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adaine stares at the window as she cleans the dishes. vaguely, a memory comes to mind of fig playfully teasing her about it, mentioning she didn’t think that the wizard would know how to do it, with the amount of unseen servants the abernant home must have had. it was clear no malice was behind it, and fig didn’t really know much about what really happened on the inside of her family home — only what adaine has told her, and it was not anything about this, because it was not relevant at the moment, or ever, so why should she burden a friend with such bothersome details? —, but it still hurt a little to have to explain that, no matter if there were servants or not, she was still expected to do chores. over the years, she had grown used to it, some even becoming enjoyable. dishes aren’t one of the ones she enjoys, but they’re fine enough so that they can be done without too much stress. even if they have a dishwasher, adaine is a little too picky to trust it, so a second clean is always necessary. gaze drops to plate in hand, as she rinses it, watching warm water hit soft skin and humming a little at the comfortable feeling it brings. she is just about to put the dishes back in the machine for quicker drying when, suddenly, a bird collides with the window. the noise is loud, reverberating through the kitchen and causing adaine to drop the plate as she yelps, sending it to ground where it crashes and breaks in a million pieces.
a feeling of pure terror invades her immediately. she can vividly imagine angwyn and arianwen hearing the noise and coming to check on it, on her mistake . she can almost feel them approaching. her breathing stops, eyes widening. adaine immediately kneels down, all too close to broken porcelain, and bare hands try to collect every bit she can see before someone can come in. when the elven girl breathes again, it’s quick and shallow. trembling hands bleed as shards dig into skin from the amount of force used as they’re all brought into a pile, and she gets up desperately looking for a plastic bag to hide them in. blood drips from aching palms as she walks, blurred vision making it difficult to see anything. adaine feels herself shaking, the tears warm against her face as they slide down. a weak little thing, she is and always will be , stumbling around the kitchen until body crashes with a much larger one and she falls backwards, hitting the ground helplessly much like the bird outside. adaine did not see it get up and leave, only the crimson stains on the glass and nothing more.
when she looks up, a concerned werewolf is looking back at her. stomach twists, and no response is given to whatever he says because she can’t hear it. adaine tries to breathe and there just isn’t enough air, more tears clouding eyes as bloodied hands shake even more. he leans down, and as an immediate response adaine crawls back, away from him, away from the caring father as visions — of the past, not future — mix with reality.
jawbone reaches out with his paw and adaine flinches.
a memory comes more vividly to mind. no — not one, many instances all too similar and all too hurtful come at once, merciless and uninvited, intensifying worries and the ache in her chest that leaves her gasping and crying harder. wooden floors cool down to freezing marble, a plate becomes a crystal glass. gentle, worried yellow eyes become the most piercing and unforgiving blue adaine has ever seen. glass becomes a statue. statue becomes the frame of a painting. frame becomes flowers picked from the abernant’s garden in fallinel. flowers become chalk drawings in walls. drawings become teacups. it goes on and on. things broken, drawn on, changed even in the slightest of ways. the list varies, but the reaction does not. angwyn’s hand reaches out, too, and her face is left aching and red from the slap it gives. whatever murmurs of jawbone’s voice that adaine can hear dissipate completely to give room to that horrible voice she was once so scared of.
“what an useless child. you cannot even do your chores properly without making a mess. you really are an embarrassment, adaine. what kind of wizard do you strive to be if you are too stupid to do the simplest of things?” he says, and it echoes.
it echoes for days, months, years. like it had happened only moments before, not ages ago. you really are an embarrassment. what an useless child. it echoes now, even in a familiar, safer place. her face is not red but it still stings, and a palm reaches to touch it as if the slap she remembers has just happened. somehow, jawbone seems to notice and understand what has happened, but he does not back away. adaine is trembling and still trying to create more distance between them, irrationally terrified, but he pulls her close and keeps her there, in his arms, holding tight.
it’s still hard to breathe. one hand painting his fur a deep crimson as it holds onto it, as if she could fall if not. he keeps a paw on her back and grabs the hand on her face and presses the palm to his chest, and lets her feel his calm, steady breaths until adaine can safely replicate it without quickly reverting back to a panicked state. the tears are harder to get rid of. she stains his clothes as forehead falls onto his shoulder, sobs echoing all over the manor. if anyone else was home, they surely would have come down to check up on her. no one comes, and she’s grateful for it. adaine feels vulnerable, pathetic. she feels like a burden, dragging jawbone away from paperwork to comfort her as if she is still a child.
“i’m sorry. it was an accident, i didn’t—” she manages to say, between sobs and hiccups, still clinging onto the werewolf.
“it’s okay, kid. it happens.” he reassures her, just like deep down she always knew he would. it’s as sincere as it can get, only slightly pained as if an i’m sorry you felt like you needed to be so scared, is left unsaid against what his heart tells him to do.
adaine only cries more, though it’s less of terror and more of relief, and it is only then that whatever comfort jawbone is trying to offer finally seeps in and she starts to relax. he holds her until she actually does, crying subsiding and giving way to still weak but steady breaths, eyes aching from tears but able to properly see once more. bloodied palms let go of his fur, and she winces a little at the feeling of moving them in a more conscious state. her father , the one who truly deserves the title, does not seem annoyed. he pulls away only to go grab the first aid kit they have stored, and brings it close. patiently, he removes whatever shards were stuck in palms, and she does her best not to wince every time it happens. soon enough, hands are clean and bandaged up, at least until one of mordred’s healers comes back to take care of if.
she uses mending to fix the plate, chastising herself for not thinking of it sooner, and immediately being told not to do so by jawbone. healing takes time, and we are not always rational when a trigger happens, he says. she almost cries again, but holds it in and lets him take care of the rest of the dishes and make her some tea while she waits. adaine steps outside to check up on the bird, and feels herself breath a little easier as she finds a small sparrow on the back porch just under the kitchen window, weak but breathing. she picks it up gently, before walking back inside. they can both heal, she thinks. everyone deserves a chance to do so.