[ yet another door? the labyrinthine web of interconnecting rooms has taken much out of her. both the excessive amount of walking and the truly horrible places she'd had to muck through to arrive at this point. dark lands, blood-soaked churches—and of course, the crypt beneath the chapel of westminster. she had been in and out of sanctuary during her life, but those six longs months when she was four years old had been the worst.
truly, one cannot blame her for being equal parts terrified and wary of opening that door. but onward, the phantom had recommended. to journey's end, had said another passage she had recalled much earlier. to the end of what? of this neverending hell, or of her very life? she cannot know for certain. what she does know was that only suffering might be found at her back. there truly is only one way to go: forward.
taking a deep breath to fortify herself, elizabeth grounds her feet upon the floor and squares her shoulders. she might cover her eyes; but neither of her parents had ever cowered from danger. she will not break such a legacy. thus, she opens the door, she is surprised to find a familiar sight. it is none other than the throne room of westminster palace, down to the tapestries decorating the walls and the fleur de lys painted upon the tiles of the floor.
the air is easier to breathe, here. cleaner, less stale than it has been up to this point. this, she notices, all the while her eyes are riveted immovably from the lone figure seated in the ornate throne at the end of the hall, alone and without his queen in sight. automatically, she curtsies low and looks up after a few heartbeats have passed. ]
Richard— [ whoops. she corrects herself. ] Your Grace?
[ she hesitates upon rising, frowning in her mind but appearing outwardly calm as she takes a step forward. her slippered feet shuffle softly upon the floor beneath her. ah, it really is home, isn't it? she takes this possibility with a sharp stab of regret; that she might never see some who have come to mean so much to her again. it has utterly escaped her mind that she would not remember any of them; their faces or their voices if she truly were home. but she does take note of the empty hall, mysteriously free of the nobility and of queen anne.
something.. something is wrong here. something she can't pinpoint just yet. as a wry smile curves her uncle's mouth and he rises from his throne, it is difficult to try and piece it together. the light of the candles gleams and sparks upon the ornate crown he wears, gold inlaid with all manner of precious stones. her heart stills in her chest and then begins to thunder the nearer he comes to her.
finally, when he is a respectable distance away, he offers his hand. ]
"Princess Elizabeth, will you do me the honour?" [ the timbre of his voice is certainly just as she remembers, and she smiles before extending her hand. ]
Of course.
[ so, they dance. palms inches apart, pressed together, whirling and spinning about the floor. the longer they dance, the less aware elizabeth becomes of the fact that many somethings are amiss here. time bleeds away, until there is only she and her kind, whom she cannot deny without giving great offense.
she cannot even have the presence of mind to feel terrible for doing this while anne is likely minding her son or resting in bed. there is only this moment. and the beautiful, blinding light coming from the door their whirling steps seem to be leading them toward. ]
Elizabeth of York ยป Closed to Cesare ยป cw: vague references of incest
truly, one cannot blame her for being equal parts terrified and wary of opening that door. but onward, the phantom had recommended. to journey's end, had said another passage she had recalled much earlier. to the end of what? of this neverending hell, or of her very life? she cannot know for certain. what she does know was that only suffering might be found at her back. there truly is only one way to go: forward.
taking a deep breath to fortify herself, elizabeth grounds her feet upon the floor and squares her shoulders. she might cover her eyes; but neither of her parents had ever cowered from danger. she will not break such a legacy. thus, she opens the door, she is surprised to find a familiar sight. it is none other than the throne room of westminster palace, down to the tapestries decorating the walls and the fleur de lys painted upon the tiles of the floor.
the air is easier to breathe, here. cleaner, less stale than it has been up to this point. this, she notices, all the while her eyes are riveted immovably from the lone figure seated in the ornate throne at the end of the hall, alone and without his queen in sight. automatically, she curtsies low and looks up after a few heartbeats have passed. ]
Richard— [ whoops. she corrects herself. ] Your Grace?
[ she hesitates upon rising, frowning in her mind but appearing outwardly calm as she takes a step forward. her slippered feet shuffle softly upon the floor beneath her. ah, it really is home, isn't it? she takes this possibility with a sharp stab of regret; that she might never see some who have come to mean so much to her again. it has utterly escaped her mind that she would not remember any of them; their faces or their voices if she truly were home. but she does take note of the empty hall, mysteriously free of the nobility and of queen anne.
something.. something is wrong here. something she can't pinpoint just yet. as a wry smile curves her uncle's mouth and he rises from his throne, it is difficult to try and piece it together. the light of the candles gleams and sparks upon the ornate crown he wears, gold inlaid with all manner of precious stones. her heart stills in her chest and then begins to thunder the nearer he comes to her.
finally, when he is a respectable distance away, he offers his hand. ]
"Princess Elizabeth, will you do me the honour?" [ the timbre of his voice is certainly just as she remembers, and she smiles before extending her hand. ]
Of course.
[ so, they dance. palms inches apart, pressed together, whirling and spinning about the floor. the longer they dance, the less aware elizabeth becomes of the fact that many somethings are amiss here. time bleeds away, until there is only she and her kind, whom she cannot deny without giving great offense.
she cannot even have the presence of mind to feel terrible for doing this while anne is likely minding her son or resting in bed. there is only this moment. and the beautiful, blinding light coming from the door their whirling steps seem to be leading them toward. ]