Chapter Text
In the dark room, a light flickers.
It's small and quivering—merely a glint dancing on the tip of a match, casting the barest glow. The thin, orange halo it creates barely illuminates the face of the young woman on the floor who has lit it. For a very long moment, she stares at the flame she's made as it licks its way down the matchstick. Only when the heat bites the tips of her thin fingers does she lower it to a candle. The flame leaps from the match to the wick.
Silent as death, the young woman leans back and shakes the match limply. Blackened, the match crumbles from her fingers to the floor. She allows this, shifts her legs beneath her, and draws the blanket she has closer around her shoulders.
With the wick's help, the light grows strong enough to illuminate her front, though darkness still cloaks her back. There's a small expression on her face; something a little worn and numb to the point of blankness. Her shoulders are slack, her eyes fixed on the candle. Her flyaway hairs indicate she hasn't groomed that evening. There are gray circles below her eyes.
Her expression stays still as she looks from the candle to an object cradled in her entwined fingers: a hairpin.
It's not the finest piece in her collection—her jewelry box contains exotic and beautiful pieces from across the world, passionately crafted by master artisans. This one, in contrast, boasts nothing special. It's a fine-toothed comb made from silver. The body resembles the curved wing of a bird. Framed by the wing is a clear, light blue gem.
Even though the silver isn't particularly high-quality and the design is nothing special, the way she looks at it, the blue of the jewel swimming in her eyes, means something.
She presses both thumbs against the gem. It's smooth and cool to the touch. In the faint candlelight, the depths of the jewel seem alive. She remains transfixed at how it swirls even in the softest candlelight. However, she watches only for a moment. Silently, she wraps her hands around the hairpin and hides it from her sight. Fire dances in the depths of her gaze as she looks back to the candle.
Her face is still yet. But it is easy to see a horrible weight in her very bones.
Minutes pass. With lowered eyes, she watches wax drip down the candlestick and into the tray. She can't manage a sigh; she can't manage any sort of sound at all. Her body is so heavy, just opening her mouth is a trial. So instead of making a sound, she gazes at the flame until her eyes sting.
With an expression so faint, it's difficult to say what the young woman is thinking. Perhaps she is thinking how yesterday, everything was normal. And if she had obeyed logic instead of the damned thing beating in her chest, tomorrow would've been normal too.
But today, she took normal into her hands and shattered it by her own will.
If she is tired and burdened, it's her own fault. Perhaps that is what she thinks.
Or, perhaps she's wondering where she should go. If normalcy is in shards on the ground, she'll only cut her feet if she stays in place. However, if she were to step out of that mess, it would become easy to sweep it away.
The young woman blinks at the pin. Something in her burns. Hard enough that the edges start cutting her palm, she clenches the hairpin. And, after a hard swallow, she sets it on the floor with a soft hand.
Before she can reconsider, pick the pin back up, and slip it into her pocket, she takes the handle of the candle tray and stands. The blanket slips from her shoulders and slumps in a heap on the floor. Fast as possible with limbs like lead, she slides into a pair of slippers by the door and leaves the room.
Not a soul bothers her in the earliest hours of the dusk. Guards should be standing at her door and the house's entrances, but earlier in the evening, she dismissed them for the night. There's no cleaning for the maids to do, and workers will not be in the kitchens for another handful of hours. The candle casts her shadow—her only company—against the walls.
Crickets chirp in the outside gardens. The young woman softly closes the manor's front door, eyes flicking back and forth nervously as she surveys the courtyard over her shoulder. When she finds no one, she lets go of the doorknob. Each of her steps is heavy and deliberate as she goes down the porch stairs and starts a brisk walk on the paved path leading to the main palace.
If she is thinking of places to go, then the southern islands are far. However, there's no plausible reason to go there. Her brother's lands in the volcanic territories of Valkaheim are a distance as well, but he would not accept her there permanently without cause. Saint Lotier is also far-flung, but once more, she lacks cause to go there. Though Duke Zacharias had a son a bit older than her, he vanished some time ago.
A breeze blows past, pulling her skirt and hair back. Instantly, she cups the candle in her hand to protect it. The crickets quiet down; the trees' leaves rustle. And, when the wind has passed, she takes her hand away from the candle. Another breeze comes by, but it's soft enough that the flame barely wavers. Even still, the wind picks up strands of her unkempt hair and turns her gaze towards the tall roofs and spires of the palace.
This is the stage she was born on—the stage she has danced on her whole life.
But the tension on her previously still face doesn't speak to fondness or nostalgia.
The young woman stares until the gentle wind has passed. She turns her gaze forward once more and keeps walking.
Servants are still at work in the main palace at this time. Many of them stop polishing pottery and dusting stairways to peer at her. None of them stop to ask the young woman all but trudging through the hallways if she is alright. Each one acts like she's none of their concern and goes back to their work. If they act like she's not there, that's all the better on this one evening.
The candle shines orange light on the hallway so familiar, she would know it even in the pitchest black. The tiny amount of servants still working thins out to nothing. No guards stand in front of the office she stops at, and the young woman doubts any are inside either. Her father tends to take his scant alone time in the dead of night, after all.
She takes a deep breath and stares up at the wide oak doors. They seem to tower over her, just as imposing as they were when she was a little girl. Even though her face stays calm—almost eerily so by the candle's small and wavering light—her stomach is in her throat and her head is a whirlwind.
But this is the only choice she has.
Her arm moves like she's pulling it through mud. Slowly, she raps her knuckles against the door. There's only silence in response, though she feels a presence on the other side and smells a warm, familiar scent. Somewhat awkwardly, she places a thin hand against the doors and whispers for her father.
She hears legs scrape against wooden floor, then his low, steady voice inviting her in.
The young woman carefully turns the doorknob and cracks the door a tiny amount. Almost like a child, she peers into the office with a single eye and spies her father, surrounded by paperwork, at his desk. Only an oil lamp on its edge and the moon in the window behind him give the room light. Her father tilts his head and furrows his brow curiously.
Steps still heavy, she opens the door just wide enough for her to slip in and shuts it promptly. And, maybe a bit at a loss, she just stands there. She cups her tiny flame behind her fingers and stares at the carpet. To her, it is always important to have words at the ready. Yet, she came here with few in mind, and little idea how exactly to say them.
After a short moment of her standing there, eyes on the floor, her father speaks. "It's two in the morning. Why are you not asleep?"
Silent, she drags her eyes to the room's corner and says nothing. A horrific sickness swells in her.
"My dear?"
The warmth of her father's voice is a lot after what she has done today. So much, in fact, that she feels a burning start in her jaw and behind her eyes. This wasn't part of the bare bone idea she had in mind, though. She squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head, swallows the lump in her throat, and promises herself one thing:
No crying, no matter what.
She did not cry when she stood in front of that man earlier today. She did not cry when he spoke to her too softly and could not meet her eyes. She did not cry when he told her everything she'd expected, but everything she still didn't want to hear. She did not cry when he reached for her with his warm hands, she did not cry when she brushed them away, and she did not cry when she smiled and thanked him for his time.
She didn't cry.
She won't cry.
There's little in the world she can promise, but she can promise that.
One more time, she swallows the damned lump, forces back all the burning, straightens her shoulders, and lifts her head to regard her father. She says, "My lord father. I have been thinking.
"Do you not think it is time for me to leave the nest?"