[She hums softly in agreement, though her eyes are trained on her retreating figure. Elizabeth stares over Rosalind's shoulder, slender arms wrapped around her neck. Unwillingly, they follow down cobblestone streets, weaving between carriages drawn by mechanical horses.]
I never took Anna. Or, ah, Elizabeth, I suppose her name was now.
[It's not that the younger Rosalind seems so very comfortable with a child. She holds her a touch awkwardly, patting her back every so often in a stiff sort of way. But what she lacks in grace and motherly virtues, she at least makes up with intentions.]
I'm no mother. Robert was still sickly; I had my hands full taking care of him. And Elizabeth wasn't my responsibility. Her father had dragged her into this mess; I wouldn't relieve him of the burden when reality caught up with him.
[But ah, there they are: Lutece Labs, much more put together than the last time Prompto had seen them. A little cheaper looking, too, honestly, but she'd only just bought it.
The smell of blood is still thick in here, though. Some things never change. Robert sprawls in an armchair in the sitting room, dried blood splattered over his shirt, a bloody handkerchief pressed to his face. He's dozing, though he sits up sharply when he notices what Rosalind's carrying.]
He's the one who wanted a baby.
[But things are starting to blur. This isn't right, and the memory (if you can even call it that; a fantasy, maybe, some alternate interpretation where Rosalind had been kinder) is starting to disintegrate. Grass fields flicker in and out; the scent of rain fills the air.]
no subject
I never took Anna. Or, ah, Elizabeth, I suppose her name was now.
[It's not that the younger Rosalind seems so very comfortable with a child. She holds her a touch awkwardly, patting her back every so often in a stiff sort of way. But what she lacks in grace and motherly virtues, she at least makes up with intentions.]
I'm no mother. Robert was still sickly; I had my hands full taking care of him. And Elizabeth wasn't my responsibility. Her father had dragged her into this mess; I wouldn't relieve him of the burden when reality caught up with him.
[But ah, there they are: Lutece Labs, much more put together than the last time Prompto had seen them. A little cheaper looking, too, honestly, but she'd only just bought it.
The smell of blood is still thick in here, though. Some things never change. Robert sprawls in an armchair in the sitting room, dried blood splattered over his shirt, a bloody handkerchief pressed to his face. He's dozing, though he sits up sharply when he notices what Rosalind's carrying.]
He's the one who wanted a baby.
[But things are starting to blur. This isn't right, and the memory (if you can even call it that; a fantasy, maybe, some alternate interpretation where Rosalind had been kinder) is starting to disintegrate. Grass fields flicker in and out; the scent of rain fills the air.]