i. hanging the lanterns ( There is naught at all like this where she comes from. Prayer, officially is meant to be her only link to God, and by extension, to her loved ones whom have passed on. Her father. Brothers. Sister. Uncle. Half-brother. So much has been lost, and apparently begging a deity who turns a blind eye to the suffering of humanity is meant to contact them. Somehow. Elizabeth has not prayed in a long, long time. This—is far more personal, and she has difficulty maintaining an expression of calm neutrality as she moves about a stall offering lanterns for free.
Perhaps her words might truly reach her family this way. Without an apathetic god acting as a middleman.
She takes on several, one for each person she has lost; the only difficulty she has, unsurprisingly, is when it comes to her sister. )
Nay. None of these will do at all. These do not represent my sister—she was mischievous, bright and funny. The light of my family.
( And when she had died, it had gone out. )
ii. story time ( Elizabeth finds somewhere to sit where she might be warm, a glass of something hot in one hand. She looks up at a few others whom have unexpectedly gathered around her, and she smiles faintly. )
You would hear a tale, then? Very well. My father was His Grace, King Edward the Fourth of England. He won his throne at the age of nineteen, and in his lifetime was never defeated—
( The hook in place, she raises her cup and takes a sip, finding the herbal blend of what is in fact tea rather pleasant. )
Or I can tell you about my sister, if you prefer.
iii. floating the lanterns ( Her lanterns are covered in elegant calligraphy, both in Middle English and Latin. What she assumes is that none here will understand, which is entirely the point. When evening falls and everyone ventures down to the river to set their messages and memories adrift, her eyes fill with tears. Three years, it has been since her life had seemed to fall apart at the seams. All that time, there had never been an opportunity to process that fact.
Or even to weep. Which she does, unabashedly because others do the same. One lantern at a time is set adrift along the current, and when the last floats away from her hands, she raises them up as if to cover her face. )
Take good care of them. ( She whispers, in case Melusina might answer prayers. ) Since I cannot. I love them, I miss them, and one day, we shall all be together again.
Elizabeth of York ยป OTA
( There is naught at all like this where she comes from. Prayer, officially is meant to be her only link to God, and by extension, to her loved ones whom have passed on. Her father. Brothers. Sister. Uncle. Half-brother. So much has been lost, and apparently begging a deity who turns a blind eye to the suffering of humanity is meant to contact them. Somehow. Elizabeth has not prayed in a long, long time. This—is far more personal, and she has difficulty maintaining an expression of calm neutrality as she moves about a stall offering lanterns for free.
Perhaps her words might truly reach her family this way. Without an apathetic god acting as a middleman.
She takes on several, one for each person she has lost; the only difficulty she has, unsurprisingly, is when it comes to her sister. )
Nay. None of these will do at all. These do not represent my sister—she was mischievous, bright and funny. The light of my family.
( And when she had died, it had gone out. )
ii. story time
( Elizabeth finds somewhere to sit where she might be warm, a glass of something hot in one hand. She looks up at a few others whom have unexpectedly gathered around her, and she smiles faintly. )
You would hear a tale, then? Very well. My father was His Grace, King Edward the Fourth of England. He won his throne at the age of nineteen, and in his lifetime was never defeated—
( The hook in place, she raises her cup and takes a sip, finding the herbal blend of what is in fact tea rather pleasant. )
Or I can tell you about my sister, if you prefer.
iii. floating the lanterns
( Her lanterns are covered in elegant calligraphy, both in Middle English and Latin. What she assumes is that none here will understand, which is entirely the point. When evening falls and everyone ventures down to the river to set their messages and memories adrift, her eyes fill with tears. Three years, it has been since her life had seemed to fall apart at the seams. All that time, there had never been an opportunity to process that fact.
Or even to weep. Which she does, unabashedly because others do the same. One lantern at a time is set adrift along the current, and when the last floats away from her hands, she raises them up as if to cover her face. )
Take good care of them. ( She whispers, in case Melusina might answer prayers. ) Since I cannot. I love them, I miss them, and one day, we shall all be together again.
Without strife to rend our family asunder.