Alanna of Trebond (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
the_lioness) wrote2005-03-12 11:10 am
the_lioness) wrote2005-03-12 11:10 am
Entry tags:
Out of Otherways Post
Head bowed, eyes unfocused, she wanders through the garden. Her hand trails over and through the dead rose bushes, the soft skin of her palm snagging on sharp thorns. She barely feels it. The palace grounds are eerily quiet after weeks of activity, but life goes on. If she tries hard enough, she can just hear the sound of the archery master berating the youngest pages for their lack of dedication. She pauses, tempted to watch the lesson from behind a tree or from the hay loft as she had so many times in the past. The thought is quickly brushed aside; even weapons have lost their luster this day.
Thom is gone, Delia is as good as gone. Now Alex is gone too. Where does that leave her? Hot tears spill down her cheeks, and she bites her tongue before she can utter the wrenching sob that's working its way up her throat. Allowing herself to fall apart in such a manner would just be letting them win. A sea of disembodied faces swims before her blurred vision, all laughing and sneering, pointing at the odd one out, the opinionated woman whose admittedly self-imposed exile is as much a product of her own insecurity as her genuine dislike for Court politics. Alanna sighs, glancing furtively around her before kicking her shoes off and sinking her toes into the cold, tightly-packed earth.
All she had ever wanted was to be left alone. She just hadn't bargained on how very much loneliness hurts.
Sometimes it seems like the world is moving on without her, and she's stuck in a stifling vacuum, banging on glass walls in an attempt to be heard. People rarely listen. When they do, they nod politely, whisper to each other behind fans or wine goblets, and move on to someone less scandalous. Someone less likely to make them think, perhaps. Alex had listened, although it's possible he never quite understood. But he had listened, and now he is on his way to war, certain that he will meet his fate at the hand of a knight from Tusaine. The pragmatist in Alanna knows that this is a very real possibility, and she is absolutely powerless to help. It's that sense of impotence, of futility, that chokes her now.
What will she do if he dies too? Alex doesn't deserve this. In one fell swoop, Alanna curses the war, politics, Tusaine and society's belief that she isn't good enough to be there beside him, lending a hand.
Collapsing to the ground in a swirl of violet silk, Alanna buries her head in her knees and lets the tears fall. Eyes stormy, she reaches out for the remnants of a long dead rose and crushes it in one hand, the thorns piercing her flesh and reminding her that if nothing else, she is still here. Life will go on, no matter whether or not she has any sort of real place in it.
Thom is gone, Delia is as good as gone. Now Alex is gone too. Where does that leave her? Hot tears spill down her cheeks, and she bites her tongue before she can utter the wrenching sob that's working its way up her throat. Allowing herself to fall apart in such a manner would just be letting them win. A sea of disembodied faces swims before her blurred vision, all laughing and sneering, pointing at the odd one out, the opinionated woman whose admittedly self-imposed exile is as much a product of her own insecurity as her genuine dislike for Court politics. Alanna sighs, glancing furtively around her before kicking her shoes off and sinking her toes into the cold, tightly-packed earth.
All she had ever wanted was to be left alone. She just hadn't bargained on how very much loneliness hurts.
Sometimes it seems like the world is moving on without her, and she's stuck in a stifling vacuum, banging on glass walls in an attempt to be heard. People rarely listen. When they do, they nod politely, whisper to each other behind fans or wine goblets, and move on to someone less scandalous. Someone less likely to make them think, perhaps. Alex had listened, although it's possible he never quite understood. But he had listened, and now he is on his way to war, certain that he will meet his fate at the hand of a knight from Tusaine. The pragmatist in Alanna knows that this is a very real possibility, and she is absolutely powerless to help. It's that sense of impotence, of futility, that chokes her now.
What will she do if he dies too? Alex doesn't deserve this. In one fell swoop, Alanna curses the war, politics, Tusaine and society's belief that she isn't good enough to be there beside him, lending a hand.
Collapsing to the ground in a swirl of violet silk, Alanna buries her head in her knees and lets the tears fall. Eyes stormy, she reaches out for the remnants of a long dead rose and crushes it in one hand, the thorns piercing her flesh and reminding her that if nothing else, she is still here. Life will go on, no matter whether or not she has any sort of real place in it.