[There is always work to be done. That is the saving grace of being the lady of a high court: there is always more to be done, always servants to be overseen and tasks to be managed, wounds to bind and strategies to consider, whispers in the King's ears to be addressed and avoided, and if at any point that work should run dry, well, it has become all the more clear since her attack that she must train, that she must keep the blades sharpened and recover the strength lost to her own injuries. There is always work to be done, and she retreats into it, as she has done before: distracts herself with duty, and tries to exhaust herself, to shorten the dark watches of the night.]
[But the nights do come, and all that she had feared with them: for as lonely as she had been before, it is nothing to how she feels now, and she has wept more than once. She wept when she scrubbed the stain out of her skirt the day after their tryst, for one; and, weeping, determined that she would bear it the only way she could, with the cold armour of noble dignity.]
[So that is what she has done. She has avoided him, wherever she can: has made herself scarce or busied herself with other work when she sees him, has built up her armour into a fortress, not meeting his eyes lest she should remember the longing she saw in them, and answer it with her own. She does not trust herself in his presence, remembering all too well the warmth of his arms around her and the temptation to seek that embrace out again - and so she does not allow herself the chance for a second weakness, does not ever allow herself to forget that they are watched. She ensures that they are watched. It hurts, an ache which breaks through the numbness she had constructed for herself, but it is better to be safe than to risk the kingdom to the foolishness of her heart.]
[But the memory has not faded, and nor has the temptation, and when she hears his voice behind her, she stiffens, her hands stilling where they work the brush against her mount's sweat-dark flank.]
[It is several seconds before she turns, slowly, biting down on the inside of her cheek. The urge to step towards him, to touch him, is almost unbearable. The urge to bolt is almost as strong. She does neither, but nor does she withdraw: clearing her throat, she manages to find her voice.]
I went for a ride to clear my head.
[Her eyes are drawn to his, which already feels dangerous, somehow. There is too much of a connection even in that. And they are alone here, as far as she can tell, with only the horses to see what passes between them, and there are so many things that could pass between them, if only...]
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sforzinda
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Date: 2023-05-05 12:44 am (UTC)[But the nights do come, and all that she had feared with them: for as lonely as she had been before, it is nothing to how she feels now, and she has wept more than once. She wept when she scrubbed the stain out of her skirt the day after their tryst, for one; and, weeping, determined that she would bear it the only way she could, with the cold armour of noble dignity.]
[So that is what she has done. She has avoided him, wherever she can: has made herself scarce or busied herself with other work when she sees him, has built up her armour into a fortress, not meeting his eyes lest she should remember the longing she saw in them, and answer it with her own. She does not trust herself in his presence, remembering all too well the warmth of his arms around her and the temptation to seek that embrace out again - and so she does not allow herself the chance for a second weakness, does not ever allow herself to forget that they are watched. She ensures that they are watched. It hurts, an ache which breaks through the numbness she had constructed for herself, but it is better to be safe than to risk the kingdom to the foolishness of her heart.]
[But the memory has not faded, and nor has the temptation, and when she hears his voice behind her, she stiffens, her hands stilling where they work the brush against her mount's sweat-dark flank.]
[It is several seconds before she turns, slowly, biting down on the inside of her cheek. The urge to step towards him, to touch him, is almost unbearable. The urge to bolt is almost as strong. She does neither, but nor does she withdraw: clearing her throat, she manages to find her voice.]
I went for a ride to clear my head.
[Her eyes are drawn to his, which already feels dangerous, somehow. There is too much of a connection even in that. And they are alone here, as far as she can tell, with only the horses to see what passes between them, and there are so many things that could pass between them, if only...]
I am... not entirely certain it worked.