My master had a son and his name was Mell... A soft-hearted young man.
It was obvious that he was smitten with one of the abigails his age. I've had peeks here and their of his attempt at courtship, though all of them tense and nerves. He had looked for her a gift—considered offering her a beautiful rose or an artisan trinket.
it's alright she's distracted by her memory. makes you read and watch a bunch of stuff rip.
you are six years old, and you have just returned from your first job. a blonde woman with bright red lipstick stands over you. she has a collar in her hand.
this is what happens with all the children, you've been assured. pirro himself told you. he already has his collar. he just got it, even - he came to you in the middle of the night two weeks ago and crawled into your bed with you, and cried against your shoulder until he fell asleep. when you asked him the next morning what happened, he lied and told you that he had no idea what you were talking about. but... now that you've come back, maybe you understand how he felt.
the woman - mother, as you know her - smiles at you. there's a tinge of disgust to it that she thinks you don't see.
she steps forward, and snaps the collar around your neck, securing it in place.
"It suits you, Throné. How was it, seeing blood for the first time?" she croons, resting her hand on her hip and admiring her work.
you frown. it was bad. you didn't like it. it smelled awful. you can still smell it on your hands, even though you washed them, and it's making you feel sick. so... you reply:
I don't want it on my bread.
mother snorts. she leans forward a little, with a smug smile.
"With this, you're now a proud little snake. Which makes me your Mother."
that makes you angry. you puff up a little, clenching your little fists.
No. My mother died. After giving birth to me.
and something flickers across mother's face - something like fury, something bitter and twisted and disgusting. her hands go to the whip on her hip.
"I will have none of your backtalk. If you want to live, you'll learn to bite your tongue and listen to me," mother snaps, and you scrunch down a little. the collar feels tight around your neck, but you mumble yes mother, and she waves a hand. leave. get out of here.
and then - without any sort of breather, suddenly you are in front of that woman, around seventeen years later. watch til 1:57:55!]
Having to... explain everything has been tiring. [a beat.] But - no. It doesn't haunt me. I'm glad she's dead. And I would do it again, over and over, if I had to.
Fret not. I won't be asking especially when you're so worn. [ Amalthea smiles at her, hoping it's comforting though there's some disconnect in it. ] With her death, it's almost like you started anew?
Freedom... It's a beautiful thing, but seldom is it free. [ She gives her hand a squeeze. ] We all deserve to make our own choices, even if bound by fate.
[ But that's what Throné's memory reminded them and others, didn't it? also would we like a memory in return ]
While we're here, you should get a massage. I heard it's very relaxing.
[ But I guess we are here for a memory. CW: sexual assault/rape, but i block the parts out.
You are a daughter of a merchant family, but things have been dire ever since your father died... You, your sister, and your mother can survive, but with your sister's marriage with a noble falling through the future looks bleak. You wonder what you could do—but then it would seem fate had something in store for you.
An elderly nobleman scouts you on the street and offers you a job as an abigail at his manor, the Bollinger state. They're looking for servants and he will pay you and your family well.
You think it's too good to be true, but also too good to pass up. You want your mother and sister to live, not survive.
... So you start your job as a maid. All is well and you are diligent with cleaning! Open and friendly with the other servants! The work is laborious, but the thought of your family living well motivates you through every day.
All is well until one night the head of the household calls you to his bedroom.
You see, his wife has lost herself... Being with her is painful. ████████████████ When he saw you on the street, he knew he needed to have you. ████████████████████████ █████████ If word got out ██████████ ███ ██████████████ He threatens your sister's future marriage. ████████████████████████ He threatens to withhold the money your family needs. ████████████████████ ████████████████ ███████████ ███████ ████████ ██████████ ████████████ ██████████ █████████████ ██████████████████ ███████ ███████████ █████ █████████ ████████████████ ████████████ █████████ ████████████ ██████ He takes off his clothes. █████████████████ ███████████████ ████████████████ ████████████████ ████████████████ ████████ ████████████████ ████████ ████████████████ ████████████████ ████████████████ Is this hell? ████████████████████ ███ ████ ███ ██████████ ███████ ███
You try to avoid his weekly calls... But when he involves other servants to call for you, you have no choice but to visit his bedroom to avoid suspicion. You're brutally beaten for having ignored him, lacerated with a knife as he hollered insults—he humiliates you. He teaches you to fear knives, to fear men. Their touch. Their raised voice. It strikes terror in you, it suffocates you, and it paralyzes you.
Your body, dirty... Scarred with labels written on your skin. You try to disconnect yourself from this vessel. You try so hard to protect your heart, but it's hard. Every night in that bedroom, you're hollowed out... It's for your mother. It's for your sister. You just need to persevere. You have to endure.
... But then one day the lady of the household points at you, she accuses you of seducing her husband, and calls you a dirty harlot. Despite that word being engraved onto your skin like a sinful brand, you felt absolutely nothing. It's a strange experience, being there yet not feeling like you're there, as if you're watching someone else suffer the consequences. You watch the man who put you under the knife and desecrated you calm his wife with gentle care.
What was the point of your silence...?
You're sent away to an abandoned manor in the woods like a wretched thing, but you're relieved. You miss your mother, you miss your sister, but you'll still be compensated in exchange for lifetime solitude.
You think to yourself you can't let this take away your smile. You can't let this take over your life. You can start over.
As the memory plays, Amalthea looks... Confused? Lost. Like she doesn't recognize it at all. ]
[ While confused, there is a tinge of some kind of recognition in her eyes. It's a strange thing—for it to feel familiar and that to be rejected. Stifled and muffled.
However, it should be very obvious the memory is hers... Her image is in there, somewhere, when she passed by a mirror in the memory. Not exactly the same, but undeniable. ]
[ i don't know what i'm writing and Throné is still a sweetheart. ]
... After all that has happened, I suppose I don't. [ But... In such a disconnected and inhuman way. She cares about everyone leaving and avoiding these events, but it isn't a big deal to her if she stays. ] Space travel... Or what I remember of it, had been enjoyable. It's nice to be surrounded by people—lively, but I must return to the manor.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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I see. Your profile does say that you like gardening, so that makes sense.
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The manor once housed a family who cultivated roses and I had the honor to serve them as staff. I had the chance to see a story begin so sweet.
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A story so sweet? [curiously...]
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It was obvious that he was smitten with one of the abigails his age. I've had peeks here and their of his attempt at courtship, though all of them tense and nerves. He had looked for her a gift—considered offering her a beautiful rose or an artisan trinket.
It was sweet.
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also does amalthea want a memshare]
Roses are nice. [...] Did he ever earn affection in return?
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[ Sorry, Throné. and i will accept a memshare ]
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it's alright she's distracted by her memory. makes you read and watch a bunch of stuff rip.
and then - without any sort of breather, suddenly you are in front of that woman, around seventeen years later. watch til 1:57:55!]
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It isn't unfamiliar to her... She is familiar with stories—memories. ]
Miss Throné...
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also, throné pauses.]
... I'm getting sick of seeing that one.
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It must be inconvenient to handle the aftermath of others seeing it. [ It wasn't a happy or light memory. ] I hope it doesn't haunt you.
[ Even if she's a big girl who has likely done many bad things, Amalthea wishes this for her. ]
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Having to... explain everything has been tiring. [a beat.] But - no. It doesn't haunt me. I'm glad she's dead. And I would do it again, over and over, if I had to.
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Fret not. I won't be asking especially when you're so worn. [ Amalthea smiles at her, hoping it's comforting though there's some disconnect in it. ] With her death, it's almost like you started anew?
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... It's a step towards something new. [she twists the collar around her neck.] To freedom.
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[ But that's what Throné's memory reminded them and others, didn't it? also would we like a memory in return ]
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I'd pay whatever price. [she exhales, trying to work the stress out of her shoulders.]
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[ But I guess we are here for a memory. CW: sexual assault/rape, but i block the parts out.
An elderly nobleman scouts you on the street and offers you a job as an abigail at his manor, the Bollinger state. They're looking for servants and he will pay you and your family well.
You think it's too good to be true, but also too good to pass up. You want your mother and sister to live, not survive.
... So you start your job as a maid. All is well and you are diligent with cleaning! Open and friendly with the other servants! The work is laborious, but the thought of your family living well motivates you through every day.
All is well until one night the head of the household calls you to his bedroom.
You see, his wife has lost herself... Being with her is painful. ████████████████ When he saw you on the street, he knew he needed to have you. ████████████████████████ █████████ If word got out ██████████ ███ ██████████████ He threatens your sister's future marriage. ████████████████████████ He threatens to withhold the money your family needs. ████████████████████ ████████████████ ███████████ ███████ ████████ ██████████ ████████████ ██████████ █████████████ ██████████████████ ███████ ███████████ █████ █████████ ████████████████ ████████████ █████████ ████████████ ██████ He takes off his clothes. █████████████████ ███████████████ ████████████████ ████████████████ ████████████████ ████████ ████████████████ ████████ ████████████████ ████████████████ ████████████████ Is this hell? ████████████████████ ███ ████ ███ ██████████ ███████ ███
You try to avoid his weekly calls... But when he involves other servants to call for you, you have no choice but to visit his bedroom to avoid suspicion. You're brutally beaten for having ignored him, lacerated with a knife as he hollered insults—he humiliates you. He teaches you to fear knives, to fear men. Their touch. Their raised voice. It strikes terror in you, it suffocates you, and it paralyzes you.
Your body, dirty... Scarred with labels written on your skin. You try to disconnect yourself from this vessel. You try so hard to protect your heart, but it's hard. Every night in that bedroom, you're hollowed out... It's for your mother. It's for your sister. You just need to persevere. You have to endure.
... But then one day the lady of the household points at you, she accuses you of seducing her husband, and calls you a dirty harlot. Despite that word being engraved onto your skin like a sinful brand, you felt absolutely nothing. It's a strange experience, being there yet not feeling like you're there, as if you're watching someone else suffer the consequences. You watch the man who put you under the knife and desecrated you calm his wife with gentle care.
What was the point of your silence...?
You're sent away to an abandoned manor in the woods like a wretched thing, but you're relieved. You miss your mother, you miss your sister, but you'll still be compensated in exchange for lifetime solitude.
You think to yourself you can't let this take away your smile. You can't let this take over your life. You can start over.
As the memory plays, Amalthea looks... Confused? Lost. Like she doesn't recognize it at all. ]
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a long pause.]
... Amalthea. [jesus, like, are you ok, or. apparently you can't remember this but!!!]
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[ While confused, there is a tinge of some kind of recognition in her eyes. It's a strange thing—for it to feel familiar and that to be rejected. Stifled and muffled.
However, it should be very obvious the memory is hers... Her image is in there, somewhere, when she passed by a mirror in the memory. Not exactly the same, but undeniable. ]
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It... yes. [it's a very, very sad story, and her heart aches.] It shouldn't have been like that.
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... It shouldn't have been. I still apologize—I'm not sure where this story came from, but you didn't deserve to be subjected to seeing it.
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It... [she hesitates. hm, maybe she shouldn't tell amalthea that it's her memories,] It's alright. You didn't need to experience it either.
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You don't need to worry about me, Miss Throné. I'm accustomed to seeing tragic stories. [ Nails dry. ] Now... What shall we do with our freedom?
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she is still frowning... but.]
A broad question with a broad answer. [a beat.] ... Amalthea, do you want to be here? On this ship.
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... After all that has happened, I suppose I don't. [ But... In such a disconnected and inhuman way. She cares about everyone leaving and avoiding these events, but it isn't a big deal to her if she stays. ] Space travel... Or what I remember of it, had been enjoyable. It's nice to be surrounded by people—lively, but I must return to the manor.