#creatrix-mea

a breath. the familiar voice boomed down the hallway, stopping her within tracks. immediately does her face pale. stomach drops. over the years she had learned the schedule — predicted her whereabouts. the negativity that surrounded her was still always so inescapable — being how she treats not only her, but her own son. she had always tried everything to stay out of her way. though the days she failed to hide herself she truly felt the failure.

❛ Your grace— ❜

voice was low — lacking confidence. backed stayed turned. surely she was joking. she was dressed by assistants — the very same women that likely set out her own garb for the day. ( however she would not put it past her to ensure her wardrobe be less than stellar, not that she minded of course. it mattered not. )

slowly — and most certainly not out of respect, rather fear — does she turn. eyes looking anywhere between her own. it was likely that venomous stare, that evil grin were waiting. despite it all, never would she argue back. still she was so grateful to be here. though Anabella herself was terrifying — the life she lives now is still so much better than where she would be. and for that she takes all that is delivered. maybe she deserved it.

maybe she was right. that sometimes she was so ungrateful and far too demanding of their resources.

⸻ Mythos.

How heated is that draw of breath ( it's embittered virulence at the ready ). He is preparing to reprimand, rousing a steady retort so vicious and honest and raw. She calls him as though he endures subservience, lives a a pawn, as viewed by Ultima, by Waloed's King, by every bloody thrall who stalks his step and looms as a loathsome shade. Still, it's more than vitriol which envenoms his tongue, but questions, too. Of her motivations and those echoes of betrayal which still burn wild of hellfire ( and perhaps hints of that boy who craved naught but the warmth of acceptance from a matriarch ). He claims not his worldly role ; the temptations of godhood are not so sweet. Does she hope to strip him of his humanity, too ? Was he a mere vessel, flesh made immaculate for the egomaniacal, misguided machinations of a being no longer corporeal ? Destruction is his tool, yet he rebukes it. An earth scorn may one day bear fruit, and he hopes to nurse it. Ultima knows naught of human strength nor will. He knows Anabella is not so ignorant.

And so, her scowl is matched, tenfold, with a furrow deep and eyes tapered to reflect a beast. Had it been any other but blood, she would've been prey. His illusionary violence, however, is tempered at Joshua's behest ⸻ he bid them peace with any conversation. Yet shoulders remain taut in expectation, for the squabbles he'd become oh so familiar with. Betwixt mother and son. Mother and . . . enemy ? It's bittersweet strife. It's a strange relief. Perhaps a touch of curiosity surrounding the circumstances of her resurrection exists, too. It all roots so unsteady within ; would he finally rid himself of that eternal perception of inadequacy in her eyes ? He debates giving the courtesy of honesty ⸻ his lies are feeble and conspicuous and seldom delivered with the articulacy he wishes.

❛   I have a name ⸻ Mother.  ❜ It's always more than mere nosiness ; all outcomes are considered long before she inquires. She is masterful at manipulation, and he'd been among her most studied. How far the shame must burrow, how it must anger her to be void of such important information, to be informed through secondary sources, to find out so late.

Behind him, his most loyal companion, a black foal, followed; limping on one leg. "Can you help my friend? I've heard you can heal. I... I can give you gil!" His shaky hands fumbled with his purse that was attached to his belt.

It was rare to see a horse in Valisthea. Much more an actual foal. There only was one noble family that had these creatures as part of their identity. So it wasn't too hard to identify the boy as the Prince. But Kihel barely glanced at him - he had a request. And it was obvious, what it was about.

Gasping a little, she had already grabbed her bag.

"What did you do with it?"

There was a little bit of an accusation there, she had to admit as much. It was the typical tone of a young child telling another child off. No matter that he was a Prince. She had witnessed too often how some people rode their Chocobos to exhaustion or across dangerous terrain. And when the steed got hurt... it usually was put down quickly. A limp was almost certainly always a death sentence.

Not that she intended anything for this sweet creature.

The Gil wasn't even regarded with a look, Kihel already knelt down beside the foal, looking carefully over its hurt leg.

"Can you make it lay down? It has to hold still..."

Send for 8 6 songs for our muses - Accepting. / @creatrix-mea

Pretend My Pain Away - Citizen Soldier

My Lullaby - Maria Mena

The Noose - A Perfect Circle

Sacrifice - Aesthetic Perfection

- Erase My Scars - Evans Blue