Greatwater Lake Krýo

The waters were cool and they lapped against the shore in a lazy motion. Overhead, the sun cooked all who passed beneath it. The ground was warm with its touch. The trees were scorched, leaves ranging in color from crisp spring green to withered yellow and brown.

Antigone waded into the clearest part of the water. He felt the lake soak into his sunwarmed skin. When he had sunk down enough to drape his body in cold water, a sigh of relief passed through his nose. The dark blue of his eyes traced the mountains in the distance.

she left the forest. enticing as it was to linger in a place that enabled her darkest thoughts and sent her imagination spiraling downward, it began to physically weigh her down after hours of contemplation. she found old bones here and there—some in intact skeletons, others scattered.

a place of death, that. when she broke from the darkness into the light, her psyche eased, too. a clarity of purpose came upon her, quiet and razor-sharp, and she carried on with a lightness of step that had not existed in those dreary woods.

and water ahead—what better way to cleanse herself than to immerse her body in cool, crisp waters?

except, someone had already beaten her there—a young man with his head on fire.

well, obviously, not so dramatic as that. as she approached, she saw the rest of him, pale enough to appear through the surface. but his crown was kissed by flame, and it was this strange adornment that drew her closer, head tilted in gentle query.

scusi, fiamma called out, finding the gentlest parts of her voice with which to speak. can I join you, signore?

she was nothing if not mannerly. she strode up to the edge of the lake and planted her front paws there, feeling the water tickling against her toes. she would not enter until he gave the go-ahead—

and for what? it was a boy, not much older than herself.

a boy who could be useful, fiamma amended, giving him an ingratiating smile, once he'd taken notice and heard her query.

the water looks very nice, she added with the barest of giggles, shifting her weight slightly onto one hind leg.

How had he not seen her approach? 

Antigone’s cold features turned from the mountain to look upon the woman. She wore a cloak of stone, pulled from the mountain range itself. Life had been blown through her and had given the mountain a voice - a woman’s voice. 

The effort to be polite had not been lost on him. There were few who would ask. Many just assumed that they could take a place near him, invading him, violating him with proximity. The red hooded man had grown in his contempt. It had shaped him far more than his father’s joyous laughing, his mother’s sweet voice. The image of Meadow and that man still burned deep in his belly. 

Sure. 

Curt, cold even in his young voice. The dark blue in his gaze was even icier. 

My name is not signore.

ah, so that was the way of it. she took the chilly tone like a winter wind across the face—harsh but expected from a stranger, and therefore not so terrible. her grey eyes looked him over for a long moment before her mouth followed suit in response.

signore is a title of respect in my tongue, fiamma replied, smiling. i would never assume your name—which is. . .?

she stepped into the water well removed from him, padding into the shallows with careful, questing steps. submerged herself to her shoulders, able to still meet his eyes, while her grayscale pelt took on water and grew darker, heavier.

my name is fiamma, she offered as an olive branch, unsure of whether he'd give her the same courtesy. something had hurt this young man, or hardened him, at least; the stiffness of his body and aloofness of personality was a dead giveaway.

but tough shells, after all, were the most satisfying to crack. 

her eyelids fluttered shut as she soaked, feeling the dirt and grime from travel bloom out from her form in wretched murky water. not much current in the lake, but still the tiny waves tugged at her. a deep sigh left her muzzle in some semblance of bliss. it had been too long since a proper bath, and this went a long way in cleansing her in body and soul.

had he come here for the same reprieve? absolution; salvation? resurrection?

her eyes remained closed, waiting for his reply.

Fiamma was a curious name. As was the respectful title she had offered him. A tongue foreign to the young man. It was nothing like the words Arsenio had used. It seemed more put-together. More romantic simply in the way it lifted from her tongue and met him. 

Antigone. 

The red hood watched as the woman stepped into the lake water. Serene in the way she closed her eyes and basked in the cool touch of it. 

Perhaps it had been instinctual, or maybe he had properly conveyed his need for space in the frigid lash of his tongue. He appreciated that she afforded him this. The strangeness of his mind had only intensified in his growth, his age. Even if he was young. Antigone did not think anyone could understand it. Not even himself, wearing the skin he wore and churning in the mind he carried. 

My father was Greek, he offered. It was a small way he might share a little of himself, of the roots that had cast his head in fire.

antigone. she repeated it soundlessly, tasted each syllable upon her tongue as if reluctant to speak it aloud before finding the perfect pronunciation. before she could speak again, he added:

my father was greek.

it did not mean much to her. only that he somehow had found a kindred spirit in her, whether it be her foreign tongue or her polite manners. either way, she dipped her head in greeting at that remark, smile stalwart on her face as she did so. she was beginning to sense a softening of the boy.

what does that mean, antigone? fiamma inquired, tilting her head. i mean—what does your father's blood bring to you that you think worth mentioning?

already, her imagination was running amok. greek wolves, bathed in fire. his mother was plain; father was alight. and so this boy born, burning from the brain down. she had no idea it was a language consideration.

and speaking of such. . .

my name means fire, which is like the color upon your head. perhaps it's fate that has drawn us closer. . .?

she swayed in the water, enjoying the flow, lips pursed in a sigh as the cold water cleansed her.

one of them afire in name; the other in pelt. she wanted to toss her head back in fantasy. it could not be mere coincidence that this happened.

The young man gazed pointedly at her question. He felt his chest tighten. The clench of his jaw revealed more than he cared to. She had asked what Arsenio’s blood had given him, that he might bring this topic to their polite discussion. For all his fear of filth, Antigone had a knack for mucking up his conversations. 

Now he sat in silence while her inquiry hung upon the air, accompanied only by the sound of birds and lakeside insects. 

What had Arsenio’s blood brought to Antigone? 

Nothing… He sunk deeper into the waters. The red hood wished that he could wash himself of memory, of recollecting haunting images of his perfect father and his sweet-souled mother. Most would consider the childhood he’d had to be just shy of perfect. To disagree would have been ungrateful of him, and yet… 

Different languages, I suppose. 

Antigone fidgeted in the tangling weeds beneath the water. They clutched at him with long supple fingers. The hairs along his neck rose with discomfort. This was not like river water. Things could stagnate in the lake, fester and grow. 

When Fiamma mentioned the meaning of her name, his eyes dug into her. She was called fire while wearing the cool sturdy colors of the mountain stone. What then would inspire such a name? This woman did not burn before him. She moved much like the water - gentle, fluid, graceful. 

Why? he asked her in a sharp voice. Why fire for your name?

there was much turmoil in the young man. she watched as the unrest simmered beneath the surface, noted each flitting change of expression as he summoned the words to speak. when he did so, it was a throwaway response; nothing of use to her.

he either was hiding something, or burying that which he did not want to live with. fiamma thought it to be the latter.

she was formulating her own reply when he spoke again, the harsh tone of his voice clashing with the casual question. she shifted, sending little ripples across the water outward from her form. slowly, she smiled, and her eyes took on the hazy glow of memory.

my father was the firstborn son of a powerful family, fiamma explained. and so, as the eldest, he had first pick of names for his own children. he promised his mother he would name his first daughter after her—a great matriarch.

there was an reverent look to her countenance as she remembered the old woman, who had only lived a few moons after her birth before passing. her coat was fiery red; her eyes gold as sunset, she murmured. my father looked similar. but i could have been born any color—white or green or blue—and he still would have kept his vow.

submerged, fiamma could blend with the dark, gray stones beneath the water. only her eyes—like the frozen heat of glacier ice—reflected her true moniker. . .and her true nature.

destiny, then, antigone, she replied. and perhaps a reminder that things are not always what they seem.

a chill ran through her at the thought. she had learned that lesson all too well when her father—a man she had loved more than life itself—became a monster. all because of a rumor. and even if the rumor had been true. . .

do you live nearby, antigone? she asked, keeping her own haunted visions at bay as she instead focused on the flame-kissed wolf. i am very new to these parts and still exploring.

the lake seemed endless from this vantage point, though the nearby mountains still rose up, promising a haven within (and beyond).

Antigone listened to the pieces she shared of her history. The clip of his icy gaze did not betray his interest. It sounded like a complicated thing, coming from such rich culture and familial obligation. It also made him reflect on his family. Flaming coat and flaming tongue, his father had been. But Tamar was not that way. Antigone wondered how she had fallen for Arsenio. He wondered what had happened to his mother to make her love such a brash and cocky man.

Fiamma mentioned something about destiny. Antigone shifted in the water and his teeth tightened.

I used to live out- That way, he said with a gesture of his snout toward the distant vale.

These days I live wherever I want.

Living at all was a challenge. Most days he existed in a mind of self-loathing. And that loathing had expanded to other things, to almost all things. Company was never sought. He kept himself clean and fed. He slept in the mountain stones under the stars.

But I’m familiar with the area. If you- Antigone paused.

If you need a guide.