"I apologize. That is, uh, I'm sorry," Bella's tongue is sandpaper and ash, "Your first, mmmmf. Sorry. Your first request is something I can't do. I mean I must respectfully decline."

Her voice sounds even farther away than the uncrowned king and their entourage. Like she has to push it through a wad of cotton to start with, only for it to drop on the air in leaden bubbles. Breathing is, somehow, worse. The sensation of heat entering her lungs is nauseating. Hot in, hot out, her own breath feels sticky before she can even exhale. The smell makes it worse; each little sniff loses more and more of what makes the planet seem alive to her and replaces it with the pungent tang of her own misery. Bella's own sweat is a particularly miserable cocktail that triggers her same maid's aversion to blood. 

She has to fight to keep her hand from clenching over her mouth. That would be unseemly, conduct unbecoming of a praetor. It wouldn't even help what with the smell coming from her own body: her hand would just press it further into her. She grits her teeth, invisibly, and sways on the spot instead. She must not wobble. She must not raise a hand to steady herself. She keeps both hands tucked demurely in front of her in her least aggressive posture, and carries the weight of an empire on her back as she burns. 

"Please understand," her voice is not only distant now, but weak, "I'm not trying to waste your time. It's not that I don't trust you, either. But communication isn't possible at a distance. And the crossing... would kill you. Please just. Trust me."

Bella tries to swallow, but her mouth is so parched the gesture simply catches on the back of her throat instead and she has to turn her head to hide the sudden retching as a more mundane cough. It's not pride at this point, the standing on ceremony for a delegation she can't even see in detail through all the haze in the air anymore. It's simply decorum. Before she was a praetor she was a maid, and ahead of any other duties they may have stapled onto her her first and most sacred would always be to the comfort and ease of guests before herself. It was the lesson beaten into her most sharply as a little girl, the lessons begun before she'd even finished learning how to speak. 

She does not ask for a drink. Her body begs her to, but she ignores it. Is this... punishment? Is this scalding heat mere divine displeasure, or was the sickness of the sun her special torment in death for all the many harms she'd caused before she'd been so unceremoniously snuffed out? Fuck. You could have simply left her on the Yakanov, Lord Apollo, if this was really what you wanted for her. She dips into a curtsy rather than another bow, because letting her knees obey the siren call of gravity seems easier all of a sudden. She just has to. She just has to.. She just has to...

"M-my name's... Bella. I didn't come to make trouble. Please. I want-- I nnnnnneed, sssshhhhhhttttthhhggt!"

It is not enough. The power of the Empire is not enough. The precision of her training is not enough. Bella's ears droop flat on her head and her tail flags low against the ground. Her posture is terrible. Her body is sweat soaked, plastered fur and white fabrics so drenched they have become invisible, clinging highlights to every imaginable mystery of her physique. Her mouth glistens with the fresh purge of her own misery as her legs threaten to topple her down to the ground to wallow in it. Beljani, is this what your cage felt like? When you burned your way into the minds of so many around you, did it feel like this? When they forced you on the bed and stuffed you till you couldn't help but feel aware of every crevice of your body, did [i]that[/i] feel like this? How did you stand it?

Sister. Where did you go, Sister? Why can't she see you again? Why can't she, oh gods. Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods she can't take this. Please. Make it stop, make it stop! What did she do? She's sorry! She's sorry! Please, just! A drink, a fan, a bit of shade, anything! Just don't trap her like this! Don't keep her like this! Don't...