~16~ Loose threads of a plan

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*Edited: 2-23-2022*
Word count: 3924

~~~ September 9, 1777 ~~~

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(This is what you're wearing

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(This is what you're wearing.)

The days had been an unwanted routine - bleeding into hours that dragged to weeks of similar schedules partaking in mostly empty time - aside from the breaks of momentary relief.

Breakfasts, lunches, dinners.
Stargazing, or watching the water shift in un-still motions.
Talks around the table, with-held thoughts drowning out the many slow paces around the ship's top deck, important conversations amongst others, even reading silently while tucked away in the king's quarters were pretty much known like second nature.

And most everything involved the royal in some way.
Whether I was directly in his presence - somewhere by his side - or within his view, he was almost always there like a vague shadow tethered to your feet.
Even my attempts to hide away in the embrace of slumber didn't help for long as soon, if I hadn't gotten up, the king — or George - as he kept telling me to call him, would eventually come get me so that we both could enjoy the sunny day or cloud speckled sky.

Every day felt like a subtle variation of the last - a memory of those that came before it - and I, having always considered myself a mostly patient woman, wasn't entirely sure how sailors didn't drive themselves mad from the always barely noticeable swaying of the vessel that varied due to the weather, or the boredom pinching every nerve.

I just needed to hang in there —
The short phrase was like a daily pep-talk at this point.

The wooden planks above me had been memorized, from the varying shifts of hues to each etched in line of grain that sat motionless in the facade of life held through mixing background noise.

Sharp clicking, the scraping of wooden chairs and boxes and limp piles of spare rope. The indistinguishable tones of orders and questions being sent. The long lasting crashes of serene waves against the vessel's large frame.

It had all been drowned out - my mind unbothered by every sound and unseen action.

I blink once, drumming my fingers across my abdomen.

Up to that point, the day had played out like every other.
Breakfast with the king - and his general most of the time - littered with small, sometimes one-sided conversations between myself and the two males. Afterwards, it was mainly studies of the floor or railing, finding distractions within the many shapes of nearby clouds.

In short, the day had dragged - creating a blank space that boredom filled with ease.

Like a knife through parchment it crippled every moment, unwavering at any attempt to vanquish it until a later time - not even the many worlds and crafted pieces of literature placed upon the bookshelf could clear the dust now lining inside my head.

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