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There’s no curtains around her bed. No canopy. Not anymore.
She used to have a polonaise, with thick velvet drapery that could be pulled completely closed, fully encircling her bed. Usually with a deep, rich violet, though occasionally those were traded out for wine-red hues instead. Typically boasting some extra trim; gold more often than silver schrooms, or black. Instead of extending straight up like a four-poster, the columns curved inward, following the catenary curve of the curtains in an effort to render themselves effectively invisible, supporting the ornate crown overhead.
Sometimes Satiné changed that out, as well. Or had the servants do it, rather. The animated silks and taffeta that she twisted into whatever forms best suited her purposes, silent save for the whisper of fabric against fabric. How many times had she watched them at work? Seen some servants take down a set of curtains, then hang themselves up in their stead, the spark of life gradually draining from their fluttering forms and into the previous set of drapery?
Odeko always insisted they were never truly sentient. Though to be fair, she learned to stop pressing him on the matter rather swiftly. Sometimes she wonders: what would he say now…? Would it be worth reigniting the debate…?
……no. No, she doubts it would be. There’s simply too many paths that sort of conversation might split onto, following roads she doesn’t care to pursue.
Such as how she supposes that technically, she likely still has a polonaise, patiently awaiting her back in her old room. Though she wouldn’t put it past her mother to have replaced it entirely, either. Whatever suits her purposes most; that’s always been how Satiné operated. Velvet doubts that’s changed.
But she doesn’t have a canopy here, on Velpesso. Or bedposts. Or any of the usual framework. Truthfully, her bed resembles nothing quite so much as a plump purple cushion, round and with any covers elegantly draped over the top, whenever she needs a blanket or two. Colder weather generally doesn’t prove that much of an issue, but it’s good to have solutions on hand, all the same. And it’s just firm enough to provide the support she needs while also offering plenty of comfort to sink into.
Nothing looms overhead aside from the ceiling fan, solidly in the center rather than looming directly overhead. Her bedroom’s large enough to afford that kind of luxury; her bed close enough to benefit from its presence without having to worry that a panicked flight might lead straight up into—
Ah, but the blades were far too dull and spun too slowly to cause more than bruising, weren’t they…? Nothing a bit of healing magic couldn’t handle. She’s dealt with worse.
The curtains round her windows are largely ornamental as well. Light and lacy, or sheer and translucent. Marquisette or ninon, in suitable shades; still favoring dark violets, but hewing a bit more towards black, perhaps. She’s found that she prefers using window shades for controlling the amount of light that comes through, with the curtains more a matter of aesthetic. Form over function.
Easy to tear.
Easy to rip should anything get entangled, and easily replaced without needing to call for assistance. There’s no servants here, after all. Only her, and potentially Peso, and any other guests that might be visiting.
Sometimes she goes without, just because she can. Because there’s something oddly refreshing about seeing the frames go bare. Perhaps it’s merely a matter of enjoying how she has the option of doing so, should it suit her mood. That’s all.
(That’s barely scratching the surface, but that’s all the explanation she’s willing to offer should anyone ask.)
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Contrary to what her uncle claims, she doesn’t drink ‘homemade herbal tea’ every day.
…Though admittedly, that might be a touch pedantic of her. She does drink plenty of herbal teas; it’s just not necessarily a daily routine. Frequent enough that it might as well be, she supposes, but there are occasions where she goes without. Variety adds spice to life, as they say, and she’d rather not grow tired of her favorites.
Truthfully, she might name root beer as her favorite beverage, rather than any of her admittedly extensive collection of tisanes. Caffeine-free, of course. That preference is what steers her away from true teas like black or green, and factors into the ‘homemade’ factor, as she strives to steer clear of any blends that include such ingredients.
(And yes, that means she’s never been interested in coffee. Sacrilege, she knows. Her brother swears by the stuff, but the mere scent of it brewing can leave her mildly nauseous… another point her mother loved pressing as proof of her ‘delicacy’.)
But yes, mint tea tends to be a staple. Peppermint and spearmint; either works well, and she’s dabbled with others on occasion. She’s also developed a fondness for butterfly-pea flower tea, particularly with a dash of lemon or lime. Chamomile, chrysanthemum, hibiscus and rose hip, lavender… the list goes on and on. Kuzuyu in the winter, and sakurayu for the understated beauty of watching the pickled petals unfurl as it steeps…
…And she generally keeps a few bottles of ramune on hand for any guests who don’t share her personal preferences. It’s not that hard to fix a pitcher of lemonade, either, or mix in some strawberries for those who prefer that kind of sweetness. Or pick up some apple juice for, say, Opeo, or Harvest, or the Prince. She might not ever host any particularly large gatherings, but she still strives to ensure her visitors’ comfort.
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She’s never studied ballet. Not as a student, anyway. Only ever admired the art from afar, much like figure skating. And gymnastics. All elegant forms of exercise and self-expression that she can only ever mimic at most, copying the poses to the best of her ability. All too acutely aware of how she lacks the proper training, the proper musculature, that her body hasn’t been honed in the same fashion as those who have properly pursued their craft.
It’s a commitment, after all. One that should not be made half-heartedly. One Velvet cannot imagine herself making, knowing precisely what it entails. She’s far from the athletic sort; her personal exercise routines run more along the lines of ‘idle maintenance’ rather than dedicated routines. A series of stretches, mostly. She also enjoys swimming, but again, is far from competitive. Purely recreational, really.
And of course, there’s always katamari. Another good way to stay on her toes, even when she doesn’t bother manifesting her legs.
…Ah, and therein lies the heart of the matter, does it not? How easily her legs become an afterthought. Superfluous, even – and such a crass display of privilege, that she could consider part of her own body so inconsequential.
She hasn’t neglected them, but that occasionally takes more of a conscious effort than she cares to admit. Floating comes more naturally, provides respite when her legs start to ache. And many of the exercises she’s adopted to ensure nothing degrades are modified versions of ballet techniques, of poses she’s seen struck by ballerinas and skaters and gymnasts alike, all accounting for the fact that she can cheat.
…She can cheat. She has an out that others lack. Should her strength waver, should her ankles threaten to slip or give way, she can still fly. Still hold her position by hovering in place. Gravity itself will answer her call, rising to her aid. Literal Cosmic magic keeping her aloft.
How disrespectful would it be, to count herself among those who have dedicated their lives to such arts? To claim she has any right to compare her meagre skills to theirs?
So no, she’s only ever dabbled in such things at most. Mimicked their movements and adopted them in ways that don’t truly qualify as practicing. A poseur in the most literal of senses.
And she refuses to even try and claim any of their titles as her own. No, she is no ballerina, no skater, and certainly no gymnast. Merely an admirer of their capabilities, who doesn’t aspire to anything more.
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She’s never studied ballet, but she knows others who have. Her most royal of uncles occasionally alludes to his own lessons, if only ever in a glancing sort of fashion, preferring not to dwell too long upon the past. Marcy and Lalala are both a bit more willing to open up about their own experiences, though Velvet knows better than to push.
“Honestly, they weren’t that bad.” So Lalala reflected once, casting her gaze skyward while nursing a glass of hibiscus tea. “Prob’ly coulda gotten int’ them more if th’ old man hadn’t been such a try-hard. Thought he knew more ‘bout how t’ run a class than any of our teachers, y’know…?”
“Mmmn.” Marcy hummed as she’d sipped her own tisane. “He never could find anyone willing to put up with that. Even the strictest instructor snapped at his back-seating.”
“Oh, yeah, that was GREAT~! ‘Member how RED they both got—! Gettin’ right up in each other’s faces all ARRRRAGGGRRRUUGAAAHHH—!”
The wild gestures that accompanied that naturally caused most of Lalala’s beverage to splash out, but that was easily cleaned up. And Velvet wasn’t about to begrudge her cousins a bit of much-needed venting. Even if that came before…
…Well, she could think of many ways to describe their father. ‘Incautious’ being one of the kinder words. He hadn’t exactly concealed how he viewed his children as nothing more than extensions of his will, a pair of glorified dress-up dolls… much like he’d bragged about ‘rescuing’ his wife from being destined for mediocrity amongst the masses. Putting it plainly, he was the sort for whom nobility meant nothing more than a matter of being ‘born into the right family’; where regality only described his heritage and the trappings to which he aspired. A hollow image, filled with hot air. Straining at the seams and ready to burst.
Truthfully, the only aspect that truly shocked her was how swiftly he retreated in the end. She’d anticipated far more resistance, that he’d waltz right through the restraining orders with all the confidence of one accustomed to getting his way, through money and by force. Feared for their mother’s life… and that fear hasn’t entirely faded with time. Some small part of her still anticipates another spiteful strike, despite how it’s been ages since his departure.
……Perhaps it’s projecture. Excess paranoia, dribbling over and leaking out from where it should be contained. Must stay mindful of that. Her mother’s poisoned enough already, hasn’t she…?
Much like how… well, she’s never seen much point in playing misery poker. Dreadful game, that. As if minimizing, downplaying or outright dismissing the pain of others offered any kind of soothing balm… and even if it somehow did, she wouldn’t want that kind of comfort.
……She’s taught herself how to heal, anyway. Even if her magic runs cold. Cold enough to have drawn yelps at her touch, complaints that she was icing the injuries over too quickly, numbing the skin too fast. Something else to work upon…
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Velvet knows that she’s always run cold.
Admittedly, that knowledge comes partially secondhand. Bit hard for it not to be, given both her natural tolerance and how her body self-regulates its own temperature. The cold doesn’t bother her, but neither does heat; not usually, anyway. Not unless she’s not feeling well. Illness seems to trigger more extreme fluctuations as the cool aura she naturally exudes struggles and strains to adapt, often overcorrecting in its attempts to compensate.
The testimony of others varies, not just from one individual to the next, but by incident as well. She’s also well aware that some are more prone to exaggeration than others. Still, most of the exclamations that she supposedly felt ‘cold as ice’, if not even colder, align with periods where she felt a bit under the weather. (…Perhaps more than a bit, even. If she’s being entirely honest.)
Even when excluding such outliers from the data pool, however, the general consensus still seems to be that she naturally runs cooler than most. Even amongst her cosmic brethren. Not all that surprising, really, given her elemental affinity. Ice might not literally course through her veins, but it still answers her call just as readily as it heeds Sherman’s, and its influence can be felt in the air around her.
…Even if, again, she doesn’t feel it quite as acutely. (And still finds it slightly strange whenever she sees her digital representation shuddering. She knows it’s merely a matter of reused programming, and yet…)
Those around her can, however, and that… that bothers her more than the aura itself ever has. Its existence irritates her, despite her inability to perceive it properly herself, short of those moments where it fluxes so strongly that the air itself starts to glow… and that more commonly signals that the other aspect of her affinities is starting to come into play.
Which… given the choice, she supposes she’d much rather contend with consistently cooling the space around her than causing gravity itself to shift and slip. Even if it’s more a matter of telekinetics… or at least, that’s the easiest way to explain her influence. Certainly a less alarming way, at any rate.
The subtle yet distinct chill that others describe as surrounding her might cause some annoyance, particularly to those who lack any kind of thermal influences of their own. Yet that pales in comparison to the potential alternatives posed by her other specialty.
And if others seem to naturally gravitate towards her during spates of warmer weather, well. She supposes she doesn’t mind so much. So long as they remember to respect her boundaries and don’t press too close.
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There are times where Velvet strongly suspects that at least some of her cousins have some kind of long-standing wager between them. Certainly something keeps driving them to invade her space at the most inconvenient of times, ignoring all her boundaries just to steal a glimpse of whatever she happens to be playing. One would think her reputation might ward them off, but it appears to have the opposite effect… at least when it comes to the more ‘daring’ of her relatives. (Or maybe just the nosiest. The biggest busybodies.)
With Foomin, at least, she finds it somewhat understandable. Shikao somewhat less so, for all that those two’s tastes often align. He’s long been the flinchy sort of horror fan, the type that cringes and watches things through the filter of his own fingers… something that naturally impedes his ability to play through those type of games by himself. That leaves somebody else to take up controller duty, and from what she understands it’s typically Foomin who handles such matters. Others may come and go, drawn in by whatever docket’s currently on hand, but those two form the core of his ‘Game Nights’.
Perhaps they’re both hopeful that she might be convinced to sit in for a session. Alas, she’s never cared much for Resident Evil and its ilk. Nor does she share their interest in any of The Dark Pictures Anthology; again, such things simply aren’t to her personal tastes. Truth be told, she didn’t care for what she saw of Until Dawn, finding most of the cast terribly unappealing and simply… not caring for the presentation. Silent Hill might hew a little closer, but not quite consistently enough… and ultimately? She sees no reason to intrude. They have their thing, while she has her own.
Another factor with Foomin is how she happened to catch her playing Hollow Knight. Metroidvanias weren’t typically her style, though she’s occasionally enjoyed delving into games like the Ori duology, Rain World and Animal Well. Hollow Knight simply managed to draw her in through its aesthetic and atmosphere, and she’s spent many hours soaking in the world and all its myriad implications and interpretations.
So yes, she’d certainly shared her cousin’s anticipation for Silksong, even if she did so quietly, without feeling the need to broadcast said feelings to all and sundry. Such things naturally take time, and she was more than content to wait. Much like she’s taking her time exploring Pharloom, aware that Foomin will almost certainly be pestering her to share her thoughts and impressions once she’s done submerging herself in that world and comes staggering back to reality.
(However long that might take… Dear Foomin is prone to getting carried away, after all. Velvet isn’t too worried yet, given how she’s responded to every message she’s sent thus far. Eventually.)
To be perfectly honest, Velvet can’t help feeling that the rumors regarding her gaming preferences are… shall we say a tad overblown…? Exaggerated, even, as rumors oft tend towards. She simply likes RPGs, some of which happen to wade into darker waters. Dungeon crawlers like Darkest Dungeon, for instance. Though the sequel’s really more of a ‘post-apocalyptic road trip from hell’ simulator, she supposes. The art in both is nothing short of gorgeous at times, graphic though it might be… though truly, she’s seen far worse.
Blood, guts, and violence for the sake of violence alone has never remotely appealed to her. She has no interest in the needlessly gratuitous. With the Darkest Dungeon, the intricate details are all simply part of the atmosphere. Much like World of Horror, really, which certainly lives up to its name…
…She supposes that Clair Obscur might also count as a darker title, though much of that would depend on precisely when a curious cousin happened to peek over her shoulder. Though really, that’s the case for much of her library, isn’t it…? OMORI, for instance… In Stars and Time… Etrian Odyssey… Tunic… The darker elements aren’t always so immediately obvious, or constantly at the forefront.
Nor has she completely immersed herself in indie titles; she still enjoys Dragon Quest and SaGa just as much as she does Shin Megami Tensei. Though that aspect of her reputation doesn’t bother her nearly as much as the rumors regarding her tastes purportedly trending towards the… relentlessly brutal, bleak and bloody.
How crude. And irritatingly inaccurate. Just because she doesn’t shy away from violent imagery doesn’t mean she specifically seeks it out. Graphic imagery can and has repelled her many times, particularly when its presence is purely for Shock Value. Nor is she a fan of schlock, as some of her cousins would affectionately call their own preferences. (Another reason to avoid those ‘Game Nights’.)
No, her tolerance lies largely along the lines of how well the imagery suits the story being told. The world itself must draw her in enough for her to deem the less appealing aspects well worth stomaching. Whether that’s a matter of graphic graphics or, say, mechanics that aren’t quite as polished as they could have been. Or the sort of supposedly ‘titillating fanservice’ that leaves her rolling her eyes at what others allegedly find attractive. Strange how that doesn’t appear to draw the same sort of speculation from her peers… but ah, that’s likely for the best, all things considered.
So the notion that she’s got ‘nerves of cold steel’ and is utterly unfazed by any kind of horror is just… ridiculous, really. Completely and utterly ridiculous.
(No matter how amusing some of her brother’s reactions to those pesky rumors have been.)
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…Her brother…
…………
…Velvet wouldn’t claim that they’re ‘close’. Odeko would, and therein lies the rub. No matter how long she reflects, she finds herself hard-pressed to recall any time where…
It’s not that they were never on the same page, so much as… oh, how best to describe it…? Far too often, she’s been left with the creeping suspicion that their respective references were completely different tomes. Not even a matter of diverging translations, where details slipped between the cracks and got lost along the way, or taken and twisted in entirely other directions, but… but did they even have the same materials to start with?
And it’s not like… she’s hardly unaware of how their mother’s treatment of them was anything but equal. Velvet was always the favored child, the precious, porcelain doll kept locked away behind protective walls when she wasn’t being trotted out for others to ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ over. Swathed in silk and bathed in praise, any corrections kept hidden behind closed doors – yet Odeko bore witness much more than once, she knows he did—
And Odeko, Ōtotsu was the dutiful defender, the ever-faithful son who bore his status as her protector proudly, for all that he failed to see the threat posed by their own… but how, how could he when that was never what he was raised for? The blinders were there from birth, fastened firmly into place, and Satiné ensured he never thought to question – or if he did, for surely, surely he did, but she was their mother, and how could he—
How could SHE—
…………
……Suff…suffice to say, she… understands how unfair it is to… to blame him. For how he was raised. For how he was trained. Velvet might have been their mother’s personal favorite, but that didn’t spare Odeko from being part of her pet project. If Velvet was intended to be a shining jewel, perhaps Odeko was meant to be her setting. Or at least part of her prison. Ensuring she never set a foot too far out of line, that she stayed properly poised on her pedestal.
Sometimes, Velvet’s not sure whether she was never meant to recognize her gilded cage for what it was, or if Satiné simply assumed it would never matter. For she’d stay locked up either way, wouldn’t she? Especially with a jailor who didn’t realize how he was imprisoned as well.
So she… she tries to be mindful of such considerations. To bear in mind how her brother was never spared from their mother’s ministrations, simply molded in other ways, arguably more insidious… though again, that’s not a game she’s keen on playing. She knows, she knows he’s been hurt as well.
Besides, she takes such pride in her maturity, does she not…? And what could be more mature than acknowledging how her brother never meant her any harm, that he truly only ever desired to… to shield her, without realizing how cruel their mother’s intentions had been from the start…
…………
…Alas… she’d find such magnanimity infinitely easier if her brother wasn’t so intent upon insisting nothing was wrong. If he didn’t keep downplaying and dismissing the severity of… everything they’d endured at Satiné’s hands.
If his desire to keep playing the protector didn’t involve rejecting reality. Which is…
……it’s… understandable, she supposes. Given how he was… how he was effectively groomed for that role for so long, right up until being abruptly informed that the position wasn’t necessary. Or desired, for that matter. Not by her, and one might presume her thoughts and opinions on such things matter, but—
Ah, but there’s the trick, hmm? Those were never meant to matter. Satiné certainly never gave a damn what her daughter felt about any of it, and Odeko – always the reliable one, ever so desperately eager to please… accepted all their mother’s teachings as truth.
…He means well. Just as Satiné always, always meant well. Supposedly. And that’s where… that’s the part they just can’t seem to iron out. No matter what angle she tries tackling it from, it always circles back to… to the same sort of mental snag. One she can’t – doesn’t know how to untangle it. Especially when he won’t… when he doesn’t…
She can’t do any of this for him; can only guide him so far. Ultimately, Odeko’s the only one capable of making up his own mind, and if he refuses to accept that… that Satiné never had their best interests at heart, that she’d only ever cared about her own selfish desires, then—
…………
…Even if… even if she could force the issue, could convince him purely through the strength of her words… would that really reach him…? Cracking through the walls of his denial…? Or would he patch up the holes by replacing one veneration with another? Assuming he hasn’t already, for all that he discounts her testimony, picking and choosing whatever best fits with what he prefers to believe about her and their family and…
And she just…
She can’t claim that she’s never sought any kind of recognition, or that she’s never drawn any kind of personal satisfaction from any of her accomplishments. Her maturity, her grace and composure… surely, these are all worth acknowledging, are they not? Perhaps not as lavishly as they’ve been praised in the past, but all the same…
……It’s the pedestal that’s the problem. And how she’s had no say in whether or not she wished to pursue such placement, much less stay there. Not with Satiné, not with Odeko… Not with any of her myriad aunts and uncles or anyone else who attended any of those grandiose galas and spoke so highly about what a fine young lady she was turning out to be, already so proper and well-mannered… Modeling just what her peers should aspire towards, even if they happened to be older…
…………
…Perhaps… neither of them can ever be what the other wants. Odeko wants an idol to uphold; a pristine figure that won’t protest being treated so preciously. Velvet would rather have a brother who sees his sister as just that – a sibling. Nothing more. To be twins without placing undue weight upon that connection, trying to twist it into all the wrong sorts of sacred.
Perhaps it’s better, then, to keep her distance. To encourage other interests from afar, the ones she knows their mother did her best to stifle and snuff out. He still enjoys cardistry, does he not? The art of prestidigitation…? Maybe he’ll find more answers within those pages than the instructions themselves would imply. Or some measure of happiness she simply can’t supply.
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The gentle tinkling of bells tends to accompany her words. Gently, gently… that softness is the key to maintaining the subtleties she prefers. The higher she lets her voice spike, the more likely for those undertones to become overtones, pealing out in ways that she’d much prefer they didn’t. Ever.
Harmonization is hardly the problem; more that she doesn’t wish to overwhelm. Or betray any emotions unduly. The natural melodies of cosmic voices can so easily swell into cacophonies, even with only a single speaker. Better to let it all blend, flowing and undulating mellifluously.
…Satiné so often praised the sound of her voice. Waxing on and on about her excellent sense of balance and control, her supposedly silken tones. How well she matches her namesake.
How often… did she have her sing for others? Not simply shooing her out onto a stage, but simply waving her over and having her perform for whoever she happened to be standing with at that moment. Or sitting with. How often did her mother’s palm serve in lieu of a proper stage, as Velvet closed her eyes and raised her voice, trying not to think about just how large everyone’s faces were?
Not that closing her eyes spared her from the sensation of their gazes, forever boring down. Much like the songs could never drown out the sense of smugness radiating off her mother in their wake. How could they, when she was expected to quietly accept all their praise? Such a lovely young lady, already so poised and proper, ever so modest and mature… and oh, that voice of hers…! Practically angelic…!
…Her cousins make their own requests, of course. Not nearly as frequently, but… often enough. She’s fairly certain Foomin will want to hear her cover at least some of what she’s heard in Silksong, if not the whole damned soundtrack.
If nothing else, none of them have ever held out their hand expecting her to daintily step up into it. Or to float above their upturned palm while performing for them. Somehow, she suspects most haven’t even considered how they could, providing they were willing to size-shift far enough.
…The cold generally doesn’t bother her, but the way the air shudders at that thought… is something else entirely. Less chilling and more rippling, a warning she knows better than to ignore. Yes, likely for the best that nobody presses that button, however unwittingly.
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Velvet runs cold, but her magic runs colder. Cold enough for her to feel it, even as her injuries numb. Hard to say whether her elemental affinities specifically make her healing any stronger or more potent, but she’s certainly figured out how to incorporate that facet, hasn’t she? How to make the pain fade nice and swiftly, with pinpoint precision… so long as she’s working on herself, anyway. With others, the frost tends to spread slightly more, though she strives to keep it concentrated and contained as much as possible. As much as she can manage.
The chill cuts deep, but it heals clean. Bruises fade faster; scrapes and cuts leave no scabs, no lingering traces of the damage behind. Even the worst fabr—friction burns can be erased. Have been erased. Her complexion remains clear, her skin silky soft and unblemished.
…Would that her magic could pierce deep enough to freeze the heart of everything that plagues others. Particularly poor Opeo, who constantly sings her praises whenever she treats any of his aches and pains, regardless of how temporary the relief might prove to be. Miso, Daisy, herself… all their efforts, combined with those of all their other friends and family who possess any kind of healing talents, have yet to yield any truly permanent solution. Though if he’s truly ‘blessed’ to be an embodiment of illness, then—
But that has yet to be determined, and regardless, their efforts are hardly useless so long as they offer some measure of comfort. A sentiment she’s certain at least some of the others share. Why else would Miso go out of her way to ensure he always has some of her soup on hand, or Daisy do the same with her milk?
Velvet’s own healing abilities are more hands-on, and she doesn’t visit Foopeo nearly as often, but she keeps an eye on him whenever she can. And her support packages are just as heartfelt, comparatively more mundane though they might be. The smallest gestures still add up, or so she keeps reminding herself. Repeating. Reassuring.
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…She looks so much like her mother.
That’s… generally meant to be complimentary, right? High praise, even. Certainly Satiné always treated it as such, smiling back at whomever was the latest to declare that and feigning modesty. Trading pleasantries while pretending she wasn’t luxuriating in however they happened to massage her ego. Velvet was just another means to that end.
Behind every ‘perfect child’ was whoever held their strings. Maybe her mother wouldn’t be so brazen as to openly declare as much – not where anyone else might see – but behind closed doors…?
…It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter anymore. Velvet… knows better than to believe it doesn’t matter.
…………
…She hasn’t… jolted at the sight of her own reflection yet. At most, maybe she’s turned a little too swiftly after barely catching sight of movement at her vision’s edge, but… by and large, her triggers have proven more tactic in nature. An unexpected brush with a bit of fluttering fabric; the phantom whisper of silk twisting in the air…
And she’s young, yet. Still so young, for all her much-vaunted maturity. Who knows how many more years it will take before her features start growing more refined, before she starts growing in all the ways that signify that she’s truly becoming a ‘proper lady’?
Will she ever look into the mirror and see her mother staring back?
…She doesn’t know. She can’t yet tell whether she’s inherited her mother’s cheekbones, or the subtler contours of her nose are much the same. She keeps her hair much shorter, bobbed and framing her face neatly rather than letting it flow down behind her, but such differences feel more superficial. Utterly irrelevant.
It still spills across her face when she’s not pinning it back, after all. She doesn’t have bangs so much as a curtain, and occasionally she just… lets it fall. Studies her reflection and wonders how much more she’s hiding. More than just her domain; more than that, she fears…
…how else she might take after her mother.
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Satiné sought to create a diamond. Another diamond, much like herself, forged by pressure and expectations. Painstakingly crafted in her own image, polished to perfection, every facet sharp-edged and ready to cut those who dared try and touch her. Only diamonds can cut other diamonds, or so they say.
But Velvet is no diamond. Or she hopes she isn’t, anyway. Diamonds might seem strong on the surface, but they’re brittle, all the same. She supposes she’s lucky that she didn’t shatter entirely under her mother’s hand.
As for what she might be instead… that’s yet to be determined, isn’t it? She’s still a work in progress, still trying to find her footing, for all her airs of maturity and confidence. She knows what she wants to be, what parts she wishes to embrace while eschewing the rest, to chip away everything that makes her too much like her mother, but it’s such delicate work, and she’s terrified—
………
…An ametrine, perhaps. The metaphor feels fitting, given how the quartz gains its citrine streaks – if indeed, that’s what the yellows and oranges truly are. Some consider it a matter of debate, that oxidation doesn’t create citrine.
…Still. One could say that ametrine bears its burns beautifully. Almost like kintsugi cast in crystal. Would that she proves herself to be as graceful in dealing with her personal demons.