Standard disclaimers apply.
Her touch is featherlight on the ornate bronze knob of Griselda's private quarters, but the brilliant Valkyrie commander can sense her presence anyway.
"Come in, Gwendolyn," her voice floats through the door, authoritative and poised even through the layer of thick mahogany. Amused but not surprised by her sister's razor-sharp intuition, Gwendolyn allows her fingertips to trail along the decorative engraved roses for a single hesitant moment before she twists open the door knob. It wasn't that she was worried her sister would not be willing to offer her counsel- even between the extra military missions and political gatherings that Griselda was required to attend, she had always managed to make time for her younger sister. It was simply the more delicate subject of this particular matter that had made Gwendolyn apprehensive. The door gives a faint click as Gwendolyn bears her weight upon it, and she feels all traces of tentativeness slide from her muscles like dewdrops on a waxy leaf as she's struck with the familiar lavender scent of Griselda's room.
Griselda's back is turned, one hand calmly parting her hair as the other steadily runs a brush through it.
She was already preparing to go to sleep. Gwendolyn feels a twist of guilt for finally choosing to visit so late, and internally resolves not to take very long.
"Sister," she begins, "forgive me for intruding, but I just wanted to-"
"I know why you are here." Punctuated by the click of the brush being set down on the vanity, Griselda's smooth interruption cuts through her meek introduction like a knife to water. Gwendolyn had always thought that perhaps when she was older her presence would reflect her sister's: effortlessly regal and imposing, with equal parts confidence and authoritative flare. Yet here she was, of her solid nineteen years: still substituting aggressiveness for poise, still failing to earn the loyal admiration of the Valkyries, still allowing the occasional show of mercy to betray her cold reputation. A pale imitation of her sister, as always.
Griselda may be a terror and a prodigy on the battlefield, but she still looks almost gentle with her hair down- platinum ends just slightly unruly in the pallid moonlight- and the familiar sight soothes Gwendolyn. The Valkyrie commander turns, beckoning that her little sister comes closer, and she obliges with as much grace as she can manage.
Gwendolyn takes a seat on the well-kept silk comforter, running her fingers down the looping patterns of metallic embroidery that mimic the perpetual starlight streaks crowning the Nebulapolis sky. Finding monotony in the hand-stitched indents is something of a comfort when her sister's intent gaze seems to pierce through her very thoughts.
"So," Griselda begins, "you are hesitant about being given away for marriage."
Gwendolyn bites her lip. She has thought this through, and she knows Griselda won't ridicule her concerns. "Not hesitant, sister. I am merely anxious. 'Tis...the kind of anxiety that clings to one's bones when she has battled to the point of exhaustion but has scarcely whittled at the immortal number of foes. It is the knowledge that one's fate is sealed, doomed, and everything they have done in preparation to prevent this moment has been for naught."
She knows that she is being dramatic, that many a worse fate could have befallen her, but she can't help feeling a certain emptiness that this chapter of her life was drawing to a close.
Griselda takes a seat on the bed beside her, dark eyes looking almost amused. "Do you feel as if you have lost, dear sister? Do you not feel that it was noble to struggle against your destiny for the sweet time that you could make it yours and yours alone?"
"I…" Gwendolyn knows it's all true, and yet one thought keeps clawing it's way to the front of her mind, wicked and demanding. "There is hardly any honor to be had in laying down my weapon and supporting my country from within a foreign prince's castle."
"Gwendolyn," Griselda exhales, halfway between a sigh and a croon- "my dear, dear sister. You do not stop being a Valkyrie once you have put up your armor and tucked in the wings. You stop being a Valkyrie once you have succumbed to domesticity in both mind and soul, when you're no longer willing to spill your blood and bones for the banner of Ragnanival, when you start waking up without the desire to chase the horizon and never turn back. Submit only as much as you need to, sister, and I promise you won't lose yourself. You are too strong for that."
Gwendolyn feels emotion prickle at the corners of her eyes, and she averts her gaze to the various articles of furniture in the room- limited and solely practical, a layout that perfectly reflects her sensible sister. "Oh, Griselda," she murmurs. "You are too good to me. I believe leaving you will be the most painful part of all this, even more so than bidding farewell to Father."
Griselda's expression softens, looking distant and mournful in the sparse blue light trickling in from the terrace. "It is your final duty as a proud Valkyrie of Ragnanival. You have served most honorably, sister, and I'm sure he is sorry to see you go."
Gwendolyn knows she is being insolent by asking, but she can't help the question. "As a soldier, or as a daughter?"
Griselda says nothing. Instead, she beckons Gwendolyn to come closer while fidgeting for something on her glass bedside table. "Gwendolyn," she begins, unfurling the aged parchment to reveal a watercolor map of Erion- "you know the politics behind this decision as well as I do."
Gwendolyn peers over her sister, platinum strands brushing Griselda's shoulder, and notes with amusement the many holes in the parchment- indicators of where Griselda had stuck pins to mark grand combat strategies that they'd pored over together for hours.
Strategies that Gwendolyn would now never be able to take part in again. The nostalgia leaves her in a cold rush as Gwendolyn's eyes linger on the hulking nation of Titania, spacious and foreboding even on a simple scale representation.
"It's about the balance of power." As is her habit when reciting from memory, her voice had dropped to something more level- pleasantly neutral at first impression, but decidedly morose to those who knew her well. She blinks leisurely to add to the bored facade, long eyelashes sweeping her face.
"Prince Cornelius of Titania is courting our half-sister, Velvet. And Valentine already proves to be a formidable rival with their prince's diplomatic relations with the neighboring Fairy Kingdom. In one fell swoop, Valentine can gain control of half of the nation of Erion if they so choose."
"Added to their natural advantage in magical technology," Griselda adds primly.
"-and it gives Father ample reason to worry. But with this….arrangement, at least Father will be able to keep Titania neutral in any future conflict. It is as much a show of good faith as it is a defensive measure. It is," she bites her lip, "a wise choice."
Gwendolyn knows her duty, can see the glint of Griselda's crown resting on the vanity even from here, but just because Gwendolyn will obey her Father unflinchingly does not forbid some remorse in her heart as she does so.
Griselda simply pulls her close. "I will miss you dearly," is all the sentiment she offers before she lays off to the side and puts the scroll away, tugging the covers up over herself and closing her eyes. A silent invitation for Gwendolyn to stay in her room for the night, if she so wished.
Gwendolyn carefully pulls the pins from her hair and nestles under the covers, savoring both the slide of clean linen and the enduring floral scent that Griselda's Pooka attendant Myrtle works so tenaciously to maintain, and perhaps it's these small details that remind her, that she is here surrounded by night and comfort and her sister's love and she is the heir to a city so magnificent it's very name can stand among the stars, and right now her only duty is to count down the seconds until she has to say goodbye.