12-26-2017, 03:10 PM
Even as she stomped through the rooms and closeted themselves inside a private chamber, Valeriya felt the heat dissipate with her every step. She rushed inside so to contain it, but it drifted from her body just like it drifted from Armande's. The moment dripped away, and no matter how tight she gripped his hand, it poured out like droplets of water she could not hold.
His words were not reassuring. Valeriya never put much confidence in words. She poured her soul into what she could see and touch. With Armande, she peered deep into his eyes as though she was staring into blue crystals came to life. She believed him, but not for what he promised or the rapture in his voice as he promised it. She believed him because his eyes did not lie. His eyes drank hers as much as she drank his. They needed one another. The magical Rasputin reborn had claimed his queen after all, and while Valeriya never claimed the title for herself, she found the address fitting.
When he sealed the promise with another embrace, her hesitation melted. Her anger was forgotten, or more fittingly, was redirected, channeled into Armande. His strength and presence was overwhelming. His body was tight against hers. Her hands explored every inch of his chest, his shoulders, his waist. She found scars and old battle wounds. She hungered to know the story behind each. His hair tangled in her claws. His teeth bit her lip, but she only laughed at the taste of blood on her tongue. The Khylsty were not dainty, and their queen was hardly delicate.
She was aroused again, but Armande pushed her away. She flashed a dangerous dare, but his grip of her hand pulled her elsewhere before she could protest. Illarion, she growled his name under her breath. He would leave her to find her twin, perhaps he was right, though. Illarion and Matvei were conspiring against her. Regus needed to intercept them before they poisoned the Khylsty against her.
Regus would hear nothing of her protest, though. He led her elsewhere and summoned a waterfall. It was small, like a trickle at first, but as the power of the water increased, the hiss of it hitting cold walls grew, as well did Valeriya's ever-widening eyes. He showed her a few more things, explained what he wanted her to do, and Valeriya was left agape and shocked by the notion.
Alone, her brows furrowed low. The hiss of the waterfall overwhelmed all her senses, and she could hear nothing else. A warm mist grew up around her, and sweat touched her brow. She squat low to try and determine where the water flowed, but discerned nothing from the little hole in the floor. She realized then that she was thirsty, and thrust out her hand to cup a palmful of water. When she did, she hissed herself as the heat burned her skin. Armande wanted her to cleanse herself in burning water? She examined the red mark on her hand, looked at all the knobs, and carefully reached out to touch the one he indicated. When the water became cooler, she gasped in awe. It was like magic, only it was a mechanical magic. Intrigued by the notion, she did as she was told and stripped herself of the tsarina's ancient gown.
She laid her necklace of crystals carefully aside. She unwrapped her feet and stood still as the mist licked her naked body. She closed her eyes and stepped into the water puddle. Slowly at first, she reached a foot into the streaming water, then a hand, then her shoulder. The waterfall tickled, and she giggled a little despite herself. The temperature was not scalding any more. In fact, it was quite pleasant.
She picked up the bar that Regus called "soap" and took a big sniff. It smelled foul. It tasted worse, she thought, spitting some of it to the floor. She was suppose to rub it all over her body, an act that seemed heretical. She did it though, rubbing it all over her skin like she had seen oil rubbed across the bodies during Radenyi. The waterfall tickled little bubbles away. The mist closed her into her own tiny universe where nothing else existed except her. It was quite pleasant, despite the foul smell.
Her hair was a giant tangle of knots. The little bones that were sewn into her strands did not want to slip free even with big dollops of the gel that Regus called shampoo. The bones, the trophies of her kills, little toes or teeth or ribs that she carved symbols into, she wanted gone. The life Below was washing away as surely as the grime on her skin. She had never seen her body so white before. She was almost as pale as Illarion, she realized, and secretly hoped her twin was not hurt too badly by her brandishing the knife. The practically ripped the bones from the knots of her hair, taking chunks of black strands with them, but she threw them away. A queen of the Above would be like the Tsarina, Rasputin's secret lover, elegant and beautiful, not a warrioress. She wanted to decorate her body with jewels, not bones. Or at least, she would chose bones from the creatures of the Above. Maybe even the bones of her enemies. Yes, Matvei's bones would adorn her head like a crown someday. Yes indeed.
A long time later, she left the shower, cleansed of her old life and washed anew in the waters of the Above. She drank freely of water then, the clearest, prettiest water she had ever seen in her life. Everything Above was going to be better for the Khylsty. When they finally realized what she brought to them, they would love her for it. Those that yearned for the Below could perish, for all she cared, in trying to return.
She paused in front of a glass wall. The mist swirled around her naked body, obscuring a clear view of herself. But she could make out the whiteness of her skin. Her own pink scars puckered across her arms or her back, but they were not numerous. She would tell Armande their stories someday, when he shared his own. Her hair dripped like a black veil from her head. Her green eyes were sharp with determination. Armande showed her clothes he wanted her to wear, but when she picked up the soft cloth, bundled them in her arms, she looked longingly at the tattered dress on the floor. One hundred years of Eyes wore that dress, among others. It was patched and resewn so many times the original garment was barely recognizable.
She kicked it away with a chuckle. In its place she pulled a soft black garment over her head, and pulled a similarly soft garment and cinched it at the waist. She did arrange her crystals around her neck again, and set about combing her fingers through her glistening wet hair. She wished for clothing more befitting a queen, but perhaps wearing the garments of the Above was exactly that.
His words were not reassuring. Valeriya never put much confidence in words. She poured her soul into what she could see and touch. With Armande, she peered deep into his eyes as though she was staring into blue crystals came to life. She believed him, but not for what he promised or the rapture in his voice as he promised it. She believed him because his eyes did not lie. His eyes drank hers as much as she drank his. They needed one another. The magical Rasputin reborn had claimed his queen after all, and while Valeriya never claimed the title for herself, she found the address fitting.
When he sealed the promise with another embrace, her hesitation melted. Her anger was forgotten, or more fittingly, was redirected, channeled into Armande. His strength and presence was overwhelming. His body was tight against hers. Her hands explored every inch of his chest, his shoulders, his waist. She found scars and old battle wounds. She hungered to know the story behind each. His hair tangled in her claws. His teeth bit her lip, but she only laughed at the taste of blood on her tongue. The Khylsty were not dainty, and their queen was hardly delicate.
She was aroused again, but Armande pushed her away. She flashed a dangerous dare, but his grip of her hand pulled her elsewhere before she could protest. Illarion, she growled his name under her breath. He would leave her to find her twin, perhaps he was right, though. Illarion and Matvei were conspiring against her. Regus needed to intercept them before they poisoned the Khylsty against her.
Regus would hear nothing of her protest, though. He led her elsewhere and summoned a waterfall. It was small, like a trickle at first, but as the power of the water increased, the hiss of it hitting cold walls grew, as well did Valeriya's ever-widening eyes. He showed her a few more things, explained what he wanted her to do, and Valeriya was left agape and shocked by the notion.
Alone, her brows furrowed low. The hiss of the waterfall overwhelmed all her senses, and she could hear nothing else. A warm mist grew up around her, and sweat touched her brow. She squat low to try and determine where the water flowed, but discerned nothing from the little hole in the floor. She realized then that she was thirsty, and thrust out her hand to cup a palmful of water. When she did, she hissed herself as the heat burned her skin. Armande wanted her to cleanse herself in burning water? She examined the red mark on her hand, looked at all the knobs, and carefully reached out to touch the one he indicated. When the water became cooler, she gasped in awe. It was like magic, only it was a mechanical magic. Intrigued by the notion, she did as she was told and stripped herself of the tsarina's ancient gown.
She laid her necklace of crystals carefully aside. She unwrapped her feet and stood still as the mist licked her naked body. She closed her eyes and stepped into the water puddle. Slowly at first, she reached a foot into the streaming water, then a hand, then her shoulder. The waterfall tickled, and she giggled a little despite herself. The temperature was not scalding any more. In fact, it was quite pleasant.
She picked up the bar that Regus called "soap" and took a big sniff. It smelled foul. It tasted worse, she thought, spitting some of it to the floor. She was suppose to rub it all over her body, an act that seemed heretical. She did it though, rubbing it all over her skin like she had seen oil rubbed across the bodies during Radenyi. The waterfall tickled little bubbles away. The mist closed her into her own tiny universe where nothing else existed except her. It was quite pleasant, despite the foul smell.
Her hair was a giant tangle of knots. The little bones that were sewn into her strands did not want to slip free even with big dollops of the gel that Regus called shampoo. The bones, the trophies of her kills, little toes or teeth or ribs that she carved symbols into, she wanted gone. The life Below was washing away as surely as the grime on her skin. She had never seen her body so white before. She was almost as pale as Illarion, she realized, and secretly hoped her twin was not hurt too badly by her brandishing the knife. The practically ripped the bones from the knots of her hair, taking chunks of black strands with them, but she threw them away. A queen of the Above would be like the Tsarina, Rasputin's secret lover, elegant and beautiful, not a warrioress. She wanted to decorate her body with jewels, not bones. Or at least, she would chose bones from the creatures of the Above. Maybe even the bones of her enemies. Yes, Matvei's bones would adorn her head like a crown someday. Yes indeed.
A long time later, she left the shower, cleansed of her old life and washed anew in the waters of the Above. She drank freely of water then, the clearest, prettiest water she had ever seen in her life. Everything Above was going to be better for the Khylsty. When they finally realized what she brought to them, they would love her for it. Those that yearned for the Below could perish, for all she cared, in trying to return.
She paused in front of a glass wall. The mist swirled around her naked body, obscuring a clear view of herself. But she could make out the whiteness of her skin. Her own pink scars puckered across her arms or her back, but they were not numerous. She would tell Armande their stories someday, when he shared his own. Her hair dripped like a black veil from her head. Her green eyes were sharp with determination. Armande showed her clothes he wanted her to wear, but when she picked up the soft cloth, bundled them in her arms, she looked longingly at the tattered dress on the floor. One hundred years of Eyes wore that dress, among others. It was patched and resewn so many times the original garment was barely recognizable.
She kicked it away with a chuckle. In its place she pulled a soft black garment over her head, and pulled a similarly soft garment and cinched it at the waist. She did arrange her crystals around her neck again, and set about combing her fingers through her glistening wet hair. She wished for clothing more befitting a queen, but perhaps wearing the garments of the Above was exactly that.
The Eye of the Khylsty