#humansveiled

        ‘you’re either very BRAVE or you have no idea what ‘trespassers will be exsanguinated’ means.’ the ILLUSIONIST raised an eyebrow, referring to the sign that delicately hung right outside of the circus gates more for atmosphere than a real threat. ‘it means to be DRAINED of all blood in the latter case.’

“--May I show you something?”

The question is innocuous, a thing so gentle and innocent it is merely purposeless in its endeavor, has no true aim. Should she be denied-- hence the nature of the word ‘may’-- she will leave it be comfortably. She has become accustomed to the understanding that Belle is A VERY FREE SPIRIT and she has gotten to-- comprehend refusal, in its way, even if the Princess is not one who is accustomed to being refused. She had not been in life--

--that is all she wants to try to make Belle understand, if she could be given the option to do so. That she is more than what it is she seems, that she is not near as vicious or as harsh as her behavior has spoken. In truth: she is frightened, she is unused to it, and she is rarely one for understanding the actions of others for a sheer lack of exposure to them.

Wounds are healing yet still-- they haven’t sealed yet, still decorated by linen bandages and neat, elegant sutures tied by careful hands. She lingers, just so, the suit cut fearfully in raven black, paisley designs in charcoal grey, pockets and waistcoat a shimmering blood-red. She seems herself again, albeit a little slower.

          ‘clearly, being ANXIOUS is a full-time and rather exhausting occupation.’

     She is away and time passes and she doesn’t forget.

     ( She tries, but there are flickers.  Where once she ignored the scratching of         rabbit feet on the floor of their cage, now she ignores what tries to surface.         She is not successful. )      Six months feels like two years.      When Roger dies, she doesn’t think.      She goes.

     This time, she leaves the companion bunny in the front passenger seat, trapped in a cage with the windows down, rubs wrinkles out of her chocolate skirt, and crosses her arms, fingers tapping along her arm where once gloves might have ended.  It is easier to look at the bunny he left behind and want to commiserate, to excuse her actions, but what would she say?  And, honestly, what would the bunny understand, anyhow?

     Her heels click-clack up the stairs                 ( it surprises her that she was able to put together an outfit;                  it does not surprise her at all )                                                      and she pauses in front of the agent Dana’s door.      The problem with being in a fragile state of mind is that everything becomes harder.      The problem with not being successful in losing track is that she begins to overthink.      The problem with forgetting how to breathe is that remembering is painful.                But, sometimes, it can save you.                                                                      That isn’t why she is here.                                                                      She’s here because, finally, she’s free.      When she knocks, it’s with something like feigned confidence, once or twice timidly, but the third time a little louder, the fourth in something like desperation.  She makes herself stop after that, can feel the panic of her loss sinking deep, is trying not to think of the single bunny in the cage in the car.

Cersei’s lips purse at the accusation in Sansa’s tone and she pours another glass of red wine for herself instead of immediately responding. Cat-green eyes narrow, the lioness appraising her foe, though she says nothing. She regards Sansa Stark as an enemy, though one she reserves some softness for. Once she regarded her as a tool. You’re climbing high in the world, little dove. 

“A word of advice, my dear, between women.” Her lips hover red above the rim of her glass. “If that is the case, you should start learning how to RIG them.”

          THE  STREETS  ARE  UNPREDICTABLE  ,  and  he’s  not  taking  any  chances.  yeah  ,  he’s  probably  the  best  driver  in  the  city  ,  but  that  doesn’t  guarantee  a  crash - free  ride.    ❛    i’m  not  leaving  until  you  have  your  seatbelt  on.    ❜

The Major General had heard her fair share about this new goddess, though clearly the two of them had very different ideas of what one should be like. Semiramis glanced up as she saw her, seeing that this threatened encounter had finally come. Wednesday kept warning her it would happen and here it was.

           “What do you want, Miss Television?”