i am become death;

we are all ghost stories waiting to be unraveled. we are sick of h a u n t i n g ourselves with no resolution. if there is anything left of the people we were, we bury them. our secrets have their own graves.

[lydiahowe-blog]

DATE: april 23rd TIME: just after the king’s speech LOCALE: courtyard

       Lydia watched with a dawning sense of horror as she realized what the king was going to do. A heavy ache settled in her chest; of course he would do this. She’d hoped against hope that Isla had been right to put trust in him, but in the end, all the Silvers wanted to do was make their lives as miserable as possible. She’d trusted in her mentor’s judgment, but even as the king went on about equality, all she could hear was an awful ringing in her ears.

       The Silvers around her immediately took notice. How could they not? He hadn’t mentioned what her powers were, but it didn’t matter. They’d trusted their missives to a Red with more power in her veins than she had any right to have, and they would make her pay the price for that. Her heart thumped desperately in her ears and she knew, she knew that if she stayed, something terrible would happen. There were too many eyes on her, wondering what sort of alien ability she might have, and her hands unconsciously tugged her gloves up higher, though there wasn’t much more material to stretch them by.

       Lydia backed away with growing harried breaths, feeling panic expand in her chest and leave no room for oxygen. ❝ I didn’t --- It’s not --- please, let me go --- ❞ she begged, pushing her way through people in an effort to escape. They stepped back, wary of her touch, and she felt each motion like a pound to the skull. They didn’t know, but they were terrified all the same. How much worse would it be when they found out? She couldn’t stay, she --- maybe she would go home, instead. No one would want her for a messenger now.

       By the time she found the edges of the crowd she was gasping, taking in air but feeling none of the relief her deep breaths were meant to provide. She was suffocating with the weight of too many eyes, too much knowledge in them, and she wanted nothing more than to be invisible. Or small, perhaps, small enough to escape notice. She felt a hand on her arm, as if to pull her back, and she wrenched away, taking a few steps and turning toward them with a fierceness she didn’t realize she could exhibit. ❝ Don’t touch me! ❞ she seethed, half angry and entirely desperate. Her hands balled into fists, and she pulled her sleeves down to cover every inch of bare skin she could. That tingling feeling in her palms wanted to spread, responding to the panic inside her, and she felt death against her tongue. ❝ You don’t want to. Trust me. I’m not the flying, teleporting sort. ❞ The thought threatened to bring hysterical laughter to her lips, but she withheld it, feeling her skin stretched too tight over her bones. Her shoulders slumped as she looked at them, waiting for whatever comment they felt the need to make, now that her greatest secret and shame was available for public consumption.

[lydiahowe-blog]

╬ NYSSA

She hated that term, if it pleases you. Yes, she would be pleased to learn the name but she didn’t demand it. She felt a chill go down her spine, this was part of what she wanted to change. This idea that Silvers were meant to be obeyed for fear of consequence, as it happened more often than not, was disgusting to Nyssa.  Her own parents had not been cruel to their servants but they’d treated them as non entities, living beings perhaps but only there to bring more food and wine or fetch slippers. The red servants Nyssa had noticed growing up never spoke and never took their eyes off the floor. The memory made her uncomfortable and she shook herself out of it. 

“Lydia is a lovely name.” She’d never heard it before, but it was in stark contrast to the names of Silver lords and ladies, all complicated and convoluted. Lydia was pretty and simple and she liked it quite alot. 

The gasp came like a physical blow to Nyssa, this girl was so terrified, so disused to kindness from Silvers that she would gasp at an invitation to sit down, to enjoy company.  “Oh, I suppose it is a maybe but — you are still welcome to join, even if I were Queen I would need company.” She said it softly, almost wistfully but her smile was genuine as she herself took a seat in one of the chairs. “I wonder about that, the voting, I hope the King does all he can to keep the Reds safe from all the ways the competitors could cheat that part.” she recalled her plan with Jacob and her adrenaline surged. 

“Do you like blueberries? There is a lovely girl in the kitchens that makes these incredible scones. Are you hungry? Please, rest your feet.” Someone to talk to that had zero ulterior motives, zero hostility, felt like a blessing and she’d offer Lydia diamonds to sit for just a few minutes.

        Her face felt as if it would go up in flames from her blush alone. She didn’t know how to react, between a pretty Silver lady complimenting her, and reconciling that with the fact that she might even become Queen. She’d heard King Orion’s stance on the treatment of Reds, and had even seen it employed toward her, but she was always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Because with all the Silvers she worked with, there were just as many unkind ones as she knew ones who were decent. It was never a sure thing, and she tried not to let her guard drop unless she knew them very well. 

        ❝ Thank you, Lady Samos. It’s not --- Silvers have such elegant names, but... I confess to liking mine as well. ❞ She couldn’t have known that their thoughts mirrored one another’s, but Nyssa might yet be pleased by it. 

        Lydia couldn’t help that her curiosity got the better of her. With an invitation to talk, she wanted to know more, her interest genuine as much as it was limitless. ❝ I think it’s hard to be alone, when you’re a Queen. Easy to be lonely, maybe, but hard to be alone. I don’t mind being company, either way. ❞ She was a fraction unsure of the invitation --- it seemed rather sudden and too good to be true --- but her feet did ache, and she took a seat, folding her hands carefully in her lap.

        ❝ From what I see of the King, ❞ she said, careful not to overstep but knowing she did see a fair amount of him, with all the messages he had to attend to, ❝ He’s much more aware of... that sort of thing, than his predecessor. Even says thank you, most of the time. So I would hope so. ❞ Lydia looked up at Nyssa, wondering: ❝ Do you know him well? To want to marry him, I mean. ❞

        She reddened once more at the offer. Was it so obvious that she was tired? She would need to do better than that in future. ❝ Melody? ❞ she offered, hopeful for the first time. She’d known Melody before, in school, but she hadn’t reached out to anyone at the castle. Was too busy worrying and running to even think of it. ❝ Or not, but... I knew she came here, too. The palace is just so big. And besides, I couldn’t --- I mean, I don’t think I should eat stuff that was made, uh, for you. If you did have something made. ❞ Her bumbling caused her no end of embarrassment.

[lydiahowe-blog]

╬ TATE

         “ Tate? ”

                   Lydia. 

          He would have known that voice anywhere. It echoed in his most fondest of memories, and composed itself into a symphony whenever his thoughts drifted to think of his closest friend. He found himself grinning despite himself – he had seen the despair within her features, and his heart had begun to ache once the words spilt from her lips – and it struck him just how much he needed her in his life.

         Tate was undoubtedly happy to see her. That was a fact as clear as day. It had been ( how long had it been? he couldn’t remember when he had previously spent an afternoon with her, or even the last time they had said something to each other that was more than a ‘hello’ in passing ) too long. He might have preferred to seen her in a more positive setting, but he knew that beggars couldn’t be choosers.

                   He couldn’t imagine not speaking to her for as long as they had gone with out                        again. It was unbearable, the idea of it. If he could, he wouldn’t let it repeat. 

          Her hug felt like home. He stood for a moment, stunned by the sudden show of affection, before he wrapped his arm around her. As off-kilter his world had begun to feel, at least this felt right. Perhaps things were finally getting on track again.

                    It was funny how fast Tate seemed to accept that he had died, and then had                     returned to life one more. It was confusing, yes, but perhaps it was a new normal.                     He had always been able to live with change.

         He didn’t want to let go of her, for fear of her running away and beginning to drift once more, for fear of losing the person he considered to be his best fried, but he let his arm fall to his side and he took a small step backwards. Tate didn’t let his gaze move away from her. 

         His brows had knitted together, though, hesitation washing across his features, and he knew he would have to reply carefully to her. The tone of her voice had struck him deeply, and the idea of hurting her further was one he did not want to consider. He had never lied to Lydia before – he didn’t plan to start now – but to see her in such a grieving state was one he never wanted to encounter again. What could he possibly say?

        His voice sounded choked when he finally managed to say, “ I’m not dead. Not now. ” Was that the right thing to say? He was unsure. You can’t – don’t ever, ever die, I swear, I will do – something bad. Drastic. Tate shook his head, a harsh motion, replying, “ You can’t say that, Lydia. If anything were to happen to me – ” the urge to say ‘again’ was overwhelming “ – you would be fine. I guarantee it. ”

         This was not the reassurance he thought he would ever have to give her. Maybe something about her job, or something within their daily lives – but death? That was something he didn’t want to talk about. Tate had more than his fair share of brushes with death, yes, but he was energetic, and bright. He craved life, he lived with no hesitations. This wasn’t who he was.

     The relief was so palpable, so immediately, it was almost enough for her to miss his next words. Not now. ❝ Were you? ❞ she asked, for Tate’s quirks were ones she knew as well as her own. When he was lying, or when he was telling the truth --- mostly because she’d always been in on the lie, before. If she hadn’t met Isla she might have written it off as a turn of phrase, but what the seamstress told her reverberated in her mind. And the thought of the others --- Newbloods, Isla had called them --- was enough for her to wonder. To be curious. 

     It would be nice, she thought, even as she wanted to slap herself for saying so. Not nice that Tate had to die to find it out, but nice to share. Strangely, if he had come back from the dead, he might just be the one person she didn’t have to be terrified for. She looked him over, gloved hands barely touching his neck, his arm, his face. ❝ Not even hurt, ❞ she murmured, then met his eyes. ❝ Will you tell me? I promise not to... well, whatever that was, I just --- ❞ her breath cut off in her chest, and she wanted to cry. ❝ I just don’t want to lose you. Not ever. ❞

     At least he was acting normal. Always minimizing his importance as often as he played it up. ❝ No, I wouldn’t be. But you can’t expect it can you? What if it had been me, with my name on the list? Would you be fine? ❞ She thought of the past months, since her ability surfaced and she’d pushed everyone she loved into the distance. Maybe he could be. She was suddenly unsure in a way she’d never been with Tate before, though she tried her best not to show it.

     Lydia squeezed her hands together rather than hug him again. It was too much to chance, until she was positive he couldn’t be hurt if her ability suddenly decided it wanted more of her skin than merely her palms. ❝ I’m just --- I’m really glad. That you’re okay. I’m too terrified to joke with anyone else, you know. Especially with all these Silvers. ❞

[lydiahowe-blog]

╬ JACOB

Jacob knew his reputation. It was poor among the Reds and worse among the Silvers he despised. All because he wouldn’t simple let them tread on him as though he were nothing but dirt. He wasn’t known for being particularly caring. He was rough and harsh and frank. Surely someone who was crying would far rather have Portia or Galen or Bailey at their side. Even Sam would probably be preferable to himself. He supposed that was why she shrunk away when he reached out to her.

He did care though. If only because he understood pain. He was far too familiar with pain. Under that carefully molded mask of anger and bitterness lay years of consuming pain. He understood pain and suffering and struggle. He knew it all so well, could call upon a dozen stories of each. So when he saw it in others, he knew it. He recognized it and was able to call out to it in his own way. No, it wasn’t always kind and it wasn’t always soft. He wouldn’t treat people with kid gloves if it wasn’t necessary. But he could still be a shoulder to cry on if it was needed. By the looks of the petite red head, it was certainly needed right now.

“From someone who knows, keeping it in doesn’t do you any good. Letting it out is the only way you’re going to get any silence.” He let his own pain out in angry bursts and muttered words and kicked buckets now, but in his younger years he had wailed and screamed until he had gasped for the breaths that would not come. They never made the pain cease, but it made it tolerable. It kept his sanity intact enough for him to function even when he had been certain his world was falling apart. “I know what people say, but I’m not a bad listener.” 

Another person dead. After the days they had had it should hardly be a shock. But he couldn’t remember seeing her name on the lists posted in the castle. Couldn’t remember her being anywhere near Archeon come to think of it. He sat down on the stone floors beside the girl. “Death is like that. Sometimes it strikes you the moment it happens. Sometimes it takes weeks to settle in.” He looked over at her, hoping his closeness was enough to help soothe her. 

She wanted more for all of us. He hadn’t known the seamstress well. He hadn’t had any reason to. But the idea certainly rang true enough to him. That was all he wanted. Change and a better life and enough damn boot-kissing to the SIlvers day and night. “A lot of us want more. She’s not the only one. And I’m not saying that makes it okay that she died–it doesn’t–but she’s not the only one. Sooner or later, someone is going to do something and things are going to change.”

      Lydia couldn’t help half a laugh, because he’d misinterpreted so clearly that she could only do that, or cry. It was an overload of sensation, and she wished, for a moment, that she didn’t have to keep her power a secret. So that she could share her hesitancy and make people understand. But she didn’t want Jacob to go away, either, and it seemed to her that confessing to something like that only led to pushing others out of your space and life. ❝ Simple in theory, ❞ she agreed, ❝ But I’m not sure how to say all the things I’m thinking, let alone feeling. ❞ She met his eyes, however, determined to set things straight. ❝ I know you are. I’m just not good at saying things. ❞

      Death. What did she know of it, truly? Perhaps that was what scared her most. She had this impossible power within her very palms, and no true grasp of it, no sense of its true potential or lack thereof. And she had no desire to learn. Testing it was out of the question. Yet it must come from her, shouldn’t it? Something in her that spoke to the miser of death itself. Even if that wasn’t what she wanted to believe, what other explanation could there be?

      ❝ It’s different, when it’s someone older. At home, my parents... they’ve taken in babies that died. I mourned. But --- they didn’t know me, and I didn’t know them yet. I don’t know. I probably sound ridiculous, I just... it’s been a long day. ❞ She unconsciously gravitated a fraction closer, the old Lydia warring with the new as she longed for the comfort of touch and presence but was terrified of what it would do. To her fragile psyche, as well as to the person who got too close.

      Jacob echoing her believed sentiments was the confirmation she’d been waiting for. It was a risk, certainly, to tell someone without getting permission from --- well, not Isla. Maybe Nathaniel, now. But Jacob was the person in her life least likely to be upset by the idea, and he was a good person. He could help them. She knew he could. ❝ I know. I --- there are a lot more than you think. But Isla... she brought us together. Do you understand? ❞ She glanced up, nerves tracing her every feature. ❝ With her gone, there are others who will most likely take up that position. We’ll stick together. ❞

[lydiahowe-blog]

╬ KASSIOPEA

When: April 15th Where: Room of Mirrors Status: Open

She feels the most conflicted about this room by a mile. In it, she sees herself a million times over, beautiful and perfect and strong, everything a Nolle Lady ought to be, everything her mother wished for her… And despite the effort that Theo has made, teaching her to embrace femininity to mean strength, in this world, in this light, she’s dressed as her family’s pawn. Not a queen. And certainly not the player moving the pieces. Despite her vanity and pride making her gaze and pause, all Kass wants to do is walk and shatter.

Picking her way through the maze of glass and Kassiopea Atalante Nolles gazing back at her with that same feral look in the eye, Kass feel a desperation to break the silence in this room, past the disembodied giggles of another person farther along than she who just slammed into a mirror by accident. She wanted so badly to remind herself that she was her mother’s daughter, but that did not mean she had to become her mother soon. “This would be an excellent place to make love, don’t you find?” She asks a person who happens upon her in a contemplative state, adjusting her dress. “Or fight… Though the way I do either is sure to leave the other person with scars they’ll never forget.”

Maybe it was all the staring into mirrors forcing her into an introspective mood, but… her smile sure felt as brittle as the panes around her right in that moment.

     Lydia was at once fascinated with and terrified of the room full of mirrors. Looking at her own reflection was something full of conflicted thoughts nowadays, where it had once been a mere fascination. There wasn’t enough money for a decent mirror in her childhood home --- all of it went to the care of the children over the considerations for their vanity --- and she’d never seen herself so much all at once. It was overwhelming and a little bit scary, and more than anything, the further inside she went the more she wanted to turn back.

     But the mirrors made it easy to get lost. She understood more than ever how hard it must have been for Zaira Samos, and felt a slight twinge of guilt, her heart too big not to. She was so confused, so desperate to avoid her own face, that she nearly ran into the Silver speaking. It took a moment for the words to register, and when they did, red heat bloomed beneath her cheeks. She was an adult, but she’d never had much time for romance, and physical release had never seemed valuable without her heart’s involvement. There was always work to be done, after all.

     Silvers, on the other hand, surely would have time to indulge. She didn’t begrudge the other girl that release, but she did wish that Lydia wasn’t made to think of it while also standing so very close. ❝ Kind of scary, my lady. On both accounts. Wouldn’t that depend on how confident the user is? In either case. ❞ The blush remained, but she was determined to try, just for one night, not to cower away from the Silvers who held her livelihood in their hands. ❝ I mean, if you don’t like your body... you don’t want to look at it naked much. And if you aren’t very good with using the mirrors in a fight, you’ll confuse yourself, won’t you? Either way, it’s not universal. ❞

[lydiahowe-blog]

╬ EMORY

DATE: april 15th LOCATION: room of water STATUS: open

Emory supposed he should be honored, having such a spectacular room dedicated to him. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t deserve it. He shouldn’t be celebrated for ruining someone’s pride, tearing apart their lifelong plans and bringing shame to their family name. Rahul was right to be mad at him, disappointed in him. It was conflicting, receiving spectacular gifts and praise for the same thing that had lost him a friend and the support of his family. He wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to it, or learn to like it. At least his room was calming. Even with so many people around him, he felt at peace with the water. He’d spent the last hour or so just sitting near the pool, and he basked in the silence every time the lights went low and the sound of the ocean graced his ears. 

His eyes were closed when he heard footsteps over the sound of the water. He didn’t bother to open them. It was a meditative experience that was rare for the Osanos heir. “It’s nice in here,” he said plainly, not knowing or caring who was listening. “It’s a beautiful room; I wish I deserved it.”

      Lydia had never seen something so extravagant and stunning in her life. The pool was magical, yet at the same time, she’d refused to don a bathing costume. Instead, she stood at the very edges, trying not to get wet while she took it all in. There was no way she was exposing so much skin, and she couldn’t very well wear gloves into a pool without someone looking on in suspicion, could she? Though she longed to do so nonetheless. Instead, she was working around the edges when she was spotted by the man of the hour himself: Emory Osanos. She blushed at any sort of attention at all --- while Nyssa had been kind to her before, the rest of the competitors were almost celebrity-like strangers, their status so far above hers as to be unimaginable.

      His words were sad, freezing her in place in spite of her desire to run from that attention. What would someone with all that power, all that beauty and wealth, have to be so upset about? ❝ Forgive me if I speak out of turn, ❞ Lydia began, a nervous shuffle of her shoulders accompanying the words, ❝ but it’s my understanding that all you need to do to earn a room is win. And it doesn’t really matter how, does it? ❞ She lowered her eyes before trying to remember what Nyssa had told her about company being okay even if she was a Red, and looking up again. ❝ So... maybe you should worry about deserving something else. Morally, it’s not hard to deserve the room, is it? ❞       

[lydiahowe-blog]

╬ NYSSA

          The voice that fluttered by was not one she recognized, an odd occurrence and she turned to give her full  (as full as possible) attention to it. She was met with the figure of a young girl, perhaps her age or so, with flowing red locks like the brightest orange in spring. The girl was truly lovely, and articulate, and a complete stranger to her. That old smile crept up her face but her lack of energy, and loss of the desire to deceive (mostly) made it kind and weary.

                 “You know my name and yet I have no idea what yours might be, forgive me.”

              She curtsied, barely moving but doing it anyway, out of respect and apology, she was much too tired and lost in thought to think she shouldn’t be curtsying for a Red, that would be ludicrous. Part of her wanted to touch her hair, to see if it would burn the hand as it did the eyes but she remained where she was and beckoned the girl inside the room, a small salon with a few books and two chairs she often had tea in, by herself.

                            “Please, you are not intruding, i’d be happy to have some company.”

        Lydia was confused but did her best to hide it. She’d known kind Silvers, but it still baffled her when they asked her for her name or did anything to treat her like a person. Most of the people she served as messenger were quite old and stuck in their ways -- Alistair and King Orion excluded -- and to capture attention well enough to be asked for an introduction bordered on revolution in the eyes of that sect of Silvers. She was sure of it. 

        Still, when everyone in the palace was your boss, it didn’t do well to disobey. ❝ Nothing to forgive in that, is there? My name is Lydia Howe, if it pleases you. ❞ She’d gotten decently good at speaking to her superiors over the past years in this position, yet it still made her nervous. What would they do if she misstepped? She hadn’t, yet, and there was luck in that.

        Lydia couldn’t help but let her small gasp of surprise show, which was terribly unfair of her. She grimaced at the sound and covered her mouth, shaking her head. ❝ I didn’t mean --- it’s just, I mean. Aren’t you maybe going to be Queen? ❞ She tilted her head, curious. Even Orion Calore, with his friendly smiles and easy demeanor, brought out the voice of a ruler when necessary. Yet Nyssa gave respect to her when most would not have. It made her inherently questioning, though she knew it was a bad idea to continue down this line of thought and convince Nyssa away from such nice things. ❝ I mean, it doesn’t bother me. You may have even secured my vote. ❞ It was a tease she was sure would fall flat --- damn it, she didn’t converse with Silvers like this. Normally. Easily.

        ❝ Company sounds nice. For me, too. ❞

[lydiahowe-blog]

Date: April 15th Time: 7:45pm Location: Room of Silence Availability: OPEN

     Lydia has been somehow overtaken by this... frantic energy. It has her by the throat, and it cannot, or will not, let her go. She wears nothing overtly fanciful, nothing as inspired by le cirque as the Silvers shadowing the halls, but her mask covers her eyes, and it had been enough to gain her entry.  It does nothing to hide the red blush of her cheeks, the high color carving a swath down her throat as the heat of the room encapsulates her. Or perhaps it is the heat of her own embarrassment -- she is modest amid their finery and pacing, after all. Not an under-the-radar impression to make on people.

     No one seems to be enjoying Prisha Arven’s room for now, though, which gives her some semblance of peace. The moment the room was explained by a Silver she overheard just dying to try it out ( their words, not hers ) her hands had begun to shake. Trembling, aching excitement and worry quaked within her, desperate the claw their way to the surface as hard as she tries to contain them. A room which nullified the powers of Silvers. Could it do the same for her? 

     She isn’t sure, and not quite sure is definitely not enough to gamble on it, with an ability like hers. She’d sworn to leave it alone, she really had, but when Lydia’s eyes glanced off of a potted plant in the corner, almost forgotten in the revelry... well, she couldn’t resist. She’d stolen away with it, using her ability to be light on her feet to avoid being seen as she ducked inside. Now she stands, pacing a few steps back and forth, feeling a strange sense of dread as she attempts to get up the courage to touch the plant. 

     It’s just a little plant, she tells herself, but watching the grass die still lingers in her mind. What if plants can feel? House Welle is said to be able to commune with or at the very least control them, and what if the plant is helpless as she, waiting for the slaughter as much as she waits for the ax that must surely be coming? For one with such a dangerous ability as she, it cannot be long. She sets the plant down and picks it up again, almost dropping it at the sound of someone’s voice at the door. 

     Barely managing to set it down, she mentally pats herself on the back before turning a rather embarrassed gaze on the door, a sheepish expression darting across the exposed sections of her face. ❝ Sorry, I don’t --- I mean, if I was in the way, I can move, if you want to enjoy the room, and all that. ❞ 

     Lydia curtsys then, because it’s customary and she isn’t sure, in this light, if they’re Red or Silver. A deep blush stains her cheeks, outing her as plain as day, and she tugs on her gloves, wishing she’d just kept with the plain old leather. She had found some fancy white ones that went up to her elbows when they said they were giving out dresses for the Reds, but now they feel thin and dangerous against her skin and she years, more than ever, for the comfort of the leather.

[lydiahowe-blog]

╬ NYSSA

Date: March 24 Location: balcony Status: OPEN

She’d won. Gods—she’d not only won she’d crushed Vezina, a feats champion, a warrior—her trainer and maybe in another life they could have been friends. But things were about to change, and not just for Nyssa. Familiar halls felt different, foreign, and her hands hadn’t stopped shaking since the fight. The knowledge that you could, easily, take a life was not the sort she wanted to know.

A gentle breeze lifted golden tresses from her shoulders and she closed her eyes to fell it on her skin. The sun seemed missing, clouds filling the sky, it felt appropriate but she craved the warmth of its rays, thinking foolishly it could chase this creeping chill from her bones. A sound behind her should have made her whirl round but she stayed focus on the view, tensed for a possible confrontation if it should come.

    There were moments where her feet paused, where no one was vying for her attention -- and those felt like peace. The castle was a beautiful place, but most of it was drawn in blurry streaks of grey as she darted through figures and around guards to get people what they needed. Today had been as busy as ever -- a common occurrence since the bomb that had threatened all their lives, but it exhausted her, wearing her down to the bone.

    Now she entered a room she’d thought was vacant, just to get some peace of mind, when she noticed a figure turn. Embarrassed, Lydia threw up her hands on instinct, the messenger bag over her shoulder swinging slightly at her stopped momentum. ❝ Sorry, Lady Nyssa -- I didn’t mean to intrude. ❞ The look on her face was half-afraid, and it made Lydia worry. Was the Lady afraid of her? 

    ❝ Am I disturbing your peace? I can go, I mean, I really can -- ❞

[lydiahowe-blog]

╬ FINN

March 23rd // shop                  OPEN to ANYONE HONESTLY

In a corner framed by gaudy curtains- whatever privacy that affords him, Finn tries to find a clean cup amidst all the baubles and trinkets. He’s dealing with the close to boiling kettle when a bell rings and the door of the shop swings open. He pauses and levels out a small spoonful of leaves to set to the side.

“I’ll be with you a moment.” He says, loud enough to be heard at the entrance of the shop. Patience, they say, is a virtue.

Lydia isn’t quite sure why she’s there. She knows that Finn has -- rebel sympathies, at least. But that’s not why she’s there. When Isla told her about him, about the fact that his visions were real, she couldn’t believe it. Now she wonders why she didn’t come sooner. Who better to let her know whether the rest of her body will become a trap, than someone who knows anything and everything to come?

Still, the thought of asking the question itself coils knots in her gut. When he addresses her, the most she can squeak out is a ❝ Hello! ❞ before she needs to pause and swallow around her own apprehension. ❝ I -- yes, that’s fine. I can wait. ❞

[lydiahowe-blog]

╬ CALISTA

               Floating, a feather drifting through the air, passing flurries of people who clung together, fleeing from disaster like flocks of birds escaping winter. Her own head was stuck among the clouds, sight cast down at her mortal figure, which begged her to reach it once more. She was living, but barely, a dark haze descending over, grief clinging to her like the many embellishments which adorned her pretty dresses. For someone who loathed black fabric, preferring lighter hues of silk and lace, her gown was washed in onyx and became the very stain against her heart. 

                 Disengaged from her family, Calista found herself avoiding them as though they were the very plague upon the earth. Pain for her siblings wrapped her up, suffocating the breath in her chest. Alistair had run away, there was no polite way of putting it. He’d left her, abandoned her to wallow in grief as he fled to war, and she l o a t h e d him for it. Truth painted her features, a knowledge long foretold to her. The Eagrie siblings were not close, each one living as though they were a single player, a master of solitude. Calista had grown up in a bubble of isolation, it seemed appropriate that it should follow her in adulthood. 

                 Guinevere’s departure from the world had taken something from her, an innocence, a milky white safety net which painted the world in rose golden hues, protecting the sacrificial lamb from being snatched by the snarling grip of a sharp toothed wolf. Kindness bled in her heart, she felt too much, a soft dove, wings caught stained from brambles, twigs caught in pearled feathers. 

                 Sad gazes followed her, others judged. Heartbeats clung to her sleeve, emotion void from her features, all light smiles absent from her face. Calista wondered if she would ever find the will to smile ever again. Each penetrating stare caused her skin to crawl, and she rushed round corners in hope of removing herself from their pity. 

              Sharp breaths escaped her, back pressed to the wall. They wanted her to crack, to see her fall from the tragedy that overpowered her will. A voice caught her attention, and she glanced up, back still remained pinned to stone. “I-I don’t…” Attempting to catch her breath, Calista’s shaking hand rested against her collarbone, willing herself to exhale and inhale. “Unless you can stop the world from turning and slow it a creeping pace, so that I can finally catch my breath, I doubt there is anything you can do to assist me.” 

      When Lydia studied the figure, she was surprised to find herself facing a familiar one. Alistair had never spoken to her about his family, not really, but a passing name or two had caught her attention. It was easy, with the coming Crownstrial, to put a name to a face. For all that she was House Eagrie’s crown jewel, according to what Lydia understood of the world of the Silvers, she looked... delicate. Fragile in a way that had always made any Howe want to scoop someone into their arms and take care of them.

      Maybe her hands would always be stained black. Maybe her blood would turn to ichor, but if she turned away from someone who was so obviously in need of care, she would cease to be herself. Lydia would blow away on the wind and a new girl would take her place. There was nothing dangerous in assisting. She had to keep telling herself that as she walked forward, with gentle eyes still lined in red. Calista was quite washed-out by contrast, but there were pale blue shadows beneath her eyes that suggested the same grief she’d felt.

      Alistair had always been kind to her, and so she believed ( hoped ) the same would be true for his sister. She pressed on until she was quite close to Calista, her careful hand reaching out and stopping short, as unsure of its welcome as she was afraid to touch. She checked her gloves constantly for holes, but the tiniest of brushes would do it. She couldn’t be half-careful enough. ❝ I wish, ❞ Lydia agreed, practiced care lacing her words. ❝ I think it’s too much power for one person to have. That’s why Silvers didn’t get it. ❞

      Lydia ignored the fact that the Reds were gaining power too, and in many cases outstripping those basic abilities the Silvers had kept for generations. Instead, she tried to connect with someone as far across the divide as she’d ever known. ❝ You’re Lady Eagrie, yes? Lady Calista, I mean. ❞ Lydia had not yet read Guinevere’s name on the list of the dead, had no clue that her only Silver friend had conscripted himself to a warzone to escape his grief. ❝ Alistair mentioned you. I run many a package and message for him, on normal days. Are you well? Obviously not, I mean.... would you like to sit down? ❞

[lydiahowe-blog]

╬ JACOB

And many miles to go before I sleep, the line rung through Jacob’s head as moved about the castle. It was in some book so old the pages were falling out that he’d nicked from a Silver’s bookshelf a few days ago. He’d read the little book of poetry through twice within a week and quietly slid it back into its place before it could be missed. It wasn’t the first time he’d done it and he had little doubt it would be the last. But now the line was ringing through his head. The last twenty-four hours had been hell and it didn’t look like they’d be cooling down any time soon. Especially with the Silver released back into the world to gossip and fret and make a mess and likely calling on Red to do the simplest of tasks for those even with the smallest of injuries. 

He sighed as he made his way towards the royal quarters. He wasn’t sure what exactly was needed or by who but someone had sent the call for a servant and there was surely always someone close to the royals in need of something. They were the jobs he hated most. He could take laundry and scrubbing floors and cleaning toilets and standing there thinking profanities while Silvers treated him as no better than a dog–sometimes worse. What he hated was the low bows and “yes lords” and “of course your highnesses” that were required any time he was this close to the royals. It was one thing to have others know they were above you. It was another to have to acknowledge their station above you with ever action you took and ever word out of your mouth.

As he grew closer though, his steps slowed, the anger burning inside of him being turned down to a simmer. There had been enough crying in the last day to be well accustomed to its sound by now. But there was something different about this. About a lone girl, clearly not of royal birth, curled a hallway away, crying into her knees. He paused for a moment or two before continuing toward the petite form and it’s waves of orange curls lying over their back, letting the ring of his boot against the floor sound a little louder. He had no intentions of scaring her, only letting her know he was coming, that she wasn’t alone, time to adjust to the idea before it was a sudden unavoidable reality. 

He almost continued on to his duties–whatever they maybe–but when he caught the girl’s face he was almost surprised. “Lydia?” Plenty of people had lost someone, but he couldn’t remember a name among the list he could tie back to the girl he’s seen rushing in and out of the palace at all hours. He rest a hand on her upper arm, something to tie her back down to the ground, hopefully something to comfort whatever grief she felt. “Is everything alright?” He laughed slightly at himself as he ignored her own request to share in his work. “Well I mean I suppose things aren’t. There was just an explosion here.” He looked at her, his eyes soft for a moment, his voice of the same cashmere, “I guess I’m trying to ask what part of it is making you crying.”

        There was a relief in the familiarity of Jacob’s voice. If she’d had to bow to a Silver at that point, she wasn’t sure she’d be able -- Alistair and some of the others excluded, of course. She may not have agreed with Jacob’s bemoaning the opposite blood, but his nature was a caring one, and he was proud enough to respect himself. She appreciated that. Lydia had never much been sure of herself, but she found she liked the strength of those who were -- she flocked to them like a moth to flame. 

        Her first instinct at the touch of another human being was to recoil, but she fought the impulse, reassuring herself with the fabric that stood between his skin and hers. She’d had no warning signs when death came to her hands, and she couldn’t be sure it wouldn’t spread, a vile cancer infecting her flesh until she became death itself. No, she could not be too careful. Instead, she leaned toward the warmth of it, unused to isolating herself after taking care of others for so long. She was used to bedtime kisses and hugs before school, and everything these days felt... terribly lonely. 

        Lydia realized she must not have put on a very good act -- but then, after the rollercoaster her day had been, what was she supposed to do? Pretend that the first person to understand what had happened to her, this awful monstrous thing, wasn’t dead? Her friend, her ally in a world that had turned cruel, was gone, and her last words hadn’t even belonged to her. She’d given them to the King of Norta, to the Reds, to the New Bloods. That, more than anything, saddened her. That Isla had never taken a moment just for herself, even in her dying hour. 

         ❝ Nothing’s alright -- you’ve found the heart of it. ❞ The pretend smile she’d tried to put on fell flat as tears threatened her once more, and she turned away, pressing her gloved fingers against her eyes in vain. ❝ I just -- there’s so much. I couldn’t begin to explain. Don’t even know if I should. ❞ It seemed like something secret, a note secreted away into the king’s palm. The dying words of a revolutionary who’d somehow been in league with the King she once tried to betray. Lydia didn’t understand half of it, and what she did understand, she knew to be very dangerous.

        Nonetheless, she remembered all that Jacob had talked about all these years. He wasn’t delicate about his feelings, after all. If the Scarlet Guard needed more people... well, it probably did. But who was she to make that decision?

        ❝ Isla Furr. The seamstress down the way, she’s -- died. And she asked me to do something very important. Now that I have, I don’t... I didn’t have time to process it. Not until right now. ❞ Lydia looked back up at Jacob, trying to decide what to say, how much to say. ❝ She was a good person. She wanted more, for all of us. I don’t know what we’re going to do now that she’s gone. ❞

[lydiahowe-blog]

╬ TATE

DATE: March 19th LOCATION: Corridors leading towards the Bunker TIME: approximately 5:15 pm OPEN TO: all

           Thoughts of what had happened earlier in day ran through Tate’s head, repeating in cycles as he tried to get a grasp on it. An explosion had gone off within the hall, and all who stood within it were in the crosshairs – himself included.

          Tate had died – that was the one of the few things in his mind he was completely certain of. The last thing he remembered before the bomb went off was that he speaking to Diem – about what, he couldn’t quite remember, likely just idle chatter – but then he was overwhelmed by sensations of pain throughout his body and suddenly a pair of warm arms wrapped around him. 

                             After that: nothing. 

                    A voice in his mind whispered, ‘You died.’ The credence he held to this thought was overwhelming.

          It was because of the nothingness he had felt. Blank, numbing. It was a feeling unlike any other he had had before. This alone had him convinced. But if had not been for that, then instead for the healers who had surrounded him with wide eyes, their whispers barely audible as they talked between themselves. They did what they needed to do to heal his injuries, not answering his questions. It seemed that they had just as many. When he was feeling well enough, ironic, considering he thought he shouldn’t even be able to stand right then, he left when their backs were turned. There were likely people who needed their help more than him.

                     ( Tate, you died, but now you’re alive again. You’re breathing. You’re okay. Don’t be asking for too much more. )

          What bothered him the most was that he hadn’t seen Bailey within the group of people. Healers were not the most prevalent of people, he knew, but it did seem like an awful lot had been near him – why hadn’t Bailey been a part of that group? He needed to find her. Tate couldn’t call to mind the last time he had seen her. Surely he would have remembered if she had been in the gathering hall? Still, there had been many people there, and odds were he didn’t get to see all of them, but he hoped that his cousin hadn’t been there.

          He had heard one of the healers say that most of those in the palace had been gathered into the bunkers beneath the castle. That seemed the next most likely place for his cousin to be, if not helping with the rest of the men and women who seemed to not have enough hands to go around. The hallway was empty, unnervingly so, as he walked down it. Noises echoed off of the walls, and Tate could only hope someone would come around soon enough.

          Out of almost nowhere, it seemed ( or maybe Tate wasn’t paying quite enough attention to the world around him instead of his thoughts ), he saw another figure in the hall. Stepping in front of them before they could walk past, he asked, “ You wouldn’t have happened to see Bailey Whitcomb, would you? She’s a healer and – ” he gestured back towards the direction he had come from “ – I didn’t see her over there, and I just want to make sure she’s okay, you know? ”

      Lydia had been running a message. Everything had happened so fast -- she’d been sneaking in to catch the tail end of the King’s speech when a blast of heat radiated from the room. Chaos was immediate. In the pandemonium, it had taken every ounce of skill she had not to touch anyone, let alone investigate anything. ( After all, she hadn’t known her hands were killers until they were. ) In the commotion, it was easy to be terrified, but in the hours since the lists of the dead and injured had begun to be updated, their pages still soot-stained as the ashes floated from the ceiling, she’d felt relieved to see no one she called friend.

      That was why, after delivering yet another urgent message, she’d gone to the list of the dead unafraid.

      Surely they can’t uncover any more, she thought, her face drawn in tangible sadness at the loss of so many people. Most of them, if not all, had been innocent, and where was the justice in that? Her eyes scanned and scanned, and relief began to fill them until they caught on one name she couldn’t bear to lose.

      Tate. Tate Whitcomb. Her best friend. 

      Her eyes filled with tears as she read the name over and over again, unwilling to believe it. Tate? So filled with energy and life he had her giggling even when she’d gone all day without food and her bones felt like they were melting, that Tate? Who ran circles around her even when she was in a position for being fast, just because he liked to say he wasn’t weighed down like she was? There was no comprehending it. The loss was so pure, so final, that she knew there must be a mistake.

      There had to be, because Tate could not be dead. He could not leave her, not when she still hadn’t figured out how to tell him the truth. Not when she’d been so distant, not when she hadn’t made sure he knew he was sunshine and roses in her life. Not when she’d left him alone for weeks, terrified of what she would do if she let him get close. 

      Messages stopped. She ignored the weight of her bag against her shoulder and stumbled away, into the dark, anywhere to get away from the numbing horror of it. It wasn’t just a loss, it was the clawing of her heart from her chest, her oldest friend and favorite smile never to return. She wasn’t sure how long she remained, against those hallowed marble floors, great sobs wracking her thin frame. How could she work? How could she continue? Lydia wasn’t meant to outlive him. He was supposed to live to just the day after her, so he could chase her into the grave and tease her even then.

      Time seemed to slow. It could have been hours or days before she forced herself from the ball she’d curled into, uncaring, unthinking. She had to do something, but what? Everything felt hazy and disjointed, as if something was missing. Tate. He was missing and she couldn’t get him back. The loss cleaved a hole through her, cutting her in two, and when she heard a voice in the hall she almost didn’t register it. The darkness of the area shrouded their face, but she would know that voice anywhere.

      Everything froze. She had to be hallucinating. Ignoring all words he’d said, not that she understood a word in her confusion, she stepped into the light, her face full of confused wonder. ❝ Tate? ❞ His face, too, was half as familiar as her own, and in that moment she didn’t remember to be afraid of her own skin. All she wanted was to hug him tight and know he was real, and she did, throwing herself forward and wrapping her arms around his neck. ❝ You’re alive! You can’t -- don’t ever, ever die, I swear, I will do -- something bad. Drastic. I can’t. Don’t do that, ever, ever again. ❞

[lydiahowe-blog]

DATE: March 20th TIME: 1:30pm PLACE: a corridor near to the royal quarters

      Though it was the first day of Spring, winter chill had set into her bones, her eyes glassy and red as she walked through the halls. She had no plan in place, no message to carry, no purpose now that her desperate run for the King was complete. She allowed herself, for the first time that day, to feel the pain of Isla’s loss. She’d been the first person that made her feel as if she wasn’t alone, though she doubted anyone had an ability as monstrous as hers. Isla had trouble controlling her power, too. It was so easy for her to use it too much, to tamper too much in the memories of others -- and she’d taught herself to pull back, just as she was teaching Lydia how to live without fear.

      Lydia knew it might have been easier, were Isla alive, to ask her to take that memory away, of her hand sliding from Lydia’s gloved one, her eyes sliding shut beneath her fingers. But it would be a dishonor. Isla had used the last of her strength to send a message that, for all Lydia knew, would change everyone’s fate. She’d thought of others before herself, and she’d been kind, even if not everyone had been there to see it. Lydia attempted to wipe her tears away with her sleeve, not wanting to stain the leather of the beautiful presents Alistair had given her. 

      She couldn’t keep going around moping. Isla wouldn’t have wanted that. She should do something to help, but what? She was more alone than she’d been at the start, now having felt the loss of someone who understood. Lydia couldn’t reach out to help the wounded -- she would only do more harm than good. Orion hadn’t wanted her to carry a message, and she was sure that everyone had more important things to do.

      What she should have done was go to one of the Guard and explain what had happened to Isla, what was going on. Instead, she slid down the wall, burying her head in her knees and letting broken sobs wrack her frame. It only took a few minutes to cry it all out -- she’d already had tears down her cheeks for an hour at this point -- but she felt at last exhausted, worn out by the events and grieving all they’d lost. 

      A moment later there were footsteps, and Lydia hurried to her feet, trying in vain to wipe any evidence of sadness from her face. Her eyes still felt heavy and wet, and her head had begun to ache. Still, she stood straight bowed her head to whoever approached, the likelihood of them being Silver quite high. ❝ Is there anything I can help you with? ❞ she asked, her voice shaky and dim against the marbled floors. ❝ I was just -- well, I mean -- ❞ she grimaced and brushed her hands over her cheeks again, a tired but sheepish look crossing her features. ❝ I’d like to be useful. ❞

[ardenchosource]

[emmajstone]

[morganalefays]