In the reticent contours of her fragile mind, the gentle thrum of crunching buds and tender stalks registers within her conscience with ardor — a soothing wash of warmth spreading from her bosom throughout her veins, for the Frostheart has depended upon her and she has not let him down (and if the trembling speech within her cranium recognizes that she has pursued after the ice cloaked man as a lost young pup behind its master's feet, it remains as concealed as the breeze on a winter's eve). She has brought to him a herb in which to aid, to rejuvenate, to alleviate and mend agonized minds and feverish claret, and she allows the gentlest of sighs to pass through shuddering lips, even as the snowy Queen perched atop the callow tree chuffs in salutations.
  She almost forgets that she is in the middle of poisonous words and vile spittle and that Leto gazes upon her with such utter chagrin that it would wash through her soul and frame as a wildfire, scalding her with arduous flame, she almost forgets that there is a young boy with his weaponry aimed at her friend's battered ship. She wished she could have stayed that way, wiped the animosity and resentment and anarchy from her mind, wished she could have simply relished in the silence of a snow laden owl and a charcoal flecked, glacier hearted King (as the lightning-born woman so seems to speak of him).

She wished she wasn't a derelict fool with a curse upon her heart.

But the inevitable downfall arrives, as the rain does not wait for the imploring wants and desires of a mortal, and as the rain, the aftershock of its icy fingers leave her in the perpetual continuum of misery and distress, sending wavelengths off her frame, rattled to the bone at the abruptness of her voice flooding the echoing space, her rough song shattering against her harks as a dagger to twist in her heart.
"Stop," comes the minuscule whimper of a tremulous breath, harks fixing upon the woman as if she is a threat, and perhaps some more enduring half of her essence shrieks its rage and defensive ire of the glass-encased and ticking clock inside her bosom, fearful and frightened of the idea it may fracture under the force of her words. But as soon as a lull breaks between them, his voice ricochets into the room, as soft as rainfall and as firm as the wind against her flesh, as the ground beneath her hooves. There is some tale of damnation between the two figurines, some history in which she has yet to write unto her perception and carve into her sinew— and her breath wobbles out, quick and brief, and she does not know if this escalates into more than a heated conversation if she can stop it and her mind screams at them, it screams and screams and her throat feels hoarse even though she isn't speaking to cease this, cease this because the foes outside the sanctum in which they bow their heads are real and alive and they cannot do this.
  They do not heed the clamoring song inside her mind, do not heed the warning bells that chime as birdsong within her core, and as the lightning-born steps forward with insanity in her clouded pearls she sways as a leaf upon the wind, for she speaks of cruor spilt upon the ground and cessation and the Frostheart and his throat slit and she would cry out if she could force the words past her tongue, if she could force out more than a keening and almost panicked murmur.

"You won't— you can't— no, no stop it, stop it please," but her strained tongue only seems to worsen the situation, as when Leto stands once more, her gaze falls upon her, berating lyrics in passion and enmity to lay as a knife upon her skull.
  Something inside her splinters, a growing fault line within her shivering bodice until something warm and salty threatens to spill over the edge of her violent depths, and she imagines the dissatisfied glaciers of Allgemeine and he's dead but if he was there he would hate the foolhardy girl she has become.
 Feeble enough to believe anyone could ever cherish her, and unguarded enough to believe she could ever love when the bitter core inside her bosom has only ever been wrecked with grief.

And when she speaks again, it is with the voice of the dead (has she ever been so toneless before?).
"Leave." There's a cool dampness to her cheeks, a numbness to her bones, a lurch in her movements, and when she lifts her dome she does so delicately— as if it is a heavy thing.
"Or cease this hysteria at once. I allied myself alongside Leto." A baleful emptiness to her pearls, and she is retreating within herself because she forgot she was the only one she could trust. She is severed beneath the shell of her flesh, of the sinew that covers the bloodied beating thing in her chest, and she would rip it from its cage if she could.
"I did not give my heart and my loyalties to.. to this. And you will not talk to me in that tongue again, for I would have died for a alone woman at the contours of the World's Edge as she was attacked by drakes, and I would do so again on any eve."