A hand wavered over the window sill, the pads of fingertips hovering over the polished wood. Though pleasant in its texture, it did not bring the sort of pleasure one might expect. Its smooth surface, cool to the touch, barely pierced the nerves beyond her fingertips. Even her nails grazed and somewhat dug into the sill itself, slowly sliding and scratching their way along either left or right; an idle motion that only mildly distracted Ania from her lingering thoughts.
The Northwoman's lips remained somewhat pursed while she gazed beyond the muddled windows before her--outward to the familiar sights the countryside provided. All to her was quiet, even with the frequent sound of pattering steps from the hustling servants meandering about; the occasional whine of one of her daughter-in-laws; the fuss and bubbly voice of her two year old, Ylva; maybe the subtle creaks of the palace altogether. Much of her days were now labelled with silence, and all that came with it. Ania could not be termed depressed, but the void in her chest often left her wondering.
Often times, the Northerne Coen found herself wordlessly wondering, thinking, recalling. The Realm about her was shifting and changing, and how she coped with the change still remained to be a question without a solid answer. What answer was there to be had?
Several, she thought. Her culture was dying due to the faults of men; some she had once tried to teach so that they may preserve themselves, their homes--yet it was clear to her, now, that her words rang upon deaf ears. Times a-plenty had she attempted to educate the seemingly never-ending barbarian Northmen.
It had not occurred to her up until that very moment: how her youth had long faded from her. Had the times worn her so quickly? Were they then, even as she stood so still before the window? Had everyone around her also faded--the ones she called friends? The very consideration had her chest heaving with dull pain. Her palm planted itself upon the sill. Ania leaned forward, her brows pinching together.
A flash of platinum blonde sparked behind her eyes, in the depths of her memories. Soon followed the image of a grinning woman who's visage was tainted with a long scar, partially shaved hair that even had blood-red scars along the side of her skull. Her matching eyes, and the usual gesture she had to offer: a simple quip of the brows. Even the way the woman stood resonated in her mind; how she carried herself down the streets, or sat herself in the midst of the tavern ruckus.
Where had those memories stored themselves? Why had they not emerged sooner? What happened, Ania could not help but wonder. The older woman could still picture her companion's face, though not as clearly as she would have liked--the other pair of eyes stared back at her from the other side of the window, a haze around her edges. Luna was fading. How long had it been for Time to be permitted to chip away at her?
Ania swallowed a hard gulp, her fingers curling inward, somewhat, to press against her palm. Luna was disappearing from her mind, yet where would she go? The Coen let her head sink, the base of her chin angling to find her chest just about. Her shoulders were drawn down, tugged into something somber. Her mind clutched onto the dissipating images as tightly as it could muster, but even then, her heart could not seem to heal over.
Her irises slowly gazed upward, beyond the fields directly in sight. Time slowed in a pace far too gradual for her liking; it filled the room with heavy silence. Annelise could only manage a simple phrase, and even in its shortness did it seem to ring long in her head, and rattle her body. The woman's voice was no more powerful than a breeze.
"Even you are leaving me."
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@BillyTheScroofy @Eledana @D3RPOSAURUS @darkarely
