cormac's notebook. (curagad) wrote in emillion, @ 2013-08-10 04:47:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !log, quenten delacreaux, ridley irving |
Who: Quenten & Ridley
What: When the feels hit, who are you going to call?
Where: Quen's room, the Tower
When: A little after midnight
Rating: PG-13 for mentions of past death
Status: Complete
Ridley had attempted sleep, and failed miserably. The days leading up to her birthday were often sleepless, or mostly so, and a night where she didn't toss and turn was a rarity. When the fingers of sleep abandoned her, she lay awake for nearly half an hour of staring into the wall, the cogs of her brain working hard to process her nervous thoughts.
Those on the network a week ago seemed rather surprised (alarmed, in one case) when she mentioned celebrating her birthday for what appeared to be the first time. She supposed the fact that they knew nothing made for suitable reasoning. Know little, assume a lot-- wasn't that how it worked? But she hadn't had the heart to discuss her own reasoning, the real answer to why she hadn't celebrated before, because it wasn't that she hadn't; it was that she had stopped.
So she'd reached out to Quenten, hoping that somehow, somehow the nerves would recede by admitting to why she hadn't celebrated her own birthday in seven years.
Though her own thoughts would've been more than enough to wrap her up while they weren't consuming her, the distracted blonde threw a cardigan over her white gown, slipped into flats, and navigated her way to Quen's room. What she looked like mattered little, as few would be awake at this hour, and if they were, they'd pay no attention to another scholar. Her knock on the door was soft, unhurried, because in no way did she possess the urge to hastily spill her feelings, her anxieties. She had come to Quen to talk, so talk they would do without the clock ticking at their heels.
Ridley sighed, quiet. If she slept tonight, she would be very surprised.