tell me that you love me even if it's fake | open + relapse

[Margaery]

MARGAERY FOLIE-MIKAELSON

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MAKE ME QUEEN OR
I'LL MAKE YOU BLEED

[b]"Ad verecundiam quod non accipere alumni."

She sauntered towards them with a knowing gleam in her eyes and a frown upon her lips, ring adorned hands resting pointedly upon her hips as she assessed the situation- the mess. "A shame I don't take students," Margaery clarified after a moment of contemplation, a stormy gaze passing over Player. Her Uncle Elijah had been her teacher centuries ago, taking it upon himself to ensure that his niece was fluent in the thriving language of the time. There had been brief blips of her own history when the only thing she [i]could speak was Latin, the concept of English and its many complications forgotten to her as she immersed herself in something new. Something that Sybil loved. It was a shame that so very few could understand Latin these days and even more so that some considered the language she loved dearly to be dead. Still, she wasn't interested in teaching anyone about anything pertaining to Latin. The lessons... they would run too close to a nerve. 

Something stirred and shifted in the back of her mind as she pondered the subject more, an ancient force that had certainly made less appearances than any of her more active counterparts. "Ego youd 'erit magister eius," Ingrid whispered to her, hope, among other things, lacing a gravelly tone. Margaery could only audibly chuckle, dismissing her counterpart with a fleeting thought: "You have to be able to speak English to teach someone Latin, love."

Self in check, Margaery figured that it was time to address the more pressing matter at hand: Bastille. The woman knew how tricky relapses could be. Dependency on any substance was a hard thing to break away from and the consequences... she knew how atrocious they were. She had been proud of the boy for his committed dedication to staying sober, but these types of ordeals were natural. She, of all people, knew that recovery was not a flat road. Still, the way that he held Player's hand, the way that he babbled and talked of Ovid in a drunken haze... Margaery was concerned. At one time, perhaps she would have brushed this off as a typical day and asked if he had any wine left, indulging her desires, her needs. She could barely find it in herself to generate even a spark of that typical behavior though, instead bouncing up and down nervously on the balls of her feet. She was supposed to be the adult here, full of life experience and the ability to fix a situation. She wanted to help Bast - and Hazel too - but she was utterly lost as to where to begin.

It didn't help that she, too, felt something akin to anger flaring in her chest, lips twisting further and further into a frown when she realized that Player had no desire to shy away from Bast's touch. How dare she? How dare she? She could faintly detect the same reaction in Hazel as well, the words she spoke a good indication of her own discontentment towards the situation. It made sense suddenly why Haze had volunteered her as a teacher- she was jealous.

Things were falling more and more together and Margaery, still at a lack of words, resorted to biting a lip as she thought. "Bast," She extended after a continued period of silence, "Can I get you some water?" If he wanted to drink, then she would not be the one to demand he stop and continue to cold-turkey this whole thing. Even though she saw herself as something akin to his mother, she still did not believe it was her place. "And Play, darling." In spite of herself, the word dripped with a venom that sounded more in line with Genevieve's behavior, not Margaery's. "Why don't you come here? Stand next to me and let the two talk."

© MADI