horology | the darkling

dear tailor

an open letter to myself - architects

always the one with a face on
always the one with never enough

/

'And suddenly life wasn't about living, it was about surviving' - anonymous

-

genya

Genya was cursed. Everything she did was never for herself. Always following instruction, always a background character in somebody else's story. She wanted to live herself her way, the way she had always intended. When she was told she was going to the Little Palace, she thought she was heading towards a new life. Where she could remodel, remake, remould herself into something. She was a Tailor after all. A rare breed, a unique person. She was crafty, she understood what people wanted and she was never afraid. Always loyal. Ah yes, loyalty, that was what was going to tear her apart. She loved too much, cared too deeply that sometimes she never knew if she wanted to feel. She was an empath; it was her curse to feel everything so deeply.

Genya had served the Darkling for so long she didn't remember when she even started. At first it was fine; he was charming and handsome and he asked for very little. It started with simple chores; cleaning his room, personally tending to his clothing. But it grew; he asked her to spy on generals, colonels in the army. But it became too much very quickly, without warning. The Darkling keep demanding, kept asking and just kept persisting. And she gave in. She followed his every word like a dog on a leash, never knowing when enough was enough. She should have said that she had enough, she should have said that she wasn't going to follow his instructions anymore. She was going to be her own person but she never cared enough for herself. She always thought that she could never be in the spotlight; she was too weak, she was never enough. Every morning, she would look a herself in the mirror, stare at the woman with red locks staring at her in the mirror. She would tell herself I matter, I am worthy of respect of love but no matter how much she wanted to, she could never believe it. She hated herself, every single day of her life. Genya throws on as much makeup, as much glittery powder to make her feel like she could belong. But she never did. So she kept following the General's every instruction, just to feel like she could belong. To feel safe and loved.

All she had to do was keep her head low. Be a good girl. Stay in the back. The Queen was unbearable, she was horrible. She treated the Tailor like a slave. Genya resented everyday that she lived. But the King. The King, The Lantsov King was a narcissist, power-hungry tyrant. That.. that monster. Hate was a strong word and Genya reserved it for the worst of people. But the King; he made her blood boil, her gut wrench and her stomach clench with anger and humiliation. There was no words, no furious sentences that she could spit out that would reflect his... his behaviour. The way he acted. The way he treated her and her fellow Grisha. Even his own son. Poor young Alexander, he was to be the third of the bloodline. She felt for the boy, hiding in the corner and terrified of what his father could do. He ordered battalions to go to far, and for nothing; all just so he could watch the bloodshed. He demanded fights in areas; beast against beast and sometimes, just for the fun of it, he would bring in a person. Some poor bastard who was unlucky enough to get caught by one of his spies. Nobody survived those death pits. The screams haunted Genya for months on end; she could hear them in her sleep.

Genya hand't sleep well in a long time. Not since the Darkling began his descent into madness and Seraphina, her obsession with power. Even her Tailoring skills started to wear down; she could see the bags under her own eyes. She was particularly concerned though, for Michail. He was the only person who ever truly cared. Her best friend. And it pained her that she had to see him suffer and she could do nothing to ease the pain in his heart. He hadn't had a happy childhood, she knew this all too well. And she wish there was something she could do, some service she could provide that would make it all feel better. Michail was struggling, drowning himself in alcohol and self pity. Someone needed to pull him out.