#adellaenchanted

@seraphids​ ur voice wont be so nice after i cut ya damn tongue off

Cassandra. It’s as clear as morning that Adella doesn’t like her, and clearer still that she wants her out of the country entirely. Who was she? A replacement, a cheap one and nothing more, who had been lacking in every desirable quality for a girl since birth. And no, it isn’t a harsh thing to think. She deserves the criticism, lest she presume herself too far above her base, her very base, degree. 

Adella’s fingers close tight over Arturo’s hand, and her cutting stare seems colder than ever. Even if she did plan on ever going back, she absolutely wouldn’t set foot in the gardens again now, thanks to demand of a certain yellow-haired princess. 

“Rapunzel,” she says, shamelessly, with a flourish of her wrist, “knows, or should know, anyway, that I’m too delicate and good to be ordered around like a house… pet. A pet fish. I don’t want an escort and I never needed one. Why don’t you, ehem — “ she shoo’s her away, “go and run along and swish your skinny stick around and poke a little boy’s eye out for fun. We won't be needing you.”

The Iron Maiden, as she was referred to by most now, attempted and failed to let her irritation show on her skin. It prickled and itched like the surface of a lemon and her mouth puckered as if its juices have touched her lips. She turns her steely gaze at Arturo and he shivers in response. 

“My dearest,” he smoothly begins as takes Adella’s free hand in his. “When her highness asks you for something you must obey. It is the law for all of us.”

“No, actually it does.” Cassandra interrupts. “A stupid pretty little fish out of water who has no idea where her tail ends and her head begins. Why Rapunzel keeps you around I’ll never know and if I had my way you’d be back in the ocean where you belong.”

/// meme / @adellaenchanted

@adellaenchanted

Everything was a haze. Here, deep in here, in the personal corridors of his mind that lapsed backward in time then forward like a paper boat on a pond, untouched by the unwanted hands of reality, Valathaan was safe. He closed his eyes in the darkness. He heard the whispers. He felt the soft touches, the fluttering kisses of her eyelashes against his temple, his cheek. The lake lapped at the bank, its cool water touching his fingers, and he listened to her hums as the moon shined above them, alone and pale white, the smell of basil and honey filling his lungs

None of it was real except it was. And if he heard someone wandering in his sanctuary, his private realm of delusion, he did not show it.