#{ lysithea bestie is gonna be in another drabble too }

[duskroine]

identity.

Who are you?

     “ I am Ophelia Dusk! A heroine of legacy and virtue -- a follower of the stars! ”

And who are you?

    “ You haven’t heard of my name? It is I, Ophelia Dark! The greatest swords-woman in all of ᖇ E ᗪ ᗩ ᑕ T E ᗪ! ”

Then... who are you?

    “ Princess Ophelia Dawn, fairest in all the land no matter where my legend takes the ears of the curious! ”

         Y o u   a r e   n o b o d y.          

. . .

The throne is cold beneath her. Frigid against silk and frills and lace. Her cape is longer -- uniform replaced for a gown. Her circlet crown is tight around her head. The shield to her empty, empty mind. 

     Protection.

               Footsteps echo off the pristine walls. Windows tinted and glass stained with gold ( It’s the gold around her wrist ) and blood ( It’s the blood she coughed up earlier that morning ).

                         Security.

                                   The person stops before her -- a cloak pulled over their head but their lips quiver behind the shadow cast over their face. She can see the way their cheeks hollow and cave in -- as if they didn’t fit their face. Their wrists are small, barely caught in the shackles around them. 

                                             Trust.

                                                       Everything she couldn’t give her people.

. . .

Huh... her people?

    “ Is that all I am to you? ”

She shakes her head -- her body nods instead.

     A scoff falls from their lips. It’s sunken ( like their cheeks ). As if the life had not only been sucked from their body, but their mind, too. Soulless and without shelter. This kingdom isn’t their home. It isn’t hers either.

              “ All you royals are the same... ”

She plants her feet on the ground -- her body forces her to rise. Lightning dances over her palm, fingers, and wrist. She knows the dance before it’s even carried out. Before the curtains, velvet and silk, are pulled back. She knows the song before it’s sung. Pages and pages of blank lyrics -- the incantation burns her throat as it crawls up into her mouth.

    “ A bunch of sick, twisted bastards. ”

               Her hand rises from her side.

                        “ How does the power taste, Princess? Is it fresh, served off a-- ”

                                   Silver platter. She knows their words before they speak them; maybe that’s why the lightning travels so easily through their body. She knows them, and they must know her. They do know her. ( The real her? Or this her? ) Her finger touches their forehead -- it was a mistake to bow to a fake, wasn’t it?

They makes too much noise when they die.

     Tyrant. Tyrant. Tyrant.

               The circlet crown tightens around her head just as her fingers press harder against theirs.

                         Tyrant. Tyrant. TYRANT.

                                   Dusk colors the sky and strikes the stained glass of the throne room’s windows. The person’s eyes glow; Ophelia’s torture is open for all to see. The people see her through the walls of her castle. Through her hundreds of soldiers. Through her own eyes. Through her skin and decisions and her. 

                                             Tyrant. TYRANT. TYRANT.

                                                       She’s a tyrant. Maybe... maybe in another life, she isn’t. The knowledge of royalty will remain a secret to that young, eccentric Ophelia. She’ll be able to practice magic and serve someone -- no more ruling for a dead princess. She’ll die a tyrant.

                                                                 CURSED TYRANT!!

She pulls her hand away when the person stops shaking, almost abruptly. They’re eyes flutter, crimson irises now shine a bright aquamarine. She stares, harder. Stares through him and at the entrance of the throne room. Maybe even farther. Maybe to a new home, one that she could have lived in.

     Her hand is heavy; black stains the back of it. 

               Ophelia does not remember this mark. Tyranny. She does not remember whether she should be afraid or pleased. She does not remember if it is the bane of her existence.

. . .

Her circlet is loose, pressed underneath a headband.

     ...Nina’s.

Lysithea’s fingers weave into her own, hands pressed together as the smaller of the two girls shuffle closer to the other. Ophelia’s exhale sticks in her mouth. Afraid but courageous. Alone but in the company of others. Sensitive to colors but aquamarine continues to glow in the corners of her vision. Here but her body feels light, as if she’ll float out of this reality and into a different one. Maybe her real one.

     Ophelia remembers the mark on her hand. Tyranny. She remembers tears and screaming and hands reaching out for her. She remembers a throne and a meadow and a lost battlefield. She remembers a wedding...

               She remembers that none of those memories are truly hers.