Post-Milliways
Sep. 17th, 2004 05:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
Delia sat at her little table in her room, brushing her hair in front of the mirror. She missed her maid, Marcia, and how the girl had this technique of brushing without snaring the knots…but, she was forced to admit there was a certain pleasure to be found in doing it yourself. Or maybe she was just far too fond of her hair –lovely, thick, almost curly hair- and how it felt as she ran her fingers through it. Brushing softened it even as it made it frizzy, and the whisper of it against her skin was just heaven.
Delia would always be the first to admit that she was odd.
Still, this time spent brushing and the braiding her hair before going to bed was giving her time to think. The Lady Euterpe Aoide’s comment about why she liked sad songs had hit a cord somewhere in the lovely girl’s being. Put that way, it almost sounded like a calculated choice. It wasn’t, but Delia knew it made cynical sense. Sadness to temper her beauty, make it human and far less cruel. Alanna and Thom would be the first ones to point out that it didn’t work…but that was Alanna and Thom. She grinned to herself about those two. Alanna’s unreasonable hatred was a joy to behold and to cause, and watching her flirtatious movements only annoy the knight was amusing. Maybe, if Delia was bored, she would consider making Alanna uncomfortable as well…but time will only tell after all. Thom. Hmm. Annoying him was far more fun then Alanna, his insults quicker and sharper, and his blush…Delia liked making the young sorcerer squirm. If it wasn’t frogs in the bed, then flirting will do just as well.
Flirting…she frowned and looked at herself in the mirror for a long moment. Large bright-green eyes, set above broad cheekbones that spoke of northern blood and full lips above a delicate chin. Sometimes she hated the way she looked- delicate. No, not like a doll, for dolls were only delicate when made from porcelain. Dolls were made plump and pretty and were girls that were never called bony. Delicate meant fragile, meant that men wanted to bed her just to prove that they could without breaking her. Pretty to toy with, useless for the bearing of healthy sons. Any children of hers would be clever, and good-looking…but who wanted a small-boned knight? Evidently the old man with the Madeira wine had seen something he liked. Beauty was a gift, the singing Lady had said, but sometimes it was a tool…
And others a curse. For he reminded her horribly of Roger. A crude, old, peasant Roger who asked deceptively devious questions.
It was all rather annoying, really.
Delia would always be the first to admit that she was odd.
Still, this time spent brushing and the braiding her hair before going to bed was giving her time to think. The Lady Euterpe Aoide’s comment about why she liked sad songs had hit a cord somewhere in the lovely girl’s being. Put that way, it almost sounded like a calculated choice. It wasn’t, but Delia knew it made cynical sense. Sadness to temper her beauty, make it human and far less cruel. Alanna and Thom would be the first ones to point out that it didn’t work…but that was Alanna and Thom. She grinned to herself about those two. Alanna’s unreasonable hatred was a joy to behold and to cause, and watching her flirtatious movements only annoy the knight was amusing. Maybe, if Delia was bored, she would consider making Alanna uncomfortable as well…but time will only tell after all. Thom. Hmm. Annoying him was far more fun then Alanna, his insults quicker and sharper, and his blush…Delia liked making the young sorcerer squirm. If it wasn’t frogs in the bed, then flirting will do just as well.
Flirting…she frowned and looked at herself in the mirror for a long moment. Large bright-green eyes, set above broad cheekbones that spoke of northern blood and full lips above a delicate chin. Sometimes she hated the way she looked- delicate. No, not like a doll, for dolls were only delicate when made from porcelain. Dolls were made plump and pretty and were girls that were never called bony. Delicate meant fragile, meant that men wanted to bed her just to prove that they could without breaking her. Pretty to toy with, useless for the bearing of healthy sons. Any children of hers would be clever, and good-looking…but who wanted a small-boned knight? Evidently the old man with the Madeira wine had seen something he liked. Beauty was a gift, the singing Lady had said, but sometimes it was a tool…
And others a curse. For he reminded her horribly of Roger. A crude, old, peasant Roger who asked deceptively devious questions.
It was all rather annoying, really.