But what was the point of that dream now? It wasn’t like her parents cared. A snort there. Unladylike and loud enough to draw attention to her for a moment. Her response was a glare back through the murky glass made murkier by her drink. The matter was dropped.
Were there a means to turn back the wheels of time, she would have done it. Done something that wouuld have saved him. Maybe taken his place; she didn’t put it past herself. Who wouldn’t sacrifice all to save their loved ones? Certainly she. The room was suddenly suffocating, and the comfort she found in a tavern was lost. Out, she needed out.
The air outside was no better, shoving through the door and swallowing the thick lump in her throat. Distress was something foreign to her. But it seemed right at home then, furrowing her brows as she skulked her way down an alley. Shoulders hunched, she distanced herself from the much more lively tavern for somewhere quieter where she might be able to stew in peace. Or for someone who’d be willing to distract her. Either would work at this point.
But neither was what she found.
Instead, she found hard wall and barrels. Maybe this would be better. The first kick didn’t do much, but send a wave of pain up the arch of her foot. It was numbed after the third and the barrel was beginning to lose the impromptu brawl. Putting her foot through it saw little relief, but still something - which was good enough for her.
Nev, though, wasn’t one to take things easy. The barrel was the start and the immovable wall would be the finish. The second her knuckles hit solid, firm brick, she recognizeed the miscalculation even in the slightly drunken rage she’d worked herself into. The shock thhat went from her hand up her forearm gave her only a momentary pause. There had not been enough force in the first punch for skin to break, but she made sure on the next one. And the next. Until she could no longer feel her hand and the bloody mess of its collision with the wall was imprinted in her mind.
Chest heaving, she cradled her stiff fingers as she slid down the same wall as if consoled by a friend. If Tristiaan were around, none of this would be happening. Things would be different. Different enough that she might have allowed for a short sob to roll through her as it attempted to in that moment, but her fully inflated ego would not allow it. She had done her mourning, and now it was time to be angry.
Being angry was tiring affair, though. She brought her knees up and rest her head, hand still cradled to her chest. Maybe a minute or two of rest wouldn’t be so bad.