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⠀⠀⠀     “MY PRINCE?” ⠀⠀⠀     he’s neither hers nor a prince, not anymore anyway, though the name and its whispered fondness spoken through discreet flight of early dawn breeze is in strict confidence. her footsteps are audibly undetected by the walkway of gudävasson gardens unmarred by yesternight’s torrent, in haste as if to see for herself in view even closer if it were his actual flesh she stared at. the rustling greensward and the whistling wind stir in canorous heraldry, twin tiding bearers in this demesne where she holds court. even in state as infamously sickly as her own, steps brittle and scattering, lady gudävasson’s outrun maids and man–servants; her pseudo–skin belied in a smile unfeigned. the lungs feel febrile, like twin neonates that augur the nurturing of distant but certain sensibilities. hope, beautiful and infantile and all the more terrifying. arvad drake and that summer face of his, not aged a day since she last bid him goodbye. she comes to a halt, at distance diplomatically appropriate for a lord of his stature to greet a lady of her own. safe also from some thawed out beat battering out of the confines by the ribs; ossein cages to preclude needless maudlin, caution sewn into the marrow by needle years. ⠀⠀⠀     “TOO LONG, INDEED.    (…)    YOUR ABSENCE WAS FELT GRAVELY.”⠀⠀⠀     by i, she no doubt shies from adding. ⠀⠀⠀     ✱          ——        ...          @exiledreign

can    i    help    you,    miss?    you    seem..    troubled. 

HUMAN  BODY  REALLY  IS  FRAGILE.   surprises  me  each  time.

*   @mortalweeps
          thank you so much!! <3

⠀⠀⠀     bone–chilling frost’s become more friend than foe. what warmth existed in house gudävasson up north was not the warmth travelers sought. much less a king— similarly more friend than foe. what warmth house gudävasson, and its sole lady in the absence of the eldest son, was in truth only an assuaged cold. how utterly audacious, even to a royal of his decree, that he robs her of an proper adieu to breath or proper welcome to the estate. the path of the gardens yield to them, lawn and gravel bowing gracefully to their footfalls; the onomatopoeic crunch percusses her dithering sentiments, these mawkish overgrowths usurping the clean hedgerow of thought. she fears being near unrecognizable; head of hair overgrown to be mauled a snow white overnight with a diagnosis painstakingly irresolute by the town’s medic, eyes tired and sharpened edges of skin nearing unnatural hues. ⠀⠀⠀     “IT IS BUT A MERE COLD, YOUR MAJESTY.”⠀⠀⠀     trepidation’s further teased by a read on him— or the lack thereof. king bastian’s an anomaly and house gudävasson’s loyalty to the crown has all but helped draw contrast to the immediate notice of their differences. birthrights, stations and temperatures in conversation. what unnerved eirlíf, strictly lady gudävasson to most, above all was the promptness of his visit. eyes, unfocused with reverie, shutter momentarily. opening as she exhales a beleaguered sigh, sufficently boreal to sway the shrubbery. the lilacs they pass, moribund, are what she finds kin in. their pallid purples, bruise–like and sickly, in surrender to the rot. ⠀⠀⠀     “I ONLY FEAR TALE OF THIS REACHING YOU HAS ALL BUT DELIVERED IT TO MY BROTHER ALSO—— .. AND WORRIED HIM.”⠀⠀⠀     it is even in affliction that she’s bound to find chore and shame. ⠀⠀⠀     ✱          ——        ...          @KINGM4KER

why all the screeching,  miss?  what’s wrong?

/ YOURE SO FUNNY 

*   cb & preferably specify! getting to replies (ALL OF THEM!!!!!!!! hi lanae) in a MINUTE 

WORRY       NOT,     

i didn’t mean to give you a scare,