Work Text:
Dolores Dei is ready for the meeting she has had countless times before. Neither she nor the man seeking her audience ever comes to enjoy it. She fidgets nervously. Her flight is soon, but she must play the role. The wreath rests on her head. She waits impatiently in the breezy air. Her fingers grow cold as precious minutes pass. She goes through her bag: her documents, her clothes, some sentimental items. Only the things she packed. No sceptre, no crown. It's quiet. It takes her some moments to understand that nobody will be seeing her. She turns abruptly and hurries to her flight in Mirova. She doesn't walk with a calculated regal gait, but instead runs, stumbling. Her head feels light as the wreath falls on the ground. Dora Ingerlund disappears from the street.
She's free.