Them as a child ;; Their crying ;; Them in an uncomfortable outfit
1. And every day, the flaxen-haired girl would rise from the mass of lynx-furs that made up her bed around when the sun had reached its highest point. In search of meal and activity, she would stride, always, with a chin tilted in such an imperious high that a solid boxing of her ears between two flour-dusted hands would be necessary.Â
If only it were not such a useless activity from the indomitable resolve in the steadiness of her feet and squared little shoulders, as though she were as significant as any other soldier throughout the settlement. Always so uncowed.
2. No. You canât cry. You canât cry. You have a job to do. People are relying on you. You canât cry. Youâre distracting yourself. You need to go back out there. You canât cry. Recover quickly before the tide is unstoppable. This isnât the place for this. You canât cry. You canât cry. No. You have a job to do.
The Blood Knightâs vision is blurred with moisture. The tears that had been threatening to run free, instead stick tense to her eyes with quivering weight. She blinks rapidly, shaking her head to-and-fro until what was released dislodges and runs down her cheeks. She rushes âround the corner. Back to action.
3. There is a buzzing in her forehead, a tightness in her heart, a thickness of her tongue. She dislikes the almost unbearable lightness to her form, with the absence of hauberk âneath her overcoat, the vulnerability of it. The constant brush of form against form tonight does little to settle her.Â
She thinks of old memories, of standing guard or participating herself in the ball-gatherings of nobles. Of how, towards the end of the night, when bodies disperse from the dance-floor, a body would lay crumpled; their left-breast streaked in blood.
Thanidiel can count the frequency of those incidents within both hands, but games of possibility always have the last laugh.
@ocarina-of-what @westelfirewing
