scream
scream : my muse hears your muse scream and quickly runs to their side.
The Hotel Saint-Pol was yet alight with festivities. There lay pairs of satin shoes, the scream of luxurious women and the howl of righteous men. Mihrimah shadowed the edge, keeping herself free of admirations or even the soft hand of friendships. Her mind itself was alone, weaving thoughts of what was to come, what was to drink and what there was to eat before she heard the bloodcurdling scream from behind the musical ensemble. A harp, a lute - every instrument swelled around the noise to muffle it from anyone else. With her translator occupied with the Sultan himself, Mihrimah was forced to push forward alone.
Alone - it was a stance in which Mihrimah could never understand. She had been brought up within the overcoming love of the harem, taught to always assume that love would follow.
“Merhaba?” She called, before repeating herself in various languages; Arabic, German, Mandarin - before calling in the Persian tongue, another scream bellowing as the Sultana picked up her satin skirts to run the length of the empty hallway. But she did not find the culprit or the mouth that made the scream - yet it remained in her mind, screaming whenever there fell silence. So she kept herself immersed with sound, within those festive halls. Where the brass hit and the woodwinds made music. For Mihrimah could ever be found in silence again, in fear of hearing that bloody scream.
