it feels almost unnatural , in a strange way - not only to sit in a room so ... clean , organized , a room that bleeds softness from ceiling to floor in every crevice . harriet hook was not born and bred for the softness that @khronoes holds ; she is all sharp angles , broken teeth and bloody noses , and everything fragile crumbling between calloused fingers every time she makes attempts at tenderness . the two of them so much like a delicate bird has been placed within the jaws of a croc , and they simply must trust the croc not to swallow the bird whole - and every day , harriet finds less and less reason to do so . narrative foils , they are , pictures of everything the other could have become under different circumstances , but all with the same blueprints .
so she sits on estelle’s bed , watching her putter around the room , watching the way the princess’ gold locks sway under the kaleidoscope of sunset colours seeping through the window . self-consciously , harriet begins to fidget with the frayed edges of one of her own braids , worrying at the split ends as she observes her companion .
“so ... what did ye say we’re doin’ again ? ”