Draft In Progress

Inspired by Companhia Urbana de Dança

The throne room lies bathed in pools of rapidly browning scarlet, violent splashes of blood sullying the previously pristine surfaces. Astride wipes her blades on a fallen Regency soldier’s shirt, careful not to cut her fingers, and returns the weapons to their sheaths. She casts around for Narcisse. Unless there are secret tunnels underground that their informants didn’t know about, the castle should be cleared of inhabitants. Captured. Safe to use as a base of operations, or loot and raze to the ground if the desire so strikes.

Astride spots Narcisse, finally—they are kneeling at the foot of the dais, surrounded by crumpled bodies bearing the Regency’s crest and colours. Midday light slants through the high, arching glass panes and paints a striking picture of Narcisse, all caramel-coloured hair and smooth brown skin that seems to glow where the light touches it. Though Astride knows full well that Narcisse’s hands are drenched in blood, soaked in misery and death in a way that’ll be inescapable no matter what they do, they look nothing short of angelic. 

Astride strides down the long hall, heedless of the flesh and fabric that is crushed under her boots. Her armor, though light, makes small clinking noises as she works her way towards the raised dais at the end of the room. Astride is still barely halfway there when Narcisse rises—slowly, elegantly, a dancer thrust into the life of a mercenary. They weren’t made for violence, not really, but they’ve always been good at adapting.

“Narcisse,” Astride calls. They have a castle to scout (or loot), and a treasure room that beckons to Astride’s street thief habits that time hasn’t seemed to fully worn away.

Narcisse begins to walk away, towards the empty throne. Sometime between now and only seconds before, it had begun to glow. It seems to emanate light—to Astride’s eyes, it appears to be lit up from within by a warm richness that she’s only seen captured in tapestries woven with pure golden thread. Belatedly, she remembers that this castle was ruled by the Baron de Lumièrie, the Light of the Regency.

Astride quickens her pace. Narcisse’s back is retreating out of sight, lost in the now nearly overwhelming light of the throne. 

“Narcisse, wait! Where are you going?” she cries. She’s running now, stumbling over still-cooling limbs and slipping in the blood streaked across the marble floor. The fragile bones of a hand crunch under her foot, but she pays it no mind in her haste. Narcisse, Narcisse, Narcisse—what are you doing? Come back to me.

Narcisse stills at the sound of her desperation. They don’t turn around, don’t flash their bright smile—a smile that could illuminate the earth and heavens alike—and descend from the dais like Astride wants them to. Instead, Narcisse pauses for the briefest infinitesimal second, a second that blinks by in the moments between the beats of Astride’s pounding heart—

and steps forward into the light.

Astride’s hand closes around the empty space left where Narcisse’s wrist was. She falls to the floor, shocked, stunned, heart shattering into a million delicate glass shards on the marble tiles beside her.

The throne’s golden light disappears like an afterthought. It is noon, but Astride is drowning in darkness.