[ There is a scream in her throat - there has been, ever since she'd watched that black-velvet sky crumple and crush its diamonds to dust, collapsing on top of her. Or did it collapse around her, like water, leaving her standing? She isn't dead, she discovers, with a distinct lack of appreciation: if she were dead, she would be returned at this moment to her children, for they are dead, too. She'd felt it, hadn't she? When that gulf of darkness had swum up to meet her? Every memory chipped into a piece of flint, and driven into the frightened meat of her heart. She is frightened, for a moment, and only because she does not know by what means her children have been killed. Yet it had always come to this. She has lived no day that it hasn't been her first waking thought. That crone in the woods had told her so, had laid upon her the curse that crowds now into those waking thoughts - every discarding glance she'd received, every scoff, every measuring eye which had decided she would not rule. All of them gone, dead, and if her children must be dead, then there is some last glint of satisfaction in knowing all the world went with them.
That gloating is brief, and swallowed again by sorrow, and sorrow sends her into a fury. But her scream is mute, and she is trapped, drowning, treading a thick and choking sea made of honey. It cannot be a sea, for she is compressed in against herself, and only slowly reaching through that viscous prison. It melts gradually beneath her claws, tears like poor silk, and out she steps, shivering against the uninvited kiss of cool air against her skin.
Naked skin - she does not need to sweep her gaze down to find that she is wearing nothing. Gold hair whisks against the small of her back as she turns her head, at once more concerned with who may or may not be witnessing her this way than how it has come to pass. And there is someone, an unfortunate soul who seems to have stumbled into this cavern just as unwittingly as she has, and it is upon this stranger that she turns her rage, fangs bared, as if this nightmare is her personal domain. ]
What do you think you're doing here?
βin the woods somewhere
[ Two separate groups have arrived, and she recognizes neither one. One contingent seems to her almost Northern - by the rugged look of them, they hail from the mountains, or at least from some far-flung wasteland that she cares nothing for. The other is clearly from a notable city, though which, she cannot say: they are armored and disciplined, but wear no sigil that she knows. The distinction does not trouble her overmuch, because the insult they bring to bear against her is the same - they have come to take her captive. The groomed soldiers are not, then, from the capital; if they were kingsmen, they would not treat her so.
They are, to her mounting annoyance, entirely ignorant of who she is. They handle her as if she were no better than a common criminal, of no mentionable title; she is taken into custody as if she were a peasant. Her protests, she abruptly discovers, are met only with reprimands of waning patience. They don't hear her, they don't care, and she is shuffled along like chattel. Dressed in white, like a lamb for sacrifice, which only kindles resentful memories of earlier days when she was traded from one hand to another like an animal.
And they - for there are others, no matter how insignificant they are to her are present - are made to walk without the benefit of any footwear, though of course she should be carried, whether on a horse on in a wheelhouse. Not one of these fools seems to recognize her. This is the most dreadful realization of all; if there is no one to recognize her, who is there to protect her? Because her initial refusals and defiances were met only with the cruelty of whips, she takes instead to an indignant silence. Whomever they come to - whichever lord's keep - she will seek true justice from then.
The waiting is a marvelously effective torture, more so than any lash of those impudent whips. Her prowling is contained by the guards and the ruins themselves, but she must have something to barter with. If she has on her person no wealth of any mention, then she will trade in words. Secrets and knowledge. A defender with a sword would be better, but this will have to do.
So when she overhears talk of a 'ritual space,' her heart leaps like a startled deer in her chest, just as it did in the witch's woods so long ago. Ritual, prophecy - these are dangerous words. She edges closer, despising her plain white robe, which can hardly be put to her advantage. ]
Do you know what this place this?
βwildcard
[ hit me with anything! pm if you'd rather chat in advance c: ]
cersei lannister | a song of ice and fire | the sovereign
[ There is a scream in her throat - there has been, ever since she'd watched that black-velvet sky crumple and crush its diamonds to dust, collapsing on top of her. Or did it collapse around her, like water, leaving her standing? She isn't dead, she discovers, with a distinct lack of appreciation: if she were dead, she would be returned at this moment to her children, for they are dead, too. She'd felt it, hadn't she? When that gulf of darkness had swum up to meet her? Every memory chipped into a piece of flint, and driven into the frightened meat of her heart. She is frightened, for a moment, and only because she does not know by what means her children have been killed. Yet it had always come to this. She has lived no day that it hasn't been her first waking thought. That crone in the woods had told her so, had laid upon her the curse that crowds now into those waking thoughts - every discarding glance she'd received, every scoff, every measuring eye which had decided she would not rule. All of them gone, dead, and if her children must be dead, then there is some last glint of satisfaction in knowing all the world went with them.
That gloating is brief, and swallowed again by sorrow, and sorrow sends her into a fury. But her scream is mute, and she is trapped, drowning, treading a thick and choking sea made of honey. It cannot be a sea, for she is compressed in against herself, and only slowly reaching through that viscous prison. It melts gradually beneath her claws, tears like poor silk, and out she steps, shivering against the uninvited kiss of cool air against her skin.
Naked skin - she does not need to sweep her gaze down to find that she is wearing nothing. Gold hair whisks against the small of her back as she turns her head, at once more concerned with who may or may not be witnessing her this way than how it has come to pass. And there is someone, an unfortunate soul who seems to have stumbled into this cavern just as unwittingly as she has, and it is upon this stranger that she turns her rage, fangs bared, as if this nightmare is her personal domain. ]
What do you think you're doing here?
βin the woods somewhere
[ Two separate groups have arrived, and she recognizes neither one. One contingent seems to her almost Northern - by the rugged look of them, they hail from the mountains, or at least from some far-flung wasteland that she cares nothing for. The other is clearly from a notable city, though which, she cannot say: they are armored and disciplined, but wear no sigil that she knows. The distinction does not trouble her overmuch, because the insult they bring to bear against her is the same - they have come to take her captive. The groomed soldiers are not, then, from the capital; if they were kingsmen, they would not treat her so.
They are, to her mounting annoyance, entirely ignorant of who she is. They handle her as if she were no better than a common criminal, of no mentionable title; she is taken into custody as if she were a peasant. Her protests, she abruptly discovers, are met only with reprimands of waning patience. They don't hear her, they don't care, and she is shuffled along like chattel. Dressed in white, like a lamb for sacrifice, which only kindles resentful memories of earlier days when she was traded from one hand to another like an animal.
And they - for there are others, no matter how insignificant they are to her are present - are made to walk without the benefit of any footwear, though of course she should be carried, whether on a horse on in a wheelhouse. Not one of these fools seems to recognize her. This is the most dreadful realization of all; if there is no one to recognize her, who is there to protect her? Because her initial refusals and defiances were met only with the cruelty of whips, she takes instead to an indignant silence. Whomever they come to - whichever lord's keep - she will seek true justice from then.
The waiting is a marvelously effective torture, more so than any lash of those impudent whips. Her prowling is contained by the guards and the ruins themselves, but she must have something to barter with. If she has on her person no wealth of any mention, then she will trade in words. Secrets and knowledge. A defender with a sword would be better, but this will have to do.
So when she overhears talk of a 'ritual space,' her heart leaps like a startled deer in her chest, just as it did in the witch's woods so long ago. Ritual, prophecy - these are dangerous words. She edges closer, despising her plain white robe, which can hardly be put to her advantage. ]
Do you know what this place this?
βwildcard
[ hit me with anything! pm if you'd rather chat in advance c: ]