Helle linked her arm with Vik’s, signaling an intake in tandem. She hoped the twinge of wryness threatening to betray her countenance was drowned by the teacup’s contents. “You know, it’s funny you chose this set.” Of those, she had plenty. “She gave this to me once.” Venom and tenderness were intertwined so thoroughly when she spoke on such manners. A gaze darkened and sidled far away, snapped back to lucidity in an almost imperceptible manner. “I trot it out whenever she finds me once more.” It was a bitter thing, a love once lost that kept seeking her out. There was no kindness in the cruel justice of her soul’s own kindred connection. “…hoping she remembers,” Helle dwindled. Why didn’t she ever remember? “Yet you have always had impeccable taste, mon trésor, and how were you to know?” How was anyone to know that such an expansive estate was little more than a claustrophobic mausoleum? “I, trapped within this court, and you ——” Bereft of one. “You? Much too good for my own pity.”
Helle longed to entertain, to lounge, to laugh, to swoon beneath the moonlight. Many of her years had been spent in a stagnant, stifling chokehold. She was to control or to be controlled, yet she longed for ricocheting laughter, candid merriment and debauchery. Thistledown was the perfect setting to play hostess, be it at the estate or even a corner of the hedge maze.
“Just how I like it, you know me so well,” Helle mused, raising the teacup in a silent salutation. There was a gleam in her eye, one of mischief and merriment, and so often brought out within Vik’s company. “I can direct you to my very favorite, but it’s back at the cottage. To the right, propped against the corner. If you approach with a discerning gaze, you’ll catch a glimpse in the reflection of the mirror. Stunning really, a true rarity.” She lifted a finger to trace the rim of the delicate china, the delicate pattern. It was a tentative touch as if the blooms would lift from the porcelain and lash and snap at her fingers.
The venerable she. It was always a woman, not just for Helle but for him as well. They were so devastating and yet he would have never traded the lashings received for all the soured love he’d experienced. Love had never been plain for him, it was intense, sometimes deceitful, wild, sometimes ferocious. He remained honest in it all, flaying his heart for others to dissect. Some did, cradled themselves in it’s atrium’s and others... Well, there were some others that taught him that love, at times, is hardship. He couldn’t always love the right person, but loving the wrong person was surely better than being without a great love - Some would argue, some would agree and most would surely wonder how he found so many silly hearts to love him back.
‘You?’ Him, his tale of woe. What was to be said for him? A fool, who did foolish things that led to his demise. He often questioned if Helle saw anything good in him past their shared fashion sense, wondering if there was anything to see. They shared a mutually glassy-eyed glance and he wondered what truly lurked in her depths. Vik was playing the role of triage nurse, Helle’s wounded eyes leading him not to the surface but some deep-seated torturous internal bleed. Perhaps one of the heart? A deadly thing to be so drained by love and it’s wickedness.
“Helle I didn’t...” She snuck in before he could offer his apology, a fault even by ignorance was a fault nonetheless. “I am sorry, I’ll know for next time.” He of all people knew that everything had an inherent value, even the small overlooked pieces. Art wasn’t art, it was a feeling, what it could pull from your chest and from your head. People go to war for less, people go to war with themselves over feelings. Helle seemed to be playing the roles of two generals fighting for their own freedom, over a battlefield that was only ever changed by another. A she.
“So I go into the cottage... I look to the right and I gaze into that mirror to look at you by my side? Why, Helle, in your company your radiance so thoroughly distracting, no need for such an adventure to do as I’m doing now.” Vik hoped that he still had her attention but he understood his choice in vessel left her with quite the challenge. Was he to compliment it? He thought of himself, not selfishly but of his own stance when Talia hadn’t yet landed. Speaking on her took parts of him away. Though impassioned by his own want to return to the sea, he wasn’t confident in his ability to do so. Thinking on her, losing her, burnt him up like the paper on which he’d scrawled Talia’s letter before the Trials, his edges frayed and he ached with a loss that he wasn’t sure he’d ever fully recover from.
And then for a moment he steadied himself and he paused. He still remained, what little ounce of ash he was still remained. The feeling of her, the idea of seeing her once more pulled him back from the sea’s edge when he threatened to find her in the early years. Madness would well up in him, take hold and he would only ever be brought back down by regaining a promise of purpose. Hope. Speaking and thinking on Talia breathed life into him, it pained him but with all love a barbed sting comes attached; whether it’s loss, differences or apathy. “Has there been a time where she’s remembered? Not these, as beautiful as they are, even just a hint of anything?” It was dangerous to ask but Vik couldn’t let himself be silent in front of someone who’d struggled for much longer and in a way much more greatly with their shared vice.
