new post because we kept writing between editors in our thread for @doloridis from here. <3 <3
it is a bitterness that the sainted mother knows intimately; one that greets her like an old friend. what's the saying? bitterness was borne out of a life worth living. our lady does not think so - for if she had the choice, if she could go back and do it over, she would not have done this, nor ended up here at the end of the long road. questions cloud her mind as surely as they do alicent's - what could i have been? who would i be now? amelia, instead of our lady of sorrows. her therapist has told her numerous times that there is no point on getting so upset about what ifs and could have beens. i am not upset, our lady thinks. i am furious.
" you are right, good sis- alicent. " alicent. alicent. her hands tremble something awful these days - a stigmata would suit them better than the monogramed lighter she holds once alicent takes the marlboro she so generously offered. the flame is neon against her pallid skin - and she lights it with ease; watching the embers glow in alicent's frail hands. it's laughable, she thinks - how lost they look; trying on old and new habits like a child wearing a parent's coat, trying so desperately to grow up. " ...men know little. but if men know little, then i know nothing at all. "
bright eyes, bloodshot and ringed with lack of sleep, glance to alicent - how wistful her voice is; how gentle the memory is - untainted. intimate. sacred in the same way memories of summers in the hamptons are to her; as autumns spent upstate. she can see alicent, then - younger, softer; and her brother, a boy both like and unlike her. " so, you have come from a family of rebels. " a dry smile; the corner of her mouth lifting in a half grin that never quite reaches her eyes. it doesn't suit her; rusted with disuse. " does the same inclination run to you as well? "
