Katherine balls her hands into tight fists, knuckles turning as white as snow. Elongating her neck, she inhales, swallows, and feels the tension, the fright that belongs to Katerina Petrova and not Katherine Pierce, seep into her skin to only slip out.
She pushes it out. With every bit of strength she has, she pushes Katerina out like she's an illness.
The night she'd hung herself in that little cottage had been her rebirth. Katerina had died so Katherine could live, but as Katherine is as tenacious as a survivor as Katerina, she finds herself having difficulty shrugging her off. Being in the company of a witch, and a powerful one at that, has that panic Katerina had worn so well and prettily ravage like a storm inside of her chest. She does everything she can to calm it.
Forcing herself to relax, her expression turns blank. Wiping that slate clean, she paints another emotion on — almost gratitude, a little of being overwhelmed. She's a damsel who had been in distress and is nothing more. She wears a pretty smile and less tension in her neck and shoulders, but it settles into her hands that remain with her fingers curled into her palms.
Brushing her hands against her own skirts, her fingers pinches at the fabric with a tightness that's almost supernatural. "My knight in skirts," she says. She tries to shake off the fact she'd almost found herself in a corner she couldn't wriggle, manipulate, or wait for herself to move out of. Looking at her saviour, she notes the strong line of her jaw, the fairness of her hair. She's familiar yet unfamiliar all at once — perhaps it's the magic in her veins and nothing more. "It must be my lucky day."
you have to break rules if you want to break free
She pushes it out. With every bit of strength she has, she pushes Katerina out like she's an illness.
The night she'd hung herself in that little cottage had been her rebirth. Katerina had died so Katherine could live, but as Katherine is as tenacious as a survivor as Katerina, she finds herself having difficulty shrugging her off. Being in the company of a witch, and a powerful one at that, has that panic Katerina had worn so well and prettily ravage like a storm inside of her chest. She does everything she can to calm it.
Forcing herself to relax, her expression turns blank. Wiping that slate clean, she paints another emotion on — almost gratitude, a little of being overwhelmed. She's a damsel who had been in distress and is nothing more. She wears a pretty smile and less tension in her neck and shoulders, but it settles into her hands that remain with her fingers curled into her palms.
Brushing her hands against her own skirts, her fingers pinches at the fabric with a tightness that's almost supernatural. "My knight in skirts," she says. She tries to shake off the fact she'd almost found herself in a corner she couldn't wriggle, manipulate, or wait for herself to move out of. Looking at her saviour, she notes the strong line of her jaw, the fairness of her hair. She's familiar yet unfamiliar all at once — perhaps it's the magic in her veins and nothing more. "It must be my lucky day."