❰ they aren't laughing. she'd expected derision, had her shoulders hiked up nearly around her ears ready to curl in on herself to avoid it, but... they don't sound like they think it's all that ridiculous. more difficult than she's expecting, and something she'd have to work at earning, maybe, but that's fine. it's better than nothing. the possibility is better than the nothing she's had for twenty years, and this time if she ruins anything she knows they want her to keep trying. she's a pain in the ass, but neither of them would be here, trying so damn hard if they didn't really truly want to be.
it takes a moment for adalia to speak again, this time fidgeting and tensing with the effort it takes to hold in all of her emotions. there are too many for her to even name them, but she thinks the most prominent might be relief. ❱
I'd probably be a bad child. I don't know how to do it right, I've never been very good at deferring to authority figures. I'm used to being alone and making decisions without trusting other people. And it's always a surprise when I remember I'm not the center of the Wheel.
❰ of the cases she could make for (informal) adoption, this is probably the worst. honesty, though. vulnerability. all those terrifying things that make adalia want to curl in on herself and never deal with people again. she looks up, finally, glancing between gwenaëlle and thranduil's shoulders — eye contact is still a struggle, but she's getting closer. ❱
But I'd try really hard. I want to be good.
❰ there was supposed to be more to that sentence, but adalia's throat closes up and her chest constricts and she has to take a deep breath and look back down at her plate again. gods, how could anything be worth this? it's humiliating, it's nauseating, she's supposed to be self-sufficient. she's an adult, by all measures of the word. making her neediness thranduil's problem in the middle of a war, in front of his wife, who very rightly doesn't want children and even if she did is only four years older than adalia —
the self-recriminations have to stop. this isn't helpful. adalia hitches in another breath, and then another, deeper one, tense as a bowstring. ❱
I want to be someone's. I'd do my best to earn it.
no subject
it takes a moment for adalia to speak again, this time fidgeting and tensing with the effort it takes to hold in all of her emotions. there are too many for her to even name them, but she thinks the most prominent might be relief. ❱
I'd probably be a bad child. I don't know how to do it right, I've never been very good at deferring to authority figures. I'm used to being alone and making decisions without trusting other people. And it's always a surprise when I remember I'm not the center of the Wheel.
❰ of the cases she could make for (informal) adoption, this is probably the worst. honesty, though. vulnerability. all those terrifying things that make adalia want to curl in on herself and never deal with people again. she looks up, finally, glancing between gwenaëlle and thranduil's shoulders — eye contact is still a struggle, but she's getting closer. ❱
But I'd try really hard. I want to be good.
❰ there was supposed to be more to that sentence, but adalia's throat closes up and her chest constricts and she has to take a deep breath and look back down at her plate again. gods, how could anything be worth this? it's humiliating, it's nauseating, she's supposed to be self-sufficient. she's an adult, by all measures of the word. making her neediness thranduil's problem in the middle of a war, in front of his wife, who very rightly doesn't want children and even if she did is only four years older than adalia —
the self-recriminations have to stop. this isn't helpful. adalia hitches in another breath, and then another, deeper one, tense as a bowstring. ❱
I want to be someone's. I'd do my best to earn it.