Post by Belarus on May 27, 2014 14:17:22 GMT -6
She might as well counted as one of the ghosts that haunted this god-forsakened place, with all the god-damned dreams she had. She murmured curses and profanities in her slumber, listing the names of those she wanted dead, like a prayer. Of all the things she would do in retaliation, of all the anger that she held on the inside. A prayer from the godless. One who seeked revenge from those who had wronged her blood and body, whether they had wronged her in the manor or wronged her in any point in history. Though of course, the priority was surviving her aggressors here in the manor. She was one who wished to eliminate all those in the way of being with her family, who wished to protect love in her hatred. A vengeance that kept her mind from her pessimistic thoughts. Thoughts that were her sword and shield.
But you can't help but realize the futility in it all, now can you. No one will blame you for a teaspoon of bitterness, even now.
She was far from an optimist, at any rate. If she had her tarot cards, she would have forecasted an endless cycle of death and rebirth, death and rebirth, death and rebirth. The ghosts that she had made conversation with most certainly weren't very pleased with the cycle that they were stuck in, and they held the same fear as her: The fear of becoming corrupted and becoming one who makes this system of systematic dying possible. There was no peace in such a cycle such as this one, and she feared for the sanity of a mind who simply lives much too long and dies much more than normally prescribed. She already knew how it felt to live much too long, and so dying often wasn't going to help the sanity situation. She feared for an insanity that she had once experienced long ago, far, far away from this house. An insanity she never wanted to revisit ever again. One which can be kept away with realism instead of false hope and fantasies. A bleaker outlook was much less volatile than delusions.
She had dragged her weary bones into the theatre without having intended to have found the theatre. In truth, she had only entered the room because it seemed spacious enough, not a closed, tight space, with room to stretch and run if she really need to. She probably wouldn't have chosen her costume, had she known that she would be constantly on her toes, running for her life. She noted the set pieces on the stage, perhaps from the last production the theatre ever had. It seemed as if at the time the manor was in use, this was a lively place where a southern belle would have had a ball being entertained by the drama unfolding onstage.
The stage was very spacious, with enough room for a small party scene. A lavish couch was set upon the stage, a fire place (that appeared to be lightable) was central and a chandelier dangled above. A Persian rug lay on the floor by the couch, and a coat hanger was just a little ways from the couch. From what she could tell, this perhaps could have been a drama or even a ballet. Perhaps even The Nutcracker, though she couldn't be sure. Perhaps the tree was taken from the set, or it was something completely different. no matter, the couch was comfortable anyways. She had decided to climb up on the stage to sit down on the couch and have a good view of the theatre and have a comfortable place to have a potential nap. She would have slept in the bedrooms, had she not been paranoid of the lack of space to run away.
She sat on the couch, still impressed by the theatre. She remembered the theatre in her brother's palace. Though she and her older sister were often not allowed to be in the theatre during lavish performances (something due to her brother's bosses and the spirit of Russification at the time), her brother would sneak the two girls up to a balcony to watch a performance or two. Ivan's tastes had become increasingly European, populating the stage with dramas and operas of the west. However, it was the ballets that Ivan seemed to love most, she could easily tell. She herself took an interest in ballet, falling especially in love with Swan Lake.
But you'll never be Odette. That's your sister. You will always be Odelle. The Black Swan.
She really would have loved to go to a fancy performance on her own, but being Belorussian was not always very helpful in that endeavor. She did have some honour and dignity, yes, but the fact that she was never Ivan proved to be a reason Ivan's bosses weren't such saints. The last time she had danced in a ballroom was before Ivan's beloved royal family had taken the bullet. She has had her dances upon occasion with Lithuania during the Commonwealth, when she sometimes acted the part of consort, a part he perhaps wished wasn't simply acting at times. She felt some remorse for having acted towards him in such a brash manner in recent times, as if there was not a thing between the two in the past. Though she most certainly could never call it romantic, per se. She would have to apologize later. If there was a later.
"I really would have loved to see a performance on this stage," she sighed. "Perhaps they danced upon the stage to express human merriment. Whatever that was."
She got up from the couch and paced about the stage as Hamlet did, with the airs of revenge and death thrust upon her.
"Maybe we'll get out of this and brother will give me a dance. Sestra is optional to bring, but I'm certain brother wants her out as well. We need to get out of this, we need to get out," she said, pausing, having thought she heard a groan beyond the groan of the stage boards.
"We need to get out of here. I am done with seeing ghosts, I want to be free from here. I want my dance, I want my performance, I want to stop seeing them. I'm greedy, but I just want to get out,"she muttered, restraining too much emotion from her voice. She needed to fight emotion; it was a sign of weakness and breaking.
I will get out, even if I'm alone. I would prefer not to die, but if I take my last breath, I will fight to breath again, even if it kills me — again.
But you can't help but realize the futility in it all, now can you. No one will blame you for a teaspoon of bitterness, even now.
She was far from an optimist, at any rate. If she had her tarot cards, she would have forecasted an endless cycle of death and rebirth, death and rebirth, death and rebirth. The ghosts that she had made conversation with most certainly weren't very pleased with the cycle that they were stuck in, and they held the same fear as her: The fear of becoming corrupted and becoming one who makes this system of systematic dying possible. There was no peace in such a cycle such as this one, and she feared for the sanity of a mind who simply lives much too long and dies much more than normally prescribed. She already knew how it felt to live much too long, and so dying often wasn't going to help the sanity situation. She feared for an insanity that she had once experienced long ago, far, far away from this house. An insanity she never wanted to revisit ever again. One which can be kept away with realism instead of false hope and fantasies. A bleaker outlook was much less volatile than delusions.
She had dragged her weary bones into the theatre without having intended to have found the theatre. In truth, she had only entered the room because it seemed spacious enough, not a closed, tight space, with room to stretch and run if she really need to. She probably wouldn't have chosen her costume, had she known that she would be constantly on her toes, running for her life. She noted the set pieces on the stage, perhaps from the last production the theatre ever had. It seemed as if at the time the manor was in use, this was a lively place where a southern belle would have had a ball being entertained by the drama unfolding onstage.
The stage was very spacious, with enough room for a small party scene. A lavish couch was set upon the stage, a fire place (that appeared to be lightable) was central and a chandelier dangled above. A Persian rug lay on the floor by the couch, and a coat hanger was just a little ways from the couch. From what she could tell, this perhaps could have been a drama or even a ballet. Perhaps even The Nutcracker, though she couldn't be sure. Perhaps the tree was taken from the set, or it was something completely different. no matter, the couch was comfortable anyways. She had decided to climb up on the stage to sit down on the couch and have a good view of the theatre and have a comfortable place to have a potential nap. She would have slept in the bedrooms, had she not been paranoid of the lack of space to run away.
She sat on the couch, still impressed by the theatre. She remembered the theatre in her brother's palace. Though she and her older sister were often not allowed to be in the theatre during lavish performances (something due to her brother's bosses and the spirit of Russification at the time), her brother would sneak the two girls up to a balcony to watch a performance or two. Ivan's tastes had become increasingly European, populating the stage with dramas and operas of the west. However, it was the ballets that Ivan seemed to love most, she could easily tell. She herself took an interest in ballet, falling especially in love with Swan Lake.
But you'll never be Odette. That's your sister. You will always be Odelle. The Black Swan.
She really would have loved to go to a fancy performance on her own, but being Belorussian was not always very helpful in that endeavor. She did have some honour and dignity, yes, but the fact that she was never Ivan proved to be a reason Ivan's bosses weren't such saints. The last time she had danced in a ballroom was before Ivan's beloved royal family had taken the bullet. She has had her dances upon occasion with Lithuania during the Commonwealth, when she sometimes acted the part of consort, a part he perhaps wished wasn't simply acting at times. She felt some remorse for having acted towards him in such a brash manner in recent times, as if there was not a thing between the two in the past. Though she most certainly could never call it romantic, per se. She would have to apologize later. If there was a later.
"I really would have loved to see a performance on this stage," she sighed. "Perhaps they danced upon the stage to express human merriment. Whatever that was."
She got up from the couch and paced about the stage as Hamlet did, with the airs of revenge and death thrust upon her.
"Maybe we'll get out of this and brother will give me a dance. Sestra is optional to bring, but I'm certain brother wants her out as well. We need to get out of this, we need to get out," she said, pausing, having thought she heard a groan beyond the groan of the stage boards.
"We need to get out of here. I am done with seeing ghosts, I want to be free from here. I want my dance, I want my performance, I want to stop seeing them. I'm greedy, but I just want to get out,"she muttered, restraining too much emotion from her voice. She needed to fight emotion; it was a sign of weakness and breaking.
I will get out, even if I'm alone. I would prefer not to die, but if I take my last breath, I will fight to breath again, even if it kills me — again.