[ Irene opens her eyes and looks back over at the fireplace, then down at her own lantern. The pink flame burns brightly - her will, her strength, her courage, her life. And while she holds much pride for it, she's aware of the fear is strikes in innocent people who believe their authority to be misused, and too great. A place of comfort for her has become endless fear for others.
I understand.
And she does. She's not happy about it, but it's not like she's mad at Lancelot for having trauma. That would be absurd.
Would it help you at all if you knew a little more about me? It would be nice if, maybe someday, you saw me less as "some woman" and more as... "Irene". ]
no subject
I understand.
And she does. She's not happy about it, but it's not like she's mad at Lancelot for having trauma. That would be absurd.
Would it help you at all if you knew a little more about me? It would be nice if, maybe someday, you saw me less as "some woman" and more as... "Irene". ]