eldorne_girl: (borderline alcoholic)
[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.]
eldorne_girl: (dressed in black)
[Delia had been working. Working; flirting and charming and sex and, well, it's nice and fun, but...]

[she smiles, a little, as she smooths down her bodice]

[there is increasingly a 'but'. Always there, at the edges of her mind...

damn her pride]

[she knocks on the door once, and then opens it]

eldorne_girl: (borderline alcoholic)
[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.]


[Because some things never change.]
eldorne_girl: (secret smile)
[being warm seems like a luxury after so long being cold, and being able to run around in bare feet and a singlet top seems almost sinfully nice]

[if Tortallans and Delia had a strong idea about 'sin', that is]

[leaving that aside, Delia is out in the greenhouse. It's night, but it's summer and so thus it's jeans and bare feet and a lavender top with spaghetti straps and a few layers of sheer, lovely fabric - Indy bought it for her, on their trip to London, but she doesn't think about that. Instead, she just walks through and trails her fingers against the flowers]
eldorne_girl: (secret smile)
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.
eldorne_girl: (look what your lover's talk has done)
Delia is freezing shivering shaking, rubbing her arms and huddled in her bed in the corner trying to keep warm trying to get warm run her nails across her arms try to get the creeping silent cold out of her bones cold so cold.

Delia is a soul a ghost a no not a corpse body in the tomb what does it look like rotting decomposing her skin her hair dry gone how long to bones how long to dust how long how long can't move can't change cut hair grows back scratch scar bleed soul's don't bleed yes they do because souls are dead.

And Delia is asleep dreaming whimpering no no can't sleep mustn't sleep nightmares will come screaming choking dying again nightmares Mama bleeding can't find Lerant Jem Papa I'm sorry please ROGER Thom and Josie and Alex so much blood from her hands from her lying silky words from her lips can't breath choking on it

can't breathe

fingers pulling at the rope breaking nails and can't breathe can't breathe world sliding away

fall to the ground cold, tiles smooth and old and worn with footsteps long, long since dead. Crouches on the ground, silken absinthe skirts cold as old wealth and skin like the death – green eyes wide and bright and dull and red. The darkness is large and vast and cramped and suffocating and

she's been here before. Fragile girl dead girl year ago not quite wordsblood choke in her throat shakes her head

Delia of Eldorne hand extended belongs to those word no promises or pleas just a whispered 'yes' as she gets to her feet and takes her Lord's hand and walks into the dark
in the Realms of the Dead.
eldorne_girl: (look what your lover's talk has done)
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)
eldorne_girl: (daddy had horses)
[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.]


[but now the great warhorse has moved on, and she's just sitting there in the open air.]
eldorne_girl: (lies become your truth)
(green is for envy)

Envy, jealousy, all these things Delia knows well. Dancing in Eldorne green with the boys of court, a heartless flirt who never ever thought of the hearts she broke, she watched the weddings and romances with green (envious) eyes and she had shrugged and laughed and turned to the blue-eyed Duke.

But she does not think of him as she sits in front of the mirror.

(mirror, mirror, on the wall)

(she's always hated mirrors. She would look into her eyes and see nothing but green, just green and white and black. To those who said that they could see their soul, she just flicked those green (envious) eyes in their direction and shrugged and laughed)

(who is the fairest one of all)

Delicate and lovely, the young (dead) Lady of Eldorne sits in front of the mirror and brushes her chestnut hair so that it shines. And as she brushes, she thinks. Oh, yes, she can think. Thinking is not the problem, it's feeling. But think and you label things, and sometimes they lose their power and others not.

Label an emotion, let's pick one.

Love. She loves Roger like an addiction; Alex as a friend; Josie as a lover; Thom as

she doesn't lie awake and dream of what could be, doesn't dream of his hands or eyes because they are Thom's and belong to a sharp, sharp mind that cuts and just...no, not for him those dreams and thoughts, not really

something she doesn't know. Doesn't matter, just a label for an emotion that she is realistic enough not to dream about. It changes nothing she told his furious, jealous (green for envy, yellow for jealousy) sister-twin. And, it doesn't. Label something and it can gain power, it can lose it, or it can say the same. It's a reassurance, that is all.

After all, she never fucks up the ones who don't love her back.
eldorne_girl: (beauty is pain is beauty)
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!
eldorne_girl: (cries alone)
Think I care, Dell?

Somehow, she had left the Bar without losing all her composure. She was crying, oh yes she was crying, but it was a silent, pretty thing with tears sliding down her pale cheeks and eyes not really seeing anything.

I'm not him.

This couldn't last, and it didn't once she had made a few meters away from the back door. It wasn't cold, just a crisp spring-nearly-summer night and her dress was a real one; soft, yes, but the fabric was heavy and she had petticoats. No reason, then, for her to be shaking and feeling cold.

I think you would have done if I hadn't said anything.

A choked sob and the delicate girl stumbled, throwing out her hand out against a sycamore so she didn't fall. Sycamore...

I don't know why we do this.

Do what, Thom?

Why? Why do you talk to me?

A sycamore where Indy had taught her to shoot, where they had kissed and made love, hands never stopping and they didn't say 'I love you'. That was later, after she...after he...Well. Doesn't matter. She had fucked that one up and he'd burnt the roses and it's only poetic justice that her knees landed the roses had been, isn't it?

Love, then? For people who hurt you and don't really need you.

Oh, that had hurt. She couldn't think, couldn't think of Josie and Alex, couldn't think of Val (but, she didn't love him. Liked him well enough, but wouldn't let herself love him), just...She thought of Gary and Raoul and the boys at court to whom she'd flirted and teased and been oh so cruel to. She thought of Roger, and that helpless addiction. She thought of Indy. A good man, safe and smart and she did love him, she did. Once. Then she'd panicked and threw the keys and he'd burt the roses so that bridge was gone and

your idea of love's very strange

she thought of Thom. Hadn't meant to mean it. Just something to say, to throw in his face to see what he would do, like she said. But then, then she said it and she did mean it and the words had choked her to say them again. She hadn't. But. Love. For someone who hurt her, who didn't need her, who kept on talking back to her but that was just using, wasn't it?

He didn't need her, he had Alanna.

So Delia just curled up underneath the sycamore, and cried where no one could see.

Mithros bless, stupid girl.
eldorne_girl: (Default)
lamorgne (4:22:01 PM): it's subtle. The kind of perfume that a femme fatale would wear, not a debutante - it's not floral, but seductive. The kind that comes in the red and orange boxes with a silhouette of st basil's and such. Use your imagination. *grins*
eldorne_girl: (and I followed Jem everywhere...)
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.
eldorne_girl: (blossoms in her hair)
[once recovering from the hang-over, Delia had gone to the office again. She wasn't avoiding Josiane, not really, just...other people.]

[so she had spent all day with paper and ink and the calm logic of calculating figures. In a way, she felt satisfied as she went up the stairs to their room.]

[in a way]

[in another she felt empty and panicky all at once, guilty and numb and oh it was hard to breathe as she opened the door and slipped in.]

eldorne_girl: (cries alone)
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
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
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
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
eldorne_girl: (soft and sensual)
[Her room, their room - Josie opens the door, and Delia steps in as to the beginning of a dance. One step two, spin around with fully, heavy skirts and watch her lover shut the door behind them (not locked, never locked, locked means Delia can't get out, can't breathe)]

[One step two, and Delia curls her arms around Josie's waist and kisses the back of her neck]

Josie...[and her voice is huskier then normal, drawing the princess's name out on her tongue]
eldorne_girl: (we all have our little issues)
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.

- [livejournal.com profile] 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.

- [livejournal.com profile] not_in_denial, here
eldorne_girl: (curled up and fragile)
[George carries her up, up the stairs, up to his room, all the while cradling her like she was something precious, something fragile...

Something broken.]

[the door is shut, but not locked (a good thing, always a good thing, locks mean you can't get out can't escape...) and when the lanky thief places her on the bed, Delia just curls up into a huddle of thick hair and silken skirts; curls up, and doesn't stop crying.]

[not for a long time]

[but sooner or later she has to stop and, slowly, she does - the sobbing becomes weeping which becomes a sniff and a hiccup here and there. But the whole time, she doesn't move, just stares out with reddened green eyes not really seeing anything. At last, though, she draws in a shaky breath and whispers,]

I'm a wreck, aren't I?
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