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Evenings in Bélóstáin are always beautiful. Datura has spent many dusks wandering the coast closest to her home, breathing in the sharp salt of the sea and letting the breeze ruffle her hair. On that strip of sand, between two forces of nature, she allows herself to be free, untamed as the birds that skim the waters.
Today, she can almost imagine that it will be similar- that after dinner, she will take a stroll along the miniature beach, kept company by one who understands the concept of such rare opportunities for autheniticism. Sway has taken her hand on such walks before, swept her thumb over the soft of Datura's palm to trace out the lines with uncharacteristic coyness as she uses her other hand to point out shells that sometimes wash up from the tides. Her voice is low and soothing, like a lullaby even when she does nothing but speak, and Datura is content to listen and listen for as long as Sway will allow her.
But the fact stands that this is not an ordinary night. Never again will Datura have such a thing as an 'ordinary night', nor will she ever again feel Sway's hand encompass hers, hear those dark tones wind through her ears. Her stomach feels like lead dropping to the bottom of her body as she slowly prepares what will be their last meal together.
Sway, for being typically so sharp, is blissfully oblivious. Datura can hear her fussing to and fro, bringing cases and supplies up and down the stairs for the trip the next day that she will never be taking. Datura wonders what Sway's life was like before she came here. Does she have a family?
"What are you making?" Sway calls as she lugs down her suitcase of men's clothes, shoving ironed button-ups and tailored slacks down to the bottom.
Her voice is enough to startle Datura from her reverie. "... Stew. Fish stew." She glances down at the ingredients lined up before her. Tilapia filets, minced garlic, spices, soy, onions. Too complex for a simple fish stew, but she doesn't have the energy to explainn any further.
Sway doesn't answer, and Datura's mind takes over once more as she starts to drop the fish into the pot of boiling water. She wishes she could take this moment and preserve it in a glass globe, carry it around with her and re-visit it whenever she likes. Every moment she spends thinking about it is a moment forwards in time, another moment away from the previous. Datura wants it to stop, wants all of it to stop. It's too quick. She isn't ready. She will never be ready.
Tuberose's eyes flash through her mind; his face is concealed, but she knows he leers down at her from behind the mask. He is a coward, but so is she.
Datura stirs the smaller ingredients into the pot, poking at the fish with the wooden utensil. Everything is already prepared. Tuberose brought her everything she needs; all that she must do is make the last decision, set everything into motion. Her eyes flicker over to Sway's diary, propped up between her case and her boots; then she realizes that Sway is attempting to catch her gaze inquisitively, and she tears her eyes away, shame turning her fearful. She stirs the stew again.
Sway sighs, clattering about with something or other. "I chose the ugliest man to impersonate," she says to nobody in particular, turning over a makeup brush in her hands before casting it aside with a low groan.
"The uglier the better," Datura points out. "Nobody will ever guess that you are a beautiful young woman if you pretend to be hideous."
"You speak too kindly of me," Sway answers dryly, leaning back in her seat.
Datura laughs, but it does not carry along the usual ease of their bickering, and she has no witty remark prepared on her bitter tongue. She tastes the stew. It is thick and too flavorless, or perhaps her palate is simply numb; either way, she adds a shake of salt.
She turns back around. Sway's eyes are trained on her, slightly hooded and deep. Datura shivers and crosses her arms in front of herself, wondering if Sway can see through to her soul.
She catches herself as the thought flashes through her mind. Never before has she been hindered by such emotional prospects, such meaningless sentiments. She is the rightful heir of Bélóstáin. These are her rightful people. She was born to rule and to do whatever it takes for the sake of the greater good.
And besides, she tells herself with a wicked little twist of her heart, surely Sway holds lies of her own. Perhaps Margaretha Hari, those sacred words that she has uttered to Datura only in the darkness of this sheltered abode, is not even her true name, simply another lie layered over more lies. Sway's real goal is to find the secrets of the island. Datura is only another convenient foothold on the ladder; Sway will kick dirt onto her once she's finished with her; Datura must strike first, for the good of all involved.
She looks at Sway again, then, and wonders how she has come to ponder such things. Humanity is vile.
To distract herself, Datura forces the words to slip out past her lips, scripted, with barely any semblance of the real flow of conversation. "Anyhow, I have something to show you." She pulls her lips up into the most convincing false smile she's ever donned.
"What..." Sway trails off as Datura steps forwards quickly, turning to the cabinet and bending to rifle through the objects. She finds what she searches for soon enough, a stalk of violet that seems so harmless against the black satin of her gloves, and she feels a shudder of revulsion pass through her at the knowledge of its powers.
Datura turns, and her smile is back, eerily practiced and pretty against the pale of her skin. "I found it the other day," she says, holding out the flower, "the only of its kind that I've ever seen, and I thought it beautiful."
Sway tilts her head to the side. For a dizzying second of something (relief? fear? joy? dread?) Datura thinks that she will not accept it; then she reaches over, taking it between calloused fingers, and Datura hears the scratch of the devil's pen as the contract is sealed.
"It's certainly gorgeous," Sway says, turning it over in her hands and watching the way the petals seem to glow with a sort of curious intrigue. "Where did you find it?"
Datura forces a breathy laugh, leaning over the table. "Ah, that isn't the point. I can't spoil the surprise. Come, let me have it back for a moment."
Sway passes it over with a little crook of her brow, and Datura reaches over to carefully stroke down her scarred cheek, brushing up behind her ear. If she didn't know better, she would think Sway shivers as her fingers trail the line of fate through her skin.
Datura tucks the flower into Sway's hair, lodging it into the slip of space between her bangs and her loose locks. It does strike an elegant contrast with her dark hair and tan skin, and Datura feels as if she is gazing upon a painting of another tragedy, something much more present than Greek tales of old.
"Oh..? For me, then?" Sway cracks a rare smile as she brushes her curls back over the stem of the flower, eyes turning down for a fraction of a second to study her reflection in the metal of her spoon.
Datura doesn't respond for a long moment. When she does, her voice is abnormally soft. Subdued. "You look lovely." She swallows back nausea as she turns back around and strips off her gloves inconspicuously before removing the pot from the flames. Ladling out a bowl of the stew, she wipes her sweating palms down on the front of her shirt and carries it back to the table to set down in front of Sway. Trails of smoke drift up, carrying the fragrant scent of tilapia and garlic; to Datura, it seems the most suffocating of ashes.
Sway shakes her head, gripping the rim of the bowl a bit too hard as she drags it closer. She does a good job of controlling her emotions, but even she cannot seem to hold back the faint sheen that colors her cheeks rose. "Please. You really flatter me far too much."
"How can I not," Datura mutters, more under her breath than out loud to Sway, "when you are so-"
So.
So....
Datura turns back to the oven and begins to prepare another bowl of stew. Her motions are jerky, and broth spills over the edges of the ladle across the countertop. Her hand is clenched so tight around the grip of the metal handle that she fears it will break. When she glances back over her shoulder once, she feels more than sees Sway's gaze trained on her. The dark irises are softened, whereas they are usually sharp as a hawk's. For a horrifying moment, a beat of clarity that feels like ice water cascading over her head, Datura wonders if she's making the wrong choice. Is it worth it?
She knows she cannot trust Tuberose. Behind his polished mask is a series of perfect lies, entwined so tightly that there is no escape from their clutches. Datura has been ensnared in the spider's web, a lonely fly to be slowly devoured. This way, however, she knows she will keep her people safe. And that is all that matters.
Even as she repeats it to herself over and over like a mantra, slopping stew over into the bowl, she does not believe it. Everything- the island, the citizens, her lifelong ambitions- all of it seems a distant idea, nothing more than a fantastical whim. Here in this small, dark room, with nothing but the darkening twilight to illuminate their souls, Datura feels real. Solid. Alive.
Sway grounds her, brings out the human in her, makes her whole again.
But Datura cannot afford to be whole.
She does not deserve to be whole.
The ladle clatters down against the countertop with such a loud noise that Datura hears Sway stir sharply behind her. "Are you alright?"
Shoes click against the slanted tiles of the floor when Datura takes too long to answer. She freezes and refuses to acknowledge the presence behind her as her eyes lock onto a distant point outside of the window that stretches across the wall before her. She can see the ocean, wide and glorious, golden under the last rays of the sun, and she thinks again of the gulls that ride the winds and fly free.
"Be careful," Sway sighs, reaching around Datura to pick up the ladle and slide it back into the pot. "Don't burn yourself." She takes Datura's hand in her own, and the touch is so simple, so soft and yet so bitingly cruel, that Datura yanks her hand away, barely holding back a cry.
Sway steps back, clearly surprised by the reaction, though she masks it well after she recovers from the initial moment. "I apologize," she mutters under her breath. "I forget myself... I should have asked."
"No," Datura forces out, picking up the bowl of stew and carrying it briskly to the table. It's cold by now, but it doesn't matter; she won't be able to taste it anyway, likely won't even be able to eat it. "No, I'm sorry. I don't mind. You surprised me, that's all."
"Still." Sway sits back down after Datura, taking another spoonful of stew. Datura watches with a sort of macabre fascination as a piece of fish disappears between those smooth lips, watches as Sway's throat bobs and her tongue peeks out to swipe over the bottom part of her mouth. It's rare that she gets to see Sway in her natural state; no makeup, no disguise. Her eyes flicker to the supplies stacked up at the foot of the table and then to the container of cosmetic powder in the corner, accompanied by the applicable mustache. Usually, she finds it rather amusing to see, both on Sway and off; now, it fills her with dread.
"Really, though. Is something wrong?" Sway's brows draw close as she looks over the top of her bowl at Datura. "You've been acting odd all evening. Are you feeling ill?"
Datura feels a wave of panic surge through her gut, turning her forehead and fingers clammy and cold. "No," she hastens to repeat. "No, I feel fine. Only a bit tired."
"If you say so." Sway's gaze is concerned, but Datura thinks she sees a hint of suspicion in their depths, and she thinks, with a sharp, almost animalistic instinct, Now is the time for action-!
Datura stands up and snatches Sway's nearly empty bowl from her. "Have mine if you like," she says curtly. "I'm not hungry."
Without giving Sway a chance to respond, Datura hurries back to the counter, fingers tingling with frantic energy as she makes a show of placing the bowl in the sink to hide her true actions. Where is it, where is it...!!!
Sway stands, catching on to the fact that something is wrong, and Datura cries out, "Stay back. Don't come any closer!" as she wrenches aside an old vase, finding at last where she has tucked away her object of pursuit in the back of the cabinet next to the sink. Her hands close around the music box towards the back of the cabinet next to the sink, familiar now from how many agonized days she has spent mulling over it.
"Datura!" shouts Sway, coming closer at an alarming rate, and Datura bites back a frantic sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob as she flicks the box open with a gesture of her index finger that is far too easy, bordering on careless. The cloud of insects floods her; despite the haze it forms as it seems to pass through her, Datura suddenly experienves a clear-minded, empowered sensation. She feels no fear, and indeed, the bees ignore her, moving as a swarm across the room. Datura feels a sort of catharsis, knowing that now it's entirely out of her hands, that it's too late to go back now, that whatever happens will happen- until she turns around.
She sees Sway's face for one beat before the dark cloud encompasses her, one moment of absolute betrayal frozen forever in the flow of time, and even as Datura closes her eyes, plugs her ears to the sound of Sway's stifled screams of pain, turns her heart back to stone, she knows that face will haunt her for the rest of her days.