The Songbird and the Wolf

[ XXIX ] Marked by Death

The door slips shut with a soft croak of wood, hiding her friend from sight again.

She barely has a moment to collect herself, before her guard has is moving again, pulling her with the tide of their movements.

As she is lead back into the labyrinth of corridors, unfamiliar doors and sights. It seems endless, until she isn't half convinced they aren't leading her on a wild goose chase. Purposefully confusing her orientation until she had no idea which way was left or right, up or down or anywhere in between. 

Her heels track dirt across the fine rugs, her exhausted legs catching on an uneven tile. 

Something she ought to have spotted, but with her brain in a million different places, she only just catches herself before her knees give out beneath her. Pale hands catching the wall, leveraging it for balance before one of her guard can do her the indignity of offering her a hand.

As she finds her balance again, she straightens with gritted teeth. Removing her hands, the grime covering her calloused hands rubbing off on the grey limestone.

She flinches at the sight of it, resists the urge to violently rub her hands on the remnants of her dress.

Elodie is moving again, pushing against the throng of her guard before they can find words for her. Ears hot with her frustration, something curdling in the pit of her stomach.

She can feel the world burning, eyes on her that she doesn't even attempt to meet. Her chin high  despite her filthy hair all but matted to her scalp, despite the layer of grime clinging to her skin she's not sure anything but plain removing it all will make her feel clean ever again.

After what feels like an eternity, their pace slows to a halt before a large, fine door. Carefully carved from quite ancient oak, boasting the likeness of the Court's namesake dancing in the grain of the wood as freely as on a summer breeze.

The air here smells like rich vanilla, sweet enough that she can feel it on the back of her tongue. The crackle of a burning wick coming from a few metres further down the corridor. A corridor lined with similarly carved doors and finery.

It is a fine disguise, but it doesn't quite cover the taste of stale air on her lips, the fine layer of dust covering much of the furniture, the cobwebs in the arches of doorways and the corners of windows. 

This wing hadn't been used in months, maybe even years. 

Her assumptions are confirmed as a small, iron key is inserted into the lock, the gears groaning as it turns under pressure. The hinges of the door creak as the head of the guard pushes it open, shoulders it.

Until it swings just wide enough to reveal a bedroom. 

A plush bed sits to one corner, layered with blankets and cushions that makes every muscle in her body pine for the comfort. Two square windows bathe the room in warm light, immense curtains of deep, soot grey tied to either corner of the room. 

Her heels click on the stone underfoot, she comes to stand on a large rug that covers a large portion of the floorspace. So plush she sinks an inch or so into it. 

The majority of the guard has remained outside of the room, a show of respect that feels misplaced and strange. Especially given the fact she can still feel their stares piercing through her skin, fixing her to the spot. 

The head of the guard is watching her, carefully but the gaze is not cutting. 

"Thank you," she breaks the silence before the stranger can get the chance, and her choice clearly catches him off guard. 

Until the tense line of his shoulders softens slightly. He dips into a bow, so brief she isn't quite sure of what she's seen, and before she can react he is speaking again.