#hshqpara

[yvrivic]

14th October, 2019

He had been silent for the remainder of the meeting. His ears registered nothing and his eyes only saw the dark wood panel of the meeting room. He was glad the reason for the meeting was not in Belarus — otherwise the gathering of the Belarussians without her presence would have been a cause for concern. Her sharp eyes would have followed their every more and her sharp nose would have been pushed into their business. 

                 The dissatisfaction with the queen regent was louder than ever and Roman had a feeling Milena Yurivič did not understand how shaky the ground underneath her feet was. The grunts and hisses her name alone had elicited behind the closed door told him that the ember in his chest was not the only one to exist. It would have been if the Romanova had never taken a single step onto their territory — the hubris of the Romanovs had a stench like no other. It spread fast and wide, and it went completely unnoticed by the source itself. Had there been any understanding on the Russian’s part, she would have known how inappropriate her maneuvers had been.

                  As people began to slip out of the room, Roman remained in his seat. He felt fortunate enough to have the position to gather such a group of like-minded people — but the heaviness of the responsibilities was dragging his shoulders down. A coup! His men and their men against anyone who was a loyal servant of the state. How could anyone justify that? How could he of all people justify that? Belorussian blood would bleed into Belorussian soil. Roman was not convinced that anything good would sprout from the ground after the trampling and destroying was over. And to do it because of a Russian only sharpened the edge of the horror, cultivated it into something truly repulsive.

                  We could consider removing the root of the problem. The woman or the future heir. Roman was convinced there was a spot reserved for all of them for even considering it. The vileness was undeniable — and yet he could not deny the efficiency of the move. Two lives instead of hundreds. Russian blood instead of their own. One evening instead of weeks or months or years. One family’s sorrow instead of a million’s. Milena had chosen to gamble, the soldiers that would be forced into the conflict had not. There was no glory in fighting one another. There would be no relief in victory because the cost would be far too high. 

                  Roman’s chest rose as air filled his lungs and slowly he breathed the air out. Why had Milena entered his life? Why did she have to force him to act? Why couldn’t she take a step back and let someone worthy of the title take the reigns? Why was she trying so hard to convince them of her fitness as a regent? How was ruling a hostile country worth it? Every minute, every day, every year he had spent in the office had come at a high cost. The personal sacrifices were done for the good of his country. There was that small naive dream of being able to change things, to see the country flourish, to leave the old wounds alone to heal in the past. 

                  And now Milena had appeared and had not only reopened those wounds but stretched the skin and ripped the skin further. Roman was not willing to watch her probe and prod their insides until her curiosity had been quenched. She would get bored and then she would get sloppy. There was no heart in what she doing and he could see the czar’s hand leading Milena’s own. How many papers would she get to sign as regent until there was more than just him who despised every single cell in her body. 

                  His fingers trembled as he turned the small white paper slip around to inspect the phone number He couldn’t tell if it was caused by the nausea that she had brought about or if it was fear. His skin was on fire and his eyes could barely focus on the numbers. He knew. He knew in a few days’ time the little part of him that was trying to keep him from choosing the crueler option would go silent. It would take one message from her. It would take one disadvantageous decision. One simple moment of Milena Yurivič being Milena Romanova, and he would call the number and seal her fate. 

#hshqpara #hshqac2022 #( about. )

[maximiliians]

hshq advent calendar - day seven

when: late January 2017 where: the palace in Bern, Switzerland what: max makes a choice against against his morals 

Outside his window the pale wintery light steadily faded, grays into blues whilst the snowfall obscured any of the usual hues one might expect from a sunset. The prince barely noticed. He did not notice the chill, or perhaps he’d simply grow used to it long ago. The only sound was the occasional clink of his ring against the glass when he sipped the amber liquid he’d been nursing for well over an hour. Maximilian sat alone with his thoughts - considering every possible alternative, or simply delaying the inevitable.

His uncle did not shout. They were Swiss, that was not what they did. Maximilian learned this icy cruelty under his tutelage, and by now could easily match the cool detachment that colored all of their arguments. The world was fracturing around them, institutions and norms weakened until they offered little more than the illusion of peace. That too, his uncle said, would soon be gone.

Your brother said you were considering doing something reckless…

It wasn’t reckless, Max wanted to say, Swiss armed neutrality predated any of the crumbling institutions, widely respected across the globe. Why should it not outlast them as well? He’d had a very good argument, well founded in history and strategy. He’d even had a plan, or the beginnings of one, as to how they might preserve neutrality moving forward. But those first few words ensnared his attention and Max knew it didn’t matter how well he argued his position - his uncle had already changed the rules.

We would not want to undermine the stability of the crown, Maximilian, - his uncle’s parting threat haunted the room - not so close to your ascension.  

Five years, nine months, and a few days. Or perhaps an eternity. The weight of expectation he’d born almost as long as he could remember paled to this threat. He supposed it had existed for a while now, clouded by his uncle’s machinations or Max’s own unwillingness to see his siblings as rivals. Max should know better than to go behind the regency, the argument went, imagine the chaos had Hans not said anything? Such a dutiful prince, loyal to the crown not his own ambitions. On and on the narrative went until his uncle left and Max realized the regent would not be the one to hold the sword to his neck, not when another could be so easily persuaded.

He sat with this realization in the darkening room and worked through every possibility. Hadn’t he spent the past two decades protecting them from this exact thing? If he alone remained, then the others could not be used as pawns to gain power or favor. A boy king in Bern in exchange for the rest of the family protected and together in Geneva. It was the very reason he obeyed, let his uncle shape him from a child into a ruthless, cold thing. He’d long ago forgiven his mother for leaving him to the wolves, some unspoken agreement between them that she would protect the others and he would survive whatever darkness she’d seen lurking in the regent’s eyes. The same darkness planting the seeds of paranoia, pushing Max towards a choice.

Ren was wrapped up in his music, the tortured genius bit not at all conducive to a viable alternative. Heinrich, Klaus, and Sylvie were too young, too far removed from the line of succession - too close to the Dowager Queen. Which only left Hans. Second in line, and so recently willing to get involved, to help. Max had welcomed it, seeking the family and companionship he’d missed all those years and unknowingly handed his uncle the perfect tool to keep the willful future king in line.

Max hated considering them this way, this detached evaluation of potential threats and not the beloved siblings he’d protected since childhood. Ruling, someone had told him, is about making choices, often the more difficult the choice the greater consequences should one choose wrong. Either Hans knew and was a willing participant - betrayal mixed with icy anger in his chest - or Hans had no idea and was even more susceptible to manipulation and further harm.  A struggle for succession would irreparably damage all of them, not just Max and Hans, but the rest of his family torn between the two. Not to mention what it might do to his nation, and in such an unstable global climate.

Bitterly Max found himself agreeing with his uncle - they could not undermine the stability of the crown. Hans needed to be taken off the board.

A knock shattered the silence, and Max quickly finished his drink before calling for his brother to enter.

“I need you to do something for me,” he finally looked up, meeting eyes that echoed his own. Somehow, their similarities made this so much worse. Every instinct within him, every spare bit of morality, his fundamental driving principle to protect rebelled against this choice, these words. But it was Switzerland or Hans, instability and strife or his brother’s absence. Maximilian iced over his emotions and spoke, cool detached tone a near perfect imitation of their uncle.

“I need you to leave the country.”

#hshqpara #hshqac2022 #my castle crumbled overnight | history #ow

[hrhmancns]

paris - november 2020 the end of hanon @johannesgrunenberg 

He looked so peaceful sleeping like this. Manon watched the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest with every breath. She felt a sudden urge to touch him, to trail her fingers lightly along the muscles of his chest, following the lines her nails had etched earlier, pressing down with her nails until he awoke and pulled her tight against him once more. Instead her hands curled into tight fists, the bite of nails against her own palms pulling her from any sort of leftover reverie.

The very simple fact remained- Manon could not marry Hans.

She’d said yes when he asked.

He’d dragged her to that park, their park, where they’d first walked and talked in the late January cold. Where late that summer over champagne and strawberries he’d asked if they were serious and she’d laughed and hidden her smile in his lap. But then after an incredibly rare third glass she pressed the key into his hands, the key to her house she’d had made weeks before, and flushed an uncharacteristic scarlet as she asked him to stay.

“For how long?”

He pressed, half smile across those lips she’d call home. Forever, she thought, hopeless, foolish, and all those other words they ascribe to lost causes.

“As long as we are both in Paris.” She’d thought that was enough.

The late November chill held promise, anticipation, so unlike the steady dread that came with a January freeze. She should have known better, should have read the signs, should have told him time and time again why it would never work. But she’d been swept up in the hope of it all, his eagerness and perhaps his foolish dream that they might somehow stay the same, stay this happy, with the rest of the world looking in.

Hans had always been a romantic.

His brother was getting married. The brother who’d banished him years ago for the simple fact of being second born and a threat. And so perhaps he meant to show up to the wedding with his own future bride in tow, another girl from the Isles leaden with Swiss jewels. That thought alone made her panic, reaching for the ring that weighed so heavy on her hand. Manon knew what it was to want to do just what a sibling did, and how it very actually worked out. She’d have thought Hans would know this by now.

But then, Manon hoped he’d given up on them by now.

Because there was a difference between choosing to leave and being told to leave, if they’d ended up in the same place. She had agency in hers, even if she was a child. He did not, and she knew he hated that. Still - they’d carved out a life here in this pocket of the world. She had her freedom, he had his students, and they had that imposing old house with all its drafts and ghosts. Most importantly - this space belonged to them alone.

He was romantic and he was idealistic. Perhaps he thought that marriage would just give a name to that which they were already living. A mere formality, a celebration full of only good wishes and love. She would wear his ring and meet his family and swear before a god she didn’t quite believe in plus all of the world to be his and his alone, and then they could come back to their house and their lives and everything would be fine.

It was a rare situation where Manon was the realistic one.

Because once they let the world in, it would all be ruined. They could not be Manon and Hans, Hans and Manon. No - there were titles and lands and lines of succession and politics to consider. She may be the youngest and most forgotten child of Wales, but he was the second son of a dead king, his brother not fully stable in his position as heir with no heir of his own. The world and powers that be would never let them return to this quiet street and their beloved haunted house. Not with the stakes this high, not with the world this uncertain.

It killed her that he did not recognize this.

The moonlight streamed in through her curtains, bathing him in an otherworldly beauty and a melancholy that she could not name. The space between them in the bed opened up like a chasm and Manon knew he was beyond her reach.

She’d said yes. And yet - 

You can’t unring a bell.

Silently, she got out of bed and took off the ring. He did not stir. She’d had a bag packed at the bottom of her closet as long as she’d lived here, and it was only a few moments to add those possessions she’d grown deeply attached to. Another few moments and texts had her on a flight to New York in an hour. It was almost too easy.

The car was out front, and yet she lingered at the bedside, silently granting him these last few hours of peace. Manon had only ever been good at breaking things, so she’d taken the love he offered and pried open his rib cage to demand more, demand it all. But when he’d handed her his heart and all he was, she’d dropped it like glass just to see how it shattered. Manon felt an echo of guilt, the sharp ache of something cut through that traitorous organ demanding space in her chest. So she broke something else, carving out her own heart rather than admitting she loved him more than she’d ever loved anything before. Carving out her own heart and breaking it apart rather than giving anyone else the power to do so.

Manon took his ring and left a note alongside her heart.

I might have loved you forever just like this. But I cannot deny who I am. And I am not the girl you marry. Think of me when you think of Paris.

#hshqpara #argumentative antithetical dream girl | about #hans tag tbd #no edits no thots jus pain

[highsocietyhq]

*✧･ﾟ:* DAY TWENTY-TWO TASK *:･ﾟ✧*  

this task is worth FIVE ( 5 ) points. write a self para about your character breaking up / deciding to break up / processing the break up — just some self para about a break up from an interesting angle. write at least 400 words. tag the para with #hshqpara. you have until 12:00 pm GMT 25/12/2022 to complete this task.

#hshqac2022

[loladebelgique]

LOSS: for when éloïse wished she could turn back time , circa 2019 .

—

for a second,  éloïse had everything she could ever want in her perfect little world.

but seconds are not minutes,  they are not hours nor are they days  —   weeks,  months nor years.  no,  seconds are seconds and they go by in a flash.

—

one second she is triumphantly spreading her wings,  relishing in her newfound freedom away from the chains of overprotective parents and their suffocating love; reveling in the wind beneath her wings.  

and the next:  she is told her mother is dead.

—

a girl of nineteen,  she should be prepared for loss.  

she’s known of so many almosts that it should be second nature to her  —  and yet nothing could ever prepare her for this.

—

she wishes days could become seconds,  she begins counting the hours they are locked in the bunker.  ten feet from the surface,  ten feet of the unknown,  ten feet and twenty-four hours of unnerving anxiety.

suddenly,  éloïse wishes hours could vanish into seconds.

—

they trickle by:  these notorious obnoxious seconds. they go startlingly over a minute but stop right before the two are up.

unbeknownst to éloïse this would be her last phone call to her mom. it lasts approximately 90 seconds before the call gets cut unexpectedly and éloïse pays no mind to call back.

(  she figures she’ll have time to call again the next day,  instead a voicemail is left and next time never happens )

—

sterile, pale walls are a haunting ground.  the smell of rubbing alcohol makes her close to nauseous.  they are neither a comfort nor a safe space.  in fact,  éloïse hates it here.  

but she forgets this in all but a second when her mother’s pale face comes into view.  what she had believed to be a lie,  it shatters in a blink.  the moment her mother’s last breath is no where to be seen,  her skin as pale as ashen gray  —  éloïse realizes that seconds no longer matter because nothing would turn back time.  

not seconds, nor minutes, not days or months or weeks.

she is hit with the harsh reality that nothing would bring back her mother.

—

she can’t seem to get her bearings together;  her heart aches,  painfully so  —  the cracks appear again on this vibrant october day.  her mother’s favorite flowers spiral across her casket in an array of brightness that only rivaled the brilliant gleam of her smile in her portrait.

the cracks appear again  —  faster this time,  undoing weeks of forgetting,  repenting,  of pretending; they break where they once lay,  and the finality of the moment,  in these few seconds,  where she holds her breath and wishes she could turn back time,  her heart breaks all over again.

memories of the weeks prior flood her,  and she feels the gash in her heart tear just a bit more  —  and she has to force a breath because the flowers are too much.  in their midst, her heart constricts.

time stills and for a second,  éloïse disillusions herself in the finality of it all. she bears it all for a second more.  she thinks if her eyes close for just a second,  that it isn’t real  —  that reality is far more kinder than her nightmares,  than dreams could ever be.  her mother was there,  well and alive.  

her mother  —  her mother,  her mother was not gone.

but time resumes,  and when she opens her eyes: her mother is no where to be seen.

—

there are 86,400 seconds in a day.

and in those 86,400 seconds of the day,  there is not one where she does not miss her mother.  her wonderful warmth,  her love  -- overwhelming in it’s prowess  --  almost suffocating in it’s capacity.  reverent and true,  absolutely transparent.  

if there was one thing that éloïse could count on: it was her mother’s love and the way it would move oceans in order to swallow her up. carrying her to and through,  a lifeline in the smallest of spaces.  the truest of true loves there could be.

it glimmers as a twinkling beacon inside her.

there are 86,400 seconds in a day, and there will never not be a second that éloise misses her mother.

—

☏     YOU HAVE ( 1 )  NEW VOICEMAIL :

“  lola,  my darling,  i’m sorry to have missed you.  we’re about to take off,  please let us know if you change your mind,  we’d love to have you in vientiane.  i love you,  my darling.  please do call me back when you have the time.  ”

#hshqpara #death tw

[dutyrisen]

prompt: how did you propose 🥺   /  @vanamc

                      they’d been talking about it getting warmer for weeks. 

at first, the weather had been unpredictable. the frost had remained. the water remained frozen, and he’d allowed himself to drown in their routine. he hadn’t even noticed april sneaking up on them. 

now, he is being pulled along, heavy camera bag slung over his jacket, tripod in one hand, her hand clutching the other, threatening some sort of forfeit if he didn’t keep up; one taunt or another about him going soft, being out of shape, through a new hiking route he’d mapped out long ago. the trees are already green, birches. the light dapples through them, and grant sheen to the outline of her hair like a halo. 

it’s perfect, she says eventually when they reach a spot that fulfils some creative formula she must have created in her mind’s eye. she starts talking about the colours, how the natural light hits the landscape perfectly. gold would blend with green and meet the sky. 

he hasn’t said a word yet, but his voice has had plenty of use. 

there is a knowing glint in her eye. she can probably recognise the look on his face by now, from the way he’s watched her this whole time. his quiet is his gracious amusement. she’ll think he is letting her have her fun, before the inevitable light bullying. there won’t be bullying today, he is enjoying the way her face lights up when she talks. he could listen to her talk forever.

like a willing photographer’s assistant, he sets up the tripod, per her instructions, while she takes sophisticated snaps of her own. she won’t know, that when he sets up the camera, he also sets a timer. she won’t know, how perfect this spot really is.

he hopes she will still think it is.

he approaches where she stands for the test shot and slowly pulls her to him. 

his lips make contact with the beauty mark near her upper lip. such a simple little natural feature, that somehow gives another layer to her beauty. a little dot of skin that refuses the consistency of her complexion, insisting on darkening to a rich deep brown, calling attention to her every smirk. a spot to outline a smile, to bring every eye down from hers to catch a glimpse of it. and if you are someone so privileged as him, you’d see it from this vantage point, close enough to feel the very slight ridge it makes.

he’d expected nerves, but there is not a single ounce of doubt in him.

“ hey, ”  he says finally, the right side of his mouth pulling further to the side.  “ i brought the last of the champagne truffles... in my jacket. take them out for me ? ”  he holds up his bare hands, and makes a show of stiff frozen joints. the gloves had come off for the camera,

her eyes meet his when her fingers close around the square box, close to the warm core of his chest where he is sure she can also feel his heartbeat. cold hands close gently around her wrist, which he uses as an anchor, for when he lowers to his knee after she opens the box. “ i’ll follow you anywhere... except to my mother’s reading club. and you’re usually right, my home won’t look nice without you, you have better taste, even when i make fun of your choices in towel patterns. when you’re around, i demand more from myself in a way i didn’t think i would, for my people, for my family and myself. ”  he had, tried to memorise a mental script, he’d rehearsed it for someday, on and off over the years. none of this had featured in the scenario he’d auditioned in his mind.  “  i thought i’d have some romantic film line planned for this moment, but... stay with me. we’ll work out what we want. together. i love you. please marry me ? ” 

#hshqpara #this was shorter than i thought it would be #you can thank isa for this!

[oh-hxfiz]

Date: 5/4/2022 Time: 05:45am  Location: Regina General Hospital

The repetitive skip that ebbed from each bed that passed through the halls echoed softly in her ears. It had become a rhythmic reminder of the time that drifted on beyond her. Hafiz camped on the poorly constructed plastic chairs that lined the corridor in pairs. They weren’t meant to be a station of refuge in a sea of constantly moving parts. A barrage of personnel swept through with grace and ease at night. Aslan’s floor seemed tamed to the fluttering wave of turmoil just beyond in the ER. She’d spent some time down there needing some noice to battle the silence. 

She grew tired of silence.

Her fingers fiddled with the stiff pages of the brightly colored pamphlet she’d snagged on her way back up. The animated eyes of animals draw in a style that would draw a child in with joy; the words didn’t matter but the pictures were enough to elicit some jovial lightness in those who beheld it. She hummed to herself as she’d folded in the corners to create the first series of creases to create the first petal of her paper lily. A self soothing technique long abandoned by the woman who chose liquid forms these days. The familiar repetition lulled her into the recesses of her mind where the resentment began and the love ended. 

“Mama, look what I made..” she tugged on the luxurious fabric of her mother’s silk lined afghan. A lopsided lily made from scraps of construction paper held out in her palm. Hafiz’s pride had grown with her progress. Her mother stared anxiously into the doorway that lead to Aslan’s bed; he’d been sleeping more often lately. The concern washed over the woman’s features with haste. “Şimdi olmaz bebeğim. Bana sonra göster, tamam mı.” * Hafiz bowed her head with a soft nod before crumping her creation in her hands as she shuffled back towards her bedroom. She knew that later wouldn’t come but she had to understand that Aslan was sick and needed all of her love now. 

Night fell swiftly and the halls had all but stilled with silence. Hafiz crept out of her bedroom and tip toed to the soft glowing light that loomed in dark. Aslan’s room had always been steeped in some form of light; he was the crowned prince after all. Hafiz crawled in the shadows to avoid detection to see what was so special about him. Her eyes befell her mother sleeping frame draped over the side of his bed, their hands intertwined. A sight that only provoke a twitching quiver in lips. Mama didn’t do that with her anymore. Hafiz slipped into the room, her small hands hovering out too afraid she’d disturb them. Her head bowed in defeat; it was she’d meant eyes with the little lion that had fallen from Aslan’s grasp.

Dropping to her knees, she’d slithered closer, tiny hand outstretched to catch it’s paw. Hafiz dragged it closer, cradling it to her chest, her nose pressed into the mane. It smelt of fresh linen tainted with a faint scent of her mother’s perfume. Peering down, she’d noticed the glimmering reflection like a fallen star. It was her mother’s gold tasbih left abandoned with the measly lion. Hafiz sat there for a while wanting to feel close to them both but felt infinitely more lonely. In a sheer moment of pure wickedness, Hafiz pocketed the bracelet and carried the lion with her.  She glanced back at the two once more before returning to the dark corridor and wandered back into her bedroom. Her stolen relics hidden in the tine box she’d hide beneath the loose board in her closet. 

Her back ached from the curled position she’d taken in this seat as she focused on the task at hand. The clothing for Miray and Layla had been dropped off, arrangements had been made for fresh food to be brought at their leisure, and a plan for transport to somewhere more secure when he woke up. Hafiz stretched out for a moment, blowing out the ache that consumed her. Her gaze tipped up to the clock that ticked up above. She rose finally to allow her bones the relief it had begged off. Once the fatigue rolled off, she plucked the little black bag from beside her before finally entering his room. Layla and Miray finally succumbing to their fatigue and rested at the edge of his bed. The sight brought back the same feeling she’d felt so many moons ago. 

“You gonna wake up and feel real stupid..” she whispered to her brother who seemed to lay peacefully. It was first time in a long time that he’d seemed so serene. “..you’re gonna wake up and kiss your wife and daughter. You’ll boast about Miray’s perfection and we’ll all go back to normal.” Hafiz decreed. She plucked the ratty old lion from the bag, the gold tasbih fastened around it’s neck, and placed it on his nightstand. She’s threaded the crisp lily between the band before tapping it’s little head.

“You’ve been reunited,” she said softly to herself. Pivoting, she’d exited quietly. A sly wink cast to faithful Frank who allowed her a moment alone. 

“I’m ready to go now,” she whispered to Biel who’s appeared just in time to whisk her away. Hafiz settled into the warmth of his jacket; the hem of the arms dipping past her fingers. The silvery glint of the splint she’d begrudgingly put back on beneath the hovering gaze of the nurse practitioner who had grown fond of the bossy princess. She informed the woman that the splint only hindered her ability to fold a crisp line and that’d put back when she finished. ​

Translation:  * - not now baby, show me later. 

honorable mentions: @vslvano @laylabahiti @cmiray​ @bielbraganca

#sp #[ paper pen & a piece of your heart ; self para ] #hshqpara #tw: hospital

[leonsoletsky]

september 28, 2012. 

YOU’RE IN CHARGE.

the sentence is repeated times and times over in his head. if he were to overanalyze it emotionally, he’d notice it is his father’s voice saying it too. but he couldn’t, not at that moment. all he could do was wave his hand dismissively to his father’s most trusted man. the one who came to deliver the news. he didn’t need to hear the words that came out the man’s mouth to know what had happened: it had been clear from the way the usual curtsy leon would receive from people hierarchically below him wasn’t the approach chosen. instead he was knelt before. the scene played in slow motion in front of him, every milisecond making realisation grow on him. the same action that made him speechless spoke so loud.

YOU’RE IN CHARGE.

he almost sends the man away without getting a word out. he didn’t want to hear details, knowing how it happened would only aggravate his pain. but his own feelings had to be put aside. he had to listen even if the next words would crush his heart and burn his soul to a crisp. his father was now gone, that much he’d figured, but so was his mother. nothing could have prepared him for that additional. he’d been prepared his entire life for the day he’d lose his father, yet none of that had been useful the moment it happened. none of those tutors had told him there was a possibility of losing his mother too. it’s only when he’s asked whether or not he was ready to announce the passing that he realised he’d been the first to know. his siblings didn’t. and it was now his job to tell them. 

YOU’RE IN CHARGE.

he had not stopped yet. not for a second did leon sit and digest the information himself. he’d gone from one to the other individually: karyna, petro, then inna. it was much easier to comfort one person at a time than three at once. at karyna’s outburst he offered a warm hug and a shoulder to cry on. at petro’s fall, leon was there to catch him. at inna’s lack of reaction he gave her time. different reactions, different approaches, different ways to grieve. but he was yet to figure out his. how could he when the weight of everything now resided on his shoulders? overwhelmed didn’t begin to describe him at that moment. but it was his job now to handle that and much more. 

YOU’RE IN CHARGE.

soon enough he realises condolences weren’t welcomed by him. he declined every relative’s callat the funeral, avoided seeing anyone without a necessity, impromptu guests were stopped at the gates and sent away. at the funeral, he demanded not to be approached. there were too many people in there and he knew what each and every one of them would say. useless words that would bring him no peace. he didn’t care for how sorry one was that he’d just lost his life pillars, they could swallow the advices they had for him as czar and choke on them. it wasn’t what he was there for. it wasn’t to say one last goodbye either, he’d done so privately, without thousands of eyes analyzing the action. but there was the eulogy. it had to be done.

YOU’RE IN CHARGE.

at every word he said, he could see the reactions. commotion was such an undescribable thing. how could he be so furious that so many people were there, portraying much more sadness than he had, acting as if they were in his position, pretending that it had been them in his place and yet he could understand all of it too. gizella and maksim weren’t only his parents, at times like that he failed to remember it. they were a czar and czarina loved by their people, their families, their friends, and those lost them just as he did. it had been their job to keep them all happy, now it was his.

YOU’RE IN CHARGE.

as it all ended, he was first to leave. not bothering how it would look, if people expected a word with him, how many times he’d have to answer what was of ukraine now or if he needed anything. he did, but not a soul in that room could’ve provided it for him. so he went home. to the room that would often offer him comfort but now felt cold. to the hot shower that couldn’t warm him or wash away his pain. to the mirror that only showed the misery he had hidden so well. to only then let the mask fall and with it the first tear. 

#hshqpara #* ⠀ ⠀ 🦁 ⠀ ⠀ / ⠀ ⠀ ii.⠀ ⠀ 、 ⠀ isms ⠀ ❫

[innasoletskaya]

— 2012

“inna, did you hear me?”  leon’s voice has never been this soft. the unfamiliarity of it does not bring comfort. what is there to say? thank you for telling me our parents are dead? his hand gives her shoulder in what should have been translated to a comforting squeeze — it falls flat. she remains seated, not moving an inch. she's not in disbelief, maybe shock, but she knows leon would never say something to this degree unless if it were true. she turns to look at him. he’s trying his best to stay strong, to be there for her. something she never asked for. he speaks again and she doesn’t listen. it's in the same gentle tone as before. knowing she'll hear this same tone from strangers for the next few years of her life makes her skin crawl. leon, she can tolerate. others, she can't. she won't.  

the sounds of karyna and petro's slow footsteps are heard just outside the door. it's infuriating. it's as if they're trying to prove how sad they are by the pace of their footsteps. if she verbalizes her harsh critiques, leon will think she's lashing out as a form of grieving. she's not grieving. she's accepted this loss and is accepting it better than anyone in this damn place. karyna's loud sobs and her dramatic outbursts will only trigger inna to say something unkind and unforgiving. inna knows her limits and knows this is not the time to provoke an argument.

the door opens and it's her cue. she doesn't want to see karyna's face. she doesn't want to hear petro's voice. she doesn't want to be around anyone. she removes leon's hand, stands up and takes her leave, brushing passed her two siblings. her steps are rushed, full of haste. if she walks any slower she'll see the sorrowed expression of the staff — she doesn’t need sympathy. no one should feel bad for her. people experience loss everyday. it’s life. 

she leaves the palace, walking to the farthest corner of the grounds.

petro comes to find her. she's stubborn and refuses to leave her spot. he sighs in defeat and settles beside her until she's ready to go back inside. she doesn't need a babysitter. why is he being annoying? does he think she's going to do something stupid? did he forget he's the sibling who makes stupid mistakes? inna is the smart, decisive one. mistakes are a foreign concept to her. by the second hour, she thought he'd leave. he remains sitting and once he dozes off she takes it as an opportunity to leave. the sounds of her standing up startles him awake and he follows behind until they make it pass the doors. this repeats everyday leading up to the funeral. inna finds a new spot to sit hoping petro won’t find her, but without fail, he’s there, sitting a few meters away. she won’t yell at him or tell him to go away. she refuses to give her family material to psychoanalyze her by using this to prove she’s handling herself poorly because she’s not. 

the funeral angers her. so many people were crying. so many fucking tears you’d think they’re the ones who lost their parents. it felt like an attention seeking fuck fest. a competition for whoever could express their condolences in the most memorable and sympathetic way. they don't care about her, they care about what she says and how she reacts so they can relay the information to a journalist. to make a profit off the death of her parents so they can be the source the press states as ‘a close friend to the royal family’. they’re sensationalizing her loss. that's what they seem to forget. it's her loss. not theirs.

before leon begins the eulogy, she gives him a nod. hoping the small bit of encouragement helps him get through the speech. and as leon speaks, she holds petro's hand. she convinces herself it's more for him than for her. 

she lags behind her siblings as they walk out of the church. and within the first few steps, the reporters focus on karyna. someone must have tipped off the reporters about her shedding one single tear during the service. they were waiting for her to erupt into a crying fit. photos of crying princesses were worth a lot. inna approaches her sister, guarding her from the cameras. firmly grasping her hand to guide her away.  “inna, it’s okay.”  why did karyna have to speak? inna holds her breath, biting back hurtful words. karyna is going to say something to annoy her, she just knows it. she waits for it, waits for the moment her lips part again. she waits and it doesn’t happen. inna looks at her sister. her eyes almost begging her to say something. she’s confounded by this change of behaviour. why isn’t karyna saying something? 

after the funeral, she hears her sister cry with their brothers. inna hesitates to open the door. if she goes inside, she’ll interrogate karyna on why she didn’t say anything. she’ll look entitled and inconsiderate when she’s only trying to make sense of things. and before she allows herself to feel even the smallest drop of guilt she walks away.

they hardly have a chance to breathe before the coronation. inna understands it can’t be held off. it’s important and necessary. — but then something aches while watching leon take the place of their father. she almost frowns, realizing it’s a sight she loathes. this isn’t right. leon shouldn’t be here, they shouldn’t be doing this. he’s too young. this shouldn’t be happening. the ache expands in her chest. it turns to suffering and the suffering becomes unbearable.  

the coronation afflicted something inside of her. late at night she goes to her parents bedroom, closing the door behind her as quietly as possible. for a while she sits on their bed staring blankly at the painting on the wall. it’s a painting karyna bought them for one of their anniversaries. she remembers that day so vividly. she looks to the dresser. there lies a candle petro bought them from iceland. on the nightstand, cufflinks leon had bought their father a few birthdays ago. where were signs of her in this room? 

she starts going through their things. where is she?

the movements of her hands become violent. things were being thrown, brutally colliding with the floor — creating a mess to find any sign of her. the panic generates tears and she finally cries. she’s desperate to find herself in this stupid room. 

they’re gone.  they’re gone and there’s not a single trace of her in their room.

it's not fair. her parents have spent more years with leon, karyna and petro than with her. she resents them. resents her parents, her siblings. resents anyone who’s known her parents longer than she’s been alive. they'll never see her full potential. they won’t see her get married, meet her children. she won’t have the chance to buy them a gift for them to proudly showcase, there won’t be a chance for her to talk to them again. her sobs are uncontrollable, it's loud and suffocating. she gathers the last bit of strength to seek refuge in their closet. why can’t she grieve like a normal person? why is she unable to mourn like everyone else? she envies leon, karyna and petro for the first time in her life. they processed their emotions appropriately. inna had not. 

someone enters the closet and she doesn’t notice. the lights are off and her sobs are too loud for anything else to be heard. when she feels leon's embrace, she doesn’t fight back. her siblings have been patient with her. she had deluded herself into thinking she was handing herself so maturely, they knew she wasn’t. they were looking out for her and protecting her. while she ridiculed and judged the way they mourned, they allowed her to process her emotions freely on her own terms.

she made her first mistake.

karyna didn’t scold or shame her once, leon didn’t ask anything of her, and petro sat beside her for hours in silence to keep her mind from dark isolating thoughts. she made everyone else out to be the villain and by trying to appear strong, she showed all her cracks. it was weak and foolish. they knew this would affect her the most. her family knows her best and it was a mistake to put up a front and it was a mistake to doubt them. how could she ever resent them for showing a level of compassion she’s not capable of?

she hasn’t entered her parents bedroom since that night. and if she were to go back, the pain would be self-inflicting and worse of all it would only remind her of how she poorly she treated her siblings. apologizing to karyna wasn’t enough, closing the distance between her and petro wasn’t enough, aiding leon throughout his transition wasn’t enough. these are the lasting effects of her mistake. and the consequences of this mistake and her grief glooms over her for a long time.

#hshqpara

[nataliademarquis]

saturday, 17th of july, 2021 ; natalia st. george’s chapel, windsor castle.

“presume not that i am the thing i was.” – king henry iv, act 5 scene 5

the curtains were pulled closed for her to dress. the darkness enveloped the room and matched her clothes, her mood. her limbs moved limply as the opaque tights were pulled on, the black dress zipped and pinned in areas that now gaped. the dress had probably fit at one point. gentle hands moved and nudged her along but when genevieve’s hands moved to clasp her pearls, natalia’s hands moved to stop her. 

“ i want to do it. ” it was the first sound she had made all morning, the clarity in the words even surprised her. 

the cream seemed stark white against the black. light in dark. her hands fumble, but she closes the clasp herself, secured with a resounding click.

...

a thin film of sweat was beginning to form on the back of her neck as she stalked down the chapel’s hill. when she thought of death – she thought of harsh cold and dreariness. at the very least, clouds. today, the sun beamed and burned. she squinted at it through the netting of her fascinator, the rays taunting her. it was like london was celebrating, laughing even. it made her angry.

well, angrier. from the moment she stepped outside, everything had made her angry. she was angry at the weather, the people who were there, who weren’t there and at herself. her stupid self – who couldn’t for the life of her bear to unpack her emotions. every attempt made her throat close and the room fold in. the sadness came from every direction, finding the stem felt like tumbling through a thick forest, grasping for branches. and so the tears had stopped running days ago – shoved in a closet of her brain where she stood at the door. it was not unlike grace, anything and everything unsavory could be pushed aside, shoved behind doors and swept under rugs, for the noble display of pleasantness.

but the more the thoughts thudded on her figurative door, the more the primordial rage (and confusion) began to aggregating, like a plaque buildup edging on her memories. it would silently seethe as the ceremony went on, as she stared ahead at the marble tiles, and the old oak pews. her eyes stayed trained ahead of her until the end of the procession. she was sure in photos, all one would see, as his casket slowly lowered was the blank expression in her eyes.

“ are you alright ? ” on the steps of the chapel, her mother’s hand picked her chin up, and in a familiar movement forced her to make eye contact with each other’s blue eyes. the only difference ? the wetness and puffiness of her mother’s steely eyes. it would be imperceptible to the common eye, it could even be chalked up to allergies, but natalia knew what lied behind her impenetrable stare. god, even her mother – the cold woman – could muster up some sadness. 

“ i have to go. ” she muttered, twisting out of her mother’s hand, and taking quick steps away from the crowded entrance of the chapel, pushing past the smattering of people left grieving or celebrating, avoiding eye contact so no one else would feel inclined to offer their sincerest condolences in their most condescending tones.

...

the stairs were making her dizzy – the bench in the gallery felt so wonderfully solid, it was so tempting to sink down and simply lay. instead she sunk forward with head in her hands, letting her raggedy breath catch up as she stared at her shoes. she waited until she could take two regular breaths, to look up at the portrait. her father’s deep set eyes, sharp chin, and broad nose – and the dam broke, the door splintering to pieces as a garbled sob escaped her. 

through her watery eyes the painting blurred in her vision, muddled and nearly indistinguishable: a faint figure of a king, of a father. and maybe that was all he was. it slowed her tears: the thought that arthur sr. was merely a man who could only be responsible for half of her chromosomes and nothing else. the thought that she had colored his image too vividly and filled the empty space with her imagination. the memory of empty audience chairs and lonely dinners. perhaps he deserved no remorse.

the next few blinks cleared the fuzz, the feature’s heavy gaze appearing again and with it the memories. the sunny days at the stables: when she’d watched his back as his horse led on the trail. the smiles (caught from the corner of her eye) directed at his plate at the far too large dinner table, when she and art had let their bickering go too far. the firm pat on her shoulders after a horse show. how he showed her how to eat her toast during her first breakfast at buckingham, and how it never changed, twenty years later. 

king arthur sr. was man to be remembered. if only natalia knew which one to. 

she wraps her arms around herself now, the only warmth left, as she raises her chin to look at the portrait once more with her streaky face. how is it that he’s gotten off so easy ? even in death, he has left them screwy and disconcerted. even in death, he has shirked his responsibility. even in death, he disappoints.

nothing would ever change now. what was, was what will ever be. dreams of a sudden change of heart could wash down the drain.

but that was the thing about hope – in the purest of forms, it could never be squashed. 

she stands up. takes a step closer, and looks him in his eyes. 

“ goodbye, dad. ”

and forever, she’d stay suspended in the purgatory of gray. 

#hshqpara #god i had this half written before the points thing was even announced #thank u point system 4 the motivation

[arayamahidol]

nothing to see

“ ah,  fuck — that was great. ”  he rolls over.  araya remains lying on her back,  staring at the ceiling,  extremely confused on what just happened.

“ huh? ”  she says out loud.  

“ is something wrong? ”  he asks.

is his dick broken?  is that it?  there were so many rumours about him being good in bed!  she wanted her first time to be memorable and not horrible like all of her other friends! 

it’s still memorable in an embarrassing way.

“ no, no... ”  she sits up,  quick to find her shirt.  “ actually — ”  she pauses.  “ no,  nothing. ”  she searches for her underwear,  she won’t let him keep it as some sort of trophy to brag to his friends over xbox live.  “ well,  this was — ”  fun,  great?  she didn’t want to lie to him about his horrible and lazy and self-satisfactory performance.  “ it was something! ” 

“ yeah,  it was sick. ”  he reaches over for his xbox controller.  “ wanna do it again some time? ”

what the fuck,  hell no!  “ oh,  so sorry,  i’m moving next week.  my mom — she has this horrible illness and i have to move with her to be closer to this specialist...  for her illness. ”

“ oh shit...  what’s the illness is she okay? ”

“ uh... ”  this is such a terrible lie.  “ lyme disease,  it’s a whole thing. ”  in record time she has all her clothes on.

“ what’s lyme disease? ”

“ ... ”  what the fuck is lyme disease?  “ something...  bad. ”

“ shit.  can i call you though? ”

“ y’know,  we totally could,  but long distance calls cost a fortune and i don’t have a job yet.  logistically,  it’s confusing and you know,  texting,  that also costs money because you have an...  android. ”

“ snapchat— ”

“ bye! ”  she nearly runs down the hall,  aggressively pressing on the elevator button repeatedly.

#hshqpara

[highsocietyhq]

*✧･ﾟ:* DAY SEVEN TASK *:･ﾟ✧*  

this task is worth FOUR ( 4 ) points. write a self para about your character having to act against their morals. tag the para with #hshqpara. you have until 12:00 pm GMT 10/12/2022 to complete this task.

#hshqac2022

[frejaedb]

friday, 17th of february, 2012 ; freja.  paris, france.

“ veux-tu m'épouser ? ”

god, he was so stupid. it was her first thought at she stared at the open velvet box. a rooftop dinner, in the middle of february. the winter chill made it so their coats never left their bodies, their food had gone cold before her fork could dig in ... and yet ... now she didn’t know if lucien was shaking from the cold or from nervousness. 

“ so ? ” 

she used the hands she had clasped on her heart in surprise to tuck her wind blown hair behind her ear, and moved her eyes to his face. the hopeful grin, the raised brows, eagerly awaiting the answer.

this was what she wanted, no ? it felt like she had played the game correctly, punched the right buttons and voila – she had beaten the game of love. 

this is what she wanted. now it was a statement. lucien talhouët, and his ever present warmth and doting eyes. she liked it, she did. was she convincing herself ? no – lucien talhouët can give her the life she wants. lucien talhouët was rock solid – there was a certainty to him no one else could quite deliver. not francisco, not even arnauld.

now she was thinking for too long – the confident face that had popped the question was beginning to falter into a worrisome one. she exhaled, with a finality, and placed two hands on his jaw.

“ yes. “ 

#hshqpara #( self para. ) #defining moment ? #mby i should have done wedding

[alessandrxs]

📅    𝗗𝗔𝗧𝗘    :    16th of october, 2020. 📍    𝗟𝗢𝗖𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡    :    the maldives. ❕    𝗪𝗔𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗦  𝗙𝗢𝗥    :    pstd, shooting, guns, blood, breathing difficulties.

⸻    wake me up when the nightmare ends.

he can’t remember the last time he smiled so much.    the crashing waves sound like a song he has heard a dozen times before  ;    inviting and familiar, cool underfoot as he pads through where the sea meets the sand.    the smell of ocean air is fresh and salty, awakening his mind.    but his favourite part is the trill of laughter coming from his siblings up ahead, looking so free and unbothered by the world that he doesn’t want this moment to end.    he would frame it, if he had a camera on him to take a picture.    why did he decide to leave his phone in his room  ?

a hand presses down on his shoulder, and ale turns slightly to see that it belongs to  ...  his father  ?    no, that can’t be right.    he rubs his eyes, for surely his imagination must be playing tricks on him.    but ernesto di savoia is still standing there, with the smile on his face that says he knows every thought you’re having before you even speak it.    although, ale doesn’t think you need to be a mind reader to notice how happy he is.

“    when do you fly back out  ?    ”    his father asks, in a voice so kind ale has to wonder whether he heard him wrong.    could ernesto possibly be concerned  ?

“    monday,    ”    he replies, his gaze moving back to his siblings.    they suddenly look so far away that ale wonders how long this beach actually is.    how long have they even been walking  ?    “    i’m going to miss them.    i always do when i’m away.    ”

“    of course you do,    ”    ernesto nods in agreement, but instead of looking ahead, his eyes remain fixated on his son.    “    they miss you too, we all do.    but this is the life you decided to live.    ”

besides himself, ale has to smile.    he doesn’t regret joining the air force, not one bit, but each time he comes back home just to leave again, doing so is a little more difficult.    he feels like he’s missed entire chunks of the lives of those he cares about  ;    noe seems to have grown at least a foot since the last time he saw her.    before he knows it, she’ll be going to college and he’ll only have been around to see a little bit of her life.    he looks back at his father.

“    do you think        ”    he begins, but when he looks to where ernesto was a moment ago, he’s met by nothing.    “    dad  ?    ”

he looks around, trying to find him again, but the scene seems to have changed  ;    his siblings have disappeared, and so has the beach.    the ground no longer feels soft beneath his feet, but hard and cold, and it’s not half as inviting.    the open air is replaced by a dimly lit, dank smelling hallway.    it looks vaguely familiar, but he can’t name it.    he would ask somebody, but it’s late, and he can hear the faint sounds of somebody snoring in their sleep.    it seems like everybody’s asleep.

and then he hears somebody calling his name.

he can’t place it at first, he can’t think of where it’s coming from.    but then he hears it again, this time louder, more urgent, and he starts running.    down the corridor and down more corridors, down staircases and up other ones.    how could he have heard the voice from so far away  ?    did he imagine it  ?    but it keeps getting clearer  ...  he’s so close, he has to keep going.    down another hallway, around a corner and he slows his footsteps.    the voice came from down here.    he doesn’t know how, but he knows.

ale almost misses it, but there’s one door that’s stood ajar, light streaming through it, whispers of voices being carried to his ears.    he tiptoes towards the door, heart thudding inside his chest, and peers inside  ...

the door bursts open before he even has time to react, and he’s met with the face of a stranger, blurred beyond recognition and wearing all black, from shoulder to foot.    and there’s a gun in his hand, and it’s pointed right at ale.

“    please        ”    but his plea is broken off by the sound of a gun shot, the burning smell of gunpowder, and a sharp pain in his chest.

he looks down, and his hand lifts to the source of the pain.    but where his hand is usually faintly tanned, it is now ruby red.    why is it red  ?    why does his chest hurt  ?    why does he suddenly feel like he can’t breathe  ?

he’s vaguely aware of sliding down the wall, of the familiar faces swimming before his eyes, before they close and he lets the darkness take him  ...

...  he wakes with a start, his breath coming in ragged couplets as he sits up in the bed.    his face is covered by a sheen a sweat.

ale’s gaze spins around the room, suddenly feeling like he’s being watched, but there’s nobody there.    he knows there’s nobody there.    hasn’t he had this dream enough times already to know this  ?    shouldn’t he be used to it by now  ?

it always starts the same  ;    a memory, probably stored into his brain long ago is twisted into a reality so vivid in today’s world that he finds it difficult to figure out whether it is actually a dream or whether it’s reality, then the scene changes, he’s in the corridor, somebody calls his name, and he wakes as the dream fades to darkness.

he can hear the soothing sound of the waves crashing against the sand, and watches as the curtains of the open patio doors seem to dance in the wind.    he works on calming his breathing for a moment, which is more a result of the dream than it is of anything else.    his heart is hammering against his chest so fast that he can hear the thudding in his ears.    he waits a few moments, trying to collect his thoughts, before getting out of bed.

bare feet make silent sounds on the laminated floor as he makes his way into the bathroom, squinting his eyes at the sudden bright light that floods his vision when he switches the light on.    he barely even recognises his own movements as he turns on the cold tap, and splashes cool water onto his face.

he needs to wake up.    it was just a dream.    he’s had it countless times over the past couple of months  ;    he can’t remember the last time he had a decent night’s sleep.    before that night in rome, he’s sure.

he reaches for a hand towel and pats his face dry, folding it back over the rail as he looks back at his reflection.    his hair is starting to grow back into curls since he last had it shaved, and green eyes stare back at him in a curious fashion.    why do they look so red  ?    stop, he tells himself, rubbing a hand over his face.    he glances down at his bare chest, sees the scar that is now a permanent fixture.    it looks ugly and out of place, as if it doesn’t quite belong there.    he frowns down at it, forces himself to look away, but when he looks back at his reflection, there’s someone behind him.

if his heartbeat had calmed down any, it’s certainly racing again now as he jumps slightly, but it’s only his security guard, ciro.    he goes everywhere with him these days.    ale releases a breath.

“    are you okay, your highness  ?    i thought you were sleeping  ...    ”    there’s a look of concern on his face.

ale offers him a kind smile.    “    i’m fine, ciro, thank you,    ”    he says, looking back at his reflection.    “    i just need a moment.    ”

he sees ciro nod his head, and watches him disappear out of the mirror.    he feels like he needs more than a moment, but he wasn’t going to add more worry onto ciro’s already tense shoulders.    with a sigh, ale turns the hot water to wash his hands, watching as the soap foams up in hands before rinsing away the soap suds and drying his hands again.    then he turns from the mirror, switches off the light and climbs back into bed, hopeful he will become restful enough to get at least a bit of sleep.

#hshqpara #ptsd tw #shooting tw #guns tw #blood tw #breathing difficulty tw #evy said she would b mad at me if i didn't post this so here it is KSNDFNDJJ #anyway this got kinda long i'm SORRY for anyone who reads #﹟ ⠀ ⠀ 𝟎𝟎𝟖 ⠀ . ⠀ ⠀ 𝗮𝗹𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗿𝗼 𝗱𝗶 𝘀𝗮𝘃𝗼𝗶𝗮⠀ ⠀ ﹕ ⠀ ⠀ ❪ ⠀ misc ⠀ ❫

[jinzhaohui]

EAGER TO LEARN.

he can feel his heart jumping out of his chest,  all the blood that had gone to his groin now suddenly elsewhere.  was it supposed to end that quickly ?  

fuck,  did it even actually happen ?  

zhaohui takes a breath:

yeah  —  from the stickiness,  he’s sure it happened.

“ so  — ”  he takes another breath.   “ that was a .. mazing. ”

“ yea  .. maybe next time we can do it when you actually unzipped ? ”

he looks down,  before laughing,  “ oh shit  — yea, did the zipper hurt your  -- ”  he pulls his pants down to the ankles.

“ okay,  shut up now,  sparky, let me teach you a few things. ”

he was as eager to learn as he was eager to please.

#fuckboys aren’t born they’re made :’) #hshqpara

[fannicroy]

7th of October, 2020

Her old black dress had been too small for her — she hadn’t needed to wear one in four years after all. It would have looked outdated as well. Her lady-in-waiting had dealt with finding her a new one. Simple, modest, appropriate, mournful. It had waited for her on the bed and when she had slipped into it, the shoulder seams had been half an inch off and the waist had felt loose. 

She followed her father into the church, his and Levente’s backs did not make much of a view. The wall of black fabric in front of her was numbing. So dull that it made the inside of her head the only thing to concentrate on. 

The thing with old people was that you were always aware of their mortality. You almost waited for the day that was inevitable just so that you could breathe again. Fanni had been holding her breath for the last two years. Great aunt Marya had been incredibly healthy until the day she had not been. It almost felt like it had happened overnight. One day she was enjoying long walks in her garden, one arm linked with Fanni’s, sharing her life wisdom. The next she had been her bed’s property, and had stayed that way until the very end. 

Guilt slithered up her chest whenever she thought about the way her visits had become less and less frequent towards the end. She had gone from a regular visitor to a special guest. Because it had been so tiring. It had been disappointing to notice the sharp mind be dulled by medicine. It had been gruesome to see the strong body wither into a sag of bones. It had made her feel irrelevant when her name had changed into Karyna. Karyna-dear. 

Why was Fanni darling not being uttered when she had sacrificed just as much of her time and sanity for the woman?

The bitter flame fluttered in her chest but was put out when the front row sat down on the church benches. Her hand rested right by Olimpia’s. The coffin was in front of her, a little to the left. From the corner of her eye she could see Karyna’s profile. Was her eyes redder than Fanni’s? She couldn’t be sure. Was Karyna’s nose getting stuffier by the minute like Fanni’s was? The priest’s voice echoed in the church. There was something fitting about the starkness of the ceremony. Great aunt Marya had not been one for sloppiness or casualness.  

“You can never go wrong with following the rules. There may not be any glory or admiration for us who do things as they should be done, but there will never be shame or dishonor for us either. That is what matters the most.”

It was a simple advice to follow. It had always kept Fanni’s head above the water. Laugh when someone jokes. Smile when someone needs encouragement. Entertain when you want to be liked. She had done it so well. Even Marya had praised her for the way she had behaved at the few parties they had had the opportunity to attend together. Fanni would have wanted to hear her say one last good thing about her. Was she accomplished in Marya’s eyes? Clearly not as accomplished as Karyna, but surely the skills she had perfected under Marya’s watchful eye were worth recognition. Maybe if she had a ring on like Karyna did, she would have been considered worthy.

“Accompany me, I am too old to go alone. I need to show you around if you are to ever join our ranks.”Aunt Marya had posed it as if Fanni was doing a favour even though both of them knew it was the other way around. People did not simply attend these soirées. The exclusiveness of the association was what made it so desirable. You had to be invited to the meetings. You had to be approved by the members before you had any chance at becoming one. You had to do well. You had to have someone vouching for you. Fanni’s smile had been wide for the rest of the day. The request had felt like a pat on the back, a gold star, a sign of approval.

Great aunt Marya would have chastised her for wearing mascara to a funeral. As Fanni dabbed the moisture from beneath her eyes, she realized her own idiocy. The white handkerchief had black stains on it. Karyna’s cheeks looked clean. There definitely was no runny mascara. Another thing Karyna had done better than Fanni. Another thing that made Karyna worthier. Had Karyna ever exploded at great aunt Marya?

Fanni had once sreamed because of the unfairness. It had been unfair: Karyna was older. It had made sense that she had been already settling down. It had been merely circumstantial — Karyna had not earned the necklace. The heirloom had been dangled in front of Fanni for nearly a decade. She should have had an equal chance at getting it. “Karinka deserves something worthy of the pride she is bringing to the family. The future king of Venezuela, Fanni darling. It is a fine match. Very respectable. You should be excited for the big day. I am sure there is something nice for you in my collection when it is your time.” There was not. Fanni had known. She knew the collection. Both Karyna and she had spent hours browsing through the numerous brooches, necklaces, earrings and rings the grand marchioness of Győr owned. There had been only that one piece of jewelry that was worth competing for.

That necklace had intrigued them both and on top of being the most beautiful piece of jewelry in Hungary, it had a story. Marya had told it quite a few times over tea. It had been, quite clearly, one of her favourite stories. Fanni had been sixteen when she had understood that it was self-satisfactory pride in her aunt’s voice when she told the story. The story about the suitor who had thought he could buy Marya’s love with a necklace. Taking great aunt’s age into consideration and how Hungary’s history had not been kind to women, it absolutely should have been enough. It was a small fortune crafted into a line of diamonds and sapphires. It could have been a token of love but now it existed to showcase the one power Marya had always possessed: charm. Young Marya had been enchanting, beautiful, perfect enough to have this one man waste his money on her when he had barely occupied a corner of her mind. 

Fanni had apologised for the outbreak, of course. A necklace had been nothing if Marya would open the door for her to the little exclusive women’s association. The connections she could have made! The information she could have acquired. The exclusivity that would have made her special. Better than others. Better than Karyna. So Fanni had apologised. Three months later she had been gifted a pair of earrings. The week she had sacrificed of her summer holiday had been worth something. Marya had always remembered to thank her entertainers well. The little heart at the end of the letter had held Fanni’s gaze longer than the actual opals in the box. 

Fanni saw aunt Marya’s closest friends approach Karyna first. She could not read their lips but their expressions spoke loudly enough. It made sense for them to flock to her. She was Marya’s chosen one. Fanni had known she had lost the race the moment the family’s second Marya had been born. If only she had been a boy! Fanni would have been given a two-year-long grace period. Marya. It was a beautiful name. Marya. Not many people were significant enough to be made into namesakes. Marya. It had been supposed to be her daughter’s name. 

Marya of Hungary had liked to have the power to choose and had had little concern for the collateral. Fanni had been sixteen when she had read her aunt correctly for the first time, and she had been twenty-nine when she had felt bad for the man of the story for the first time. 

#hshqpara #( about. )