Elizabeth Tudor (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
1mistress_nomaster) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
niteo_logs2012-05-16 12:12 am
1mistress_nomaster) wrote in niteo_logs2012-05-16 12:12 am
Entry tags:
(no subject)
Characters: Elizabeth Tudor, Open
When: [Forward Dated to:] 19th of May
Where: Her sewing chair, common room thing.
Rating: PG
Summary: Feels. Alcohol. How depressing it is to have all your stories end in "and then they were executed." Also: drinking from mid morning is perfectly acceptable for Tudor-times. Triggery? For executions and general horribleness?
Elizabeth prided herself on her mask. Chipped as it was in places, it did not take much for her to smile and cover almost every ill completely until something made her snap. To breeze by like she was unaffected when otherwise her heart was in her throat. So when it slipped, she was left at the strangest feeling of vulnerability. Today happened to be one of those days, where it felt like it was falling out of her hands again, when for sheer anniversaries sake, her mind strayed from her otherwise tight hold. She couldn’t find the energy to be her usual self, her hair was left free, her dress plain black and as she took up her usual seat for sewing, it felt a physical effort to summon a smile. She longed for company, but had long since lost the ability to ask for it.
Her design for sewing was simple, and selfishly only for her, though she’d promised to do things for others (they were at a bundle in a basket next to her chair). A swan with red edging. The mundane action let her mind drift, and the more it drifted, the more she drank, forgetting to even eat. A glass for her fierce mother, whose bold day it was. Another for her father, and Jane Seymour. Half a bottle for Katherine Howard, another half for her brother and sister. A bitter mouthful for Thomas Seymour and Katherine Parr. It became almost calculated. Dudley, Wolsingham, and the decision she had to make. Duty, her country and loneliness. The horror of being in this place, when speaking to Thor and Loki had made her miss her home so much.
By the time she reached half way through the third bottle some time had passed, she was feeling light headed and she sunk back into the chair. She longed for home, of her ladies to sit with, as they laughed over this Lord or that Lady. She fell into memories, and found solace like that. The sewing fell out of her hands, the red thread unravelling as it hit the ground, the swan missing all but it’s head, she drifted off into a unhappy doze, light as it was. The bottles and her half filled glass by her feet, rather telling proof of how much she had drunk. There was enough left, that someone else could have a glass too, should they want it.
When: [Forward Dated to:] 19th of May
Where: Her sewing chair, common room thing.
Rating: PG
Summary: Feels. Alcohol. How depressing it is to have all your stories end in "and then they were executed." Also: drinking from mid morning is perfectly acceptable for Tudor-times. Triggery? For executions and general horribleness?
Elizabeth prided herself on her mask. Chipped as it was in places, it did not take much for her to smile and cover almost every ill completely until something made her snap. To breeze by like she was unaffected when otherwise her heart was in her throat. So when it slipped, she was left at the strangest feeling of vulnerability. Today happened to be one of those days, where it felt like it was falling out of her hands again, when for sheer anniversaries sake, her mind strayed from her otherwise tight hold. She couldn’t find the energy to be her usual self, her hair was left free, her dress plain black and as she took up her usual seat for sewing, it felt a physical effort to summon a smile. She longed for company, but had long since lost the ability to ask for it.
Her design for sewing was simple, and selfishly only for her, though she’d promised to do things for others (they were at a bundle in a basket next to her chair). A swan with red edging. The mundane action let her mind drift, and the more it drifted, the more she drank, forgetting to even eat. A glass for her fierce mother, whose bold day it was. Another for her father, and Jane Seymour. Half a bottle for Katherine Howard, another half for her brother and sister. A bitter mouthful for Thomas Seymour and Katherine Parr. It became almost calculated. Dudley, Wolsingham, and the decision she had to make. Duty, her country and loneliness. The horror of being in this place, when speaking to Thor and Loki had made her miss her home so much.
By the time she reached half way through the third bottle some time had passed, she was feeling light headed and she sunk back into the chair. She longed for home, of her ladies to sit with, as they laughed over this Lord or that Lady. She fell into memories, and found solace like that. The sewing fell out of her hands, the red thread unravelling as it hit the ground, the swan missing all but it’s head, she drifted off into a unhappy doze, light as it was. The bottles and her half filled glass by her feet, rather telling proof of how much she had drunk. There was enough left, that someone else could have a glass too, should they want it.
no subject
By the time she had fully woken up, the hand was gone from her face. He had liked the brush of lips against his thumb but it had been taken from his mind at her tired words. Cross straightened and resumed his straightening up, returning Elizabeth's project to her hands.
"I came to check on Alma's studies. That is all. I should get you to your room and help you to bed. I think you need a real dose of sleep, you highness." A bit cold. Defensive. For some reason, he couldn't bring himself back to the moment before where he had been gentle and affectionate in words and actions.
no subject
But now came the issue, she wasn't even sure if she could. Stand up, and asking for help when he seemed so distant was impossible. It stung her pride. She didn't know what she had done to upset him so. Was it calling him Seymour? That didn't make any sense at all. But...
"Sorry for mistaking you my lord. I was just... in my memories for awhile." She shook her head. "You can go. I'll be fine." She wouldn't keep him if he didn't want to be here.
no subject
"You are drunk, Elizabeth. Not all of what you say is why you intend right now." He's not sure if he wants to stay or go... For now he just wants to make sure he gets her some place safe. Namely her own apartment.
no subject
But gave up instantly to actually having someone hold her. Even if logically he probably didn't even want to, he was just doing because he was a kind thing to do. Men were so stupidly chivalrous sometimes. She rested her head against him. Being moved so much made her head spin and she grunted softly from it. Good god, nothing made sense right now. Perhaps he was right, in which case... "... You are like a lot of men I know, but then nothing at all. It's most strange and I have no idea what to make of you at all. You confuse me." They were her thoughts mostly, at present, whether he wanted to know them or not.