none of it's mine but the angst and extrapolation as to what happens now, after the so called happily-ever-after
which may not be as happy as it originally appeared.
written as an exercise to attempt getting DG in character...and, well, i figured i may as well write something about the queen for good measure :)
here we go!
The bland, grey stone floor might as well have been ice beneath DG's feet, but the chill went unnoticed. Pacing in her room, she felt the suffocating weight only months of frustration could have; with a bark of a laugh she wondered briefly if this was how asphyxiation felt. It must be.
DG was by no stretch of the imagination uncompassionate; if anything, her drive and gritty determination found their source in compassion rather than personal motives like revenge. Her love for her family knew no bounds, and it was this which had sustained her so long.
Unfortunately, compassion wasn't everything.
Imperative trait to have, undoubtedly, but she would need more than empathy and sympathy if she were to help restore the OZ. Times were tough, and so she must be tougher—and not only on the exterior. Her own grievances mattered so little when there were families spending this cold night without homes or even blankets. Her own pain was hardly a papercut when the gaping wounds and vicious scars of tyranny deformed the land and its people.
The tears winding their way down her cheeks were nothing when she was drowning in the ocean of her country's sorrows.
Pausing in front of the window, tightly shut and rebuking the harsh wind, DG drank in the view, gazing out over steepled fingers. There it was, unfurling before her and melting into the sky—fields of produce, sparse shoots and stalks struggling to survive, fighting to live. They would, she knew—if it took the labor and toil of them all, the crops would grow.
Resilient, like the seedlings they nurtured into robustly thriving plants, so too the people were beginning to reclaim their sense of community. Crippled and stunted and beaten down, there was no influx of trade, no economy. Resources all but expunged, wasted; there had been an astonishing lack of practical forethought on the witch's part. The OZ's vibrant forests, clear cut; pristine lakes polluted with foul chemical wastes; mountaintops razed in search of Moratanium and other metals. Nature was beginning its convalescence, but it would be slow.
What in the world were they going to do?
To exacerbate the precariousness of her state of mind, everyone DG met regarded her with the most ridiculous respect—they didn't even know her, yet they considered her every word gospel and expected nothing less. At some point she'd stopped being DG and become larger than life, morphed into an icon, a symbol. A princess—a title DG was discovering held little appeal. Maybe it was arrogant of her, but she was sick of being looked at but never seen, heard but never listened to.
Worst—yes, absolutely worst of all—wasn't even the fact that when people saw her, it wasn't as DG but as the embodiment of royalty which was somehow omniscient, omnipotent, even. That she was simply a person, as everyone else, who made mistakes and needed a sounding board once in a while rather than servitude. DG was terrified she'd make a mistake, destroy the passionate if blind faith so many had in the royal family, even if she hadn't asked for such trust in the first place.
She was opinionated, unafraid to speak her mind, and willing to do all it took to support her beliefs.
The wind picked up, yowling through the turrets adorning the castle, flinging flimsy leaves through the air. Wearily resting her forehead against the icy windowpane, DG sighed, her breath clouding the frozen glass. For whatever reasons, just about everyone had expectations she had to meet. Conforming had never been easy for her, when it seemed all you really had was yourself and your identity. DG never cared what others though of her, and society had never mattered.
It wasn't about her anymore.
There was more than the reputation of a teenage girl on the line—there was the fate of the entire OZ and its inhabitants which would be jeopardized if the royal family failed to pull together. For the sake of everyone else, DG had to get out of the funk she'd spiraled into.
She had to. She would, if only because there was simply no other option.
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The mournful wailing of the wind was eerily human, and the sound gave the Queen chills like nails scratching a blackboard. Lying on her back, eyes open wide in the darkness, she fought the insomniac's urge to get up, get out, get going--anywhere but here. She repressed the thought, denied the urge, refused to acknowledge the impulse bordering on desperate need to lose the baggage that bore her down.
Duty bound and irrevocably tied to the responsibilities she'd assumed long ago when there was no other for them to fall onto, the Queen was under no misapprehensions. The welfare of the OZ was first and always foremost; if every aspect of her life needed to be shelved and sidelined in order to tend to that paramount priority, so be it. Though she longed for time to enjoy the dreams she'd worked to bring to fruition, the life she'd fought to make, she was a Queen before all else.
Nonetheless, there was more than just her title, even if her loyalty must be to that title first, for it would always be her family which gave her the strength to press forward.
She may have been a Queen before all else, but she was a wife and mother more than anything.
Next to her, Ahamo exhaled, looping an arm about her waist in sleep to draw them closer. Worry lines smoothed and mouth tilted slightly upwards at one corner, the tranquil expression took years off Ahamo's prematurely aged countenance. Wistfully, his wife pressed a kiss to his temple, fingertips ghosting over the crow's feet near his eyes and tracing the line of his jaw.
The OZ's reaction to the explanation offered them (detailing Azkadellia's previous possession and recent return to normalcy)—or rather lack thereof, was startling. There was simply no comprehending it. The resistance fighters had each been personally debriefed, and the miracle of it all was that despite a decade's worth of depression and fear, the people had been willing to believe. The perseverance paid off, as faint glimmers of hope the troops had clung to and faith that had almost been extinguished suddenly burst into bloom and revived their morale. Much like adrenaline, the reinstated purpose and hope exuding from the men had been contagious, potent; rather than cynicism and distrust, the desperate survivors clung to the news like the shipwrecked clutch driftwood to keep them afloat.
The blind faith was terrifying.
& if you made it this far, i reward you with virtual cookies
they're chocolate chip
but i've got brownies if you r&r