[ even having seen his video, alicent still startles at his name on the screen. the words that are so unmistakably embry in their flippancy — and in their careful acknowledgment. recognition of her care, her grief, all tucked inside a silly little message. she missed him terribly. ]
I suppose that’s preferable to rotted.
[ just a little werewolf joke for you.
alicent finds him shortly thereafter. she raps her knuckles on the door only once before easing it open, eager to see him, whole and hale. heart stuttering, breath caught, a look somewhere between awed and pained carving open her features. not at all the controlled queen he left behind, all her poise sanded down to nothing by weeks of sorrow.
in her mourning blacks, she still clings to an air of regality, flowers and vines of fine lace winding down her arms and up her neck. hair pinned into a tidy bun, so as not to tell of her worrying fingers, carding through it. tells persist: the prominent shadows under her eyes can’t be entirely obscured with concealer, and though her hands have begun to heal, a few fingers remain covered by bandages while others rim red from her picking.
she blinks once, twice. her hands twist. she should — say something, anything, if she could find the words to recognise the miracle of him, returned to her. instead, she moves quicker than one might expect in her little heels and slips her arms around him. ]
no subject
I suppose that’s preferable to rotted.
[ just a little werewolf joke for you.
alicent finds him shortly thereafter. she raps her knuckles on the door only once before easing it open, eager to see him, whole and hale. heart stuttering, breath caught, a look somewhere between awed and pained carving open her features. not at all the controlled queen he left behind, all her poise sanded down to nothing by weeks of sorrow.
in her mourning blacks, she still clings to an air of regality, flowers and vines of fine lace winding down her arms and up her neck. hair pinned into a tidy bun, so as not to tell of her worrying fingers, carding through it. tells persist: the prominent shadows under her eyes can’t be entirely obscured with concealer, and though her hands have begun to heal, a few fingers remain covered by bandages while others rim red from her picking.
she blinks once, twice. her hands twist. she should — say something, anything, if she could find the words to recognise the miracle of him, returned to her. instead, she moves quicker than one might expect in her little heels and slips her arms around him. ]