[Wild Roses] Rosenthal era
Title: tightwound and shattering
'Verse/characters: Wild Roses; Arianhrod
Prompt: 45A "headful of ghosts"
Word Count: 406
Notes: Aftermath of Rosenthal. I'm kind of afraid to ask for more words from her. O.o;
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We do not discuss what might have happened if she had had more backing, who would have died in dark corners or terrible accidents on the oceans or the rivers, do not verbally dance around the words 'would it have been you, next? would it have been me?'.
If we did, we would have to speak of those who did fall. Would have to discuss why them--not why now, because that is coming clear with careful questions and much combing of records, but why them.
We do not speak of the eldest, who in life was compared to our grandfather Ian. We do not speak of Joveta's daughter, or of my husband.
We definitely do not speak of why I spoke like there was sand in my throat for weeks afterward, when I could be persuaded to speak at all.
My daughter lived. Ruadhan's sons--the younger of whom is still prowling about like a hunting dog finally given something to do after years of lying by someone's hearth. Ruadhan lived, Donel lived, my closest brothers both still stand, though something cold lives behind Fintain's eyes now, that did not live there before.
I cannot bring myself to sorrow over my father's son Mahieu, but there was something to his son, and he, too is lost, consigned to the candles and no longer to be summoned with his name.
It would not have helped if Ulysse had been home when it happened, and it might have cost us him, too, if he had. My brother is loyal to the King his father, and he would not have been let to live if she had won.
My father the King and his Hand my uncle were neither of them home, and that is why things happened when they did. I would the timing had been different, if I could assure myself that our losses would be less, not more.
My father and I agree that Maya Rosenthal died too quickly, but it is for different reasons. My father wants to know who else is hiding in the dark, waiting for a better moment, what other threats to him lurk out of sight.
I want to tear her apart, want to stretch her out over weeks, shatter her as we shattered, as we are shattering still, every time we wish to speak to someone now dead, every time we light a candle instead of call a name aloud.
'Verse/characters: Wild Roses; Arianhrod
Prompt: 45A "headful of ghosts"
Word Count: 406
Notes: Aftermath of Rosenthal. I'm kind of afraid to ask for more words from her. O.o;
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We do not discuss what might have happened if she had had more backing, who would have died in dark corners or terrible accidents on the oceans or the rivers, do not verbally dance around the words 'would it have been you, next? would it have been me?'.
If we did, we would have to speak of those who did fall. Would have to discuss why them--not why now, because that is coming clear with careful questions and much combing of records, but why them.
We do not speak of the eldest, who in life was compared to our grandfather Ian. We do not speak of Joveta's daughter, or of my husband.
We definitely do not speak of why I spoke like there was sand in my throat for weeks afterward, when I could be persuaded to speak at all.
My daughter lived. Ruadhan's sons--the younger of whom is still prowling about like a hunting dog finally given something to do after years of lying by someone's hearth. Ruadhan lived, Donel lived, my closest brothers both still stand, though something cold lives behind Fintain's eyes now, that did not live there before.
I cannot bring myself to sorrow over my father's son Mahieu, but there was something to his son, and he, too is lost, consigned to the candles and no longer to be summoned with his name.
It would not have helped if Ulysse had been home when it happened, and it might have cost us him, too, if he had. My brother is loyal to the King his father, and he would not have been let to live if she had won.
My father the King and his Hand my uncle were neither of them home, and that is why things happened when they did. I would the timing had been different, if I could assure myself that our losses would be less, not more.
My father and I agree that Maya Rosenthal died too quickly, but it is for different reasons. My father wants to know who else is hiding in the dark, waiting for a better moment, what other threats to him lurk out of sight.
I want to tear her apart, want to stretch her out over weeks, shatter her as we shattered, as we are shattering still, every time we wish to speak to someone now dead, every time we light a candle instead of call a name aloud.