[ Even with simmering rage behind it, her tone still carries the sort of immature petulance that's characteristic of youth, cutting through all the years between them. Alina had never had delusions of grandeur or foolish fantasies about being anything greater than what she thought she was. To a mouse, invisibility is safety, unseen while rustling through the shadows. She was content with ordinary. Wanted ordinary, even. It made sense to be a soldier, one of many in the ranks following orders that dissected the impossible into directives and instructions, following a path, a map drawn by someone else.
He had changed that, he had pulled back the veil on a life half-lived. He had made her think she could burn as brightly as the sun, carved out a place where she might not just belong but celebrated because of who she is. She could be seen and understood.
And then he robbed her of it. Marked her as a servant with the collar around her neck that protrudes from her skin even now. ]
No. [ She shakes her head, her voice quivering with rage at the edges. ] I haven't done anything.
[ Maybe it's cosmic justice. She mourns her own power, but the reality of his sinks in, and it's just enough to make her forget. Ordinary and empty, invisible and left in the dark. ]
What does it feel like? [ Pride and wrath are sins, but who here would tell this story — Sankta Alina of the Iron Bars. ] To have it taken from you?
no subject
[ Even with simmering rage behind it, her tone still carries the sort of immature petulance that's characteristic of youth, cutting through all the years between them. Alina had never had delusions of grandeur or foolish fantasies about being anything greater than what she thought she was. To a mouse, invisibility is safety, unseen while rustling through the shadows. She was content with ordinary. Wanted ordinary, even. It made sense to be a soldier, one of many in the ranks following orders that dissected the impossible into directives and instructions, following a path, a map drawn by someone else.
He had changed that, he had pulled back the veil on a life half-lived. He had made her think she could burn as brightly as the sun, carved out a place where she might not just belong but celebrated because of who she is. She could be seen and understood.
And then he robbed her of it. Marked her as a servant with the collar around her neck that protrudes from her skin even now. ]
No. [ She shakes her head, her voice quivering with rage at the edges. ] I haven't done anything.
[ Maybe it's cosmic justice. She mourns her own power, but the reality of his sinks in, and it's just enough to make her forget. Ordinary and empty, invisible and left in the dark. ]
What does it feel like? [ Pride and wrath are sins, but who here would tell this story — Sankta Alina of the Iron Bars. ] To have it taken from you?