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Wanting for Wildflowers || Tess & Chris

He’s up and left. Tess takes the news as she must; graceful bow of acknowledgement, step out into the corridor, allow her upset to blossom as she all but storms to her quarters. No one will see her--and if they do, everyone in the castle knows by now to leave the Princess well alone when she’s angry. Few and far between are such occurrences, but Typically, Lord help you if you try to stop her from finding a place to calm down. According to the other Kingdom’s King, the Prince had thrown quite a fit; rambling about lies, about the parliament being in ruins, about marrying into a life of filth and illegitimacy--and then he’d snuck away in the night. Bed after tantrum, straight out the door, and now he’s nowhere to be found. Truth be told, if that’s the sort of man she’s been betrothed to, Tess would rather marry a horse. This changes things on a massive scale, of course--she won’t take the throne unless they find someone else to marry her to, her father will stay in rule, the kingdom will continue to crumble under the weight of his heartless demands. People starve in the streets, children fall ill with no one to tend them, and King Warren demands tax increases by the month. The Prince being the type to throw public fits wouldn’t be a good fit as her husband, to stop this sort of nonsense, but it’s a rather weighty disappointment for Tess to consider; another year under her father’s power. By the time she makes it to her quarters, Tess is calm--a serenity of acceptance is easy to find when you live under a man that turns to a terror at the slightest hint of backlash. A seat by the window does her well; tea in hand after a moment of waiting--the countryside looks gorgeous, today. Wildflowers amongst thick grass, animals hunting and dancing alike under the midday sun. It’s...freedom, Tess decides, warmth of sweet tea on her tongue; it’s where she longs to be. One has duties, she supposes, but that cannot possibly stop one from dreaming. The day goes on, as days are wont to do--and a pageboy arrives at the gates by horseback by sundown, with a message from King Edward tucked into a neat little scroll. The boy stands before the court--Queen Julia, King Warren, Princess Tessa-lee, a host of parliamentary folk; the boy speaks with a trembling voice, no doubt fantastically new to the job. “The King, he...he wishes to send his greetings, a-and...he would like to announce a continuation of the Royal wedding. A suitable replacement within the family lines has...has been found, and by a fortnight’s passing, Princess Tessa Lee of Aurivos Isles will be wed to Prince Christian of House Carlisle. King Edward and Prince Christian will be arriving by sun-up to discuss this development with the Royal family of Aurivos Isles.” Well then. You learn something new every day, don’t you? Her father takes the news with a heavy sigh; clearly irritated by the boy’s stutter, and dismisses him with a snap of low voice and wave of hand. Tess watches him go, with a slow curl of near-sadness settling in her stomach--another man she’s never met, promised to her, and her ruin of a kingdom. King Edward knows that Aurivos Isle has all but drastically fallen--and the hope throughout the land is that the wedding between the families will start repairs on the crumbling remains of the economy. Prince Christian will be dealing with her father, her people, her inadequacy--sometimes, Tess wonders if she and everyone else would be better off if she were to turn into a wildflower; sit under the sun, sway in the breeze as the world carries on.

The next morning comes with a slow rise of the sun, and Tess awakes to a chiming of bells in her window. The breeze wakes her every morning, and as she lies in bed, she allows her mind to wander slow through the castle. It’s easy now, but it hasn’t always been--her consciousness spiders itself through the walls; into the far reaches of what, in two weeks time, she will have under her wing. Cooks in the kitchen have already started preparing breakfast; bread rising, meat baking--one of the men is sick. Nothing dreadful, but uncomfortable nonetheless; she’ll deal with that tonight. The gardens are being tended in wait for the guests--ohh, the sensation of flowers blossoming under the sun. She feels alive like this; spreading her mind through the world; catching every breath, every heartbeat. A secret is a secret, and no one can know what she’s capable of--but in the quiet of her own space, Tess can be anything. She can feel anything. A witch? Perhaps. She’s never been able to find out. The wizards and astronomers of the court call her blessed. Her father calls her a freak. Her mother--like her, unbeknownst to her father--says that she is what she’s meant to be. It is what it is, my love, her mother would say; brushing curls from Tess’ eyeline as the Princess sobbed into her pillow, there’s no shame in being different, so long as you use that difference for good. Your father...is a man of opinion. Allow yourself to be a woman of good. Good, she hopes for. kinder than her father? She craves. Her maidens arrive midway through her thoughts--and Tess slips from bed to washing, washing to dressing, to having her hair curled and pinned up. Makeup is light--she’ll rub it off before she reaches the main hall, but ah, let the girls have their fun. Modern times call for her to look impeccable--but Tess isn’t fond of what the world has become. As has become custom, by the time she stands with the King and Queen, waiting for the arrival of their guests, her face is clear. Freckles stand out from pale skin, blue eyes bright and framed by thick lashes. Her lips are a touch redder than normal--from biting them in uneasy anticipation, no doubt. Hair spills over her shoulders, loose, messy curls tamed slightly by a dampening of air around her--she looks a touch wild, she supposes, but well put-together enough. When the doors open, the room falls silent. An announcement is made--this, this is the issue with the clash of modern times and medieval ones. There’s no need for all this fanfare, it’s 2017 for God’s sake, and just because Kingdoms want to feel important doesn’t mean they need to be announced with trumpets and a full band. People pour into the hall, and the announcement is over--Kings greet Kings, and Tess and her mother wait. There is no queen, in House Carlisle. There hasn’t been for many years--and so they stand back, and scan the crowd for the person Tess is really meant to connect with, amidst this chaos and hoi polloi. The influx of heartbeats, of minds and nervous systems and cells--it makes Tess dizzy. She can handle it--she’s dealt with worse--but in the interim of relaxation, she breathes slow, and focuses on watching for her intended.

#text #tess; thread: wanting for wildflowers #tess; verse: quantum connection #computantis

computantis

Clerical Error || Chris & Tess

It is not often that Christian Wolff makes mistakes.

That being said, every human being finds themself in error at least every few days. For some, this is normal. A mistake is nothing important – forgetting your cell phone at home, leaving a banana out of your lunch, mixing two different words together to make one that doesn’t really exist. None of those things matter, but Chris doesn’t make mistakes. This means that all of his mistake-based Karma is given to him in a quick burst, a larger issue than forgetting his cell phone at home. In this case, he wishes he had just forgotten his phone.

A letter opener. The aberration to his routine, this glitch in his processes, was a letter opener. Usually, the tool is a rather good thing for him; letters and packages are opened cleanly, without damage or tearing the contents. He appreciates that. The cleanliness makes him feel rather satisfied; yet, today the device in question betrayed him. He made a mistake. One flick of his wrist resulted in the opener sliding back into his left hand, his dominant hand. One flick of his wrist emanated in a cut deep enough to warrant stitches.

Statistically, it was time for him to make a mistake. That does not make his blunder any less.. Embarrassing.

While most wounds on Chris’ body can be sewn up by his own hand, his left hand is the one capable of sewing well enough to mask any and all evidence of a cosmetic flaw. This requires a hospital visit.

He enters the sterile environment with a towel wrapped around his wound, the formerly pristine, white cloth now stained an ugly shade of red, and approaches the man behind the desk. “My name is Christian Wolff. I require stitches due to an accident with my letter opener. I would prefer someone rather talented to assist me, as I would not enjoy the presence of a scar.”

@praecipitium

praecipitium

Long days are what Tessa Lee Hayworth is good at. Time passes in a blur when she’s busy--but oh, the moments she allows herself to linger in. They make 16 hour shifts worth it. The pausing between patients, when she lets herself hear every heartbeat; the sensation of spidering her mind through someone’s body, allowing herself to heal them with intention of longevity. Moments of you’re not terminal, of the chemo worked, of your son should live a full life. It’s addicting, to give. It’s addicting to spend hours, days in the walls of this hospital; giving and giving until she’s spent and lives have been altered. Sometimes, it’s the pediatrics ward. Sometimes, it’s crisis. And sometimes, it’s just the emergency room, on standby, waiting for the next unlucky sonofabitch that shot his potato canon the wrong way. People get hurt all the time--of that, Tess is aware--but the ways they manage it are...impressive, at the very least. She sits atop her perch--the chair high and her toes barely skimming the floor as she absently kicks her feet. Her gaze flicks through the room; bright blue eyes catching the sights of illness, injury, and a man who comes in every Friday because one of his friends always manage to shoot him with a salt gun. Nothing new, nothing different--but that’s okay. People come, and then they go (usually,) and the world keeps spinning. Until. Christian Wolff. Of course he approaches the man. She is, after all, a small, unassuming woman in scrubs. Christian Wolff is wearing a suit. Christian Wolff is wearing glasses, and has his hair very precisely trimmed, and would like to avoid the presence of a scar. Christian Wolff, it seems, forgot how to operate a letter opener. He would prefer someone talented. She’s up, and she knows it. A moment of conversation between the men, and her coworker stands with a gesture towards her. “If you would follow Miss Hayworth--” “Doctor Hayworth,” she interjects smoothly; tip of head and brightness of half-smile that’s customary for patients, “come with me, if y’please?” Tess slips down from her spot behind the counter, loses a foot of height, and carries on as she walks down the hall, towards a sterile space for stitching. “Hey!” The man with the salty friends grumbles as she nears him, “I was here first.” “Ah, Marvin, dearest.” Tess’ hand briefly brushes his shoulder, and his body floods with a soft influx of calm, “you’re here every Friday, and y’know it. We’ll get t’you soon.” Turning to Christian Wolff and his suit and hair and glasses and eyes, she beckons him closer, “tell me ‘bout your accident? Walkin’ and talkin’ ‘s somethin’ I’ve gotten fairly good at, by now.” Doctor Hayworth, thank you very much.

#tess; thread: clerical error #tess; verse: quantum connection #computantis