date: nine of ten. location: the corridors outside aurelia’s quarters. status: closed to @cleonystrom.
It’s not often that he finds himself alone with the princess’ lady-in-waiting -- so often is she attached to Aurelia, as though they are bound to each other at the hip. This afternoon is the exception: here he stands, lyre and notes in hand (although the notes may as well be a tome, at this point, given their length and lack of brevity), ready to teach away... with no one to tutor. Aurelia’s been called away by some important business at the last second, having a fervid conversation with someone in her little sitting room judging by the hushed whispers from inside. The two guards at the doors stand rigid, spines tall, braced for anything... as though he might retrieve a knife from between his sleeves and run her through with it.
There’s a thought. An awful one. A laughable one. Aurelia is loved by her citizens, after all, and that’s good -- she might be looking after them, one day, hopefully a better shepherd than her father ever was. He wraps long fingers around the spine of the lyre, thinks of how she might be the only one loved by anyone in Tyrholm without force or threat of apprehension. The people, after all, have expressed their dissatisfaction by large. That’s more than evident, given the recent turn of events. He can still recall with no small amount of clarity the way the flames had licked at flesh, the way the smell stuck with you for hours, days afterwards. It’d been terrifying. No other way to describe it. Sometimes he’ll close his eyes and---
No matter. It might be best not to think of it at all. His lips flatten into a thin line, his brow furrows, and then he looks at Cleo, clears his throat. “How have you been, Lady Nystrom?”
He, admittedly, knows very little about her; he’s been in Tyrholm for nearly six years now and still is fuzzy on the details as to her family, her history, her name, her face. Yes, she’s there, ever present, but her loyalties clearly sit in alignment with that of her princess and no one else. The dedication is awe-inspiring on a general level but terrifying when he remembers her youth. She couldn’t know any better, could she? “Were you -- you were there, weren’t you? At the Gallows.”