Just a few days before she had visited Blythe and seen a Guardian in front of her-- and a very destructive Guardian. She was more frightened than ever-- the visit had arguable made her worse than ever. She was tripping over her own feet, dropping things, snapping nibs, and stuttering. At first, Charlotte's mother spent a lot of their time together making jokes at her daughter's expense, but as the days passed, even Adelaide became tense when Charlotte entered the room.
That night at dinner, Charlotte's father graced them with an appearance. As usual, when Thorsten was present at meals, the room was completely silent (he was the only person who rendered Adelaide speechless), save for utensil clinking and the occasional throat clearing. But Charlotte was a bit more wobbly than usual, and her shaking caused a few unacceptable fork and knife screeches.
Finally, Thorsten clapped his fork to the table, and Adelaide squeaked. "Ok, that's enough." He placed his elbows on the table and laced his long, bony fingers in front of his face, his blue eyes piercing Charlotte as he stared at her.
"What is wrong with you?" he demanded, blinking meaningfully.
"Nothing, father. I'm sorry."
"You're lying. What's the problem?" His wiry eyebrows furrowed, but otherwise he remained completely still, studying his daughter. She bit her lip. "This shakiness, these terrible manners. This isn't like you."
"I must be sick. I've been coming down with... something."
"if that's the case, please remain in your quarters. I can call our practitioner. But I will not have you endanger the rest of us."
Charlotte looked at her hands in her lap. "You're right."
"Yes. Now, please, control yourself so that we may finish dinner."
"Of course, father. I hope everything is going well with your work?"
"It is. I'd like to read your most recent work, by the way. But not until you have this," He waved his hand at her, "thing. Sorted."
Charlotte was silent then. Her father was harsh but she knew it was just his way. It was her way, too. She wasn't used to feeling this weak, this vulnerable. Normally her father snapping at her would result in a witty retort by her, which he reveled in a strange way, but she was feeling hurt now. Stupid. It wasn't a feeling she was familiar with.
As she retired for the evening, Charlotte thought about Blythe. It's happening to me, she closed her eyes. I think I'd rather die than be so miserable. I don't want this. But it was worse than it had ever been. There was a constant ringing in her ears that made concentration impossible. She didn't want her father to see her recent work because there simply wasn't any. She was afraid of him discovering this. She was afraid of being something that she was raised to loathe, by her father, who despised the Old Ways and anything remotely religious. What would he say if he knew about the dreams? about Blythe?
"The Queen? She is no Queen of mine. She has obviously gone insane." Charlotte remembered her father's rant when they heard of the reconstruction of Old Castle. "A waste of manpower and money. She'll be the death of us all... wasting time and energy on foolish superstitions." He was furious.
So begun Charlottes spiral into self-loathing. She was a failure. Not only was she not getting any of her work done, but all signs were point toward the Wardwood. She hated it. She couldn't sleep that night and by 3am she had decided: she would investigate. But she wouldn't be giving in, no, she would resist... but she had to see what it was that was pulling her. Yes, that's all she would do. Look at it, then leave. It'd be easy. And she had to do it right now. Yes, right now.
Charlotte swiftly and quietly got dressed, grabbing a lantern and a travel cloak. Getting her horse awake and ready to ride quietly was the hardest part, but the horse was strangely agreeable despite being woken at the early hour it was. It was cold, and frost was biting the ground and nipping at her skin, but she pulled her cloak tightly around her and put her hood up and galloped away from the estate.
She got to the edge of the Wardwood and trembled for the first time since leaving. It didn't go unnoticed. The horse hesitated before entering the thick wood, but Charlotte forced it along. It had been the first time she had ever ridden on such terrain. She was nervous but somehow she knew the way. She had to stop and take a break once in a while, hiding in roughly made structures of the forest. She was quite useless in this setting, but oddly her mind didn't wander once back home. Only the Wardwood. Only to her goal. Whatever that was.
Until she reached it.
The tree, great and burdened, was both terrifying and awe-inspiring to Charlotte. She cried when she reached it. She cried for the first time since she was a child. She circled the tree in amazement, staring in disbelief at the various totems. She came across one particular stone.
It was the most unassuming of the totems she had seen but it called to her the most. Not loudly, not aggressively, not forcefully. It sang, sweetly, softly, tuning out everything else around her. She reached for it, and for a small moment she remembered that she wanted to look and leave, but it flew out of her mind as quickly as it entered.
The totem felt soft in her hands-- smooth like soapstone. The whorls seemed to glow happily. Her heart felt warm, and peaceful for the first time in a year. She held it to her chest... turned away, and rode back through the Wardwood.
She must have been gone a couple days but it wasn't until she got off of her horse that she felt a sharp pang of hunger.
Her mother would fuss. There would be gossip. Her father probably didn't leave his work room long enough to notice her absence. But she would finally get back to her beloved desk in the library. And she'd set the odd little glowing stone on the desk and finally, finally, get back to work. After sleeping. Yes, after sleeping.
