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Aradia's Heart Game - Session 3
Once upon a time, in a country far to the north,
the Lady Shalott sat within a tall tower.
It rose high above the clouds, and the air was thin and cold...
Once upon a time, in a country far to the north,
the Lady Shalott sat within a tall tower.
It rose high above the clouds, and the air was thin and cold...
Re: Antares
They’re talking about Aradia—or, so it feels distinctly, about you, how troublesome it is to care for someone like you. One of them tugged at you, once. It was just lightly, but the way that you bruised, the contrast of it, reminds her of a corpse. It’s unsettling. It’s uncomfortable to be in this house alone with you, the tremendous weight of your gaze and the vacancy in your smile. Coming to work here and finding out for certain that some of the rumors were untrue only served to underline the ones that were.
There was no way you didn’t have anything to do with what happened to your mother.
There was no way you weren’t responsible for what happened to your father.
If your grandmother had gotten rid of you when she had the chance instead of extending your life the way that she did, she would probably still be here too, but as it stands it’s only you and these servants, alone until you die. ]
Re: Antares
which reminds her—she didn't really get that close to the man's silhouette, before. she's going to go look at him, too. ]
Re: Antares
You are small. You walk, no more than six years old, a tiny pale wisp of a child—down a hallway decorated with expensive carpeting and portraits, from the washroom to your bedroom. A nanny, too tall from your point of view to fit in focus beyond the austere skirt, holds your hand in a light grip. The woman, whoever she is, doesn't really want to be touching you—
You hear them sometimes. Even at your age you know: all of the domestics think they'll catch what you have, they’re all unnerved by you, all perceive this venture as fruitless, but this is their job. To feed and wash this troublesome child, to dry you so your illness isn't aggravated, and to put you to bed, now.
But in that hallway, along the way, there is a distinct thud from behind a door. The manor has a few of them, lots of floors and lots of doors on those floors, but you know the source for certain—the study your father has taken up. Your feet go still in the hall, head craning to glean the remaining information—what the noise was, what his status is.
"But I think—[REDACTED], it's far too important for you to go without a second thought." A voice you'd heard once before. Your [REDACTED]’s tone beyond the door is plaintive, mournful. "How has [it] grown? You know as well as I do, it can only be done today. Tomorrow, only the Lord could tell, but today—tonight."
He continues, volume unchanged but an unmistakable tenderness to his tone, "I have an unshakable faith in you—that you are not so gone from us, just yet... Nowhere is it written it has to be this way, and there is time, still—I would wager there is a year remaining before she's grown beyond it."
"I will even make the journey with you. Into town, or out to [REDACTED]. Here on our property where no one will notice. I will ensure everything is taken care of. But for your own sake, [REDACTED], you simply must get rid of that thing—"
And you tremble. Not from the words—facts you have long since accepted to be the truth, how he has suffered because of you, how everyone has suffered because of you1—but a small cough that rocks your body. The nanny is quick to yank you from the scene by your wrist, hurrying towards your bedroom at the far end of the hall.]
[ 1 - In what you learn to be the drawing room, on one of the couches, sits an unfamiliar shape; he is tanned, hair bleached a pale color, clothing hanging off of his body in a way that reminds you of the sleeves on your dress forms. His mouth looks strange on his face, lips and brow tight, fraught with worry, and he gives you a look that you're unable to recognize—just once.
After that, he doesn't seem to look at you at all. His gaze penetrates beyond, past you and through the maid, into the wall nearest the door as he trembles, finally averting his eyes altogether, covering them with a hand.
The women beyond your door are all beside themselves with laughter after that, late at night. How could he treat his own daughter like that? It's not so surprising, after what happened to his wife. After what she—you—did to him—who wouldn't be cold? ]
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Forgive me for asking about your family and how they raised you.
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It's okay ... I don't mind.
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Re: Antares