Princess Rosella of Daventry (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
primrosella) wrote2009-09-17 06:29 pm
primrosella) wrote2009-09-17 06:29 pm
Entry tags:
Quest 121
Once upon a time there lived a king whose only son was very sick, and nothing in the world brought the little prince any joy at all. Then one day, he heard a nightingale singing outside his window, and the music was so sweet and so lovely that the boy began to smile for the first time in years. The king was so glad to see his son smiling that he ordered all his men to chase down the nightingale and put it in a cage, and bring it back for his son so that he might always have that beautiful music to lift his spirits.
The end of the story is predictable enough; the nightingale refuses to sing, and the prince grows sad, and he begs his father to let the bird go and be free of its cage. And when he does, the nightingale stays outside the window anyway, and sings for the prince, and they all live happily ever after. Or so the story goes.
I feel like that nightingale, sometimes.
I made a mistake, and I'm sorry for it, and I hate that I can't ever take it back now. I hate that I'll never know if I might've made a difference that night. I hate that people died when the prison exploded, and I hate that they were ever there in the first place, suffering through what they did. I hate that I couldn't save everyone somehow, even if it's foolish to think that I could've.
And I hate that one of the reasons why I didn't go that night is because my friends were trying to protect me.
I don't know why I keep blaming myself for it. Maybe it's because my friends were hurt while I stayed unharmed, safe at home. Maybe it's because I couldn't think of an answer that would let everyone live happily ever after. Maybe it's because I know I've done horrible things too, and yet no one came for me, the way that they came for my friends. Maybe it's because no one else seems to believe that those things are as horrible as I think they are.
I don't know what to do, and yet I know I have to do something. Doing nothing is what got me into this mess in the first place, so perhaps doing something will get me out of it. I hate that I don't know why I'm so upset. If I knew, I could figure out how to fix it, but I don't and so I can't. I wish I could fix it so that things like that would never happen again.
If I had gone to the prison that night, I think I might've died. I think it's likely that I would've been caught in the explosion, still trying to free people from their cells. That's the trouble with racing a clock that you can't see; there's always the risk you'll take too long and never know it. So maybe my friends were right to keep me home.
But it should've been my decision, not theirs. Maybe that's why I'm still blaming myself.
Or maybe it's that, when it comes down to it, I'm more helpless than I'd like to admit that I am, and sometimes there really isn't anything I can do to fix a problem. I can't save everyone. People are going to get hurt and I won't be able to stop it, and I can't change that.
But it should've been my decision.
I know what everyone else wants. But what do I want? What do I want?
...All I know is that I want to stop feeling like this.
There's also a story about a king that offered a rich reward for anyone that could make his sickly daughter laugh, you know. Perhaps that's not such a bad idea. I don't know how rich of a reward I can offer, but I'm willing to try, since there's precedent for it, anyway.
[OOC: Yup, she's cursed. How 'bout them elephants? And I promise she'll start to cheer up soon, too. Last weekend just hit her pretty hard, that's all.]
The end of the story is predictable enough; the nightingale refuses to sing, and the prince grows sad, and he begs his father to let the bird go and be free of its cage. And when he does, the nightingale stays outside the window anyway, and sings for the prince, and they all live happily ever after. Or so the story goes.
I feel like that nightingale, sometimes.
I made a mistake, and I'm sorry for it, and I hate that I can't ever take it back now. I hate that I'll never know if I might've made a difference that night. I hate that people died when the prison exploded, and I hate that they were ever there in the first place, suffering through what they did. I hate that I couldn't save everyone somehow, even if it's foolish to think that I could've.
And I hate that one of the reasons why I didn't go that night is because my friends were trying to protect me.
I don't know why I keep blaming myself for it. Maybe it's because my friends were hurt while I stayed unharmed, safe at home. Maybe it's because I couldn't think of an answer that would let everyone live happily ever after. Maybe it's because I know I've done horrible things too, and yet no one came for me, the way that they came for my friends. Maybe it's because no one else seems to believe that those things are as horrible as I think they are.
I don't know what to do, and yet I know I have to do something. Doing nothing is what got me into this mess in the first place, so perhaps doing something will get me out of it. I hate that I don't know why I'm so upset. If I knew, I could figure out how to fix it, but I don't and so I can't. I wish I could fix it so that things like that would never happen again.
If I had gone to the prison that night, I think I might've died. I think it's likely that I would've been caught in the explosion, still trying to free people from their cells. That's the trouble with racing a clock that you can't see; there's always the risk you'll take too long and never know it. So maybe my friends were right to keep me home.
But it should've been my decision, not theirs. Maybe that's why I'm still blaming myself.
Or maybe it's that, when it comes down to it, I'm more helpless than I'd like to admit that I am, and sometimes there really isn't anything I can do to fix a problem. I can't save everyone. People are going to get hurt and I won't be able to stop it, and I can't change that.
But it should've been my decision.
I know what everyone else wants. But what do I want? What do I want?
...All I know is that I want to stop feeling like this.
There's also a story about a king that offered a rich reward for anyone that could make his sickly daughter laugh, you know. Perhaps that's not such a bad idea. I don't know how rich of a reward I can offer, but I'm willing to try, since there's precedent for it, anyway.
[OOC: Yup, she's cursed. How 'bout them elephants? And I promise she'll start to cheer up soon, too. Last weekend just hit her pretty hard, that's all.]
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