#queuely beloved.

"I didn't have my mother, either." Claire offered a weak smile. She hadn't been there for Bree's first child, but she'd made sure to be there when Mandy was born. She knew what it was like to be alone, especially in such a vulnerable state, when the little life inside her fought to tear itself free. When she'd given birth to Faith, she'd felt marooned and she often wondered if that's what her own mother felt like all those years ago. Claire was surrounded by the nuns and was under the ever-watchful, caring gaze of Mother Hildegard, but she had never felt more alone. When she birthed Brianna, Claire had best team of doctors caring for her, and yet it didn't quell the anxiety that came with the approach of motherhood.

"It's a tough thing, to become something you never really had. When I studied medicine, I had dozens of elders and professionals to learn from and look up to. I had a basis for which to set my standards. But when it came to motherhood..." She let out a soft sigh before turning to her daughter with a smile. "You may not have had a mother with you, but you certainly didn't let that stop you from raising two beautiful and intelligent young daughters."

“Shakespeare?” Claire nearly barked out a laugh. Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ. She’d traveled through time a handful of times, changed history once or twice, and broached near death nearly a dozen times—and yet a pirate reciting Shakespeare was undoubtedly one of the strangest things she could’ve imagined in this scenario. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a lover of the arts, Mr. Silver. Especially that one.” Wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, Claire shot him an amused expression. “I’d sooner expect Hamlet or Titus Andronicus than Romeo and Juliet. They seem better suited for a pirate’s tastes.”

At first, Claire didn't know how to respond. She was so accustomed to being the smartest one in the room, to being the voice of reason among men, that it felt strange to be seen in such a kind and unexpected way. A pang of longing filled her heart, a sore nostalgia coursing through her at all the lives she'd lived and left behind.

"It was not always kind, no. But the world is hardly ever kind to women, now is it?" Her smile turned wistful as she tried to brush the somber feeling aside. "But, as tricky as the terrain was, I can earnestly say I wouldn't change a thing. Unkind roads make for some rather good tales to tell."

"Of course, how silly of me. I suppose I should've stuck to the pretty side of war. How delightful those field rations were! Oh, and there's nothing quite like the smell of gunfire in the morning, don't you agree?" Her tone was curt and sarcastic, but after a deep breath she let the tension slip from her voice. "But, I agree, a change of subject might be for the best. Where did you say you were from again?"

Claire pressed a trembling hand to her chest, the skin feeling cold and clammy against the warmth of her palm. Her heartbeat was erratic and tendrils of sweat-slicked hair stuck to her temples. She was never the type of person to have nightmares, least of all the type to leave one feeling paralyzed and frightened. But the last few nights had seen her plagued with horrid dreams, filled with death and violence and Claire always awoke sweaty and shaken. She was glad, at least, that she had a confidante in Mina.

"Yes," She nodded, swallowing hard as her heart began to settle. Shifting to face Mina, Claire's brows furrowed. "Did I wake you?"

dandelion

You grew up too fast and all you know is the calluses on your fists and the thousand invisible scars that you pretend don't ache. Your anger burns so bright, so hot or maybe not at all, so deep you could never tell it was there. You are yours and you will defend that to the death after so many years of being ripped apart and denied your own agency and maybe you are still facing the bastards who stole your innocence but you will survive because that's the only thing you know how to do without breaking, the only thing you know besides protect, protect, protect, protect, yourself or sometimes those few others you claim as yours.

You are a thousand sharp edges but impenetrable, a traumatized child so covered by thorny armor that you promised yourself you're grown now, you're stronger than anyone who has ever hurt you. You're safe. Nothing will ever hurt you again. You're so alone though sometimes, in a world that sees you as too much or too broken or too angry or too hurt, and you want to scream with the too-much of it, prove that you're okay, that you're self-reliant, that you are strong enough to stake your claim on your body, on your mind, on your heart, on your people, and protect it from any who dare take it away from you.

"I don't know. It was dark." She lied, shaking her head as she willed her heartbeat to slow. Ever since she'd touched shores, Claire had been making enemies. In her effort to save lives, she'd put her own at risk. The Comte wouldn't stop until he succeeded in killing her, she reasoned. Unless something were to befall him first. Unless she were able to right the wrongs she'd unknowingly made.

"Well... Just some brigands." Letting out a sigh, she tried to push the encounter out of her mind. They hadn't stolen anything of value and she'd managed to escape with only a few bumps and bruises. "I suspect they were hired to attack me. It seems I have a knack for making enemies."

“No one.” She replied, the falsehood slipping out faster than she could think better of it. Telling him the truth would only place him in the path of danger and that was something Claire couldn't bear to do. They were already at a disadvantage in this life, the last thing either of them needed was for Claire to share her misery. “No one to worry about, I mean. I'll be alright, I promise. Thank you for your concern."