The refusal did not wound. Lenore’s expression remained unchanged as something inside her sharpened, observant and calculative. No doubt Lady Garramoth had witnessed sorrow before, etched in faces she’d encountered on her travels and inked in lines she‘d studied by candlelight. But knowing was one thing; feeling the hot breath of grief down one's own neck was another. She wore it well, dignified, yet something about the solemn vigil struck Lenore as more a chosen refuge than merely a burden shouldered.
So, she adapted. Lenore did not respond verbally, merely inclined her head, gaze steady. She drifted towards the other seat by Cian’s bed, wondering whether she imagined the slight warmth of another presence inscribed into the wood. Even here, Kaelen Garramoth's existence clung to her like sulfur, impossible to cleanse. At least the tisane’s herbal scent served as a distraction from the rot. She poured herself a cup, the measured trickle of liquid the only sound filling the shared silence. Even Estrella had ceased her chirping, nudging her beak against Cian's fingers curiously. She took a sip, liquid warmth washing away the slight ache that had begun to build inside her throat. The glazed porcelain warmed her fingers as she finally spoke again, her voice a mere sliver of air. “He seems almost peaceful.” A careful pause. “I hope he dreams of better days.”
Grey hues settle on her as she moves through the room, conducting their gentle observation of the friend Cian had spoken so carefully about. Elysande smiles faintly as she sips the drink, one she herself has had no taste for — though the healers insist on bringing a fresh pot each time the last begins to cool. She is pleased that it can serve one of them, at least. A nod at her words, though a resistant thought stirs. Let him dream of worse days if it rouses him. It would be better than this. "He was so rarely still, as a child." Her voice carries a soft distance, following a thread of memory now unspooled. A memory of an infant's cry, of balled up fists. Were he awake it might embarrass him to be discussed in such a manner, but as it stands Cian remains unperturbed between them. A fixed point around which they center their words, the world beginning and ending at his feet. "Even in sleep, there was always some sign of him."
It has been some time since Elysande last found herself in Celembron's infirmary. For her father first, and for her mother after. She was only a girl then, but this silence is not easily forgotten. "Have you ever spent time at bedsides such as this, Lady Kaelvorn?" A pause, and she gestures toward the empty chair at last. "Please, sit."
A quiet vowel of surprise rounds around the shape of his mouth. "Oh..." he utters, surprised, uncoiling, and his anger softens, as quickly as a fire put out by rain, all the ashes of his ill-temper washed away with it as the soft drizzle of her presence disarms him. "Your ladyship... my apologies," he is quick to offer, for before her he is humbled, none of that fiery Nuwa pride left flickering in the red of his eyes, that had left healers shaking and challenged the kindness spared towards him. He is on his feet quickly, all the viciousness of his temper drained in a short, polite curtsy.
Pacing. He has, he will. He understands the futility of it, and yet his feet do not obey him. He cannot bring himself to enter, and he cannot bring himself to leave—and so he is stuck in this horrible, agonizing limbo in between. "I haven't..." he wants to lie, immediately, but it feels wrong to, somehow. "They efforts are better spent elsewhere, that is all... I am well, I promise," it's a broad a word as any to encompass the vastness of what he was feeling. He does not wish to see them fussing over him, he wants all of their efforts spared towards her son, day and night, he wants them to walk in their willing to pour all that they have into him, and he wants, more than anything. Nothing would soothe him, or cure this pain, but the news that they were well and back within the safe walls of the sheer castle—he is not greedy, he will not ask to see them again, his heart would rest easy simply knowing they are safe. Know that I do not blame you, she absolves so easily and he is left aghast; how could she? He could never forgive himself as easily, or at all. And it should feel soothing, yet all he feels is unburdened of a burden he still wishes to carry, lest the emptiness was too much to bear, and it all drove him back to the brink of madness. Everything felt so fragile now, her compassion, while comforting, felt utterly undeserving. "You mustn't worry about such things... you have enough on your mind as it is," the Nuwa heir reassuring, his head low, with a composure he summons seemingly out from thin air, just for her. He does feel strong, nor composed in the least, and yet something in him urges him to his feet, towards her, something that against all discouragement it was, holds all the pieces to together with glue and keep him from cracking in what feels like a pivotal moment.
"Your ladyship, you needn't ask," he reassures as he feels his way, fingertips brushing against the wall, to saunter towards the sound of her voice, his arm bend and offered in quiet resignation for her to take. "How are you? You sound tired... Have you rested at all?" it was a hypocritical thing to ask, but he did not care. Her well-being, unlike his own, was a crucial thing.
As always she finds he is quick to reassure, though his appearance betrays him. The signs of neglect are easy to spot on one so usually well-kept. Could he see her too, she expects Sheng would think the same. Before he can make the full journey toward her Elysande moves to meet him, takes his arm in hers as she has done countless times before⎯only now with the intent to bolster him, as best she can. It is her turn to set a measured pace instead of allowing him to accommodate her smaller stride, unaware as she is of the true extent of his discomfort. "Sleep comes and goes as it must." In short, fitful bursts. In truth any sleep she has afforded herself has come by accident, taking hold when she can no longer fight it, or as a means of bargaining with her husband⎯stubborn as he is, she is equally so. "But rest eludes." A pause, heavy eyes trace his features before coming to rest there. There is no use in asking him the same, he wears the answer plainly enough.
"I will tend to you, as we sit with him." Not so much an offer as a condition of exchange. It is yet another thing she will ask of him before the day is done, even in their most wretched states, to allow himself to be tended to as he has tended to others. "Are you in much pain, presently?"
" then when he wakes , when we leave this place , i will never let him wander outside of braxigar . he can be a shell of himself , a hollowed version of the son i knew , but he will be alive . " there's a tone to his voice which shows the braxigarian within , the savage man who will do anything in his power to keep son and wife alive . the dead be damned , he would slice them all away , standing alone if need be to protect them . blood was his companion , a friend , for when it gets spilled the power from the other goes to you , no ? he would forever slaughter them all , if his world was kept intact .
the hand upon his shoulder gives warmth to a man on a path of cold . she is his heat , his sole reason for pushing through . his onyx hues turn and look at her . affection , love , undying need for the woman who saves his soul every night . she is everything to him , the mother of his child , the saviour of his soul , the bearer of all that he has which is good . his palm covers hers and for the first time since their son was found , the smallest hint of faith leaps forth . " i will not rest without you and if im not mistaken you wish as little as me to leave his side . " he murmurs and the smallest hint of a smile , a sad one , is portrayed for her . oh how he loves her , how he would slay the world for her if ever taken away . " as much as i am stubborn , so are you , no ? " he muses and wishes for nothing more than for their love to keep dancing , like they've danced in the darkness of their castle back home , each night .
How fierce he is, even in his grief. Her husband has always been the blade poised between their family and those that would do them harm, let her now be the hand that guides it. "This is the fate we would call him back to?" She is all temperance when she speaks at last. "He is ours, yes. Our blood, our son. But if he is to return it must be to his own life. To one worth claiming." His words are born of a desperation she knows well, for the same need binds her and Kaelen both⎯to hold together what has been cleaved apart. But fear rules him now, and it is more than she can bear witness to.
Slowly, his proximity eases the weight from her shoulders. A tired smile works its way onto her lips in natural answer to his own, fond and knowing. Of course he would not be parted from them. "You would defy me in this?" The jest carries only a feeble challenge before it settles between them. How easy it would be to pretend all was well, if only the two of them could remain like this. If only she could keep the hope in his eyes a few moments longer, her own heart teeming with such warmth. She clings to the feeling before it can erode. "You know me too well, my love." Her hand shifts beneath his own now, entwining their fingers. Together then, they would remain at Cian's side. "I fear I dismissed him too easily when we last spoke."
Moonlight slanted through the half-open shutters in silver ribbons. The scent of sage and thyme danced in the air. She'd waited for the chaos of the previous day to wane, for the shrieks and whimpers to fade into a steady lull of conversation and prayer. Finding the perfect moment was half the work. "Lady Garramoth," Lenore whispered, her words lingering between them in the faintest of breaths, a ghostly echo of a voice. Her hair fanned behind her in a dark stream, her bandaged arms pale and stark against her slate grey robe. She inclined her head, eyes the colour of midwinter holding the other woman's with quiet consideration. She did not remark on the tears, only bore witness, preserving dignity. After a few seconds, her gaze slid to the bed. "I found her pecking at a window. She flew all this way just to find him again." Each word was its own small agony, torn from a throat still raw from the smoke, yet she met the pain as she did most things, unflinching, hiding away any visceral truths beneath a porcelain veneer. "It'd feel too cruel to seperate them after all her efforts. With your permission, I would take care of her here in the ward, so she might be able to fly to his side whenever she wants."
She let the words settle for a moment, then clasped her hands in front of her waist. "This feels wrong for him." Her lashes fanned her cheeks. "Too much silence. Too little movement." Grief was like a blade. It could either cut or sharpen a woman. For her purposes, she hoped it was the former. Cian had always bled far too easily, and she hoped this frailty might extend to his mother. Lenore could work with an open wound, salve it, sew it closed, all the while ensuring the stitching spelled her name.
First step, soothe the patient. Lenore turned her head, and said, "If I may ask a favor of you, could you please whistle for me? Any tune will do."
Even as she dips into the well of her grief, Elysande finds it brimming with restraint. She feels no shame at having been seen, brushing the moment aside as easily as the wetness on her cheek. It is already forgotten in the wake of Lenore's words. "I'm afraid it is not mine to give." She may be granted courtesies in the halls of her old home, but the illusion of control sits ill upon her shoulders. It is by her family’s kindness that Cian has been offered a room rather than a bed, by the unknown's mercy that he lingers rather than fades. All things now seem to lie in the hands of another. Accepting this has been both wound and balm. "But if what you say is true, she is more steadfast than most. I would not see her turned away." A polite nod demonstrates the briefest flicker of return to herself. But it is only brief. Having nothing further to offer, she seems content to withdraw again. Most would leave her to it, but Lady Kaelvorn does not.
As she has with the healers and each of their gentle assurances, she searches Lenore's face for what lies behind the words⎯Elysande finds neither mockery nor cruelty in it. Yet hope has frail wings, and having opened the window to this small comfort she is still not ready to invite it in. "Perhaps later, Lady Kaelvorn." Her denial is offered without ceremony, though it is not wholly unkind. "There is an herbal steeping, if you wish to stay. It may soothe your throat."
"heretic or devout, it appears we all bleed and burn the same, in the end." still, there was a faint inclination of her head. she, too, would sooner light the pyre than blaze upon it. as they spoke, and he inspected her every shift, he was not alone in his itch for movement. amarei loosened the clasp of her hands, fingers moving to drum against wood. this was the inherent fault in their entanglement, it always had been: their likeness bred a particular sort of intimacy that had lived on beyond their final kiss, their final letter, shared in a goodbye that never came. an unsettling familiarity, to be recognised in one's methods, too easily betrayed in one's deflections. it did nothing to soften the memory of their former bond. it only sharpened.
his practised indifference was as easily unveiled as her own ruse. the bait had hardly been elegantly dangled before him, but he took it. and this was all that was needed to leave her complacent in her assumption. "would you prefer it had been a stranger?" an idle prod, but at least it was honest in its intent. the game had long ended, any stratagem an indulgence to avoid naming what remained.
he brushed past her, dismissive, yet close enough to perturb -- and amarei turned with him. her neck craned as a flower would, instinctively, to tilt towards what fed it. "i presume i need not remind you that you lost a brother in the melee at moira castle." an incident when she had spared her condolences. she would sooner play the aspiring politician, and quell any vestiges of the girl he had once known. "sympathy is oft hastily dismissed as weakness. i rather think it a tool that can be wielded... if one is willing to ignore its bitter aftertaste."
but he had no need of her insights any longer, did he? his cynicism coaxed a hum of amusement from her. an acquired taste, but she'd long grown to enjoy it. "ever the faithful brother, i see," amarei mused. "efigenia is unharmed." with this, she danced closer again, if only to see how quickly he would withdraw from her anew. "what is it you seek? distraction, intellectual stimulation?" her lips curved. "something to feign interest in, so that you might excuse yourself from me?"
It galls him that he follows such a carelessly laid thread, as if it might still prove useful despite knowing where it leads. The truth lies plainly between them, yet she does not speak it. Then again, neither does he. "It makes little difference."
If he notices how she turns after him, he gives little indication until his finger halts its lazy trajectory, pressing into a tome so it skews just a fraction from the rest. "You presume correctly." He takes a conversational tone, as if the topic is only of vague interest and not a reckoning between them. A settling of scores that neither has fully prepared for, not knowing to expect it. "It is a tool like any other, Amarei. I find its edge dulls with disuse." A pause. "But if you wish to try your hand at it after so many months, by all means. You may bleed me yet." Unlikely. Fondness or want or something else entirely has been hammered into a new shape, left to cool in her absence. It's true there was a time when he awaited her letters; he would sooner cleave off his own arm than reach for one now.
He makes an amused noise in the back of his throat, his only acknowledgement of this shared joke between them. She approaches again before he conjures a reply to her question, a hunter reclaiming her ground. What is it you seek? If only I knew, he thinks to himself, then muses aloud. "Old comforts, perhaps." Artun turns fully to meet her at last, finding her close enough now that habitual restraint treads the line of conscious thought. Eyes all alight with something like humor, he tuts. "But I find you out of practice."
the fire had been no danger to the siren . she'd been safe perhaps before most , never heading for the chambers of the white oak or the festivities . perhaps her need for solace in these times had finally come to fruitition as she'd seen the smoke before the flames . the middle child of house verathorm had been worried for her siblings , but faith in her household was enough to drive her not to search for them , no matter the itch to make sure they were both safe . beric she had seen , selene ? not so much . their cousin had emerged from the flames as well but this was the first time seeing their youngest .
a sigh escapes as she notices her body language . the need to cleanse the body and at the same time ⸻ show no weakness to her elder . " if you feel sick , be sick selene , it's better you do it here than anywhere else . " her voice was stern , her posture unchanged . " i was never in danger , i did not go to the grand feast after the ritual , something - " siren hues close before opening , words this time whispered . " something didn't feel right , it still doesn't since we arrived here . "
It is easiest to focus on something else⎯the rough wall beneath her palm, the pinpricks that reach her fingertips as they ground her against stone. But in that surgical way of a sister, Ophelia’s words slice through Selene’s attempt with easy indifference. "I don’t⎯" she insists, more to herself than the other. "I only need a moment." As Ophelia gives answer Selene inhales through her nose, exhales again, until her shoulders soften in tenuous obedience. "And Beric?" I looked for you, some petulant part of her wants to say again, itching for acknowledgment. But it feels too much of an accusation to level at the elder, so her gaze travels around the room instead, searching for some other object more deserving of her scorn.
Dark brows knit together as Ophelia's voice drops to a hush, and Selene turns to her at last. "But you said nothing of your concerns."
The smell of smoke lingers in the infirmary as a lover’s perfume might, clinging to fabric and skin and tendrils of unwashed hair. A cloying reminder. The clamor has faded to a steady lull in the past days, those with minor injuries have since been released back to the castle's halls. But lady Tripathi remains. Selene has noticed her, though she has tried not to⎯the woman lingers perpetually at the edge of her vision, an unmoving silhouette. Each time the Verathorm draws near she wills her gaze forward in some attempt at preserving privacy. Diya’s, or her own.
But she can no longer pretend now; a healer has sent her over. Standing before the dame for only the second time since their introduction, Selene thinks the scene too intimate for a pair of their acquaintance. "I'm sorry to disturb." A clumsy apology to be followed by clumsier explanation. She has never learned how to console. "But it has grown cold these past hours, and you have no cloak." Viridian eyes settle on the other at last. She holds a blanket in her arms, but does not yet extend it in offering. "The linens are fresh." That is, they are unmarred by smoke.
Days of relentless pacing and he's no more at ease now than when he awakened with that tight feeling in his chest; the young heir does not go in, but he hovers silently by the tall doorways like a spirit risen from the grave, unable to rest, baring its teeth at healers who try to shackle him to a bed which offers no respite, fretting over things beyond his control, lost in a darkness that will no end, where he plays and replays that fated night, and all the ways it could have ended differently.
Anxiety prickled familiarly at his throat, leaving it parched and tight as he tried in vain to swallow, clenching his shaky hand nervously, his flank, his shoulders slouched against the wall as weariness fell upon him like a worn-out gown, fitting every crevice with intimate ease. He'd never given much thought as to how he would die; it would be swift, he imagined. A sword to the chest, a slice of the throat—and he'd leave this world just as quickly as he'd come to it, and what came after did not interest him much. It does now. More than this pyre of agony of the unknown, he feared his eyes would open, and he'd crawl back from beyond changed, unlike what he was once—an empty husk, all grey pallor and rot. Did he even care? He had to come back, he didn't care how—this darkness made a home for too many grim thoughts to dwell in, and it had spread everywhere.
Come back to them, he'd plea—your mother awaits for your return eagerly, day and night, her bleeding heart in hand, and your father hovers like a specter, at a loss of what to do. You must return to them, little lord, it is too early for you to go, it will always be too early. Whatever price there is to be paid, he'd pay it—whatever thing he must cut down, he would. Whatever heard his plea in the dark, in the night, he begged for it to listen, to bring him safely, he did not care what listened, only that it did. They are good people, they have suffered enough; his absence was intolerable and excruciating. It was so loud, he could almost not hear the footsteps against the floor, his face turning towards the sound out of habit, his face hardening at the thought of another healer, eager to usher him back to bed.
She doesn't so much as spare a glance when the healer enters. So many have come and gone that she has ceased her careful supervision, hardly registering them as they conduct their hourly ministrations. So as the young woman approaches with downcast eyes, delivering apology and explanation both, Elysande has to question why she is here. For the first time since their arrival, she remembers herself. Not just a mother in the wake of tragedy, but a liege lady⎯responsible for the safety of those she governs, answerable to their conduct in foreign halls. She cannot help the ire that takes hold as she steps out of her grief, the way it grows as the news of the Nuwa heir reaches her ears. Why was she not told of his condition sooner? Why had she been left ignorant at Cian's bedside when duty demanded her elsewhere? But her anger is a sour tincture. She swallows it down quickly and finds only sobering concern remains.
Elysande wastes no time following the healer to him, dismissing the younger woman when he bristles. "It is only me, lord Nuwa." She hopes that is a comfort. Only after he has had a moment for recognition does Elysande step forward, stopping well before she reconquers the ground he has fought to maintain. "I am told you expend what strength you have pacing the corridors, turning away those who would see you mended." Like a mother trying to see through the eyes of a child, there is no judgement in her words, only understanding. For where has his pacing brought him but here, to her son's bedside? Had not she herself risen before she was bid to do the same? "Know that I do not blame you." Yet Cian lies beyond the reach of the very remedies Sheng rejects. There is no bitterness at this fact, only the truth between them. "But I would not have two under my care wandering the edge of the grave. Not when one may yet be called back by simpler means." She will guide him toward healing, then. She will offer treatment herself if she must.
"May I take your arm?" A not-quite-smile, thin and wavering. The lightness in her question feels an old echo of another life, though it has only been a few days since Elysande last asked him the same. "I have been useless." The acknowledgement falls heavier than she anticipates, leaving no room for argument. Her words carry the weight of both plea and apology⎯an attempt to make amends for the callous lack of care she has shown in spite of all his devotion, never more plainly evident than here. "Let me be of some use to you now."
the former night had been an utter nightmare . going back to the white oak after a successful ritual , the garramoth lord found himself hoping for something more than what lay before them . however , it was all turned to cinders with the flames . finding his wife he'd wrapped himself around her , his heart thundering in worry for both mother and son . now , seated opposite his sons bed , he wondered why they ever left their castle . " perhaps we should stay in sheer castle , never leave the borders of braxigar again . " his words sharp , his mind working overtime , thinking of what could've happened with them all . he would defy the council if need be , he would protect them all from the world as long as the three of them survived . his head falls between his fingers and a certain vulnerability only displayed for soulmate comes forth . " i cannot loose him elysande . "
Her words come as a caress, softening the blunt edge of his own. A reminder. Their son had always loved to wander beyond their borders, drawn to lands where life took root. Her homelands had been chief among them. "Cian could not stomach that." It would be a continuation of cruelty; a means of keeping him breathing, yes, but not alive. Elysande weighs this truth against her willingness to defy it, gathering herself before she speaks. "Even still, I would sit behind those walls and never step beyond them again if it meant his life would be assured to me." She doesn’t fear the selfishness of her confession for she knows it will be understood. They have arrived at the same precipice. But in knowing it to be an untenable choice, Elysande finds no foothold. "We are never offered such assurances, my love."
Misty eyes study the man before her⎯gingerly, as one might a living wound, wondering if she might see it mended. The thought of the alternative comes unbid, but it does not hollow her. Not with Kaelen near. He has always been a light in the sweeping dark, shining through all else, guiding her towards certainty. "Then we will not lose him." She wills these words to be more powerful than the healers with their herbs and salves and scented smoke. They could not lose him, so they would not. This, Elysande would make them both believe. When she can no longer tolerate the distance between them she rises, finding her limbs heavier than she expects at her approach. A hand comes to rest on his shoulder, and she is steadier for it. "I would see you rest."
He possessed no ailment that awarded him the right to lay half reclined on a couch; but Tristan presently held neither the faculties nor the capacity to sit upright like a gentleman. When he was not by his sister's side, he lounged away in silence -- his hair a disorderly mass smothered in the upholstery. The tea room had seen activity, but even he had hesitated in conversation. And his presentation, neither appealing nor correct, had not invited others to his side. But as his head begged him to sit upright, the large oak doors opened once more, and footsteps quietly made their way across the room.
Suddenly flush with the knowledge of his impropriety, Tristan struggled to compose himself in an upright position, smoothing back the unruly mass of hair atop his head. "I apologize for my, unorthodox manner --- I have had little energy as of late. Will you join me? And perhaps avoid looking at my head, for the time being." The tea before him had long chilled, but a smattering of untouched treats remained viable --- he gestured to them vaguely, as a hand unconsciously fiddled with his hair once more. "How have you ... managed it all, thus far? I don't believe my methods of coping will be tenable more much longer --- my limbs may soon turn into gelatin."
Her fingers dig into the plush fabric of the loveseat, Selene's head hanging for half a moment as she lets out a ragged exhale. She has kept herself busy these past days assisting however she can, less for anyone else's benefit than her own. That is a guilty thought, but true. Her own family has been spared grievous injury, and staying busy has kept her mind from wandering back again to the haze of days previous. Yet tendrils of memory still creep in unexpectedly, coiling around her at the most inopportune times. Overcome as she is, the sudden address causes her to startle. Selene pulls her hands back as if worried they have stained the upholstery with ash and soot, only to realize again that they are clean.
"I thought the parlor empty. You were⎯obscured." Her own explanation tramples over Tristan's apology, almost accusatory in her embarrassment. It is involuntary the way her eyes lift upward before his request, but now that he has drawn attention to it they remain quite fixed. Selene's gaze lingers so long that she has hardly listened to a word he has said. When finally she looks away, he begins fussing again. Under ordinary circumstances it would be of little consequence, but now? "You are making it worse." Meant as a helpful insight, but it rings out slightly wrong to her ears. Quickly, she seeks to smooth out the ruffles of her tone. All thoughts of before shrink in her effort. "I think perhaps⎯I am doing the same. You must be concerned, lord Tristan, for Eliza. I can’t imagine you are in need of my critique."
his gaze had flickered to her, beats before she had addressed him. it was a cultivated skill, a survivalist's imperative -- to observe, and to know when one was observed. since the velwyrns' appearance at court, the veil of obscurity that had shrouded their name for centuries had been lifted: a light now shone upon their every step, measured beneath unrelenting scrutiny. amarei had not grown comfortable in the eye of the public, she had learned to feign comfort. with the quiet precision of someone who understood that performance, if finely wrought, could pass for truth.
she wore said mask of ease in his company, silken-smooth, a second skin fashioned from sheer force of will. "i would hope you would not make a habit of arson merely to see me, my lord." the honorific rolled off her tongue as if it were but another thread in the silk of her composure. but in the echo of his familiar timbre, her shoulder blades did shift back into poised alignment -- the subtlest of adjustments, caught only by the most vigilant eye. he had stirred something within her, though she knew to twist it into grace. "people have been falsely condemned for less than an ill-timed jest."
her smile vanished within an eyeblink, though her nod signaled understanding. so it was a tether that had prevailed: two minds that understood one another. "of mistrusting the ritual? of course you did," words slipped free unhurriedly, but her gaze glinted -- keen for a glimpse of his discernment. "that is, unless you've softened at the altar of divine blessings since we last spoke."
she rose when he would not sit beside her. her hands folded before her frame, eyes holding his, chin tilting a slight. "i was very fortunate, there was someone near enough to act as my saviour." she did not speak lord varyn's name. perhaps artun would infer it, perhaps he would not remark upon her words at all -- amarei believed that either would betray a degree of his inner thoughts. a strategic pause later, she let the subject drift, should he choose to follow. "how is your brother?"
"I still have little interest in burning with the heretics, Amarei. Though the pyre would be sufficient." It's almost too easy to settle into this bout, the day’s events risk being forgotten as she speaks. But it is over almost before it begins, he is disappointed to realize. In the parading of her prized steed, she has revealed herself too quickly. It strikes him as a remarkably clumsy barb from the other’s lips, unsubtle in its reach, and he bats it away just as crudely as it is flung. "How noble." In his eyes is the sort of bemusement reserved for a child sharing some trivial fact⎯he threads mockery with dismissal, passes it off as smooth indifference. He wears this hollow reflection until he can no longer, betrayed by his own desire to press on toward whatever small cruelty he is afforded. "A kind stranger, was it?" His head tilts at a curious angle as he studies her. It was she that spoke of condemnation. Now he would hear her confess.
For a moment, he gives no response to her question. This reminder of their familiarity is a lure⎯a once welcome tether turned strangling, a leash pulled taut. "You may spare your condolences." It comes out clipped. Pinned, he feels before her, as an insect on a board. So he relents to his need for movement. Spine lengthens slowly as Artun rises from the desk, languid, easy. His path draws him forward until he is almost too close for propriety to permit, then draws him past Amarei's form without so much as the brushing of sleeves. The boundary holds, though it is barely a whisper between them. For all his envy he knows the value of the bargain she has struck, and even he would not risk her losing it.
Artun meets the shelf behind her, fingers trailing along the row of bindings with feigned interest. "My brother has a talent for survival that borders on inconvenience." Cynicism drips from every word, the entirety of the truth left unspoken. He has discovered he no longer wants to share it with her. "What of your sister?" He doesn’t so much as turn.
in the darkness you arrive , it seems SELENE VERATHORM has emerged from malriths embrace. the LADY OF THE MOONLAKE , brings with them such passion in their wake and they are known for being LOYAL but also CONFLICTED. the bloodmoon shines when the TWENTY FIVE year old joins the war. what songs would be sung in their name ? [ A BURNING HILL + MITSKI ] for in the decades to come they will speak of : the prick of a thorn as you reach toward the flower, blood pooling crimson. a heart skipping beats over a missed step⎯half thrill, half shame. smooth stones skipping across the still waters of a lake. eyes teeming with feeling, betraying years of practice. yearning, ever present, reaching towards something that cannot be named. may your journey bring fruit , welcome to nocturnia forgotten one.
persona
NAME. selene verathorm
NICKNAME(S). sela
TITLE(S). lady of the moonlake
PLACE OF BIRTH. moonlake, morkhul
AGE. 25
ALIGNMENT. chaotic neutral
STAR SIGN. libra (certified lover girl)
PARALLELS. tbd
MOTIVATIONS. tbd
visuals
HEIGHT. 5’7"
EYES. deep greenish blue, wide and doleful.
HAIR. black, curly/textured. kept long and often worn loose, it pools just above the shoulder blades.
BUILD. slender.
DRESS. always fashionably dressed.
The nursemaids trade whispers over the cradle's edge on the first night of her being, their voices softened by reverence as they behold the last of the Verathorm children. Sweet, they remark, one by one, tracing feather light fingers down the gentle slope of her nose. Perfect, they breathe, caressing her cheek. So tranquil is the child’s slumber that they do not fear disturbing her.
Yet Selene’s eyes flutter open all the same. They wait on baited breath, and she lets out a screech that silences all talk at once.
Similar stories do not cease in the years to come, though they shift in shape. Try as she might, nothing in her knows how to stay hidden. Her every fleeting emotion rises to the surface as soon as it is felt, swirling and unpredictable, like so many eddies in a stream. Tender hearted, the nurses whisper now, and part of her hates them for it. For hers is a home of sharp things, all honed voices and polished pride. What room is there for feeling?
Her siblings are house Verathorm’s finest expressions. From a young age Selene watches them with rapt attention. How her brother commands the world, how her sister walks through it as if all things belong to her. She grows obstinate in her loyalty to each of them, surprisingly fierce in her adoration. She wants to be just as they are, exactly as they are, if she is to be worthy of anything at all. But it is a fumbling thing, to try and become what you are not. She reaches again and again through the years for her brother’s boldness, for her sister’s sovereignty. Convincing dress-up at a glance, but Selene finds that they pool around her, ill-fitting and heavy, like a child donning a mother's cloak. She trips over her own foreignness and curses the tender skin of her palms, not even realizing she has already been forgotten in another's stride.
still a wip, more to come!
footnotes
Clings to moments of perceived sweetness⎯her mother smoothing her hair as a child, or an imperceptible nod of approval. These things are proof her family's love, and she has willed them to be enough.
It is impossible to have been completely untouched by her upbringing. She is prideful and image focused. Where the rest of her family may be more controlled in wielding their harshness, at times Selene's happens entirely by accident.
location: assigned chambers for house velathorm, day of arrival status: closed for @celcstine (ophelia verathorm + selene verathorm)
All she can think is that she must get away from the crowd. She must get away from the crowd because she is going to be sick, and when she is sick⎯for it is a when now, not an if⎯Selene cannot allow herself to be seen. Spurred on by this singular understanding, the youngest Verathorm does not stop until the door to her refuge bursts open, her body hurtling inward. The grime of soot stained tears remains streaked across her cheeks, though she has swiped at them more than once these past hours. As Ophelia's form comes into view, for the first time, the younger is struck dumb by how disheveled she must look. "Ophelia⎯" surprise and relief mingle with the churn of her stomach. In an instant, Selene is upright. She will not be sick, she decides, then and there. She will not allow it. "I looked for you. On the way, and in the infirmary, I⎯" her words give way to confusion as her brows draw together. Her palm is flat on the wall, steadying her body against the sway of her head. Had her sister been here the whole time? "Where were you?"
location : hospital ward , celembron ⏲ sardonyx aftermath
from : chae haneul , liege of greenspire
to : elysande garramoth , ruling lady of sheer castle [ @fablewrit ]
while it is impossible to figure out by just looking at them, haneul is furious about what has occurred. frustrated, peeved, unsettled — a mixed bag of thoughts that rattle in their mind, some easier to accept than others, yet none that reach the surface of their facade. at the end of the day, the chaes are unharmed, and their allies are in one piece. perhaps, the fire should have been expected at times like these, where disarray is abundant, and there is danger lurking at every corner. the frustration stems from that thought, that haneul was not prepared enough to foresee it before it happened, before it was almost too late.
perhaps, the secret sharing that had happened before the fire muddled their mind in a way that they did not expect. it only fuels that mix of irritation, and they try to dig out any and all information they can find, walking through the halls, visiting allies and enemies alike. while they do not expect to see the ruling lady garramoth in this instance, once they spot her, it's a simple decision to make their way towards the bed occupied by the young garramoth. an irrational part of themself that despises the shared secret would prefer to pretend she does not exist at all — yet they are smart enough to delve into further exploration of their relationship, as well as tactful enough to bow their head briefly once within earshot. "lady garramoth..." hands clasped in front of them, hidden by the long sleeves of their dark robes. "how are you faring? is there anything that can be done?" rest of the sentence is left unspoken, no empty apologies shared, even when they are at their most considerate.
There are few times in her memory, though they grow increasingly more common, that Elysande has found herself unable to provide a simple remedy. One need not be trained in the art of healing to understand the logic of the body⎯thirst is quenched by drink, hunger quelled by bread, fever tempered by cool cloth and a dedicated hand. Demand is met and the pangs soften. This is a simple truth of life. But what good is it knowing what needs to be done, she wonders, when she cannot offer it? "In Braxigar, we train our children to endure." So they begin at the edge of her thoughts⎯liege Chae's greeting half-ignored. "I know so many think the methods barbarous. I did. But we prepare them, as best we can, for what is to come." Cian has trained all his life. Kaelen, before that, and hundreds more besides. How many have grown in the lifeless dark, hardened and honed against it? A necessity, but in her bitterness she thinks it all a great waste. An axe can only be wielded if the brain tells the arm to swing. "I find us woefully underprepared now."
When at last it strikes her that she has not answered the question, she turns her gaze toward Haneul with an air of finality. Her conclusion has been reached. It is one the liege of Greenspire will already be familiar with, after the ritual. "No, my liege. I understand there is very little to be done."
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