The instant he hears the severed branch, Fear’s Steward jolts to his feet. He hurtles in a dervish circle, a spin the end of which produces a brilliant golden scythe in both hands.
He stands at the ready, drawing unsteady breaths that grow evener as he schools himself in composure, from long years in the military and against impossible odds.
A breathtaking woman greets him, not quite human, not quite fey, but liminal. She is small and angular, and he can see the mouth of a trickster and the eyes of a ghost.
“I know you … .” he ventures, surprised at the feebleness of his voice.
He clears his throat and tries again, and the decorum of the Old Court and its refined ways kicks in.
“My Lady, I pray, please show me your face. I can remember what I see of it, but not your name. Don’t be coy, I ask. Take pity.”
He steps toward her, sheathing the weapon into a state of invisibility again; it cuts the sharpest at dawn and dusk, and anyway, something tells him there is no danger to be found in her presence.
THOUGH UNINTENTIONALLY, the spirit finds herself flinching at the sight of a gold scythe manifesting from the air, the brilliant blade held in trained hands of a soldier. it’s not fear that causes this flinch, nor an instinct to flee or defend herself. (after all, she can slip back into shadows in the blink of an eye) no. something about this whole sequence stirs embers of recognition in the spirit’s mind. though not truly needing air to survive, she finds her breath heavy and ragged with ANXIETY that she attempts to hide behind humour. ‘ oof. jumpy, jumpy. i’ve never been a threat to you. ’
hesitation is evident as he voices his request, shadows flickering around lady of secrets as she ponders. so few see her face, so few remember it--for the longest time, she avoided taking a human form altogether. and yet, now she slowly steps forward, lithe hands pulling the dark hood back. soft moonlight illuminates an angular, lovely face of pale lavender skin. shining and ethereal, she looks almost akin to a ghost - instinctually shaping her features to look the same age she has been when she perished so long ago. a dark mark resembling a beak runs down her bottom lip, large eyes glowing a soft, cold green. her hair, once a rich brown, is a dark blue that falls in waves down her shoulders; little flickers of light shine in it like stars against a midnight sky.
‘ such an official tone...’ she thoughtfully murmurs, a familiar spark of mirth flashing in her eyes. ‘ i can’t explain WHY, but it makes me want to crash some royal party and cause untold chaos. enrich a rigid, posh atmosphere of some celestial court, almost as if i’ve done it BEFORE. yet my memory... ’
a soft sigh. ‘ my memory eludes me. ’
