Amy (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
kitchen_maid) wrote2006-06-05 09:16 pm
kitchen_maid) wrote2006-06-05 09:16 pm
Phanff, Phantasmorania, December 18
It seems to Amy that this winter is passing more slowly than any winter has ever done before.
Perhaps it's because she just lived through a winter, perhaps it's because her days are filled with dress fittings and thank you notes, but most likely, she thinks, it's because she's lonely.
As she does every evening, she sits in the window of her room, fingers of her right hand curled around the dreamcatcher she wears around her neck, watching the late afternoon sun glint off the betrothal ring on her left hand, dark green amber and the deepest purple amethysts she's ever seen. And then she'll watch the sun set over the dark Forest, where the bare branches of the trees are covered in snow, and wonder is it will ever be green again or full of birds and butterflies and wildflowers. And she'll strain her eyes trying to see the ninety miles to Amber, knowing that she can't.
And soon Nurse Marta will bustle into the room with a great rustling of her starched skirts, and exclaim over the fact that she's sitting in the window in her petticoat, and scold and cluck and draw the curtains. (Amy finds it oddly comforting that Nurse Marta still treats her exactly as she did when Amy was six, despite the fact that she'll be the Queen of Ambergeldar in four months.)
And she'll let Nurse Marta hustle her out of the window and help her dress for dinner. And she'll go downstairs, and eat, and watch or take part in whatever the evening's entertainment is. And then she'll go back upstairs, and lie in bed, and stare at the ceiling, and wait to fall asleep.
And then she'll get up tomorrow and do it all again.
Spring will never come.
Perhaps it's because she just lived through a winter, perhaps it's because her days are filled with dress fittings and thank you notes, but most likely, she thinks, it's because she's lonely.
As she does every evening, she sits in the window of her room, fingers of her right hand curled around the dreamcatcher she wears around her neck, watching the late afternoon sun glint off the betrothal ring on her left hand, dark green amber and the deepest purple amethysts she's ever seen. And then she'll watch the sun set over the dark Forest, where the bare branches of the trees are covered in snow, and wonder is it will ever be green again or full of birds and butterflies and wildflowers. And she'll strain her eyes trying to see the ninety miles to Amber, knowing that she can't.
And soon Nurse Marta will bustle into the room with a great rustling of her starched skirts, and exclaim over the fact that she's sitting in the window in her petticoat, and scold and cluck and draw the curtains. (Amy finds it oddly comforting that Nurse Marta still treats her exactly as she did when Amy was six, despite the fact that she'll be the Queen of Ambergeldar in four months.)
And she'll let Nurse Marta hustle her out of the window and help her dress for dinner. And she'll go downstairs, and eat, and watch or take part in whatever the evening's entertainment is. And then she'll go back upstairs, and lie in bed, and stare at the ceiling, and wait to fall asleep.
And then she'll get up tomorrow and do it all again.
Spring will never come.