Post by Ophelia Rainecourt on Jul 13, 2022 21:29:31 GMT -5
[ For Kennet Caern ]
The walk to Malthace’s room was a pilgrimage, taken every time she set foot in Nevermere. Ophelia took it to atone for the sins of her father, yet each time she left her mother’s room just as burdened as before. Malthace was the albatross she did not kill, but nevertheless the one Julius had slung around her neck.
Ophelia loved and resented her encumbrance in equal measure. Even in Arynn Frey, Malthace lingered in the corners of her mind, haunting her like a ghost. Ophelia liked to imagine it was the same for her mother. That even in her clouded mind, Malthace wondered where her daughter had gone and when she would return.
But that was the wish of a child.
Ophelia’s guard accompanied hers to Malthace’s door. The queen’s room had only one soldier stationed outside; a formality more than anything else. When Ophelia arrived at the door, the soldier inclined his head in greeting and her own guards dropped away.
There was no announcement of her presence. No waiting for consent to enter. Ophelia slowly turned the doorknob and entered without ceremony.
Mathace’s living quarters felt like a tomb. The fire burned low and the curtains were partially drawn, time seemingly stuck somewhere between day and night. The hollow queen sat at her vanity, gazing absently into her mirror. Sitting as if she’d known Ophelia was coming.
“Hello, Mama.” The queen did not move, did not acknowledge her daughter’s presence. Ophelia expected it, but she went through the motions all the same. It made things easier. “I would have notified you of my return, but, well…my journey was rather unexpected.”
Malthace did not fill the silence, but Ophelia’s tone was amiable, unaffected by the woman’s apparent indifference to her presence. Ophelia went to the vanity. Now up close, Ophelia looked in the mirror and noted the changes. Malthace’s eyes looked sunken, her cheeks hollowed out. With a sinking feeling, Ophelia’s eyes drifted to her own visage, seeing the same exhausted eyes in the mirror. Like mother, like daughter.
To stave off the panic that thought induced, Ophelia reached for the comb on the vanity. She started on her mother’s hair. Ophelia started with the knots, working section by section. After a while, she started to sing; a sweet, sorrowful song that was barely more than a whisper.