heavy is the head that wears {the crown} :: python

”Miss Mercury, you requested my presence?”

Her voice was that of a broken violin, an eerie screech of pathetic sorrow and self-pity. She stood hesitantly by the frames of the door as if too frightened to enter the extravagant palace that was Delilah’s quarters, a painted room adorned in expensive paintings and artifacts both collected and traded for the sake of a queen’s delight. She was not particularly fond of this new servant of hers; she was timid as a hummingbird with the unnerving stare of an owl, always silent and too eager to please. With bones as fragile as toothpicks and a conscience pure as an angel’s heart, Delilah could crush her between her manicured fingertips as if she were a mere autumn leaf drifting in the breeze and leave scars upon that innocent heart. This power to induce weakness was radioactive, and surged through her bones like a cancerous toxin until she grew numb at the fingertips. Watching her break at the seams and uncoil to a tangled heap of withered heartstrings would be a pleasure to say the least, yet would fail to pose as much of a challenge to the artful soul-crusher. Still, there was something aggressively aggravating about the girl’s bashful demeanor and watery puppy-eyes. Delilah Mercury could not resist snapping like a viper.

Weakness. The state or condition of lacking strength, a quality or feature regarded as a disadvantage or fault. Every human being was inflicted with some sort of weakness whether strong or faint, but there were ways in which to conceal this weakness from the public, to protect its identity from those who sought to destroy. Cleo was one who pursued the art of destruction with her sharp tongue and biting insults. She used her words like knives, lacerating the feeble minds of her victims and ripping them apart at the seams. Delilah was one in the same - she knew how to manipulate with words, gestures, eye contact, beauty. She was no amateur with her flaming tongue, nor was she susceptible to the fangs of her enemies. Cleo’s forked tongue was a weapon, indeed, but the fair-haired royalty was immune to petty insults and rude remarks. They were merely words, after all; completely harmless, especially when masked in a cloud of lies.

”My, my, Delilah this proves that my ranking above you in mathematics during school was no fluke,” Delilah sipped her beverage set the glass gently down upon the table, her expression as even and unchanging as the black diamond in her cold heart. For Cleo to stoop to such a low standard of insults was almost a disappointment. Poking fun at the past, was she? Bearing down on old, mended wounds? It was pathetic, and Delilah almost cracked a smile. Almost. ”Tell me, why in ripred’s name would I waste valuable money on a prestigious club when all I want is a drink, and..we’ll call it, a friendly environment?” A laugh as sweet as the melodies of a siren song escaped parted lips. Poor, poor Cleo, struck with such naivety despite her power. If only the girl knew how to use it.