ROTTEDHEARTS ; the skies darkening with your arrival / blood spilling from your mouth as you smile / a gentle press of your lips against your child's forehead / standing tall, eyes bright, despite the crowd baring their teeth / screams drowned by the roaring wind / digging with your hands until you can cradle the rot in your heart
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candlelight flickers, casting shadows larger than those ever created in heart's home. DEXIAN CORBRAY sits at the desk within the rooms given for the corbray couple, absently massaging knee to nub as he readers over his letter, not yet realizing GWYNETH CORBRAY has entered. // @firedreamt
once, twice, thrice dexian reads over what amounts to a collection of notes, observations of the week, and a summary of the hightower's arrival. stripped to essentials, reading dry and simple --- which for the recipient, is more than enough.
by chance, he lifts his head to see his spouse lingering like a ghost. how many times has he witnessed this very image: distant gaze, folded hands, how they swallow their thoughts? the physical embodiment of the sword that rests beside him.
the sight no longer unsettles him.
dipping the quill into the inkwell, he asks, "how is qian?"
⋆✴︎˚。⋆ ( corbray a , zhu yilong, thirty-five , nonbinary, they&him ) the hand of the late king welcomes dexian corbray, the ruling liege of heart’s home, to the kingsmoot. the realm knows them to be resilient and diligent, but the master of whisperers has unearthed information that speaks to their taciturn and reticent tendencies. to dream of them would be to dream of breathing the sweat and blood shared with your people among the middling harvest / the peaceful soothing of a crackling fire in the hearth / phantom pain stirring you awake before you can dream of the past / pushing yourself forward, for you cannot change what happened to you, but you can control how your house thrives. they themselves dream of house cobray on the throne. time is an unwieldy mistress, and only she may tell who will sit the iron throne when the dust settles.
( content warning - death, animal death, loss of limb )
wielder of lady forlorn, do you understand her weight? there was no way you could've known as a child, not when happiness blossomed so easily. where the keep was harsh, those around you never abandoned their warmth. you emulate the same; perhaps even more so with how lucky you are. the lessons of circumstance press on your shoulders early as you look upon your younger brother, sick and weak and striving to live. and so you forge forth with your heart on your sleeve and your sight set on a future built on the steady foundation your parents' built. in another life, your path would have followed your parents. in another life, your life would not diverge in such a devastating before and after.
there was nothing you could have done to prevent it. the truth settles on your chest each night, and you cannot stand it. the memories have long fractured. but the ambush along the mountains and --- the bandits swarming the carriage and --- your father pressing lady forlorn in your hands and shoving you toward a horse and --- your mother's screams --- falling and --- the horse trapping your leg and ---- not knowing whether to stay silent or finally unleash a scream and ---- and someone finds you, takes you, saves you. despite them needing to carve your skin and bones, despite you needing to leave your parents' bodies, your horse, and your leg behind ---- you survive.
( it's a hard truth, isn't it? you suffered the worst of your smallfolk that day, and you witnessed the best of them. how cursed you are; how lucky you still are. )
you try. every day, this is your beating constant. you tried following your parents' example, but the crops failed, and you needed to bow your head to the arryns. you tried working the fields like you once did, but you had to adjust to the cane, then the crutch, then the iron stump. you prayed every night for a miracle to save heart's home, but the harvests still lacked while the people still cried for help, and you finally turned toward accepting monetary support in the least likely of places.
but you never stop trying. not with your spouse and how they linger. not with your family, and how they do not understand what must be done. and not with your home, and how you must change and save it. you are not so much swayed by your father-in-law's words as you are cornered, but still, you endure. to save heart's home, you will endure whatever you must. to change your house's future, you will bear the weight.
“ the lighting is terrible in this keep, ” they excuse. previous circumstances had not worked in their favour. gwyn carries no resentment towards he for that, and perhaps he can be one of the few they do not find embittered. questioning their true well-being almost makes them shy. they cannot quite give an answer which satisfies them, leading them to progress into silence. the water flows. the docks are rife with attention and conversation that have nothing to do with the kingsmoot. if they breathe deeply enough, they may be back on the prow of that ship, with white harbour in the fell distance. “ i'm very excited for something warm to settle the stomach. are you becoming an apt admirer of the red keep, lord torwyn? you may be seeing a lot of it. ” for some reason, their throat tightens at that. the greyjoy claim, the tension of the ironborn — but at least he would not forget them.
he snorts but does not push back. instead, he lets the silence settle. a lesson learned over a decade ago, when the sea stayed calmed and the days stretched longer. so much unfolded between then and now. too much had transpired for him to say any of it aloud. not now, and maybe not ever.
torwyn swallows, finally taking a seat beside the corbray consort. their spouse lingers somewhere else, and with the space empty, why shouldn't torwyn take it? "no, i'm not. but perhaps that's more because the red keep isn't a ship, and i find myself wobbling ashore." it's the closest to the truth he'll let spill to anyone other than aiysha. "but is that what you really wish to ask of me?"
saera rather loathes the pagaentry of it all — a farce where torwyn has decided to be the lead mummer, a circus act to be gawked at by ironmen and greenlanders alike. it was an embarrassment to the greyjoy name to be reduced to entertainment. "good brother," she greets, on the edges of the bout, elbows pressed against unwashed sailors and their silken betters, whinnying like horses looking to charge from their pens. "find your next opponent in a tourney—" she looks over her shoulder, scanning the crowd. "let the last man among them fight you."
sharp eyes stay on saera, never straying even at her response. irritation flickers, but it never rises to the slow roar of fury. good sister. wife to the brother his father loved better. she may deny him now, but they are both born of the same iron, striking hot and fast. even if torwyn has turned new leaf as a merchant, a trader, a pirate, the traditions that both raised him still sung in his bones.
she was no better than him. and he was no better than her. but if the drowned god loved erik to grant him the seastone chair, then torwyn will ensure the realm loved him better to win the iron throne. may saera recognize that sooner than later.
"i'm afraid a tourney seems too far off for the sparring done today. the last man standing upon horse is different than the one who stays on their feet here." still, he shrugs, dropping the wooden sword to the groans and jeers of the crowd. "but for you, and your disinterest in fighting, i shall wait."
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her gaze lands expertedly on the blade, as if she can find and heal the injury before it is done – even if it is self imposed. perhaps more so, for she can feel how distraught her husband is just by coming too close. his question lingers in the wind for a moment and she tightens her jaw; no, she will not be truthful. if she was, not only would it be an oddity, it would make him crumble even further, and she doesn't want that. they can not afford weakness. "we have friends. allies." she says, at last. "and that is not your brother's strongest suit." for, in the end, it all came to erik – it was the two of them against each other, always and even more so now, when a kingsmoot, if it was to be followed through, could only ever award a chair to a son of the drowned god. "now, will you let this go and let me do your hair?"
tongue runs over teeth, and, for a moment, he tilts his face away from her. she sidesteps the question asked, and that is enough of an answer for him. for all their friends, for all their allies, for all his brother's weakness in both, it still does not grant them enough reach.
but he, nor aiysha, is one to surrender before the battle starts. closing his eyes, torwyn takes a deep breath through his nose and faces his wife once more, tipping the dagger hilt first to her. "i know better than to deny you. dare i ask how long my hair will be pulled?" spoken as if he doesn't enjoy the sensation of her fingers in his hair, both soothing and enticing.
delfina's own smile widens, as if basking in the sweetness. smiles can be knives, and knives can be ensnared in sugar webbing, so to speak, and some might still believe house royce to have done so, and yet here they stood years later. an emboldened lean to match the smile, a press of her temple to her wife's. “ should i pour my next one out on his ashes? ”and it could be cooed, cloaked in warm laughter. “ most are here to celebrate the loss. it fools me none. but be still, ñuha ābrazȳrys. soon. ”
this hangs in the air. the conversation acts as a warped static to their stillness, which has taken all of their marriage to curate. only delfina's earrings, a garnet gift from hira, move when she continues. “ the lions, the crabs … and the vale. ” with an air of curiosity.
another night, the press of delfina's temple against her own would warm her heart. there would be a fire, and their own goblets, and the family they've raised in those empty halls of dragonstone. a life that was forged and forever shared.
still, the red keep was their battlefield. hira slowly exhales, slightly rubbing their temples. an indulgence, yes, but one taken from love to the dragon that changed her life. "i'll join you in that. i will pour two goblets even, to express my oh so debilitating sorrow." another smile, growing even wider at the sound of valyrian. of how it falls from delfina's lips. hira could swipe them off delfina's tongue and still dig deeper, still seek each word until she held all the ones to worship her wife.
but the time for that would arrive later. now, hira's lids flutter, masking the swift sweep of the room to find where each house stands. none are a surprise, though the mention of the vale settles uneasy. "and how will each treat you?" she asks in a whisper pressed against delfina's cheek.
The master of coin lingers in the shadows as he makes his way around. Ever a present smirk on his face aa he says his hellos to anyone he deems worthy. Yet he knows what many are gathered here for, it the same thing he covets as well. A srat he feels that he is destined for soncw the momwnt he waa born. Still though he will act as if it something trivial, though underneath the pleasantries, he is making small miniscule moved.
"Princess Hira," he greets. "Is it that obvious how much I want to hide away. Not that i do not enjoy a dance or two but feels as if many are itching to throw themselves at me. I fear it is my fault foe sending them a chivalrous smile. How do you faire?"
the princess chuckles, indulging him in his own ego. they doubt too many are truly seeking the master of coin's eye for his smile rather than the power he currently wields. and he must know that as well. aegor made many questionable choices, especially in the one he designated hand, but not every council is quite as big of idiot.
shame, that desmond put a claim forth. if only he experienced a rule under delfina's hand.
"i fair well, lord desmond. i thank the seven our journey was swift and easy. and i am glad to see honor given to delfina's family." and this did not include aegor, may his ashes scatter over piles of shit. no, it is the decorations painted in targaryen colors that hira appreciates. it will remind the realm of who is the rightful heir.
"and you? i trust the royal coffers haven't depleted too much since the king's death?"
the lady of the crag makes her way about the room with her head held high. though this has been her brother's domain for many years yet, she does not know it well herself. she never did visit very much – and why would she? they had never been close, alester and she. with a considerable age gap, it is no wonder that this is the case.
she finds herself on the outskirts of it all, people watching, mostly. she does not even notice who it is she stands next to, though as soon as they speak, she straightens up and bows her head politely.
“i suppose i am,” elissa speaks. “your advice is much appreciated… i could use a few more moments to myself before being thrust into…” she gestures to the large gathering of people, “all of this.”
the smile stays, though the desire to dismiss the younger lady rings sharp. it isn't hard to place elissa westerling; while much prettier than alester, they share enough subtle features that hira cannot stop the surge of irritation at the sight of her. she bears the name of the house that dealt insult after insult to delfina; she is the sibling to the awful hand that declared this farce of a kingsmoot.
but elissa is not alester. not quite a reminder to themself, but a simple fact that they could wield however they chose.
"it's quite an event already. lord alester has constructed a spectacle." somehow the words are wrapped in neutrality instead of spat out. "have you had a chance to speak with him, lady elissa? or are you in the dark as the rest of us about his plans for the night?"
mela watched the sparring as if it were nothing more than theatre. and that was what it was, was it not? brutes playing at violence, acting out their deaths in advance? she thought it quite beautiful, not unlike dance. the swirl of bodies, the clash of limbs — it was hauntingly similar to what would transpire later on in the red keep's great hall. she watches from a short distance, teeth digging into the soft flesh of a nectarine plucked from the barrels her house had brought from the arbour. at the lord's challenge, mela's laugh rings out, sticky sweet. " never me, my lord, " she denies him his first choice of opponent, smile fading to something less transparent. " perhaps you would challenge one of my brothers, instead. if it is fun that you seek. "
a denial so swift, torwyn cannot help but bark in laughter. "and yet, i see you alone. perhaps i shall fight your brothers another time."
and he should stay. release any nasty energy so close to sea rather than within the red keep. but curiosity dances close, and he steps to its tune, lifting the sword across shoulders as he draws closer to the lady. the crowd pays little mind, for another two rush forward, and bets begin passing hands.
"do you seek fun yourself, or is this satisfying entertainment for you?"
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falyn had known she should not have wandered this far out of king's landing. she should have stayed with her father, should be greeting many faces she had met and many she had not. it was customary for her, for the eldest — the heir — to be amidst the crowds and not billowing past fishmonger's square towards a bay she had seen merely one time in her life.
yet, she was. the silk of her dress bunched up in her hands, doing her best not to get them dirty (that would be unbecoming of a lady!, she could hear her mother say). perhaps it was the air of the city that was already starting to stifle her and she needed a moment of reprieve or perhaps even being reminded of the kingsmoot made her wonder if her birthright was meant for her.
the clashing of metal has those thoughts vanishing from her head, small stature sneaking through the small crowd that had gathered. falyn had never gotten to learn sword, something she did not necessarily wish to, but the fascination for those that did still thrummed inside of her mind. the voice pulls her focus only to realize they are talking to her, "me?" she tries not to sound too nervous, she was a tyrell. she could command a room if she so pleased, "i do not believe you would find a well match in me, my lord — surely you would beat me."
disappointment flickers only for a moment. the fire still blazes --- few understand just how long torwyn could last in battle --- but it cools at the denial. how many more spars would he participate in if they all end the same? if there were no clear challenges, even when demanded?
so priorities shift. torwyn snaps his gaze to a nearby crewman and tosses the wooden sword. "then you're up," torwyn says as a chorus of groans echo. but the eldest greyjoy pays little mind; instead, he pulls before the younger liege, head tilting and hands on hips. in the back of his mind, aiysha's voice whispers of connections. he thinks: we will find them in unexpected places.
"i commend anyone who acknowledges when they are out of their depth." he forces a small smile; hopefully appearing open rather than imposing. "though what brings you to the docks? i sense it wasn't just to watch sailors spar."
the chaotic pace of recent events has driven you to the docks in search of a much needed breather. the heavy air coming into your nostrils right now is a pungent brew of acrid sweat, sea spray, and spilled ale. below you, the sailors congregate to place their bets on the brawlers, their heavy boots stomping a rhythm onto the wooden floorboards. though the noise is deafening and vulgar, it suits your mood far better than the suffocating politics awaiting you when the gates of the red keep open for the kingsmoot. a wave of nostalgia hits you, for you remember this place as if it were yesterday, back when you and your little brother carried bleeding buckets of fish for a bronze star or two at sunset. the red keep remains a foreign labyrinth to you, but set yourself loose in the winding streets of king’s landing and you will find your path better than any alley cat. you find a dark comfort here, you truly missed it. the obvious benefit of being adopted into immense riches is that your daily survival is guaranteed, yet the curse is the total lack of realness. in this place, men bare their teeth with absolute honesty. there are no fake smiles and no silver goblets raised over murderous schemes. if someone robs you it is because their belly is empty, if someone strikes you, it means you slighted them first, and if you curse at them, they will spit a curse right back into your face. you adore your opulent new life and would never relinquish it for the world, hells, you will fight dirty to keep it, but right now you simply need this fleeting moment to ground your feet on solid earth. so here you are, lingering at the periphery of the shouting crowd for quite a while now, one boot propped against a rotting piling as you chew on an skewer of over-charred meat purchased from a dockside brazier. in truth, the crude wooden sword fights have been just amusing enough to keep you stationary, though only barely, as most of the bouts end far too quickly and far too sloppy.
still, watching torwyn greyjoy carve through opponent after opponent with that much cockiness begins to itch beneath your skin. the kind of itch that has always preceded your worst fuck-ups, or your best ideas, as it is difficult to tell the difference sometimes. by the time he calls for another challenger, your skewer is already stripped bare. you glance once at the stick in your hand, then toss it into the muck with a flick of your wrist. "i'll go," you say, raising one hand as you step toward the circle. the crowd parts little by little, low murmurs curling through the salt-thick air of the bay. but you do not back talk at the little shit, no, not yet. instead, your gaze drifts toward one of the sailors perched at the edge of the makeshift ring, a wooden sword resting across his lap. you jerk your chin once in silent request. the man blinks, then hurriedly offers it over to you without protest. you take it loosely in one hand before rolling the toy blade through your fingers in one smooth flourish, the wood spinning once across your palm before settling easily into your grip. showy, perhaps, but the approving whistles from the crowd make it worth it. only then do you look fully toward your opponent. a sharp grin cuts slowly across your face. "far from home, lord greyjoy," you muse, testing the wooden sword’s weight with one lazy swing through the air. "i trust the voyage treated you kindly." for i will not, you finish in your head. this is as polite as you'll get with him. and it was rather pleasant, if one ignored the way you settled into your stance immediately after, shoulders squaring, feet braced firm against the wet dock boards. the red maw is not one to bark; you simply lift the wooden blade toward him in invitation.
the crowd parts for royalty, and your heart hammers in thundering joy.
the rumors of the slighted targaryen has reached your ears through the years; hard to avoid, given the reach of the former king. when younger, you cared little for them, raiding the shores they couldn't defend. once, you dreamed of the iron islands alone, standing without the kingdoms that hated the ironborn. perhaps, in another life, this part of the targaryens would understand the desire of isolation --- and the curse of it. now, with years under his belt, trading raiding for trading, exchanging fists for words, you believe there would still be little the dragons would understand.
and yet, here one stands before you, and you see how she walks, how she holds herself, and how her language melds to this world of the docks, and you know. she has tasted dirt too. she has clawed for what she is owed.
maekaera targaryen will certainly make this fun.
"the waters were indeed kind. i hope they treated you just as fairly." perhaps there's a genuine lilt in your voice; perhaps there's only the bite of anticipation. either way, you echo her stance, shoulders square and body loose, ready. a wider berth is given by the crowd, their nerves washing over you, through you, until all you hear is water lapping at the docks.
one breath taken; one breath exhaled. and then you charge, swift despite your stockier build, striking hot and fast. keep her on the back foot, block her escape routes, don't stop, don't stop. the wooden swords clash, again and again, and you slice at each pocket of open space, sword flicking between chest and legs and head. no matter how the battle ends, you will make it the hardest she's ever fought.
should she have left her sister and their traveling party? no. it had it been a terrible bore, leaving them yearning for some excitement, some air, even the stiff muggy air of king's landing. aila found themselves by the dock, drawn in by the breeze, and settled into the small audience around some matches. when the wooden sword points her way, the grin is immediate. how could they say no?
she picks up the wooden blade. "i hope this match will be the entertainment you've been seeking."
the smile turns sharper, more in delight than malevolence. after all, this is merely practice; after all, he would never deny enthusiasm. "only time will tell. but i have hope you will deliver."
two steps back, giving her space to enter the circle. the crowd buzzes with anticipation. torwyn lifts the wooden blade --- no spin, no style in presentation --- and immediately strikes, going for her knee then chest.
status: closed for @rottedhearts (for torwyn)
setting: arrival in king's landing
Torwyn always had the fucking audacity. Correspondence she could stomach, but there had been intentional distance placed between herself and those directly responsibly for the loss of her son. She'd been foolish once, and would not make the same mistake twice. This would be the first test, she supposed. How well she could execute this game they started on another board, continue on as the dutiful vassal house with free-flowing coin for their cause.
It takes everything in her to maintain composure as he speaks, swallowing her rage and grief, as she sets her eating utensil down. Yerin thought she'd have more time to prepare, but knowing Torwyn (and she did after a lifelong friendship, they had sailed together for years as youths, fought scrimmages side by side) he had interrupted her breaking fast with an unexpected arrival as a test, catch her off guard. She would not take the bait.
"You're early." Once upon a time, she'd make a quip but she can't find it in her to make the attempt, not even for appearance sake. She still didn't turn to look at him by the door, steeling her will and anchoring her resolve.
he bared no physical injury from the attempt at peace. no left over ache, no cut of body to tend to; it was a bleeding heart that he had to reinforce. less for yerin's child, harsh as it was. suho hadn't followed him through the seas; suho hadn't launched himself forward to save torwyn. but youth still shone in yerin's child as it does in harlan's. until the ax was thrown. until the death rattle echoed.
torwyn stood at the doorway, lips pressing thin. the rest of the harlaw crew may be continuing their work, but he sensed their eyes, relentless in anticipation and fury, waiting for yerin to command them to battle. he shifted, not yet resting his hand at the axe tied to his side. he wasn't here to fight; he always wished to battle with yerin, never against.
but now . . .
"good morrow." announcing arrival in near quiet. not quite gentle, but still an echo of the slower moments in their youth, when the thrill of battle faded into comfortable companionship. but it was a fool's wish to desire a return to that time, to try and uphold that friendship. the line was drawn the moment blade met suho's skin.
"i figured the sooner i arrived, the faster this would go so i'd be out of your sight." hands on hips, torwyn swiped his tongue over his teeth before continuing. "and no matter how this unfolds, yerin, i believe we're still on the same page for how the islands should move forward." but they won't see that future side-by-side any longer.
rosamund had taken a moment to lean against the wall , away from the excitement , to catch her breath. sometimes it was embarrassing , her need for calm. it's what led most people to take on the pitying looks that had followed rosamund for most her life. she just needed a few moments of peace , just so that her family wouldn't consider sending her back to casterly rock.
lost in her thoughts , she didn't notice the regal figure approaching her safe space. "your highness ," she mumbled , unsure of how to address the princess , and chose to add a respectful curtsy. she didn't want word of disrespect coming from house lannister , lest that weaken their claim to the iron throne. "i just needed a moment. the festivities are rather … intense , would you agree ?"
the smallest tilt of their head. recognition sparks only in pieces from banner colors and glimpses of gathered faces the last few days. their mind whispers lannister, but they cannot place a name. a blessing, that the the other recognizes them; a potential warning that they know less people than initially believed.
"i would." they give another smile with the affirmation. they clasp their hands together at the abdomen, casting their gaze over the hall once more. revelry echoes, but they do not find joy in the sound. only the ugly, hollow sound of too many houses planning to play a game they will not --- that they cannot --- win.
"but even amidst the intensity, are you enjoying your time?" hira asks as they return their attention to lannister child. "it's not often so many houses populate the same space, let alone travel so far. the last of the king's power cannot be dismissed." they lean closer, careful not to impede too much in the other's space. "though you are free to say you enjoy none of this. i, too, am no fan of such intense celebrations."
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“mother,” there is so much unspoken, passed between their eyes. alysanne is filled with the same wrath, the same sting of overdue justice, and wished that they could simply drop something toxic into the wine to sweep the board of competition. but those surrounding them were merely pawns, they were queens ; iron had been warmed by dragonflesh before and it would do so again. “it is suffocating, is it not ? being out amongst it all. it is aching my mouth to keep smiling when all i wantis pull out a blade and have some fun.”
but that was not how a lady behaved. that was more maekara’s way, the actions of a warrior. instead alysanne remained amiable despite every pore, nerve, cell within her screaming. spitting fire.
turning, she then asked ; “how is it that you can stay so reserved ? that you can bite your tongue ? it feels the most difficult thing in the world.”
"daughter." there's more warmth infused in the word than the ones previous; a knowing that their child carries so much on her tongue, ready to open the jail of her teeth. in a different life, alysanne could speak freely to the masses; in another life, she would never built a blazing fury she must swallow around the clamoring vultures.
hira doesn't answer immediately; they fold their hands together in front of them. wielding silence rather than waiting; a familiar pattern their children have experienced throughout the years. soon --- for the better, they think --- alysanne turns to them and lets her question fall.
"only time aides in . . . building a tolerance for stupidity." words gifted with a murmur, just for alysanne's ears. "but do not mistake me, alysanne; my tongue stings from biting it so much. what allow it never to linger for long is the knowledge that i am an extension of your mother. that saying the right thing --- the true and fair thing --- at the wrong time will cause unintended harm." they wonder, not for the first time, if their youth contributed the family's isolation. that what they said decades ago cursed them in the present.
they blink the thought away. instead of dwelling, they tilt their head. "now, which of these fools have you needed to bite your tongue around?"
there was no blood drenching a midwife's hands, no umbilical chord to be severed and set you apart, no cries thundering through dragonstone to announce your arrival into the world; hers were not the arms that cradled you first-- but you are hers. you were theirs. so it's easy to spot the movement, long before you reach them: the worrying of the bracelet, the measured breaths and the painstaking stillness others might mistake for composure. but you know better. you may bear delfina's last name, and some swear there is even likeness to be found there if one squints hard enough. but whatever in you was shaped rather than born belongs entirely to hira royce. "a tempting offer, your grace," you bow you head as you would before the consort of any rightful monarch, raising your chin with the softest smile before stepping beside her, shoulder brushing lightly against your mother's own. "but if i hide now, half the guests will assume i am sharpening darksister in some dark corner." you raise an open palm toward the only person in this hall whose paranoia rivals your own. "i was hoping my mother might spare me a dance," you say lightly. "if we are meant to endure this farce, we may as well give them something to stare at. it would do the realm good to remember we are not yet broken."
it takes more seconds than it should for the walls to lower. you blink once, twice, and warmth finally seeps back into your gaze. for this is your daughter; not of shared blood, but in how you are each echoes of each other in a cracked mirror. a small smile graces your features as maekara bows her head, and it widens further when shoulders brush.
"a wise decision, i suppose. though they'll understand our fangs soon enough without you even needing to sharpen darksister." it's more hope than fact, a wish placed before the gods' mercy. your belief shifts with each day, a wheat stalk bending to the breeze. one day, you press belief into the runes you write; other days, bitterness shuts faithful devotion into a box, left to be ignored.
but your faith never wavers when it comes to believing your children. love has struck your heart, but it has also warmed it. how could each of them possess the best of you and delfina? ( we do not speak of the fear: that they wield the worst of you both too )
feather-light touch brushes your daughter's palm before you fully take her hand. "and we will show, in due time, that they will fail if they try to break us." another hope; another wish. "i trust you --- and will follow your lead. let us make this a good show, yes?"