Pinned
# shesnakes, life is a snake. they are the same. if the snake realizes you are not a snake, it will bite you. and if live knows you have no sting, it will devour you. — shesnakes is a private + dependent muse blog affiliated with asobai, and features an examination of the lost histories of girlhood, BEAUTY RAISED AND POINTED LIKE A WEAPON, & the sacrificial maiden who climbs back up the beast's throat.
“All my life… I have been told ‘go’ and ‘come.’ I am told how I will live, and I am told how I must die. I must be a man’s servant and a mare for his pleasure, or I must hide myself behind walls and surrender my flesh to a cold, silent god. I would walk into the jaws of hell itself, if it were a path of my own choosing. I would rather die tomorrow in the forest than live a hundred years of the life appointed me.”
— The Bear and the Nightingale by Katherine Arden.
Mature content
Natalia Vodianova for Guerlain’s Shalimar parfum
Shalimar was created by Jacques Guerlain in 1925, as a tribute to the legendary love story between Empereror Shahjahan and his wife Mumtaz Mahal.
The author has indicated this post may contain content not suitable for all audiences.
smile falters at recognition of failure. there was self-hatred blossoming within the river lord because if he could not get rosemund out of their father's last action, what fool was he then? what kind of ruling lord, leader of vassals and head of a family would he if he could not break her free from the chain forged by a dying man and dragon? a hand falls upon sisters shoulder, and the hurt he tries to hide so heavily from her escapes, if only for a moment. he would do his utmost to get her out, to set her free from the chains so she once more could be a forest nymph.
"i would like nothing more than to go back home," a gentle push is given to slender sister to move as this conversation should be kept between them. the river within his sister was strong, the waterfall unrelenting and her words could perhaps become her grave one day. "we keep to ourselves and I-" he wanted to tell her he could break her free, but as of right now he held nothing in his hands which the dragons wanted more than her. "this is not a conversation amongst people, let us venture back."
though she has always spit the bridle, rosemund allows this lead eris takes ⸺ the gentle suggestion of his hand guiding them away from the harbour and through the thick of the marketplace. they pass in silence for some time, her gaze landing on what is presented before her: foreign wares and faces, children gathered joyously around the makeshift stage of a puppeteer, the piles of horseshit from the animals towing the merchant carts. each their own proof of life, but ros cannot see them as anything but vestiges of their ruling dynasty: dragon scales littered where there should be none. their silence holds until they reach privacy, seated and sequestered once more in empty walls.
"father's foolish gamble is not your fault, eris. do not feel i lay this blame on you. but what is your plan if the lord hand decrees a wedding to be tacked onto this list of events so recently expanded ⸻ funeral, coronation? what reason have they to stay the proceedings if an allegiance with the riverlands benefits prince aeryn's claim to the throne? very shortly we may be out of time. and i promise you should it come to that point ⸻" here she holds his gaze, strong as the wood their family banner rests up. "i will find my own way out."
James Sant’s Courage, Anxiety and Despair: Watching the Battle (1850)
@shesnakes ╱ 𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐲
"though i suppose you must find me exaggerating my own size," and my import, "to find the capitol of the realm too small." a concession, than, this next question. a thing much like the feel of his hand patting atop her own: but a small kindness.
"is it different from the skies, my lord?"
gratitude tints his concern, equal in parts for her honesty and the trust that allowed it. ❝ i would never ask you to conceal the truth of your feelings, ❞ aeryn murmurs. a pretty platitude masquerading as a promise, though there were times it never even occurred to him to lie⸻clumsy missteps, childhood reprimands to say nothing if he could only manage what they called meanness. even today he cannot quite make the distinction between fact and supposed cruelty, and so he has always been tempted to silence. ❝ there are places in the red keep that might give you the solitude you seek, but i suppose open air too is a fairly high priority ... ❞
even the mere mention of starfyre is enough to bring a giddy, boyish grin to his lips. true interest sparks a glimmer in his eye, rumbles in his chest like his lady's fire and spews forth from his throat just as uncontrollably. ❝ there is nothing quite like riding on dragonback, lady rosemund. i've heard some try to compare it to being on the high seas, but there's a weightlessness to it that just cannot be replicated. although, i suppose my technique⸻more of a crouch, not astride like one would ride a horse⸻lends itself to the sensation. there is nothing holding me to the dragon save her reins and some straps clipped to my boots, you see. others will bridle their dragons if they can, slip a saddle over their spines to the poor animal's discomfort, but this is the best position for both her and me, my qēloszys. ❞
oh, he's spoken too much. stupid, foolish boy. no one wants to hear this. no one wants to hear you. eye averted, the prince finds a new audience in his shoes. ❝ forgive the tangent. sometimes i forget to let myself breathe. ❞
rosemund slows in foot as the prince paces faster by way of tongue, chin canted slightly to the side, the coordination of one thing trying to match another. she has never heard him speak this passionately ⸺ she has never heard the prince speak this much. yet he culls his own thought, a pause of silence the executioner, wielding his own apology as blade, and ros finds the urge to lift that knife from his neck. stilled entirely now, her gaze a rises from aeryn's pale neck to the leather covering one eye. "in my experience, breath has very little to do with passion, my lord. in fact, it quite often robs us of it entirely."
"you called your dragon something." she looks for the echo in her mouth, pausing only long enough to find the right sounds of repetition. "qēloszys." a fair enough iteration from a tongue more used to freshwater than brimstone. "i'm afraid i understand little of old valyrian; there is much use for it in the fields of riverrun. what does it mean?"
before the princess regent's pyre, standing beside princess visaera ╱ @shesnakes
❝ ñuhyz laehossa tista issi. ziry jorraelan, yn ... kōz trēsy iksan, daor ? ❞ there were prying ears, aeryn knew. their cousins were no stranger to their shared heritage, a common tongue practiced within the blood and to the beasts joined with them on the hilltop. but the confession was not their father's to hear, and perhaps that was the most important part for aeryn. starfyre chuffed behind him, a sound almost like a laugh to match the ill-suited smile that curved her rider's lips. perhaps it was for the best that sgaeyl had lit the shroud. aeryn loved his old girl, but to be frank, she was liable to snap the late princess up between her jaws and swallow her whole. wouldn't that be a fitting end for a targaryen, lost in the guts of a dragon ? a laugh bubbled in the pit of his throat, forced back down by a bowed head.
a wicked son indeed. the flames seemed to crackle in agreement. smoke rose in pillars⸻from his mother's lips to the gods' ears.
❝ hāedus, ❞ softly spoken, rife with desperation, accompanied by spread arms. he could not remember the last time they hugged. not a true one, a firm squeeze round flesh and blood, their childhood spent with brushing shoulders and elbows, knocking knees and the occasional hand to the top of her head. this was a nightmare, aeryn thought. and if he remembered her embraces as well a dear brother should, a sharp pinch would be enough to wake him right up.
"se ōrbar kessa ruaragon aōha qringaomnon.¹" dry as the back of her throat, this innuendo, dry as the bones will be when they pick them from the ashes. still, the jaw of the princess drips with the wet marks of mourning, the heat of pyre baking two lines onto pale terracotta cheeks. something terrible in that famed beauty by the light of fire, the taut ivory bowstring of her shoulder blades drawn back against mourning, eyes pink with grief, that elegant carve of her jaw settled in such a way it becomes the tip of the arrow. a dread goddess, this daughter by the pyre. a body made into altar for sacrifice.
"lēkia.²" call and response, ask and answer. like her old valyrian bray matching his own, visaera fills the space of aeryn's arms with the fullness of instinct. he is, pressed to her, taller than she might have answered. thicker. baring with him enough width to force her arms apart. a lean man, her brother, but something wide sits beneath his ribs tonight. against his chest the hot irritant of smog from a mother's pyre is dulled, and her chest throbs with this moment of respite, this animal desire to stay in the burrow where it is safe. still she emerges, the teeth of rage sunk into the soft neck of grief. "iksan glad syt īlva customs," our, us. that cabal of winged beasts. "issi daor worth sesīr se rotting corpse hen ziryla body.³"
𝑖 . in the red keep, within a corridor domeric evidently did not think he would see her in ! 𝑖𝑖 . for rosemund tully, @shesnakes
domeric could recall days when he had clung to ros's skirts with the pudgy, sweaty hands of a child — when he could pinpoint her head in a crowd as if sharing the same hair gave him supernatural powers of location when it came to only her. now, those memories festered between them. all of his childlike devotion and all of her protectiveness had sat, for years, rotting. now they were left with a silence that was only broken when they wished to prod at the other's misgivings, using words as arrows that always found their targets, no matter how concealed they were. and yet the feelings of kinship come so easily, rushing back in, forced to the forefront of his mind by the vestiges of the boy he'd been born. he who existed before they'd lost their mother and he'd slipped silently beneath the surface remained the steadfast keeper of his love for all of his siblings — not solely rosemund. now, dark eyes find dark hair, and the shade is as familiar a sight as ever. “ ros. ” no matter the distance, the nickname finds its way from his tongue easily. “ do you not have duties ? of the mourning sort. ” he was her brother, he knew of her stance towards her betrothal, and yet he asked anyway. drew blood where it was not needed. the leech. he looks at her with a bored expression, chin tilted down and gaze aimed upwards.
"brother." the younger, the one who had at one point most bared her image ⸻ not that familiar hair but the trace of her shadow, the mark of her protection on his breast. sweet dom, as much her's as anyone's. even now, furred in his outgrown curls and the thick bark of muscle as if to hide, she knows him. her heart brags at the sight: a refrain of love and vexation. "of which do you speak ⸻ the tearing of gown or beating of breasts?" hands tucked into the jade silk of her sleeves, rosemund's stride is slow, weighted with the purpose of one who knows her path. "i can perform them now if my impiety displeases you, dom."
"the princess regent did me no harm." even to a trout, it is clear which predator dipped their claws into the trident river to retrieve a bride for their son. "i pray that the seven usher her quickly into the heavens. if the targaryens wanted a bride with a wet face, they might have picked a girl from the iron isles." she stills before him, quiet and expectant. in gesture, her eyes sweep over the repose of her brother. "i see you have spent your time in king's landing doing that which is expected of you." nothing.
❝ pār sīr sagon ziry ... ❞ the gaiety in his tone is anything but , if anything , it is a snarl . sharp teeth bared , peering through golden mane . in his eyes , she was not a mere princess , not just a woman , but a dragon . ❝ yn konīr iksis daor jorrāelagon naejot laodigon , dārilaros . ❞ a mighty beast capable of destruction , of devastation so severe his heart races at the looming danger that hovers , wings spread across the sky , leaving him no chance of survival . ❝ kesrio syt isse mirre aōha gevie jaqiarzir ... you come willingly . ❞ the shift in tongues come naturally this time , a nefarious attack to them both , one that brings question to chastity . all is fair in war , and he is no stranger to pain . sebastian threads the line between ambush and sacrifice , veins pulsing with adrenaline and poison , breath loss and chest pounding . she is as vicious as she is tempting , there is a terrifying beauty in her gaze , and he turns his back on self - preservation , gazes right back — holds his arms wide before dragon fire . he does not speak , keeping his response only to himself . he can recognize traps from miles away , especially those set by visaera herself . he is no fool . a whisper or so much as a sound of his desires to reach her is the real danger . he will never give her that power . she already has enough . with so much as feathery touch of skin against his , the fire from her blood spills over to his . jarring , humming , then rumbling as it begins to wreak havoc . ❝ there is no pleasure in ... ease . you , of all people , know that very well , remember ? ❞
there it is, his low voice like the fat of a tongue over her skin: not just a man's but an animal's, a fox's, the rough scrape of something that would break apart her skin in order to devour the marrow. you come willingly. visaera's head turns, sharp ⸺ caught momentarily on the snap of his teeth. a bold phrase for the language he speaks it in, and the narrowing of her eyes says as much. if the reyne son wasn't careful, he'd be cut on the corner of them. the princess slowly turns her gaze forward, reorienting once more into an assembly of holy parts: the elegant stretch of her neck, sharp jaw, her body a white bow unravelled until it was one seamless line of silk. "i don't remember having ever ..." here she pauses, sinking waist-deep into the risk that is common tongue. "arrived for you, my lord. to my recollection it has always been you that comes so frequently to my heel. often without summons. why see even now," her lays the comma of her answer and the curl of her body here: this twist in statement and waist, looking over her shoulder as she pivots. the sign that there is more to come. "you follow."
no seer as her cousin, yet visaera beckons the future before it arrives: splitting for the lord reyne's side she sidles toward the crest of the street, the crust where stalls line like so many boughs of weeds, her gait slow. she moves like a spill of quicksilver over ice, the preternatural grace of something poisonous to the tongue. the white line of her drawn by some lovedrunk artist, the rattle of her adorned dress the sound of the seven rolling dice: i bet that there is no other like her.
"how poorly you know me, sebastian," the princess sighs, and for its sound the world might empty its purse. certainly the merchant might, smallfolk that he is witnessing the realm's delight run her white hands over his wares. "perhaps peace is all i seek in my life. ease, and ... well," she holds up a necklace of amethyst, its cut draped over the back of her hand. visaera's voice lays similarly flat, baring only the gentle curve of amusement. "this is very pretty too, isn't it?"
the exquisite lady rosemund tully, so many stories had the frog lady heard of her. yet the most captivating one is that of SAINT OF THE GULLY surviving an arrow to the heart — a story so eerie it traveled even to the depths of the bogs. though upon first glance, erena had gotten lost in ros’ beauty and understood why the gods had not claimed her.
lady rosemund brings a pleasant atmosphere to the swamp witch’s impulsive adventure. with all that has happened and with all that will happen, it is a much needed distraction. “ do you enjoy cooking, lady tully? “ a genuine question for she herself is not a good cook. nor a decent one.
when the trout stops near her hips and swims still in its place, she makes a move. hand reaches under the surface, quick as a whip, aims for the fish’s gills for the most secure grasp — it seems the events have taken a deeper toll on her as her fingers merely brush against the scales. disappointment finds its place in her voice, not yet surrender.
cheerfully: “ let me try again just for you, my lady. “
the edge of the blade curves thoughtfully against the small block of cedar, ros considering first its future shape and then the answer to the lady's question. "i suppose i do," a response come slow, pulled meaningfully from the deep well of reverie. she smiles at the edge of it, at the joint of pause before opening her mouth next. "though i might not have known it had you not asked." no great cook, certainly, but the makings of one who understood all great oaths, promises and loves occurred before the plate. at the table, warmed by the hearth. rosemund's gaze follows the taut release of the northerner's body — not unlike an arrow, this slim thing risen straight & tall from the water. she offers a nod of approval, satisfied with the buoyancy of her resolve. "if i had but favour to give here on the banks, you would have it. i admit, i find your endeavour of far greater interest than what we'll be made to watch tomorrow."
rosemund chuckles, canting her head to one side. dark hair falls over one shoulder, thick as a tendon of midnight. "have you any interest in the tourneys, lady? or perhaps better yet — have you any skill in them, so that i might lay my coin on you?"
