princess_of_ida | IC Inbox

[ They want nothing of help, in the end, she called Ianthe for nothing - bothered her for nothing. Because at least she had stopped them all fighting, even if their pride had limited anything sensible. She made her introductions, snapped out, sharp, bitter - and most of all, furious.

The fury that burned in her belly like a twisting creature that clawed up her throat. Filling down her limbs, made her back straight, her head lifted, even though she's just dressed in her nightgown and wrapped house gown that flares out around her as she storms out in that barely controlled anger that this place leaves her with so constantly.

See's Ianthe waiting, shakes her head that her help was not needed, and jerks her head to the side if she wishes to follow. It is silent, if only because she could trust neither her words nor her thoughts to not boom out of her - but the sound of the sea is louder than ever in her effort of restraint. Crashing around her presence, that heavy pressure of it coming with it.

She does not go to Cesare's rooms, but her own. Shoving the door open so hard, it slams open into the wall - and when Ianthe follows. ]

Shut the door.

[ It's a rasp of a rage filled whisper, her voice monotone in sheer effort. ]

[Ianthe had easily did the four the confrontation was in, but from what her senses told her, there wasn't a need to interfere. Besides, it wasn't as though Gilia knew she could use liminal space as she did. So she waited in the shadows, watched Cesare storm out without him noticing her- it was second nature for her to slip back into those days when she didn't catch attention.

She heard Gilia yell (for her) and her own name mentioned. It was only when Gilia left that Ianthe allowed herself to be seen. Silently, she followed along and shut the door far quieter than Gilia opened it. She then webbed it with connective tissue so no one could barge in after them. Like, say, an already husband expecting to be attended to.

She drew closer to Gilia, but kept her silence for the moment. Let Gilia speak what she needed to say.]

[ In a tight circle, she paced, back and forth like she could wear the floor in a groove. Her eyes screwing shut, then open and then closed because she was still just here, and the rage would not leave. Each breath heavy in through her nose as she flexed her fingers in front of her.

Flexed flat as she felt the water in the room, then curled them in, bent like claws to draw it into her. Whipping that whirlpool around her like a blade. ]

Why is the only thing that settles the vainglorious pride of these men blood?!

[ It does not need an answer, obviously. The bitter harsh whisper where she knows not to raise her voice. She does.

But she finds it rising and rushing like a storm anyway. Up and shrill and sharp, rattling out of her chest. ]

Why always to make enemies than to admit fault!? How does that make them great?! To bleed out in their mewling, pathetic suffering like a whining babe, rather than accepting kindness enough to even staunch a wound?!

What is so grand about having pain and fear and paranoia than just to — t̸͚̟̦̋̎̎ơ̴͎ — !

[ She snaps on the control, held so tightly, her head beating with the agony and roaring fury of it teeth clenched -

Only in the last second does it change direction, for the inanimate objects of the room, rather than Ianthe's body or anyone else nearby.

And the water inside every object in the room exploded as she ripped it free to answer her hurt. The plants, the cups with drinks on the table, her little jars of preserves. Shattering into pieces, glass and ceramics flying as she breathed and breathed and breathed trying to get her control back. ]

[Was it wrong of Ianthe to find this fury, this rage, this storm unleashed beautiful? The raw, primordial power right there at Gilia's fingertips wasn't even what had Ianthe entranced, but the flow of thalergy that she could see rushing through Gilia's body, the cracks that let seaspray seep through, the tenuous grasp fraying.

It was gorgeous wrath with sharp teeth reaching out for anything to rend. Ianthe stood there, unafraid, unconcerned if her blood ended up mixing with the water. It wasn't lost on her that Gilia felt safe enough to share this with her instead of alone or, God forbid, Cesare. He wouldn't understand.

Idly, in the back of her mind as she finally drew close was the thought that this might, just might, be enough to call the Wilk lurking inside Gilia. It would be a lie to say she wasn't curious.

Her arms reached out to embrace Gilia, to wrap her in her arms and hold her. To help bolster the levee standing against the surging seas. And still, she kept her silence. Gilia didn't need her words.]

[ 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?

[A lot of that Ianthe already knew, listening in as she did when people spoke across the psychic network. The things one of her journals had, transcribed from conversations foolishly brandished in the open. Some of the details were new, but the essence was the same. Ianthe had been right in her assessment during their dinner date where she'd smelled the familiar stench of abuse.

Her arms stayed steady, her body solid, cheek resting against Gilia's head.]

Your feelings are valid. You're allowed to feel them, Lia.

[ She shakes her head, looking up to stare around the room and the destruction even a brief slip had caused. ]

Look what happens when I do. It would be as Lady Wanda did, but worse. Because it would all just be destroyed.

Your feelings are valid. No one, including yourself, had the right to tell you otherwise. You're not made of stone.

[Ianthe turned Gilia's face up to look at her.]

You are a passionate person. You feel and feel deeply. That's valid. Tell me, what causes a storm out deep in the ocean far from shore?

[ Her features scrunch, all her soft edges screwed up to unhappy lines as she tried to refuse her sense.

She wanted to beat her fists like a child, she wanted to scream like a maelstrom. But she cannot, she must be what is a proper daughter of the sea, the way had kept her ever safe: quiet, to bend, to want and reach for nothing. ]

When the sun makes the water evaporate, and the air does not let it leave, it cools too quickly - it builds between water and sky, until fog becomes raincloud.

And that water, though it seems different at first glance, is still the ocean. It thunders, it rains, then it returns to what it has always been.

[Now Ianthe cupped her face, gentle as could be, with flesh and bone.]

Is it the ocean's fault if the foolish captain sails his ship into the storm? Is it the ocean's fault if the crew is unprepared and capsized?

Thunder, Lia. Rain. Storm. Then return to the ebb and flow of the tides. You need an outlet for these feelings, because these people aren't going to stop. If you keep repressing them, holding them in, like you were taught, you're going to pop, either through your monster or what you fear.

And I'm happy to embrace the storming sea.

[ She's right, she knows she is, her eyes screw shut, her breath short and ugly in her chest. ]

There are so many Ianthe - [ there was the fear, once they all came out, what would she do? ] I don't know how. Not without it all... all spilling out, like an over full cup. It terrifies me.

[Ianthe held Gilia for a moment in thought before frowning. Maybe, if she...

Stepping back from Gilia, Ianthe brought her hands together as she drew in a breath and exhaled slowly. Her hands unfurled and from beneath her, adipose fat bubbled and spread out to encompass the floor and then crawled up the walls, covered the door, slid across the ceiling without dripping. Blood vessels branched through it before skin grew to cover it all, enclosing them completely and fully.

It was warm and a little oppressive to someone unused to such extensive flesh magic. Ianthe then put her hands on Gilia again, turning her away so the necromancer was behind her.]

Yell. At the top of your lungs. As loud as you can. Very little sound will escape the room. Scream. Yell. Express yourself that way.

You'll feel better. And then, if you're still all tight inside, bite my shoulder. Take a chomp to get the physical tightness out. It's what my sister does when she's upset.

[ It truly was unsettling to watch, that was certain. Bones she could handle, after having her time tending the sacred relics in the holy cave, but this was always so far different to that.

It distracts her momentarily, from even her anger, just to watch it.

But Ianthe calls her back, here, to the thudding of her heart in her chest, the ringing of her ears. She clenched her teeth again. ]

... Just... scream?

[ Certainly she'd screamed - at little sisters and elder brothers to stop teasing, for her nurse to pick her up, all sorts of childish things. Not to scream for the sake of it, for all the things that rot inside of her chest. ]

Yup. Just let it all out. You don't even need words. Just expel the feelings out by yelling as long and as loud as you need.

[Ianthe lowered her hands to Gilia's hips.]

I'll be right here. This is a safe space, Lia. Let it rip.

[ She chews her lip, the nervousness of things that just simply weren't allowed, that settle like rotten water in her chest. Stagnating and unsure.

But she shuts her eyes, and she thinks of what she just saw, the way all three of them, and it's there. It's right there. The rage and the pain and the frustration of a life spent keeping her head above the rising water's of a conflict that engulfed everything. Everything, and to watch how mindlessly they all sought it, anyway. With no regard to the price. With no interest in who would pay the price, one day. From John to Cesare to her fight with Quentin, to the sour-milk tinted boy snarling insults because he was embarrassed.

That it never, never went away. How often she must watch it happen. That not one of the Void-Touched cared or bothered to notice that the ones who died first were the children of the village, for what Wanda had done. So wrapped up in themselves.

That every day, for their sake, she must be better than they were. Every day, without regard or care, they took her sense of duty, of justice, for granted.

It's not a scream, but an inhale, a breathe in as she pulls on it, pulls of this knot she never gets to express. All their glib, selfish advice, of simply letting herself be, as if she could, as if she had their luxuries. Instead, she lets herself transform for the second time in Ianthe's presence. But this time she can see it, how she ripples, and like the water tide pulling away, she unrolls from below familiar shape to her far greater one. Huge, powerful, raised up on her powerful extra limbs, not a sea in serenity but a sea of storms, teeth and venom and the way beautiful things glowed just before they struck down their target. The water everywhere inside of her dark and the sleeping things of the depths flashed eyes in rage.

The water balled in her hands, the way she stopped herself here from doing, so often. Every bit of moisture stripped out of the air, and it circled a maelstrom in her palms, it whipped wildly as if to make a current of the air, her kelp-like hair tossed about in its undertow, every fin and ripped sail of her adornment flaring in the pressure.

In and in and in and in, until she shakes, she balls it tightly up.

Then she screams, and it sounds wrong, it sounds so utterly, utterly inhuman. Both booming in deep tone and screeching high and shrill. The water explodes, her eyes are pitch black, ebbing with blue light from within. It is like needles, cutting in every direction, slicing the blankets, Ianthe, the table, the chairs, the flowers. Every little thing around her. Shredding it like glass shards, the way water with high pressure could rip a hole through almost everything.

Then she crumples, her legs giving out. Into ugly, heavy sobs. All the rage and fury gave her nothing, like it always did -

It just left this: a woman barely grown, trying to be ten times older than she was, exhausted with the weight of it, but no longer naïve enough to ever believe she could have ever made a difference to begin with. ]

[The sea-shift was unexpected but Ianthe felt she should've known it was coming. If Gilia was going to trait scream and yell, she was going to do it with everything she had. She didn't move from her place, hands on the place where the hips would be with a light touch.

Her brow furrowed as Gilia took some deep breaths and water gathered, dehydrating the surface of the skin walls the lyctor had created. Her eyes roamed, watching the storm inside Gilia and the water outside her swirling around. And then Gilia screamed.

Ianthe had fast reflexes, honed from fighting devils at Antioch and the unexpected possessions that instantly turned violent. She was a lyctor, she was beyond human, and she ripped a quick seam into liminal space straight up from sac to clav between them so the deadly water hit it instead of Ianthe's vital organs. She closed her eyes and protected them with her bone hand but every other bit of her was pierced by the water.

Biting her lip hard enough to keep her cry of pain from escaping, her body burned and blood poured from her shredded skin before her regeneration went to work. It was only by the grace of her special senses that she was able to catch Gilia when she fell.

Sticky with blood except where she'd been protected, eyes open and that tear into liminal space sealing up, Ianthe held Gilia. Okay, maybe the yelling wasn't the right outlet. Maybe it was. Fuck if she knew, but OW.]

[ She latched onto her, sobbing roughly and ugly into her chest, that exhausted frustration and hurt that rips out of her like a summer storm. Tearing the air apart, and she belated she realised, had torn into Ianthe just as readily.

Healing now, from her Lyctor gifts. But it wracks her with guilt nonetheless when she feels the tacky blood that mixes with water against her cheek. The last thing she ever wanted was to hurt her, the last thing she could stand was to inflict damage on another.

It just seemed the price of living, sometimes, to hurt others. That was no more comfort before than as now.

Felt exhausted, her whole body so tired from the horror of the fight, the adrenaline wearing off, even the rage. She reaches up her hand to cup Ianthe's healing cheek, trying and failing to clean the blood, and instead only leaving a smear. ]

I am sorry, my love, I am so sorry. I did not mean to hurt you. I should have sent you away.

It's alright.

[Ianthe held Gilia tight and pressed a kiss to her temple.]

I'm already healing. It's just flesh. I'm not afraid of the storm. I'll weather it to be here for you.

[ She curled into her, tight and sharp, the wracking horrible sob still in her body, her fingers wrapped into her back and dragging down into her to hold her close as she could. ]

I love you, I love you so ardently.

[ It's the one centering thought in all her hurt, her frustration, her pain. ]

I know.

[Ianthe settled down with Gilia, holding tightly and stroking her hair.]

Now just breathe.

[ She drapes against her, all her body feeling heavy and languid, exhausted and off kilter. Trying to do just that, just breathe, just keep breathing. ]

I am not made for this.

Made for what? Talk to me.

[ Burrowed into her, it all comes out for once, bleeding and ugly and selfish. ]

They should have put me in the earth beside my brother, it would have been kinder to us all.

Then I wouldn't have you. I'm glad they didn't.

[Fuck Godfinn. Fuck their mother for letting it happen. Fuck First Child Nikolai. Fuck them all.]

I wasn't made to rule either. I could have, but I never wanted to be the Crown Princess of Ida. I chose to serve. Yet here I am. Here you are.

I am not worthy of you.

[ She cannot be, she knows she could never be. ]

You are strong, so, so strong and I am - [ Weak as wet sand, giving away at the gentlest brush of the tide. ] I do not know what I am.

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