paradisalogs | she's seeing too clearly what she can't be; {open}

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she's seeing too clearly what she can't be; {open}

Who: Queen Anne Boleyn & YOU
What: Late night drunken wanderings in the snow. Who knows what will happen.
When: Tonight!
Where: Anywhere between the castle and in the City Royale.
Rating: PG, for now???

She feels ill. That is the only word that can describe it. Not just in her belly, but in her mind, her soul. She is ill with grief, and with longing. She is ill with knowing.

Anne stands before her glass mirror, darkened gaze staring at the flatness of her stomach. It carries nothing, she knows, but her shame. Will I never have a son? It is God's will that he ought to have a boy, for there must be a living image of his father. Of course, she thinks. Elizabeth had said her brother ruled.

But she had never said who the mother was.

Ill, ill, ill. She weeps, satin skirts wrinkled from her tight grips and tugs, so distraught there is nothing to do but tear at herself. She doesn't mar her own skin, her beautiful skin, because Henry would want her to stay beautiful. He would also want her to smile, but she cannot force it no matter how often she practices before that mirror. Even the wine doesn't help, and she drinks until her lips are stained as if painted rouge.

I am cursed. God has abandoned me, and my child.

But Anne doesn't want to think so. She wants to continue believing that this is naught but a dream. She wants nothing more than to hold feasts, to dance and laugh and be merry. To play with fairies and rule these people and be respected and loved. But she would have none of that. Not in England, and not here. She has only her daughter, and even that is now denied her. The childhood has escaped her, the ability to guide and love. Elizabeth is a woman grown now, with secrets that Anne can only dream about. And oh, does she dream, stretched out near the hearth in her drunken stupor. In her dreams, in her nightmares, the dragon eats her every time. And when she is consumed, Henry stabs the dragon through the heart as if to save her. But inside the beast's gut, she hears her daughter's scream, and she echoes the cry when the steel impales her as well. He is not aiming for the dragon, but for his forsaken wife. No, not forsaken. Null and void.

She is a bastard, and you are not my wife!

She awakens sweat soaked and shivering, gasping for breath and holding one hand over her heart, the other over her neck. Behind her, the fire has dwindled, and she can once more feel the cold creeping into her bones. But she ignores it, standing and reaching for her favorite cloak, the dark blue velvet lined with pearls. It comforts her now, and helps shield her disheveled appearance, as she steals out into the night.

Anne doesn't know where she is going, but she knows she cannot remain here. This castle is born of magic, of curses, and it's infecting her. So she seeks out the city, despite the late hour, hoping to clear her head in the frigid air. Her steps are slow, unsteady, but she carries on, her eyes unseeing while her feet blindly guide her through the streets.

Someone will have answers, or someone will be punished. For the moment she would find pleasure in either goal.

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The unimpressed look morphs into indignation.

"I'm a girl! And she's not a beast! She's more loyal than men are!"

Wow, a girl? Well, the sex hardly matters. Anne's more worried about the girl getting swallowed in one bite before it comes to chomp Anne herself in half.

It's clear enough that the wolf seems to be her pet, now, for which the queen doesn't want to insult her further. But she doesn't know what to think, or say. She sort of just wants to run, but she's just sober enough to not want to shame herself so utterly.

That may not stop her from doing it, though.

"What do you know of the loyalty of men? It looks as if to bite me."

Her words are scornful. "I know more than a drunkard."

That inflames Anne's own anger, and she moved to step forward, only to quickly halt again at the sight of the giant wolf. Her hands quickly move to press tightly against her chest, as if that will protect them from it's jaws, even if she calls on the ire of the girl.

"I will forgive you your...misunderstanding. You speak to a qu— a q—" No, she still can't finish the word, and now she is embarrassed for having forgotten for even a moment. Frustrated at herself now more than the child, she takes a troubled step back to rub at her temple, brow furrowed. A way around it, a way around it...

"You must address me how you would royalty in your realm, child, even if you are not of England. My name is Anne Boleyn."

Arya narrows her eyes at her. A pretender queen would do a better job of it. But the name of the country is the one to catch her interest.

"Do you know Queen Elizabeth? Your Grace?"

The title is an improvement, but not one that pleases her much, if her hard gaze is any indication. She recalls Catelyn Stark using the same conduct, and can't help but wonder if this one is also from Winterfell, or simply from a time earlier than her husband's reign. It is only the mention of Elizabeth that keeps her from sharply correcting her.

"I should think as much, being she is mine own beloved daughter. You are...acquainted?" Anne has trouble imagining Elizabeth frolicking with a little girl that looks like a boy and her giant wolf, but then this world is just full of surprises.

Arya does not look down. She's struggling not be sullen at a queen, but it's hard when the woman was insulting her and is also clearly into her cups.

"She calls me her niece, Your Grace. I call her 'Aunt' when we're alone. We go riding. She gave me this."

Arya pulls a dagger from her belt. It might not be one Anne is acquainted with personally, but the style should be familiar.

Anne finds herself remiss to believe a word of that, and she only stiffens in shock at the dagger being pulled out. She then nearly laughs at herself for fearing a dagger when the girl could just as easily set her wolf upon her.

"Her niece...?" Blue eyes, muddled from liquor and confusion, drift down to see the dagger. It is ornate, though not something Anne herself is acquainted with. It seems a silly thing to lie about, though, for surely a girl would instead lie about something pretty and girlish. Then again, this one seems to be neither of those things. And who would be dimwitted enough to show off something stolen?

"I must wonder why she has not yet introduced us, then. Could she be hiding you from me? Keeping you all to herself? I should be quite cross and jealous, for if she is your aunt, then I am your great aunt."

"I've not seen her for a time." Saying it out loud helps her realize it. She hasn't seen Elizabeth. Or heard of her. She's been so distracted, trying to adjust to life here again... And Arya is angry at herself. How could she have forgotten?

"You can ask her. She'll tell you."

"I cannot. You cannot. She is missing."

Anne feels angry for being reminded, only for the misery to nearly overwhelm that small fire. She sits rather abruptly, not caring for the snow in her way, as her skirts and cloak bunch around her. She is tired of these horrible emotions, and it makes her too weak to even care to try to stand, even with this hellish beast now looming over her.

"She is missing... And there is a true beast, one that would shame your wolf, having taken over her chambers. I thought her eaten, truly, but there is no blood. None have seen her, and one other soul even suggested that the dragon itself is her."

It's so ludicrous, all of it, and she knows that she could never dream such idiocy. She already dreams within the dream, too often, and is having far too much trouble telling any of it apart. So she cries, seeming not to care her or what sees her shame now, beside herself. "My Elizabeth..."

"She's—there's a dragon?"

Nymeria growls, though not at Anne. Arya is frightened and furious.

"Why hasn't it been said? There are people here who could have looked for her! Nymeria could have tracked her! How long— When did you last— Where—"

"The last time I spoke openly and honestly in that outlandish book, my unloving subjects did naught but to offend me! I trust them not! I trust the magic not."

She slaps at her skirts, now soaked from the snow, in her frustration, babbling through her tears. "I do now know anything, for it bespelled me when I first saw it, and next I knew it to be some time later, with me still in it's clutches. All I could do was flee, and be told to wait patiently. Is that all any do here?! What can be done? What use could a little girl or her monstrous dog be?"

"She's a direwolf," Arya screams, "and mayhaps they did nothing since you're behaving like a spoiled child instead of a queen! If you really wanted to help your daughter, you'd swallow your pride and do whatever you had to because your family comes first! And you're only shaming yourself and her by getting into your cups and then going out and making a spectacle of yourself!

"Now get up and get into the castle before you freeze to death out here and I have to tell Elizabeth it's because her mother was drunk and and screaming out in the snow!"

Arya points imperiously in the direction of the castle. Behind her, Nymeria punctuates her words with warning growls. She will have Nymeria drag her the entire way if she has to.

She's stricken silent by the accusations and the fervor that accompanies them, staring at the girl with eyes gone wide and her breath caught in her throat. Half of is practically unheard, but the message is clear enough, along with the impudence. That alone finally gets her to find her voice again, anger beginning to kindle once more. Even a child could not be allowed to talk to her with such disrespect.

"You dare—" but she's cut off by the growl of the direwolf, and it makes her cringe and scramble up onto her feet. She slips once, barely catching herself, the weight of her soaked skirt and cloak only making it harder for her to find her proper footing.

If nothing else, she is no longer crying, wiping at her face with hands that are already wet and numb from the snow they had been clutching at. It's hard to make herself speak again, when she feels her gut twist in fear at the wolf's menacing presence. "I will not...be ordered about by a little girl, niece or no! I will— will return when I am good and ready. If I am to seek out my daughter, it will not be within those cursed walls! She is not there. She must be out here somewhere."

Arya stares her down. She had been made a mouse once. She had tolerated every humiliation, every indignation, every insult. But she was a direwolf of Winterfell. Hers was the blood of the First Men. She was a daughter of winter. And she would not be made a mouse again. Especially not by a stupid foreign queen.

"You are of no use to your daughter now, Your Grace. You can barely stand."

Edited 2013-01-30 05:32 (UTC)

And Anne, drunk as she is, can't even remember which way it is back to the castle, the darkness shielding a sight that would normally loom in the distance. But regardless, she doesn't want to go back there. She doesn't want to be there at all, knowing there is a monster where her daughter should be, and nothing else to cradle her thoughts but the promise of nightmares and shame.

Her hand goes to her belly, thumb stroking against the chilled fabric, and she shakes her head. She will not be gifted a son, but she still has her daughter. Somewhere, she must be somewhere. "I can stand just fine, if your direwolf would not frighten me so. If you wish to help, then have her be of use and find my Elizabeth!"

Arya remains stern. "Get off the snow first."

It's with as great a dignity as she can muster than she tries once more to straighten her legs, taking an abundant care with each step, not to trip over a wet skirt or slip on a patch of ice, and most of all not collapse once more from a dizzy spell or simple fear from the wolf. It's for that reason alone than Anne doesn't shriek at Arya for daring to give her orders.

Forevermore, she is reminded that this is not England, and she is nothing. This depression is so great it almost over-rides her urge to find her daughter safe and sound. Almost.

"I would have the name of the girl who dares speak to me such. And the name of the...direwolf that has growled at me so."

"She is Nymeria, Your Grace." Arya touches the wolf's neck. She hesitates before continuing, "I'm Arya of House Stark."

The wolf's name hardly interests her as much as the girl's, and it's enough to get her to stop looking in fear at the wolf for a moment to inspect Arya's features as well as one can in the dark while drunk. It's the last thing she expects to hear, especially what little she's learned and seen of Catelyn. A noble born woman, being related to a crude, boyish girl like this? Well, maybe it's a distant family member. One never knows, and this girl doesn't seem to overly resemble Catelyn...

"Of... You mean, as a relation to Lady Catelyn Stark?"

Arya stands up a little straighter. "Lady Catelyn is my mother."

Wondering if she's so drunk she's hallucinating, it's hard not to just plop down and sit in the snow again. But she's finally starting to feel that cold, just a bit, through the warm-blooded haze of the wine.

Which, naturally, means she needs more wine. But even a drunk queen isn't about to go searching for a tavern. She has that much dignity left.

"Lady Arya..." It's hard to be scrutinizing in this state, but somehow she still manages. "You conduct yourself queerly. Not at all like your mother, who has shown me nothing but the greatest respect while still sharing her own opinions. Did she not teach you these skills? How is it she decided to let her daughter have a wolf rather than a dog?"