ianthe vibes
@iantheofida
ianthe "love my twin, also murder" tridentarius 🩸 quotes, descriptions, art and thirst tweets
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It was osteoids your fingers searched for. New bone always gave itself away, its fresh collagen spongy and bright with thalergy. The lining of her cells was in keeping with old bone.
It took a moment for her to understand the name that had never been Cytherea’s. After long seconds, recognition flashed in those adulterated blue eyes. 'Tell her I want my arm back,' she said, and slammed the door in your face.
She was ageing before their eyes. Her skin sloughed off in papery threads. But she was not staring at Silas, who held her as firmly as though he had her clasped in his hands. She was staring, disbelieving, at Colum the Eighth. 'Well, now you’re fucked,' she announced.
Palamedes said, though he sounded as though he were ten thousand years away, 'Princess, whatever you think you’ve done, you haven’t done it.' 'Oh, haven’t I?' said Ianthe.
So you went to Ianthe, and you asked her how to make soup. 'Oh, it’s easy,' said the Princess of Ida breezily. 'You cut up an onion, burn it at the bottom of the pot, put in a few vegetables, and then some meat.'
You struggled to sit up. Your head felt as though someone had studded your skull with fine little spikes that stroked your brain with hooked barbs whenever you moved. 'I said, lie down,' said Ianthe. “You absolute madwoman.'
'The challenge is one of protocol: we have to provide a valid response to a necessarily vague question in order to authenticate ourselves. Making meaning from the meaningless. Et cetera.'
'I pledge myself again to the service of Ianthe Tridentarius, Princess of Ida, daughter of the Third House,' you said.
She had been dimmed, somehow. Something had been taken from her since you watched her scream on the floor of the shuttle.
She closed her eyes and let her head loll suddenly downward. When she opened them again the pupil and the iris were gone, leaving the terrible white of the eyeball. They all flinched as Ianthe cried aloud.
She was standing before the windows. The amethysts dripping from her rapier’s basket hilt flashed and glittered in the darkness: she had her left arm tucked behind her, and her feet arranged a hip’s width apart, and her right arm extended before her, holding her sword.
She stood at the doorway and watched the breath minutely fill those lungs, in—and out—and in. There were smudges of sweat on the face that in this light looked just like tears.
Despite that, Ianthe was cured. It had been your faintest and most childlike hope that Ianthe would consider your bondage over; that your saving her life would be enough to release you from the collar of debt she had placed around your neck.
In the mirror, that paintless, unfamiliar face tightened. The lips pressed together until they were the pale brown of roses, ashen.
'Who else beside me is alive, Lord?' 'Ianthe Tridentarius,' said the Emperor, 'minus one arm.'
Ianthe strode down a low flight of stairs, sword in hand, hair rippling white-yellow in the breeze. Dead leaves and plant matter drifted down around her, disturbed by the crumbling wall.
Her teeth started chattering again halfway through, and she bit her tongue, yowled, and spat on the floor. A thin wisp of smoke arose from the mingled spit and blood. They all stared at it.
Naberius flicked his eyes very obviously over to the other end of the table, but Coronabeth was busy with Magnus: probably swapping new jokes, Gideon thought. He said, 'stop being a pill.' 'I repeat, Babs, are you part of this conversation?'
Ianthe was staring into space, looking like a child, for all her height. Little. Bemused. I don’t even want to know what I looked like.
You were shocked into opening your eyes when you felt the girl opposite cup your chin in her hands—her fingers febrile compared to the chilly shock of her gilded metacarpal—and put her meat thumb at the corner of your jaw.
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