and laughs with her people. at ease and feeling more alive than she has in centuries, the warrior has told many outlandish stories from her past — true for the most part — until the table slowly started to be vacated, leaving empty ale horns and fading merriment behind. eivor stays behind, seemingly content to survey her people and far too silent for kassandra's liking.

she doesn't budge, the stubborn vikingr.  but kassandra smiles, settles down her mug so she can leverage her chin with her elbow on the table and turn sideways towards eivor. her long, well toned legs are on either side of the wooden bench, bold, comfortable in her own skin and the space she occupies. tell me about you, she had asked with mead still on her tongue and mind clear from the fog of drunkness, but it seems the reply will have to be sought after, unearthed like a relic.

'' you misunderstand me. ''   there is too much mirth in her eyes for it to be a serious reproach, but her tone is softer than before, as if this is meant only for eivor to hear.   '' i don't seek to know about your past, or your deeds. i wish to know about you as you are now. what you love, what you hate, what gets you to laugh. ''

[walkpathe-arch]

“some people respond to kindness, others require a glimpse of steel.” / eivor and kassandra

'' well said, wolfsmal. ''   kassandra's grin turns into a short laugh, deep in her throat and with more breath than sound to it.  weapons resting idle at her back, kassandra is more inclined towards peace today, but it would not be the first time her plans were thwarted by the idiocy of others; fools thinking they could mess with her, or simply get away with being tyrants.

as much as she would like her world to be simpler, kinder, sometimes  (most of the times, despite her best efforts)  blood follows her like a thick, red miasma. 

smoke can be seen rising from the chimneys of the settlement, just ahead, but kassandra is more interested in looking at eivor, in studying the raven king's countenance for any sign of give, a crack, the tiniest shadow of a smile.  anything that could warm up those ice shards the drengr has for eyes. she is on a mission to thaw them, it seems — and nike's champion does not give up so easily.

'' what do you respond to, o' raven king — tickling, perhaps.. or is it audacious tales? ''

[walkpathe-arch]

Your love is not what it seemed. (From Sorana, for Kassandra).

the voice finds her on a rocky shore,   knees close to her chest and elbows resting over them.  heart pounding with guilt,  kassandra knows she must face this,  face the one she has hurt with her cowardice.  beloved,  she wants to say.  again and again in prayer,  a hymn to her own private altar.  she wants to hug her knees and kiss them to beg forgiveness,  like a penitent would.  but she is done hiding and turning away from this.

kassandra speaks no words.  she lets it sink into her,  she lets it hurt,  raising no shield to defend herself.  there is none:  she had left the sanctuary sorana had provided her with,  not wishing to witness what she had thought inevitable.  time sleeping through her fingers.  sorana growing old and meeting the end of her life.  sorana going down to hades,  where kassandra could never reach her.  like phoibe and her mother,  forever lost to her.

it lays between them for days,  a chasm that wasn't there before.  your love is not what it seemed.  kassandra herself is not who she had seemed,  she supposes.  a warrior with titan blood in her veins,  a goddess' champion with a task as endless as the sky above and not just a charming stranger with an impressive display of weapons.

''  i won't ask for your forgiveness.  i want to explain everything to you  —  but if you want me gone instead,  i will understand.  ''   she finishes peeling the skin of a fig with a knife,  then leaves it on the table for sorana to take,  should she wish to.  an olive branch.  an offer with no demands attached.   ''  i called you philtate once,  dearest one.  that hasn't changed.  ''

herakles,   accepting

[walkpathe-arch]

GRIEVED for a scene from my muse's past in which they had recently lost someone / something (for Kassandra!)

all of lakonia seems silent as she works,   dirt under her nails and sweat on her brow.  she did everything right.  she held her mater's hand as her eyes became cloudy with the veil of death,  seated close and unafraid,  no tears on her face but the fierce flame in her heart burning bright.  she wrapped her in a scarlet shroud,   she left olive leaves upon it as the only things her mother would carry with her to elysium.   she made offers to the gods until the smoke blurred her vision.  safe passage.  purification.

she had faltered only once,  hand trembling as she poured the wine,  the empty walls of her mother's house closing in,  ridding her of breath.  alexios.  her little brother should have been here beside her,  burying their mater in the ground,  going through the rites,  but kassandra had watched myrrine ready him for his own shroud,  in this very house,  years before.  she had watched,  hands still smeared with her brother's blood,  as mother kissed his cold brow and whispered to him.  she had stood still,  not daring to touch him more than she already had (   she had flung the spear of leonidas at his chest,  killing what was left of alexios and saving mother with the same throw   ).

she buries her near the house,  under the shade of a tree.  nobody hinders her when she carves wood for a tombstone,  throwing spartan customs to the wind. nobody dares.  she was not a soldier who died in battle for sparta,  she had not died in childbirth either,  only the passage of time had claimed her.  a mortal's death.  one that would not greet her daughter,  blessed by the goddess of victory,  keeper of the staff of hermes.

there are plenty of things she could write.  daughter of leonidas,  hero of thermopylae.  wife of nikolaos, the wolf of sparta.  but kassandra writes none of these things,  she can't bear to.  she lets sweat cool on her skin,  bare knees pressed onto the soil,  and she starts cutting words into the wood,  a sad yet tender smile,  filled with a love that refuses to be snuffed out,  on her lips:  myrrine,  loved by her children.

glimpses of the past

[walkpathe-arch]

[ clean ] sender reaches up to wipe something off receiver's face. (For Kassandra, from Sorana).

sandaled feet folded beneath her and warm spring sun cascading all around her,   kassandra has laid a small feast on the ground.  atop a white cloth there are figs and honey and cheese,  as well as bread to be dipped in wine.  all for the priestess of the temple.  and to settle her own nostalgic heart with food that reminds of home,  of the shores of her beloved greece.

entirely stripped of both armor and weapons,  yet at ease under the protection of the temple,  kassandra bares her throat as she laughs,  allows the taste of sweet red wine and honey wash away the memory of blood and strife from her teeth.  she will pick up her sword once more,  she will learn to adapt to a fast changing word again and again,  but for now let her rest.  let her enjoy the balm of pleasant company.

the movement catches her unaware,  entranced as she is by the serene beauty of the moment and place.  @blyznyuky forwards a hand in her direction and kassandra does nothing to dissuade her from completing the gesture,  surprise shifting into tenderness cresting inside her like a wave.  a drop of honey near the corner of her mouth is being carefully swiped up,  an act so small yet so intimate it has her heart rate flutter irrationally.  she needs a titanic effort not to incline her face just so and catch sorana's finger with her own mouth.  but she never once hides her eyes,  steady,  searching,  entirely unassuming.  she offers without taking for herself.

comfortable intimacy

[walkpathe-arch]

no, i'm not awake. i'm sleep-talking. [ brynn for kassandra skdjdjd ]

kassandra turns softer under the glare of the moon,   less coiled,  limbs more prone to loose their edge and recline against any given surface.  in the sun she is all movement,  the glint of her sword a lit beacon and her eyes the color of honey,  also ablaze,  but now there is only the airy breeze of the sea   (   close,  so very close she could almost taste it   )   in her hair and the mantle of night blanketing the stars.  she is at peace,  with a fire warming her skin and a very unamused witcher at her side.

one who is very much not in the clutches of slumber,  it would seem.  kassandra makes her way back to where they are camped slowly,  sitting down near her with deliberate carefulness so as not to startle   (   it is me.  i mean you no harm   ).  so that when the half goddess makes to place a warm hand on her shoulder,  @luredeep can see the gesture coming and decide to either accept or deny it.

''  you are restless,  golden eyes.  ''   the moniker has become a habit,  in the brief time they have known each other,  and kassandra says it with ease,  far more tender than the array of weapons usually on her frame causes her to appear.  they lay on the ground at her side now,  both sword and spear,  awaiting her hands.

''  a friend has told me that the cure for fitful sleep is red wine.  ''   the memory of barnabas has her lips draw up into a smile,  both fond and amused.

you made a fool of death