Introductory Notes: Greetings, y'all. In an effort to actually FINISH a story for once, I'm going to keep these chapters short but sweet, so as to establish a nice pattern for myself. One chapter a night should easily be manageable if I keep the segments to a maximum of a thousand words of so.
"All hail Princess Teodora!"
The cheer erupted amongst the people quite unanimously, with any dissenters nicely drowned out. Not that there were many opposing voices in the first place: everybody had been warned, quite vehemently, to show proper respect. Whether such respect involved a restrained clapping or, in this case, raucous outbursts, mattered little. So long as they were positive in nature, the officials of Valua were happy. Had the freshly presented Princess been greeted with violent boo's, the king would no doubt have had every last officer's head. As such, threats were handed out, and a few particularly volatile individuals were jailed.
Not that such things were necessary, in this case. The people of Lower City had no need to make their lot in life worse. Those few voices of opposition probably would have been quashed without military intervention had they been raised at any point during Teodora's flight over the slums. Quite naturally, the Princess had objected to allowing her greatness to be lifted over such squalor, but her father had insisted on following through with tradition. The heir to the throne had, at one point or another, to present themselves to the populace in its entirety.
"Well, if I'm to float over such rats, then I insist on making the class distinction known!" she'd exclaimed angrily, demanding that she be dressed in the finest and most fashionable clothing of the time. She also insisted that her barge remain at least a hundred meters above the crowds at all times, claiming that the stench might make her faint. Her imperious attitude delighted those close to her – particularly mother and father – who saw, by all accounts, that she was of noble blood through and through.
And now, here she was, barge speeding rapidly over the squalid chimneys and fuming factories of Lower Valua, barely even acknowledging those who had turned out to watch her pass. Such was her right: she owed nothing to the peasants and workers. They processed the nation's raw materials, and in return, were protected from the dangers of the outside world, not to mention given affordable amenities and housing. They had no recourse but to wave, and cheer, and hail the Princess, while she could decide whether or not she wished to look down on them. Choice was the ultimate gift of the aristocracy.
Her barge was nothing short of opulent. Constructed out of gold and decorated in all manner of jewels and finery, it befit a Princess of her stature. From each propeller streamed a long piece of silk, whirling lazily and to great effect. The engineers had somehow managed to make it work without getting the fabric tangled up. It boasted two tiers, one bearing a small piloting station, and the other the Princess and her honour guard. She sat upon a plush seat of golden and purple. Emblazoned upon the rear of it was the royal sigil in striking red.
Hundreds of thousands of people watched as she circled briefly overhead and veered off, their arms raised in celebration but holding no joy in their hearts. Indeed, few amongst them were even interested in the spectacle. They came and hurrahed only out of expectation, and as the Princess whirled out of sight to present herself to the nobles in Upper Valua, crowd after crowd quickly dispersed. They all had better things to do. Hundreds of soldiers, all of whom had been ready to bust a few skulls, felt vaguely disappointed that their billy clubs had not been brought into use, and slipped back to their respective barracks. It was business as usual again in Lower Valua.
Except, perhaps, in one mind. One small, beaming mind. Those eyes had watched the future Empress of Valua wheel about overhead with awe and reverence. Those eyes, those clear, inspired, genius eyes, coated though they were in grime and dust, desired to belong.
But that day of belonging was not today. The eyes slipped back from the place of far off dreams, disappeared under a beaten wool cap, and headed home, hidden beneath the brow of a boy not yet seven years of age.