And Her Hallway Moves (Felicity)

She spends a lot of time motionless. It creeps most people out - even elders, who eat atrocities for what passes for breakfast at their age, are a little... bothered by the girl who sits behind and slightly to the right of the prince, supported by the yellowing lace confection of an ancient wedding dress, staring at them with kryptonite eyes. She really could not care less what they think though, because she's brushed across the same thoughts too many times to count in the last hundred-odd years.

It's just that every time she moves the susurration of a million sleepwalking minds abrades her own consciousness to the point where the more she moves, the less she can think. She feels like the wall of a sea-cliff, slowly wearing away under the constant thoughtless pressure of inside voices. And sometimes a chunk of the wall just collapses. The results, while spectacular, are never pleasant for anyone in the immediate vicinity when it happens.

Far easier to let Richard command her movements, shuddering with marionette gracelessness as she follows him from the hushed oak-panelled chamber. Never mind that she can feel his own walls crumbling under a different kind of force when he speaks to her. It's not really her place to mention it, and Richard has a nasty habit of confusing the message with the messenger.

Sometimes, when she's looking at a petitioner or a new arrival or a possible spy, she'll let a little of what she's experiencing through. Sometimes people look into her eyes and drop to their knees, gasping for air they no longer breathe. It feels as though they're drowning.