it would be lovely to leave euyin dell for once, had she the time or mind to. instead, the present cataclysm has rendered her quite homebound—if only to act as a balm to the fractured nerves of the high court. ( how many times would the words, ‘fear not’ and ‘all will be well’ pass her lips? she has begun to resent the taste they leave in her mouth. ) all the while, her harried mother is noticeably withdrawn. louder and more violent than any meteor, the matriarch has retreated from polite society ( and from her daughter, too ), leaving a flock of faithful behind to scramble and make sense of the loss of her. trained a diplomat before she was ever a daughter, the eldest of house iokheaira hasn't had the time to grieve for the vacuum of space where a mother should be. time passes. the moons and the sun give chase.
“that will be all for today,” hollyhock offers kindly to a scribe, her expression one of practiced gratitude. “thank you for your time,” she smiles, doing well not to wince, before deftly extracting herself from the brief with one of the many court scribes. the day is nearly over now, she notes, glancing toward the dim lights of dusk. thank lonos. if nothing else, the night promises sleep—a chance to dream, to escape duty for one, guiltless, fraction of a second. she breathes out ( her chest wants to crack open its cage from the burden of tension, imperfections in its very foundation ), and suddenly, she is back in her body ... her very hungry body. hollyhock's stomach growls, and this time, when the air leaves her lungs, it's in a quiet sigh. in all her working, she has forgotten to eat again.
with some reluctance, she rights her course away from her chambers to those beyond. perhaps, if she is lucky ( and she hasn't a streak of good fortune to speak of ), she will find food without incident caused. hunger had a way of making a beast of her.
I would break every inch of my love, the halls here seem to close in on one another. it's cramped. if you weren't bumping into a high court noble or some rushed servant, the small spaces seemed ready to swallow an unsuspecting guest whole. even without the added pressure of courts and heirs and how he managed to fuck them all up, the place kept pyr on edge. he preferred to be as far away from the Matriarch's lair as he could get. the less time spent in this stuffy castle, the less time he had to politely smile at people he wished didn't exist or answer questions he didn't think needed answering. what did he care what new ladies had come of age for betrothal? Or of what new constable had come forward to be knighted? what the high court did on their time meant nothing to him. he only need to bide his time a little longer and, hopefully, they would finally let the Dawn Court move on. To a new home. To independence.
he dodged another servant, a string of curses on his name falling from their mouth, as they tumbled down the hall to meet a schedule. "You could be more creative next time!" he yelled back. no answer echoed back. he was left standing in the firelight with no real destination in mind other than he was restless and he hated it here. a soft harrumph is all that follows as he stalks down the corridor the servant had come, following aimless thoughts. the firelight casts him in a softer hue though the shadows make his sharp points sharper, more defined.
he's just about to turn around and stalk the other way when the matriarch's heir is blocking his path. it takes every inch of him to turn the immediate frown into a placid smile--a mimic of the nobles he'd seen at court--but he does not bow. we yield to none runs through his thoughts like a prayer. "Your highness," he mutters, stepping back to create some space, to give him room to breathe.
the alps
Hollyhock
it is only by the allmother's grace that she stops just short of colliding straight-on with the wolf in front of her. she had been so lost in her thoughts that she had forgotten herself. she breathes in, tempering her expression to something kind and apologetic. though fatigue and hunger gnaw at her like buzzards on carrion, she will never forgo her manners.
“you have my sincerest apologies,” she says with only a fraction of a nod, meeting the other wolf's eyes. 'familiar' is the word that comes to mind before, without conscious thought and out of habit, her thauma begins to reach forward, grasping for an emotional baseline. golden runes flare on her head and back, and for a brief moment, hollyhock experiences a vision of shadows crawling toward pyr before a twinge of a headache quiets the telltale glow of her abilities. something negative, she gathers, feeling too exhausted to be able to delve much farther than that. “ah. you are of the dawn court, are you not? your eyes and your face are familiar to me.” there is a pause as she considers him, her smile never wavering. she runs through the catalog of names in her head of the ill-fated house of mourning. this wolf is older than she is, which does wonders for a rather small process of elimination.
“Pyr of house mourning, yes?” a name she knows, though she has never had the pleasure of meeting him formally. for some reason or another, he seems to be rather scarce among the dell. “i was just about to settle for a bit of food and drink. would you care to join me?”
I would break every inch of my love, he'd only ever seen the heir from a distance or during the rare court mandated appearances he was forced to make. he hadn't realized she'd be so pink; he hadn't realized her gracious manners would feel like a trap. his skin prickles beneath the thick golden fur, reminding him to stay alert. even the fairest blossoms have their poison, the maesters had said during lessons. he was still barely more than a political prisoner within these walls and the close proximity of the matriarch's chosen successor put him in a dangerous place. one wrong move, one wrong word, would mean the end of House Mourning here and now. the dark green of his eyes flicker with a hint of amber as he stares at her, not able to answer her polite manners with more than a gruff grunt of acknowledgment.
there's a churn in his stomach he wished would go away, but it stays. it coils through him like venom, reminding him over and over that even without the shackles, he's no better than the servants he'd passed earlier. a prince forced to be a pawn. he spots the soft glow of runes in the dim light of these halls and, before pyr can react, a soft touch against his psyche. a nearby firelight flares in response to his own reaction of surprise and anger, a wave of heat and sparks. his own runes quickly die down across his shoulders as pyr grasps for some shred of composure. his heart is racing, thumping wildly in his chest with adrenaline and overexertion. his teeth grind behind a forced smile. "Yes, Your Highness," he murmurs, still watching her. "Heir to the Golden Throne." it's a light reminder of who he is and he would not let the High Court forget what the Dawn used to be. forget their power.
with his heart still hammering in his chest and an ache quickly settling in his temples, pyr steps out of her way, motioning for the heir to lead the way toward the kitchens. at the very least, eating would keep him occupied.
the alps
Hollyhock
pyr is a difficult read. now more than ever, she wishes that she had not overexerted herself so that she may have a better chance of peering into his mind. it is a loss for certain, but she has been trained to read others without her abilities, too. so, just as he watches her, she mirrors his vigilance. where he boasts of an intensity, like a fire just gaining its momentum; her gaze is more even-keeled, like an unbroken surface of water. even as the nearby torchlight blazes and the visualization of his runes ignite, her eyes are on him. she does not flinch.
“heir to the golden throne, indeed,” she gives him a second but more meaningful nod of respect this time. “it is an honor to meet you formally at last, your grace. i have heard much of your house and your homestead,” hollyhock falls silent, choosing her next words carefully. “though it is has been some time, i may offer may condolences to the untimely loss of your father. may his memory be illuminated through the ages.” despite much of this being politics, this recognition of loss is genuine. grief is one of the more powerful tools of unity; it is universal. to have lost a parent so young is a tragedy she would not wish on her worst adversary.
once pleasantries are exchanged, she guides them on, leading them to the banquet hall that higher nobility attend. on their way, hollyhock commands the attention of a nearby dowager, dressed head to tail in jewelry that borders on excessive, and requests her attendance as a chaperone. upon receiving an enthusiastic response, the heir to the high crown smiles and gestures to a low table for pyr to join her. before they can even recline on their goose-down pillows, servants are bustling around them, offering food and drink of all kinds. hollyhock settles for mulberry wine and elk and signals that pyr and their chaperone may have whatever they desire.
“i imagine that you miss home dearly,” she says with a shallow tilt of her head. “i trust that the accommodations for you and yours have been adequate?” or so she hopes, having seen to them herself regularly.
Pyr