[ Why is she so miserable? Why is kindness making her furious? Why must she be asked to be anything other than what she is in the very moment that she is it?
Alexandrie had strayed from all the exercises Emile had taught her when she'd come. The ones that had made her still, able to breathe again when she could not, let her find and release every single place in her body that her abject misery had clawed into and tensed. All she could think of was that she had used her skills as a Bard to ruin. That her hiding and her lies had only cost.
She'd forgotten that before she had used it to lie, she had used it to live again.
So she closes her eyes, and she breathes her storm away in the old patterns. It's not quite the smooth quick wave through her body it had used to be— if one happened to be a Bard, and one happened to be looking, one might be able to see the individual pieces come together— but at the end of it she is no longer curled into herself, and she has set the bramble of hurt aside. Not locked away. (She thinks of touching it gently to reassure it.) Not forgotten. Just not now.
She picks up a fork again. ]
It makes me happy that I have seen birds taking the hair I put out for them to make their nests with, and that cake is delicious at any temperature at all.
[ The shame in the bramble makes her want to wince when she looks at Bastien, but it is quiet enough off to the side that there is only a small embarrassed smile to accompany the dip of her head she uses in place of curtsies when she is sitting: ]
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2021-02-18 03:15 am (UTC)Alexandrie had strayed from all the exercises Emile had taught her when she'd come. The ones that had made her still, able to breathe again when she could not, let her find and release every single place in her body that her abject misery had clawed into and tensed. All she could think of was that she had used her skills as a Bard to ruin. That her hiding and her lies had only cost.
She'd forgotten that before she had used it to lie, she had used it to live again.
So she closes her eyes, and she breathes her storm away in the old patterns. It's not quite the smooth quick wave through her body it had used to be— if one happened to be a Bard, and one happened to be looking, one might be able to see the individual pieces come together— but at the end of it she is no longer curled into herself, and she has set the bramble of hurt aside. Not locked away. (She thinks of touching it gently to reassure it.) Not forgotten. Just not now.
She picks up a fork again. ]
It makes me happy that I have seen birds taking the hair I put out for them to make their nests with, and that cake is delicious at any temperature at all.
[ The shame in the bramble makes her want to wince when she looks at Bastien, but it is quiet enough off to the side that there is only a small embarrassed smile to accompany the dip of her head she uses in place of curtsies when she is sitting: ]
Thank you.