[ The rest of the day goes by somehow entirely too fast and at a crawl all at once. She's shivering from cold and anxiety when she returns to their his chambers and miserably climbs back into her clothes, pulling her damp hair into a messy bun and hurrying out to - she doesn't even know what. All she can think to do is dedicate herself to the chores and errands she's been assigned, to try and prove that she's learned her lesson, she won't overstep - she understands her place here.
She's a tribute, after all. Just another bauble for his collection. She'd just forgotten for a moment. And if it hurts at all, even the slightest bit, to be reminded of that fact, well. It's her own fault.
So for the rest of the day, she cleans. She reorganizes the library. Flinches away from the Mors whenever they cross her path and does everything in her power not to get under the Mors King's feet. The last thing she needs to do is remind him of her existence.
And at the end of the day, her knees are aching from kneeling for hours. Her shoulders are sore from dusting every last inch of every last shelf and her fingers are soft and worn from hours of work. The prospect of retiring to bed should be appealing, but once again, the steadily approaching sunset ignites a long-forgotten anxiety in her belly. The one that used to burn every evening, before she'd made the mistake of assuming she understood him. She'd gotten complacent, thought that perhaps they had come to some sort of understanding... and now she's back where she started.
Part of her wants to avoid him altogether. But she knows she can't avoid her duties. So at the end of the night, she changes into one of her spare shifts and sits herself on the end of his bed, waiting for the Mors King to arrive.
She'll serve her purpose and nothing more. She won't ask questions. She won't try to understand him.
And she certainly won't allow herself to want more than that. ]
no subject
theirhis chambers and miserably climbs back into her clothes, pulling her damp hair into a messy bun and hurrying out to - she doesn't even know what. All she can think to do is dedicate herself to the chores and errands she's been assigned, to try and prove that she's learned her lesson, she won't overstep - she understands her place here.She's a tribute, after all. Just another bauble for his collection. She'd just forgotten for a moment. And if it hurts at all, even the slightest bit, to be reminded of that fact, well. It's her own fault.
So for the rest of the day, she cleans. She reorganizes the library. Flinches away from the Mors whenever they cross her path and does everything in her power not to get under the Mors King's feet. The last thing she needs to do is remind him of her existence.
And at the end of the day, her knees are aching from kneeling for hours. Her shoulders are sore from dusting every last inch of every last shelf and her fingers are soft and worn from hours of work. The prospect of retiring to bed should be appealing, but once again, the steadily approaching sunset ignites a long-forgotten anxiety in her belly. The one that used to burn every evening, before she'd made the mistake of assuming she understood him. She'd gotten complacent, thought that perhaps they had come to some sort of understanding... and now she's back where she started.
Part of her wants to avoid him altogether. But she knows she can't avoid her duties. So at the end of the night, she changes into one of her spare shifts and sits herself on the end of his bed, waiting for the Mors King to arrive.
She'll serve her purpose and nothing more. She won't ask questions. She won't try to understand him.
And she certainly won't allow herself to want more than that. ]