⠀⠀⠀ bone–chilling frost’s become more friend than foe. what warmth existed in house gudävasson up north was not the warmth travelers sought. much less a king— similarly more friend than foe. what warmth house gudävasson, and its sole lady in the absence of the eldest son, was in truth only an assuaged cold. how utterly audacious, even to a royal of his decree, that he robs her of an proper adieu to breath or proper welcome to the estate. the path of the gardens yield to them, lawn and gravel bowing gracefully to their footfalls; the onomatopoeic crunch percusses her dithering sentiments, these mawkish overgrowths usurping the clean hedgerow of thought. she fears being near unrecognizable; head of hair overgrown to be mauled a snow white overnight with a diagnosis painstakingly irresolute by the town’s medic, eyes tired and sharpened edges of skin nearing unnatural hues. ⠀⠀⠀ “IT IS BUT A MERE COLD, YOUR MAJESTY.”⠀⠀⠀ trepidation’s further teased by a read on him— or the lack thereof. king bastian’s an anomaly and house gudävasson’s loyalty to the crown has all but helped draw contrast to the immediate notice of their differences. birthrights, stations and temperatures in conversation. what unnerved eirlíf, strictly lady gudävasson to most, above all was the promptness of his visit. eyes, unfocused with reverie, shutter momentarily. opening as she exhales a beleaguered sigh, sufficently boreal to sway the shrubbery. the lilacs they pass, moribund, are what she finds kin in. their pallid purples, bruise–like and sickly, in surrender to the rot. ⠀⠀⠀ “I ONLY FEAR TALE OF THIS REACHING YOU HAS ALL BUT DELIVERED IT TO MY BROTHER ALSO—— .. AND WORRIED HIM.”⠀⠀⠀ it is even in affliction that she’s bound to find chore and shame. ⠀⠀⠀ ✱ —— ... @KINGM4KER