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May. 29th, 2008 01:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
queenofmayThe night seemed never to end.
At first Marian had avoided leaving the Bar proper. She'd settled into a corner and started a book, only to find herself done with it shortly after. More time passed at a crawl and bored with staring at the wall, the floor or the strange metal shoot that remade things, she went down to Security and read the updates and logs for the time she'd missed.
When she woke up, head laying on her crossed arms, she decided she couldn't put off going to Arch.
She drug her feet, but all too soon the picture of The Dogs Playing Poker was before her, and then the main foyer and the picture that lead to her room. The great green forest which she raised her fingers to touch, her stomach knotting violently inside of her, as she went through into her room. She looked around the sitting room, blinking as her eyes began to burn again. Her arms crossed. Then uncrossed.
Tears spilled down her cheeks untouched this time as her grey eyes wandered across the room.
They were just things she told herself. Just things.
She pulled her clothes off, leaving them in her wake on the floor. The blue jerkin and the yellow undershirt. The bulky thick skirt and the pants that had been hidden by it. Her mask. Her boots. The hidden weapons and their holders. Her under things. She tried to wipe her face with the clothing as she went, but it seemed to make only a bigger mess and she seemed unable to make her hand stop shaking long enough to do it properly.
Her bed was fallen upon, but only after she realized it was the wrong shape and made of the wrong wood and a harrowing sound had broken free from her lips. She pulled the blankets close around her, sobbing sound filling the bedroom and echoing back to her, as i f from some creature, elsewhere.
She cried for herself, giving it nobler reasons. Even as they were pale excuses as truths.
Because she didn't know if the house was gone or if it was only half scorched. Because she didn't know if anyone had set the horses free of their stalls. Because peasants would have to put the fire out, in the middle of the night, using water better saved for other things. Because she didn't know if the houses and business and market and church of Knighton had been spared or if the loss was greater than simply their own. Because she didn't know if there would be anything left to come home to, and likelihood was slim.
Because it was sheer stupidity that she had punched Guy at the altar, before a public of own fearful his peers, and considered herself to have gotten away with it.
Because they were her (their) things.
The last remnants of her mother. And of her childhood. The entire life of the Nightwatchman. Every pretty bauble. Every collected weapon. All the finery of the place settings, gifted to them when she was a little girl and her father was still sheriff. The wardrobes and the bedding. The wooden main floor furniture.
This was followed by punching her head board. Again and again and again and again. Until the feeling of her knuckles connecting with the wood couldn't be felt. Only seen. Before covering her mouth so that she didn't scream. Covering it until she was breathing more calmly, staring only at a small section of pattern on her comforter, and focused on the need to beat something into the ground or hit it until it broke. Tomorrow morning. Tomorrow when her legs wouldn't tremble to stand.
Tomorrow...
Because she'd still have a tomorrow. And it was more than most people chastised in Nottingham had.
Marian spent most of the night accounting for her entire material and emotional life.
And somewhere in among it, exhaustion forced her into the black and on to sleep.
At first Marian had avoided leaving the Bar proper. She'd settled into a corner and started a book, only to find herself done with it shortly after. More time passed at a crawl and bored with staring at the wall, the floor or the strange metal shoot that remade things, she went down to Security and read the updates and logs for the time she'd missed.
When she woke up, head laying on her crossed arms, she decided she couldn't put off going to Arch.
She drug her feet, but all too soon the picture of The Dogs Playing Poker was before her, and then the main foyer and the picture that lead to her room. The great green forest which she raised her fingers to touch, her stomach knotting violently inside of her, as she went through into her room. She looked around the sitting room, blinking as her eyes began to burn again. Her arms crossed. Then uncrossed.
Tears spilled down her cheeks untouched this time as her grey eyes wandered across the room.
They were just things she told herself. Just things.
She pulled her clothes off, leaving them in her wake on the floor. The blue jerkin and the yellow undershirt. The bulky thick skirt and the pants that had been hidden by it. Her mask. Her boots. The hidden weapons and their holders. Her under things. She tried to wipe her face with the clothing as she went, but it seemed to make only a bigger mess and she seemed unable to make her hand stop shaking long enough to do it properly.
Her bed was fallen upon, but only after she realized it was the wrong shape and made of the wrong wood and a harrowing sound had broken free from her lips. She pulled the blankets close around her, sobbing sound filling the bedroom and echoing back to her, as i f from some creature, elsewhere.
She cried for herself, giving it nobler reasons. Even as they were pale excuses as truths.
Because she didn't know if the house was gone or if it was only half scorched. Because she didn't know if anyone had set the horses free of their stalls. Because peasants would have to put the fire out, in the middle of the night, using water better saved for other things. Because she didn't know if the houses and business and market and church of Knighton had been spared or if the loss was greater than simply their own. Because she didn't know if there would be anything left to come home to, and likelihood was slim.
Because it was sheer stupidity that she had punched Guy at the altar, before a public of own fearful his peers, and considered herself to have gotten away with it.
Because she deserved it.
Because it was her fault.
Because it was her fault.
Because they were her (their) things.
The last remnants of her mother. And of her childhood. The entire life of the Nightwatchman. Every pretty bauble. Every collected weapon. All the finery of the place settings, gifted to them when she was a little girl and her father was still sheriff. The wardrobes and the bedding. The wooden main floor furniture.
This was followed by punching her head board. Again and again and again and again. Until the feeling of her knuckles connecting with the wood couldn't be felt. Only seen. Before covering her mouth so that she didn't scream. Covering it until she was breathing more calmly, staring only at a small section of pattern on her comforter, and focused on the need to beat something into the ground or hit it until it broke. Tomorrow morning. Tomorrow when her legs wouldn't tremble to stand.
Tomorrow...
Because she'd still have a tomorrow. And it was more than most people chastised in Nottingham had.
Marian spent most of the night accounting for her entire material and emotional life.
And somewhere in among it, exhaustion forced her into the black and on to sleep.