I give Butler a sharp jab in the fleshy part of her belly with my claw and twitch my tail in front of her nose to snap her out of whatever pleasant, frolicking memory she's trapped in. Her eyes find mine immediately, and I see the last shards of sunlight memories draining away from those sea eyes, leaving a glazed and blank expression on her pale face, before I realize it isn't complacent at all. The anger in her iron heart, quenched by grief only moments ago, now seethed and boiled in tumultuous waves. There were so many emotions at once, I could not begin to sort them all out. It would be like separating all the different grains of sand and putting them in specific categories—impossible, really.
However, in this pot of a hundred different ingredients all melted together, there is one emotion I can identify and even agree with—frustration. Frustration with all of these blithering idiots she supposedly calls her brothers and sisters. Of course, Yseulte's mind is more, ah, how do I say it, refined. Rest assured, whatever else may be whirring around in her pretty little head, the term blithering idiots is not among them. Such a polite butler. Only a sense of despair and emptiness lingers, not able to discern what frustrates her more, the fact that she is just another meaningless face among many, or that their many faces are meaningless to her.
As much as she pretends, they are not her kin.
They are not her desert sisters.
And yet she suffers their bantering and idea exchanging anyhow, stiff and cold and ever the dutiful iron maiden. All this talk of action and revenge, while all they seem to be doing is arguing how best to build a wall and hide behind it. But like them, Yseulte is no warrior, not any longer, not since her desert days with her warring sisters, and her crippled leg ended all possibilities that might have been.
Aaron has grown since she last saw him, but she can still see the childish, stubborn set of his jaw, the wide, trusting eyes full of vulnerability and grief hid amid a mask of duty and responsibility; a boy playing at being a man. Nonetheless, Yseulte thinks he is doing a fine job of it. But the angle of Aaron's jaw does not concern me so much as that nasty little pooch at his side. I sneer at the vile creature with my black lips, violet eyes bright and lustrous as I gaze at the silly thing, taunting, provoking, daring her to do something about my insubordination.
Yseulte must have noticed, because she promptly stepped on my tail.
Sullen and bitter, I hiss between my teeth and place my interest elsewhere. A lady horse absolutely demolishes a tree with my favorite thing in this world yet—fire. Such power! My eyes follow the floating orb hungrily, but Yseulte feels uncomfortable at the sight of the smoking remains of the ashen tree. She fears them, the flames, and for good reason. She wielded them many years ago to destroy her father, and nearly did in herself in the process. A quant little murderer, my butler. But for whatever uneasiness in her heart, she hides it well behind her iron mask.
The talk of a constructing an immense wall also renders Yseulte uncomfortable. A wall to keep other things out, perhaps, and that was all very well (albeit cowardly—they should be seeking out their foes, not hiding behind a wall), but it would do more than that. It would keep her in. A cage. A strange feeling suddenly possesses her; instinctive and primitive. Fight or flight, her body whispered in trembling chords of flesh and tendons, flee from this place and never look back. Freedom was so close, lingering just beyond the claw-like trees that shielded her from her wild skies and raging sun. Her heart fluttered in her chest, a trapped bird whirring against her ribs fervently and catching desperately in her throat, searching for a way out. But there was no escape.
And suddenly, she speaks out of turn, addressing a question clearly not meant for her. A rude butler, perhaps, but an honest and blunt one at that.
"Is it wise to bring outsiders into our home? The same outsiders that perhaps murdered our own, we would shelter and protect under our own roof," she almost spits the words, her voice thick with contempt. "What is the purpose of such a wall, if not to keep them out?"
She is so tired suddenly; she gazes at her master Glazier and Queen sadly. She could not leave them; could not abandon Lace anymore than she could her black queen. The rebellious little bird inside her plummeted from her throat and back into it the depths of its dark cage. Weak, subordinate, and tame. A pretty bird in a nicely fashioned cage.
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[O] A time for Action [Crafters, open]
