'ᴡᴇ ꜱʜᴀʀᴇ ᴀ ꜱᴇɴᴛɪᴍᴇɴᴛ. ɪ ᴄᴀɴ ʙᴇ ʙᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇᴠᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇ.'
Only one month has passed in Daliah Viper's life trying to reintegrate at court and follow the uneasy trails her eyes have caught.
One month filled with blood, tribulations, and l...
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The next day isn't easier or more pleasant. My guards don't dare to wander in the mansion, so at least here I can roam or stay however I want. And since I have received no new name, and no more staking out, I gladly take the time to recover.
I won't be much of assistance to anyone if I keep wailing over my period. Yes, sure, I don't want children. I don't want this. Precautions need to be locked back in place. Something needs to be arranged.
I wake up again unharmed and in full control, plagued by the nightmare of being able to conceive a child. So I also inquire about someone else and his whereabouts. Samson has vanished from the face of the world.
He hasn't been to the Viper mansion.
He hasn't shown his face in Whitefire.
I could think he only avoids me. But even when we clash, he usually gives me some sort of order and demands things from me. My fear to be replaced and murdered could almost be laughable when he isn't even around.
When I start to sniff after his clear absence, no one that usually gets pestered by his arrogance has seen him. I make sure to check that very thoroughly. The first and easiest to ask, of course, is my father.
I need to talk to him anyway about money and other things. So I renew the knot of my hair pulled together and make my way to the study.
Even from below the hallway, the dogs notice me and my pattern of steps. I can hear Runt and One Ear yowl and bark in excitement, and I feel them through the wall. When I stand in front of the door, they scratch and jump on the other side.
As soon as the handle is pulled, they flood over me with joy. I scratch their heads, dodge their slobbering tongues on my face, hug them.
The long fur tickles my nose. Their heads fit on the crook of my arm and my stomach, they press themselves against me. For a moment, I don't even care it feels inconvenient.
Battle Scar's backside hangs half out from under the desk. He has squeezed himself below my father's legs instead of lying on the cushion. He slowly greets me, then returns to his space under the table.
"Good day," my father greets me. He looks as pale and sickly worried as he always does, but his hands tighten around the papers they hold. In the light of day, I can see the sheen of sweat gathering in the rim of his collar, just below the greying hair. It's not hot in the room. The wind is even cold as it sweeps through the ripped open windows.
I just came to ask questions. But. Some part in me wants to ensure he isn't going to drop dead. Vanish from my life as silently as he has returned in the last months.
I round up the table and sit on the edge, only a hand width away from his figure on the chair. The dogs follow and stay around us in a wall of protective attention. But are also not opposed to receive more pets from me. At least they missed me as much as I missed them.
