[ She cannot help herself - as she feels it wash over her. She is too old now for this to be easily undone, to not know this from every angle. A child that has lost both her parents, a queen that has ordered others to die, ( and so gladly they had - would be it be easier if they had hated her and done it in reluctance? )
And before all of that, a mother, that had lost both her sons, now. The first to his death, the second to her own departing. It shudders through her, a grief that has no end, a bottomless pit that is beyond weeping - a listlessness that is never in her gaze otherwise. For it, she snaps, taut and away. Does not reach for her veil, even if the flicker of instinct thought wants too, but after so much dragged up - between the encounter with Sam, the conversation afterwards with Shiro and his beasts, she cannot stand her own anymore.
Not her veil, though it's only because that means moving from where her hands are white knuckled in their placement balancing her. She would never, has never let, not since those days, let another see her become such a thing: a woman grieving a hole in herself. She does not weep anymore - not like that - not since then.
But a woman of position still, and she knows she cannot keep it out of her face. To that, she turns away, in profile at least, she does not have to look at him. And somewhere below all that is the soft sound of a child's laughter. High and sweet, and the singing that is all stolen out of her throat. ]
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And before all of that, a mother, that had lost both her sons, now. The first to his death, the second to her own departing. It shudders through her, a grief that has no end, a bottomless pit that is beyond weeping - a listlessness that is never in her gaze otherwise. For it, she snaps, taut and away. Does not reach for her veil, even if the flicker of instinct thought wants too, but after so much dragged up - between the encounter with Sam, the conversation afterwards with Shiro and his beasts, she cannot stand her own anymore.
Not her veil, though it's only because that means moving from where her hands are white knuckled in their placement balancing her. She would never, has never let, not since those days, let another see her become such a thing: a woman grieving a hole in herself. She does not weep anymore - not like that - not since then.
But a woman of position still, and she knows she cannot keep it out of her face. To that, she turns away, in profile at least, she does not have to look at him. And somewhere below all that is the soft sound of a child's laughter. High and sweet, and the singing that is all stolen out of her throat. ]
You should depart, Master Ulric.