She can't pull it. It belongs in her, doesn't it? After all, she died still impaled by that lance; reaching out for her father one last time. Begging for his touch, and going unanswered. Her greatest fear—
—And it's happening again, right before her eyes. It has to be an illusion. But without her Instinct to guide her, to clear her sight, it feels as real as any other, and she howls. Full of rage, misery, and above all else, pain.
"That crown... belongs... to me!" Not really — but in her mind, it does, as surely as it belongs to King Arthur. Of course, she's deflecting. It isn't the crown that bothers her the most, but the acknowledgment. That her father would deign someone else worthy over her. No one loved the king more than her. No one followed the king as earnestly as her. And yet: "Do you hate me that much? Then I'll kill you! King Arthur!"
King Arthur. The impostor. Every single person in the crowd ignoring her. She reaches for her father, hands outstretched, as if to choke the life out of him herself. Even if she has to drag her entire body along the weapon growing into it.
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—And it's happening again, right before her eyes. It has to be an illusion. But without her Instinct to guide her, to clear her sight, it feels as real as any other, and she howls. Full of rage, misery, and above all else, pain.
"That crown... belongs... to me!" Not really — but in her mind, it does, as surely as it belongs to King Arthur. Of course, she's deflecting. It isn't the crown that bothers her the most, but the acknowledgment. That her father would deign someone else worthy over her. No one loved the king more than her. No one followed the king as earnestly as her. And yet: "Do you hate me that much? Then I'll kill you! King Arthur!"
King Arthur. The impostor. Every single person in the crowd ignoring her. She reaches for her father, hands outstretched, as if to choke the life out of him herself. Even if she has to drag her entire body along the weapon growing into it.