eldorne_girl

[The time has come, the Walrus said, to speak of many things and Delia doesn't want to speak or move or even think, so she's drinking. By herself, of course, but drinking anyway.

Kills things. Twitchiness and restlessness, but the door downstairs won't go away.]

[The door is shut. Not locked, never locked, but the door to Delia's and Josie's room is shut.]

[inside, there is only one person - Delia. Lovely, pretty little Delia, red-eyed and curled up on her bed.]

[Drinking]

[Because some things never change.]

Some things are not meant to be shared.

Delia has nearly always been surrounded by people. At Eldorne, at the convent, at court, at Milliways...People, people, people everywhere watching her and waiting for her to slip. These things were private: her grief (silent until she left the hall, silent as she ran down the hallway, silent as she locked her door and then Delia had screamed) at Roger's death, her own death, her falling in love with Thom while no one was watching (even if the revelation thereof was shared and thus public), but everything else witnessed by someone.

Her spiral into alcohol and sex and blood and pain and self-destruction: witnessed.

Her trial: witnessed.

Her life, her afterlife: witnessed.

She's playing for an audience, always playing a part, the part, the Part of Delia of Eldorne, lovely and clever and brittle as fine, badly-made glass, wanna-be Cinderella with a broken slipper...No, that's a pose. This is real. Delia is real, as is her part. All real, all facets of her, even the struggles to break free of the script and the falling down, maybe that's a part, too (it's not for others to decide, but others always do). No matter, it's real and it's not, it's old and repeating, it's reassuring and disappointing and -

Delia is dead, and some things aren't meant to be shared.

So imagine what you will what happens once she takes the Black God's hand. She is His now, and maybe there is a sense of relief as she accepts and walks with Him. Belonging, for once. Throw in terms such as surrender and submission, maybe, but it's a choice. She could have fought, could have stayed huddled and cold and running in her head...but she didn't. For the first time in a while, Delia chooses to accept and let go. Not for someone else, not for her family or for Roger, just...

For herself.

What happens to her after that is between Him and her, and not meant to be shared.

Just know this:

When she wakes up in her room in Milliways, twenty-four hours after she collapsed, she doesn't feel cold anymore.

These three things are true:

(Delia is asleep; Delia is dead; Delia is a traitor)

Time passes; choice is paramount; actions have consequences.

(It's been nearly a year; since she choose to die; for crimes done in the name of love and pride)

Time. Choice. Consequence.

(Delia is guilty of treason; Delia is dead; Delia dreams of a coronation coup with an earthquake and death and a handsome duke who makes her dance on blood)

It's time to start calling in the debt.

(and Delia wakes up screaming)

[Delia is outside. Jeans and black shirt and leather jacket, she doesn't look anything like a lady, sitting perched there on the fence looking at the horses.]

[late afternoon, getting cool, but she seems content just to stay there. It's the one thing in Milliways that reminds her of home. Not of court, but home. Eldorne, with it's hills and grasses and many, many horses.]

[she had been talking to Mithros earlier, a whispered apology as she stroked his neck and said, not today, lovely. Your mistress is angry with me, I can't ride you today..]

[later, maybe.]

[later.]

[but now the great warhorse has moved on, and she's just sitting there in the open air.]

lamorgne: and now I have to explain to Ji WHY Delia's in love with him
lamorgne: and I think it is, actually IN rather then just love.
theabbreviated: ...awww?
lamorgne: *flails*
theabbreviated: *cuddlepets*
lamorgne: ...I don't suppose you have any ideas?
lamorgne: *is grasping at straws*
theabbreviated: I... do not know, alas.
theabbreviated: I don't know Delia well enough
lamorgne: *nods*
lamorgne: Becca said it's because he's unavailiable
lamorgne: which makes scary amount of sense
theabbreviated: ...yeeah.
theabbreviated: I also think that Thom's addictive, the same way Roger is, in his own way. Hells, Alex was addicted to them both, same as Delia
lamorgne: they don't love, they don't need her, she can't conquer them and move on
lamorgne: *nods*
lamorgne: that makes sense, too
lamorgne: I don't get the sense that Josie is addictive, though
theabbreviated: Josie is more -- she needs you, and that's ego-bolstering, that this gorgeous, delciate creature could want and need you
lamorgne: *nods*
theabbreviated: that's why Alex was never as close with Josie, that sort of thing doesn't work as well with him
lamorgne: and that's why Delia probably keeps going back - Josie's there, and needs her, and loves her no matter what she does, or who
theabbreviated: *nods*

it makes sense!

Delia has a brother. A big brother, snarky and moody and protective and proud and they took care of each other. Just three years apart, and she followed him everywhere until Papa sent him to court and then her to the convent. She fell in with Roger and treason and he fell in the Tusiane war in a charge against their second cousin and smashed his leg and withdrew in on himself for a few years though she came and saw him and they talked and sometimes they laughed and sometimes...

Sometimes Delia dreams she's a little girl again and they are exploring the garden because Papa is busy with the horses and Mama is pregnant again and no one really wants to deal with the wilful Eldorne children. Jem is holding her hand and striding forwards on sturdy five-year-old legs while she's toddling along behind, all wide-eyed and trusting. They are young, and little, and the garden seems big and overgrown and they spend hours and hours exploring and playing and being children again and

and when Delia wakes, her pillow is damp with tears.

Lilly gave her a key to the office as well as a key to the suite, and this is the key that she uses. Not the key to her room, not that one, but the new key that Lilly gave in exchange for maths and rates and work.
it's all her fault
A new key, but it works. And she locks the door to the office behind her, and tries to ignore the instant flare of panic in her throat.
it's all her fault
Locked.
it's all her fault
Locked, and she has the key so this time she can get out when she wants.
it's all her fault
Locked.
it's all her fault
Locked herself in here because she's reasonably certain that she'll be alone. And later she'll start to organize things, later she'll draw up paper and columns for figures and conversions, later she'll go to a mirror and wash her face and brush her hair and fix the kohl around her eyes.
it's all her fault
Later.
it's all her fault
Once she's picked herself off the floor and brushed her skirts free of imaginary dust, and once she has stopped crying over Indiana Jones.
all that blood and pain and injury and time and torture, it's all her fucking fault

There really is no logic to your smile,
there is no simple way to add this sum,
subtract the empty men whom you beguile
and win with your bright eyes, your playing dumb.
There is no way to quantify my rage
in normal terms, in inches miles and yards,
and so we spar, with yells as we engage.
Or else we dance. Or sit, and play at cards.
I didn't mean to let is get this far;
believe me, love, this blood was not for you
to see. Do you think me uncouth? Bizarre?
Just kiss me, then, I always follow through.
I'll taste your hate and swallow down your sighs;
just let me have this once; just close your eyes.

- fahye, here.

It was odd - they looked scared, they sounded scared, even the sweat on their skin left a frightened stink in the air. But they never seemed to want to get away. There were always chances, moments when the shackles were unlocked, moments in between rasping, horrific affections, when they could have gotten away if they'd wanted it badly enough.

They were always like that. Frightened of death, but secretly excited by what they were going through. It was one of the things that made this all worthwhile. It was one of the things that made their exhausted crying so nice when they were left alive, and made the screams of agony and terror so delicious when they were not.

But this latest one was a bit of a mystery. It wasn't a lack of fear, no, the fear was definitely there - it was a lack of denial. This one was consciously enjoying it, instead of hiding it like the others did. This one even seemed to find something...fulfilling in it. Of course it was fulfilling, but not usually for the victims. But this one...this one almost acted tenderly when hair was yanked and knives drew close to throats.

It was odd, but it was like falling in love. Perhaps it even was falling in love, though that was unexpected. Shattered bones and broken minds were usually not so receptive to gentle touches, but somehow, with this one...it stopped being rape and murder, and become something much more frightening.

- not_in_denial, here