6 February, 1369. St Ivan's Palace, Havietten.
Celia stared down at the partially stitched shirt on her lap, feeling weary to her very soul. She bit her tongue so she wouldn't just snap at all her ladies to just get the fuck out and leave her alone so she could crawl back into bed.
A constant exhaustion was now haunting her days, making it hard for her to think deeply about much. She let herself sink into its stupor, without fighting it. Unfortunately, she couldn't just do what she really wanted and just sleep the days away. That would've made people instantly suspicious.
So Celia pushed herself to go through the motions of her day. Dressing, chapel, the company of her ladies. Dinner, servicing Tobin. Sleep.
Then repeat.
In a way, her fatigue was a blessing. Being in its constant fog was a way to protect her own heart.
