historical thread (early 1800s) - tw death; drowning
The cold was the last thing she remembered. Not a winter chill, but an all-consuming, unforgiving sensation seeped in her bones. The chilling embrace of the Mediterranean on a warm summer's day felt like a paradox, a cruel irony. She remembered the cruel laughter of the revolutionaries, and the weight of the unforgivable stone that weighed her down into the murky water. Her life, her very existence, had been a trifle to be discarded. She died with a gasp, and a prayer for her small, weak, yet proud nation.
Then suddenly, the cold was gone. Air— warm air, filled her chest with a violent, rattling cough. Her eyes snapped open, a gasp of pure terror escaping her lips as it crescendo into a bloodcurdling scream that echoed in the dark empty room. For a brief moment, she felt the phantom weight on her feet and the burning in her lungs. A shaking hand, tightly gripped her throat, checking to feel the sensation of water.
In the darkness, she felt for something, anything to grasp. She moved her arms and legs, expecting to push the ocean's current. Instead, her fingers felt the soft goose feather filled cushions, and the plush bedding she rested on.
She was alive, but the world felt new to her. Walking and talking came back to her naturally, as breathing, but her mind and heart was left behind. She felt like a child, a ghost that haunting the world that moved on without her.
She was a silent observer watching a world she no longer understood. The way the nations spoke, the clothes they wore, and the knowledge they possessed had left her behind. Yet, the worldly order—the polite smiles and sharp daggers, the balance of power and undercurrent tension—felt exactly the same.
Her fingers traced the script of a letter from France, an invitation to Le Goûter, an afternoon tea gathering. Her lips pursed at the thought. She knew, with a chill in her core, that he finally realized that she was alive. She had, of course, accepted the invitation...it was the polite thing to do. Yet, a thought gnawed at her: why would he invite her?
The so called "small afternoon tea," was, in fact, a massive social gathering of the nations of Europe. Which did not come out as a surprise knowing the Frenchman. Mirèlha arrived feeling out of place. Before leaving her carriage, she adjusted her lace dress, her hand brushing against a loose curl from her frame. The elegant gown that France sent her, felt like a costume, a cruel joke to her disconnection to this new reality.
As she entered the hall, she found herself staring for too long, and too intently, at everyone around her. The faces of nations changed, some subtly, some dramatically. Suits and gowns they wore, just seemed so otherworldly. She felt lost in the sea of nations where names changed and bonds have been severed. The gnawing feeling of an imposter could not leave her.
Her eyes settled at the Frenchman, noting the defined curls and the imperial suit he wore, how it differed so much from the rouge he once carefully placed on his lips. Everything was different, and in a way, she was too.
Pulling her shawl closer to her, she found herself uninterested in conversation or witty wordplay. She wasn't sure what to say. What was the most recent card games? What books are people reading nowadays? The thought of making light conversation on the innovation of the smallpox vaccine seems laughable. Her mind swirled in constant doubt and overthinking. Eventually, she found herself seated in the corner with a deck of card, playing a lone game of solitaire.
