Lysandra
Every face wears a mask
Lysandra’s expression flickered with something like sympathy, though finer, quieter—a recognition that didn’t need to name itself. She’d heard that tone before, in taverns and temples, in the voices of those who’d been turned into stories while they were still breathing.
“Legends,” she began, gaze tipping toward the orca’s fading trail, “are slippery little things. They shed the blood and suffering that built them, keeping only the.. glamor and drama that pleases the crowd.” Her smile curved, wry but not unkind. “But stories can always be amended. If something’s been left out. If you’d rather the truth be beautiful and honest, not one or the other. ”
She let that hang a moment, an open door if Flora chose to walk through it. Then she raised a hand in a small, thoughtful shrug. “It’s not always about getting the truth exactly right,” she added quietly, for this was something of a 'trade secret', “but about how it makes people feel when they hear it. The best tales carry a little mercy in them.”
Flora’s next question pulled her elsewhere.
The queen’s curiosity landed with disarming simplicity, and Lysandra hesitated — a rare falter in her expression. “What I’m waiting for,” she echoed, as if testing the words. Her gaze lifted toward the dome, to the cold scatter of stars above. “That’s the trouble, isn’t it? You can make almost anything…” She watched the orca’s slow orbit, its glow ghosting across the ceiling. “Except the thing you’re really waiting for.”
Her smile returned, small and almost apologetic for the frail truth of it. “I suppose I don’t really know,” she said at last. “Isn’t that strange?” A tilt of her head, eyes finding Flora’s. “To miss something you’ve never had—or to long for a place that doesn’t exist. Have you ever felt like that, Flora?”
“Legends,” she began, gaze tipping toward the orca’s fading trail, “are slippery little things. They shed the blood and suffering that built them, keeping only the.. glamor and drama that pleases the crowd.” Her smile curved, wry but not unkind. “But stories can always be amended. If something’s been left out. If you’d rather the truth be beautiful and honest, not one or the other. ”
She let that hang a moment, an open door if Flora chose to walk through it. Then she raised a hand in a small, thoughtful shrug. “It’s not always about getting the truth exactly right,” she added quietly, for this was something of a 'trade secret', “but about how it makes people feel when they hear it. The best tales carry a little mercy in them.”
Flora’s next question pulled her elsewhere.
The queen’s curiosity landed with disarming simplicity, and Lysandra hesitated — a rare falter in her expression. “What I’m waiting for,” she echoed, as if testing the words. Her gaze lifted toward the dome, to the cold scatter of stars above. “That’s the trouble, isn’t it? You can make almost anything…” She watched the orca’s slow orbit, its glow ghosting across the ceiling. “Except the thing you’re really waiting for.”
Her smile returned, small and almost apologetic for the frail truth of it. “I suppose I don’t really know,” she said at last. “Isn’t that strange?” A tilt of her head, eyes finding Flora’s. “To miss something you’ve never had—or to long for a place that doesn’t exist. Have you ever felt like that, Flora?”
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