[PK] A USELESS BIRD

[Cheeseycereal 829]

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

A USELESS BIRD.

What a useless bird. 

 

 

“Augusta, can you entertain the guests while I handle the diplomats?” her father asked. She was only twelve.

 

There wasn’t much she could do to keep them entertained. Her mother wasn’t there. Neither was her brother. They were busy elsewhere. Her father gave her a soft rub at the temple before handing over a tray, something meant for the maids, but now it was hers. She seemed excited. Shockingly so. And she’d already promised she wouldn’t drink so young. She kept that promise.

 

From the grand halls of their keep, she stepped out into the garden. She sat cross-legged atop the long table, dress custom-made, arranged for her alone. Bottles surrounded her, scattered in a neat little circle for the noble guests who had gathered. It’d be a lie to say she didn’t have some flair for people. offering bottle after bottle in what became a chaotic, makeshift drinking game. It was the most she could do to repay them. And they laughed. That girl, Augusta, who was usually so quiet. Not loud. Not particularly brave. A little odd, if you asked her brother. And yet, that day, her cheeks dimpled.

 

She remembered the red headband in her hair.

 

 The laughter. 

 

The warmth.

Despite everything, it brought her joy. She wasn’t always good at showing it. But it was there.

 

So why didn’t she do that more?

 

Sure, she went on adventures sometimes. Ran off with friends. Got kidnapped. The usual noble child pazzazz.

 

But she was never really there.

 

Not with people, at least.

 

Why didn’t you do that more?

 

Augusta Eliana Temesch sat alone at her table. She once stitched dresses here for her daughters. Once laughed at her own spilled wine upon her own crooked portraits. However, it was grave quiet, gravely quiet. Dried paint, half-finished sketches, a cracked teacup. 

Her hand trembled as she brushed her fingers amongst the edge of her parchment, with what dimly lit  eyes she had left. 

 "A useless bird." She whispered, her voice brittle from confession.

"What a useless, foolish bird."

 

So many years, So many hours locked behind the doors that she had built herself. What a fool the woman was. She had painted life, and called it her own art. But never lived enough of it. She raised her children with so much devotion, with care and quiet love. But still, The thought of her former loved ones secret resided in her head. She didn't care for what he hid, and she kept that secret with her, for luckily enough, she had already kept herself away from everybody else.

 

Her breath hitched.

"So many friends of mine, died." She murmured, eyes tracing the lines of the wooden floors. "For I should've said more." 

A pause. Then a faint smile. As she took another sip, from the broken teacup. For what spilled, had spilled. what hadn't, did not. 

To my dearest sister, Anne. @scoobi

I admit, I was never trying to be the best sister. Perhaps, I was the worst of all in your eyes. But no matter how quiet I was, how far I drifted, I cared for you. Even when I had shut you out, when I had slammed the door on the world and watched everyone fade one by one, pamphlet by pamphlet, letter by letter

 

We are not immortal. We do not linger like the Mali’, Our time comes faster, crueler, with no warning and no reprieve. Yet with the very little time I was given. I ask that you do not let me die thinking that what I felt was in vain. There was never any vainness in how I loved you. Not you, not our siblings, not even our poor brother. I simply did not know what to do with myself. I thought the world would wait. 

 

If you ever find remnants of my old friends. hold them close. Or if you find yourself with your own, do not lose the time you have with them. We die young, and there is no undoing of death. What magic claims to restore, it only mimics. You cannot rethread warmth, you can only make a new thread. 

 

For every bickering we had, every harsh word I gave, every lie I told to protect you. Even when I was cruel, even when I was distant, even when my silence hurt you more than words ever could. I only wish I had been brave. enough to show it.

 

And if there’s anything left of me when this letter reaches you, I hope it’s the proof that I tried.

 

They found her seated by the window of her studio in the late hour. Augusta Eliana Temesch, Countess of Balian, mother, artist, and widow of a man she loved and pitied in equal measure, had died as she lived, quietly. 

 

The room itself kept her company. The tranquility carried the scent of Oil and rosemary, and the we walls were covered with unfinished things. Landscapes she never saw, faces she no longer rembered, the remants of a life she had promised herself to finish but never found the courage to do so.

 

The most notable thing was the broken  teacup beside her hand. Inside it, the dregs of a golden liquid.

 

Poision.

 

No one knew, nor would they ever. Because who would she confess it to? 
 

If she were to die, she wished it to be peacefully. The thought of dying in some fast paced battle frightened her. She had never been one to venture beyond her courtly duties and art. After so many kidnappings, so many ventures into nowhere, so much fear, death had become an idea she could no longer outrun.

 

And so, she brought it to herself. 

 

For what was the point, when nothing else was left to come either way? 

 

What a poor woman. 

 

Spoiler

I wish I could’ve played this character for longer, but after having her for so long, I just couldn’t find the same passion to continue. She was truly one of my favorites, I can confirm that. I’m so thankful to @__Stal27 for letting me play such a wonderful character, and I’m also deeply grateful to the future of the Temesch family in Lotharia. I’ve heard there have been some changes, and I wish you all the best! ^_^

 

[scoobi 124]

The magic has grown stale, the people too, but... as she began to read the letter, the blunt from her fingers slipped, but the letter did not. 

 

“Sister…” she started, but there wouldn’t be any words to fill that silence.

 

Alone, she stood in the Greye manor– the only place with room for her. Not even in the Temesch home did she belong. But Augusta never made her feel that way—a spitting image of both of their parents they both were. Out of all of the siblings, Anne never blamed Augusta for leaving her in the street; Augusta was there when it matter.

 

And nothing would change that.

 

Letter still in hand, Anne now ran off, in another city, at another door. A few knocks filled the silence, before words finally emerged from herself.

 

“I wasn’t sure then, but I am now.”

 

Shortly enough, the door opened, and in Anne went. And then, the silence returned.

Edited November 5, 2025 by scoobi
sovving