If Juliette was a color, she would be Crimson. Crimson with the anger boiling in her blood as she stared at the necklace in her hand, a sigil of the Laines pressed into it. It had been Loic's, her first love and first lost, someone who she regretted ever meeting now. Gideon's hard and cruel words hammered against her skull like someone had jammed them in and was shaking her hard. She wished someone would shake her from this utter nightmare. Gideon had abused her at Blacktower. Bruised her with his words and screams that she wished she could force him to take back but she didn't have that power. She had power of determination, something that was leaking from her and making her cold with fear and weakness at that very moment. His words had felt like a jagged knife, pressing into her skull with wild stabs.
Loic wasted his life on you, the Laine had said in a dark tone before her and Tanoro. He wasted his dying words on a girl that had abandoned him in the dark of politics and power. She had abandoned him for power. Juliette had wanted to beg, to weep but she didn't let him see her hot tears. She remembered them burning down her face once he'd fled back. Tanoro had beckoned her to sit with him, the good friend he pretended not to be, he'd tried to comfort her and she only asked of another drink from him.
With shaking hand, the woman -- the girl pitched the necklace across the room. A dull thunk followed the action as the metal hit the wall across from her, where is bounced back onto the other bed in the room. Two beds, one that use to be Raina's until she replaced Darcie so now a trunk of things sat on the made bed. The trunk was Loic's things that had been given to her; all his worldly possessions had been written to her in ink and weak blood.
Juliette bit her lip hard enough to draw metallic-tasting blood. Despite the fact it hurt her, she didn't seem very bothered. For a moment she wished that Gideon had punched her at Blacktower instead of missing her head. She wished she'd slapped him harder; she wished she had the power to order him to hang from the gallows - for his 'noble' blood to spill across the courtyard. He wasn't real, he was a nightmare with bloody hair.
The Vauclain settled herself back against the wall, her head examining the ceiling above her that was such a plain and simple color. She wished life were as simple as the white paint on the ceilings sometimes. With a heavy sigh, she shook her head in a slow manner, trying to clear those awful memories that would never leave her. Just like the memory she held of Loic, their last moments together that were as dismissive as he sounded about his death. A smile pulled to her lips, a sad smile, as she slowly peeled herself off the floor and shuffled to the bed she'd hurled the necklace into. A black mark on the wall promised her that she'd need to borrow some purple paints soon to cover the spot. Juliette's shaking fingers took the necklace in her hands, the necklace of the dead and a gift to the living.
The stairs creaked softly, like a tired sigh, as the shadowed girl crept down them. She unlocked the door and hopped down the stairs, her eyes gleaming in the darkness of the passing night. The black-cloaked figure hopped through the ghosts of the night, her footsteps as light as dancing. The shadow stopped outside the cathedral, the dim light from the windows and candles illuminating her outline, making her look less like a late night walker and more like a spirit escaped from her grave. And like a spirit, she drifted into the graveyard on small feet.
The next morning, the sigil of House Laine hung from a grave, swinging like a pendulum in the whispered breeze. Whether it was threat to the living or respect to the dead, was unknown. For all that was known, it very well could've been both.
Loic wasted his life on you, the Laine had said in a dark tone before her and Tanoro. He wasted his dying words on a girl that had abandoned him in the dark of politics and power. She had abandoned him for power. Juliette had wanted to beg, to weep but she didn't let him see her hot tears. She remembered them burning down her face once he'd fled back. Tanoro had beckoned her to sit with him, the good friend he pretended not to be, he'd tried to comfort her and she only asked of another drink from him.
With shaking hand, the woman -- the girl pitched the necklace across the room. A dull thunk followed the action as the metal hit the wall across from her, where is bounced back onto the other bed in the room. Two beds, one that use to be Raina's until she replaced Darcie so now a trunk of things sat on the made bed. The trunk was Loic's things that had been given to her; all his worldly possessions had been written to her in ink and weak blood.
Juliette bit her lip hard enough to draw metallic-tasting blood. Despite the fact it hurt her, she didn't seem very bothered. For a moment she wished that Gideon had punched her at Blacktower instead of missing her head. She wished she'd slapped him harder; she wished she had the power to order him to hang from the gallows - for his 'noble' blood to spill across the courtyard. He wasn't real, he was a nightmare with bloody hair.
The Vauclain settled herself back against the wall, her head examining the ceiling above her that was such a plain and simple color. She wished life were as simple as the white paint on the ceilings sometimes. With a heavy sigh, she shook her head in a slow manner, trying to clear those awful memories that would never leave her. Just like the memory she held of Loic, their last moments together that were as dismissive as he sounded about his death. A smile pulled to her lips, a sad smile, as she slowly peeled herself off the floor and shuffled to the bed she'd hurled the necklace into. A black mark on the wall promised her that she'd need to borrow some purple paints soon to cover the spot. Juliette's shaking fingers took the necklace in her hands, the necklace of the dead and a gift to the living.
The stairs creaked softly, like a tired sigh, as the shadowed girl crept down them. She unlocked the door and hopped down the stairs, her eyes gleaming in the darkness of the passing night. The black-cloaked figure hopped through the ghosts of the night, her footsteps as light as dancing. The shadow stopped outside the cathedral, the dim light from the windows and candles illuminating her outline, making her look less like a late night walker and more like a spirit escaped from her grave. And like a spirit, she drifted into the graveyard on small feet.
The next morning, the sigil of House Laine hung from a grave, swinging like a pendulum in the whispered breeze. Whether it was threat to the living or respect to the dead, was unknown. For all that was known, it very well could've been both.
