Just some fanfiction for the wonderful @task-of-the-burdened-one COG to relieve some stress.
Valentina breathes.
In. Out. It has been so long since she’s had to do that. Do this. Stand in a shadowy corner and remind herself that she needs to control her temper. Control. She can do that. When she moves again, the cold of the night hurrying her back towards the castle, she doesn’t look back at her childhood home.
Her room is blissfully warm. The fireplace crackles. A basket for the simple dress she left in, the trail now dirtied by the ground. Two extra blankets. She’s almost grateful that the servants talk. She’d have come back to a much more unwelcoming room otherwise.
Another breath. Relief. Yes. That’s good, relief is better than anger. She laughs, the sound is bitter and echoes strangely in her place of warmth and safety. Valentina doesn’t allow herself to think. Not now. Not yet. Not with her fury wrapped around her throat, strangling her thoughts and calm. Instead she sleeps. The dress she’ll never wear again discarded for something hers.
Not theirs. Not theirs.
She clenches her eyes shut. Willing the darkness of sleep. The peace, she will deal with it in the morning.
The headache is strangely welcome. If nothing else, than to distract her from her thoughts as she began her morning ritual. Her robes placed to offer a sort of skewed look. Golden curls loosely braided, then pinned up. Just a few short wisps left on the nape of her neck. All of the kohl from the night before scrubbed off of her face. She collected the notes for the meeting that she didn’t have to go to, and left.
A few looks, Vikander and Marcol, but no questions as she calmly debated. Calm. Yes. That’s what is needed. Even with Marcol’s gray eyes looking right at her with a clear challenge. One she’d normally accept. She offered him a bland smile and stated her points in a monotone voice. The meeting ended soon after that, she still had much she could do. Paperwork mostly. Hopefully.
“Valentina.” She stopped, let him catch up, another bland smile, “Marcol.”
A frown, or a deeper frown. He always looks grumpy. His brows are low as he meets her eyes. She lets her bland smile turn sharper, You won’t find anything. He looks forward, and walks. He knows she’ll keep up with him.
“Was there something you wanted from me Marcol? I would like to use this day to get ahead if I can.”
“You were supposed to be gone for two days.”
“And now I’m back a day earlier,” a pause, then to give him some normalcy she allows her tone to become playful, “Why? Did you miss me?”
“No. Why are you back?”
“I hardly think that’s any of your business. But if you must know, my parents and I had a small tiff.”
“A tiff.”
“Yes. We have horrible tempers in my household, I thought it best to leave early, before someone said something they might regret.”
“Hm. I don’t believe you,” a lie. She sees that. But also another challenge for a challenges sake. She considers. The anger is gone. Yes. But not the tension. There’s a chance that’d she go too far. Be too harsh. Her father’s temper. Her mother’s wit. The truth then, without her mask of humor, blunt and honest:
“I don’t think a debate would be wise right now,” just a few more steps until she reaches her office.
“Because of your parents?”
“Because me and my family’s debates are far more... aggressive than our own.”
His brow raises, “You don’t think I could handle you right now.”
“I don’t think I’d like to take that chance until I feel myself.” Until the bitter aftertaste of their words and her own are gone.
“I’m not a maiden in need of protection Commander.”
She sighs, “What a shame too, the castle could use more maidens.” She offers him a considering look before meeting his eyes, “But I suppose you aren’t so bad. For a brute.” Then she enters her office. Chin raised and mouth quirked, and closes the door.
The first thing she notices is the heavy stack of papers secured together with ribbon. A note in her father’s handwriting:
‘It’ll go faster if you sign.’
Another challenge directed to her. Horrible tempers, prideful natures. Yes. Like her father. But not.
Valentina breathes.
In. Out.
She wants this. Wants the freedom. To say otherwise would be lying. To herself and to her family. Her words were cruel. But they were true:
I’d rather live and die alone and poor than spend another day as your daughter.
She signed the papers that would separate her from her family name and titles.
