[AW] we drew in revelry;

[Theodosia]

let our eyes show the 
fire in our hearts tonight

Against the golden ex-queen with flowers in her hair, she feels suddenly clumsy and graceless, a pale imitation of the Court; she feels so achingly young and naive, even if she is only a year younger than Florentine -- here is a woman who had led their court with a steady hand, who had achieved so much --

And here is a warrior trapped between the weight of duty and her own traitorous heart that even now aches for the touch of the Commander’s gaze, to mend everything that she has shattered between them even as the accusations ring clear as a clarion call in her ears. She is drowning beneath her own inadequacies, unsure of her own ability to live up to the expectations of Israfel and Asterion.

She is starting to think that maybe they chose the wrong person to be their Champion, but she cannot muster the courage to tell them so.

She moves at the flower queen’s request without thinking, making herself comfortable upon one of the offered cushions with her legs tucked beneath her chest. From here, she can peer up at Florentine with pale, dusted-rose eyes, eyes bruised in shades of blue and purple that speak of how little rest she has gotten since everything has gone to hell in a handbasket -- how can she sleep when there is unrest at their borders and not enough bodies to fill in the gaps, how can she sleep when she dreams of a forbidden kiss and the sharp ache of the rejection months in the waiting?

“I’m… okay,” and it is a lie painted by a tired smile and a small shrug of her wing.

“How are you?”

credits

@Florentine