[ She turns into it, like she was a lighthouse. Burrowing her face immediately into Ianthe's shoulder, finding solace in her warmth. Comfort in the steadiness of her heart as she hides her face into it. She tries to just breathe, just reckon with this feeling in the pit of her stomach.
For a good long, long while, she says nothing, she just breathes and fights for the calm she must maintain. That no one in that room would ever think to thank her for. Likely, they would just think her weak.
It is never something that bothered her before in her life, as to become like this.
Thrashing and churning, consuming and swallowing, it burns. ]
What is wrong with me?
[ She turns her cheek, eyes half open staring into the small space between them on the floor, where her skirts brushed Ianthe's boots. She was right to be worried that the monster might appear, that same slippery edge. ]
What is being away from my people doing to me? What is this awful mark making me become?
[ The tears are oh so predictable and just as frustrating. ] — I am the daughter of kings, I am the heir to seven hundred years of peace. I am Singer. When I was humiliated before everyone I said not a word until the doors were closed! When my brother struck and kicked me I knew to thank him for his lessons and never pity myself. When mother passed his execution, I sung the grave songs and my voice did not falter, and when my heart mourned him, I never wept at his graveside even when it made me ill. Neither insult nor compliment warms us! We are the sea! The wind may howl, the fire may scorch and the earth may crumble but we are the stillness of the depths! Or we choose when to express such - not - not - to be this.
[ She takes one slow, ragged breath in and out. Twisting over and over like a saw against wood, creaking, rasping, pushing and pulling on that frustration as if she cut it apart to little pieces, she would not feel this way anymore. ]
And now I cannot hold my temper for the follies I have seen Lords and Ladies make a dozen times, why now should it make me overwrought as a babe?
cw: domestic abuse, public executions, abusive power dynamics and unhealthy coping mechnisms
For a good long, long while, she says nothing, she just breathes and fights for the calm she must maintain. That no one in that room would ever think to thank her for. Likely, they would just think her weak.
It is never something that bothered her before in her life, as to become like this.
Thrashing and churning, consuming and swallowing, it burns. ]
What is wrong with me?
[ She turns her cheek, eyes half open staring into the small space between them on the floor, where her skirts brushed Ianthe's boots. She was right to be worried that the monster might appear, that same slippery edge. ]
What is being away from my people doing to me? What is this awful mark making me become?
[ The tears are oh so predictable and just as frustrating. ] — I am the daughter of kings, I am the heir to seven hundred years of peace. I am Singer. When I was humiliated before everyone I said not a word until the doors were closed! When my brother struck and kicked me I knew to thank him for his lessons and never pity myself. When mother passed his execution, I sung the grave songs and my voice did not falter, and when my heart mourned him, I never wept at his graveside even when it made me ill. Neither insult nor compliment warms us! We are the sea! The wind may howl, the fire may scorch and the earth may crumble but we are the stillness of the depths! Or we choose when to express such - not - not - to be this.
[ She takes one slow, ragged breath in and out. Twisting over and over like a saw against wood, creaking, rasping, pushing and pulling on that frustration as if she cut it apart to little pieces, she would not feel this way anymore. ]
And now I cannot hold my temper for the follies I have seen Lords and Ladies make a dozen times, why now should it make me overwrought as a babe?