Today Was Not The Day

[Khy Marah]

Vortas 27th, 2718
PAPER TIGER| TWENTY FORTH HOUR

The peculiar edge of panic in Drezda’s field at first Khy mistook for her own, nervous and shy and excited all at once. She began to say more, hands trembling slightly from the rush that whooshed through her head, when the Hoxian all but lept from her seat and dragged her field abruptly from the red heads. Khymarah made a sound of discomfort, brow furrowing and hand clutching at the armrest of her chair.

What had just happened?

The painter blinked, taken aback by the sudden stand offish bluntness of the womans tone. Her eyes searched the womans face as her cheeks remained flushed, not this time with arousal or curiosity, but shame.

“What…I…did I do something wro—” There was frustration all but pulsing from the brunette in thick waves, and panic began to rise in the painters chest. She sat with her mouth hanging open, unable to tie together what was going on. One minute, the older woman had been kissing her and letting the red head find herself, the next she seemed angry at her. Cold. Hard.

Tears stung her eyes, and with shaky legs the scarlett haired painter moved to stand, looking around with blurred vision. This wasn’t how she’d expected her first kiss to go after all. Hadn't the older woman just told her how much better women were than men? How much kinder and softer and special? Her shame was tangible in her aura, assuming in all ways that she'd made some faux pas, that she'd done something very wrong.

“Sorry I…oh…okay yes. Well. I’m…” Swiping at a tear that escaped her sapphire eye, the artist stifled the hitching of her breath, entirely unsure what to do. She stumbled against the coffee table as she made her way out of the room, looking for the rack where her coat would have been stored. Blinking hard, she found it, tugging the warm outer garment from its place and shoving her arms in. Struggling with the buttons, Khymarah did them up blindly, desperate not to cry in the home of Drezda Ecks. Pulling the hood up, she moved back to the doorway of the room hesitantly, looking at the floor as she fought the emotions that bubbled in her chest.

“T-thankyou Miss Ecks. For uh…the tea. I’ll find my own way home. Apologies for...” It was difficult to hold down the waiver in her voice, but the red head was used to being shunned, and so she had practice. Still, self doubt had immediately risen within.

Not good enough.

Ruined it.

Useless. Useless girl.

“…well apologies.” Pressing her lips together, field brimming with confusion and hurt, the galdor nodded curtly before turning on her heel to head for the door.

Today was definitely not her day. At all. Period.

[Drezda Ecks]

Vortas 27, 2718 | Ecks Residence

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Khymarah's panic was an echo of her own although the reasons were likely quite different. The redhead thought that she'd done something wrong. Poor girl. It was cruel, undeniably cruel but it had to be so. She didn't deserve such a precious creature and said creature did not deserve to be so horribly corrupted by the Hoxian. Drezda should never have brought her here. This entire thing was the diplomat's fault, not Khymarah's, not that she was going to explain that. If she explained then she'd expose too much of herself but at the same time, the redhead was clearly terrified by the prospect of these sorts of relations, lacking confidence as it was. Was it fair to potentially drive her to permanent celibacy by allowing her to believe that she was worthless? That her relations with another woman could only end in disaster? No, that was even more horrific, that any flame in the other might be extinguished, her desires wilfully repressed.

"You didn't do anything wrong," she murmured, voice husky with unshed tears as she shook her head, still unable to look in the Bastian's direction.

All her fault. This was all her own fault. It was only ever her own fault. What had she expected? Who had she been kidding? The Hoxian couldn't expect to have nice things because she certainly didn't deserve them. Zjovrash! Overwrought fountain of intense emotion with no self-control. Some Hoxian she was, far from being stoic certainly.

There was no way that she was going to be able to reel herself in. Either she'd have to claw at herself to make the emotion retreat under the onslaught of pain or she'd have to turn her emotions on someone and unleash them. There was one form that they could be translated to quite well: anger. Her pain, her frustration, her self-hatred could all be channelled that way and then released. There was really only one potential target for that and it wasn't Khymarah.

Drezda bit her lip, listening to the teary sound to her companion, utterly unable to find the strength to call out for a passive, lacking the composure that would allow her to carry out the necessary actions that decorum demanded.

However, decorum had definitely gone out the window. If she sent Khymarah off in a carriage, it would be a kindness, an act of thoughtfulness rather than any true attempt to uphold codes of conduct. To attempt to uphold codes of conduct right now... such a notion was laughable given what had occurred between them.

"You've nothing to apologise for, Khymarah. You didn't-" she cut herself off with a sigh, She could tell her until she was blue in the face that she was blameless in this but the artist didn't necessarily have to listen, especially not if she didn't want to do so. If she wanted to think that this was her fault then it was unlikely that the diplomat could dissuade her.

Instead, when she heard Khymarah walk out to the hall, she seated herself on the couch, elbow resting on the arm, fingers of one hand spread at her temple, seeming to shield her eyes. The only thing she offered by way of farewell was a sigh, the diplomat only burying her face in her hands when she was certain that the artist was gone. What had she done?

A minutes passed, two, more, the diplomat breathing deeply as she tried to calm herself. It didn't work.

Shakily, she got to her feet, still a whirlwind of emotions and went searching for someone to turn them on. Moving out into the hall, she went to mount the stairs, fingers curling tightly around the top of the banister, knuckles white.

"Rosmilda! Where are you? I want to have words with you. My room now."

Nothing good could come from that roar, her voice carrying throughout the household.

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