several lifetimes of this act live within her, but never has she submerged this flesh in that sacred pool. never has she lit the candles as her mother may have done, and her mother before that. it had taken time to gather the artefacts, and longer still to adorn herself with them.

the dress is a slip of a thing. she had brushed her fingers over her left shoulder, felt the ruined and knotted flesh from her lover's seal. and she had traced the patchwork scales on her cheeks, the bumped ridge to her once-broken nose, and the scar that lay across her face. 

she is not a soft and beautiful creature. her limbs are scored with silver from a lifetime of training beasts with teeth and claw sharper than blades. yet when she stood in front of that mirror, wearing the vestments of her people, she felt - for the first time - wholly and completely herself. 

the pool glitters up ahead. she can hear the slow trickle of water. phosphorescent algae glows at the basin, but the cavern is otherwise dark. she carries no torch. 

you certainly play the part well. 

mid-step, she pauses. the flat of her bare foot touches, pivots slowly. golds turn and she blinks at the darkness behind her. there - a silhouette, arms crossed, leaning nonchalantly against the rock. that shadow moves with a predator's grace as it detaches from the wall. 

freya takes a step back and curses herself for it. 

"is that how you see me?" she says and with no bow, no dragon, and no sword, she sinks her fingers into the well of power humming inside her. the whites of her eyes spill with ink. slit pupils narrow. 

"i am a servant of the people, but you, i will make kneel before me."

Absinthe Blackwood

☉