Prologue
"If an injury has to be done to a man, it should be so severe that his vengeance need not be feared."
― Niccolò Machiavelli, The Prince
-~o~-
England 1515
EVERYTHING WAS ORANGE. Bright, blazing orange, like the fabric of her mother's favorite dress, threaded with strands of glittering gold.
Except the comparison was all wrong.
There was no heat in the cool silk of Mama's dress. Here, it was blistering, scorching and melting everything it touched. It fascinated her. Soothed her. The overwhelming physical sensations meant she could not think. When a flickering yellow light grew too close, the pale skin of her shoulder blossomed into pink and purple splotches; ones, she thought absently, that resembled barely-opened flowers. She felt no pain. Instead, she leaned closer. Close enough that she could see the sticky, crimson stained floor through the comforting smog of smoke.
A faint taste of rust pervaded her dry mouth. It took a moment to realize it was blood from biting down so hard to prevent the screams.
And with that realization, the world flew back into motion.
Searing pain, along the length of her right side. Watching timber and cloth alike consumed by hungry flames, her heart pounded harder, terror flooding her veins. She backed away and tripped on something soft. Gritting her teeth, she pushed herself up. With the fear came a sense of clarity. The window.
Determination welled within her. Blair did not lose. Not to other children simpering around her, not to married ladies with smiles of poisoned honey, and not even to an ever-growing sea of flame, disintegrating all it touched into powdered black ashes.
She did not look down at what she had stumbled over. There was no need to. The sight of the knife flashing through the air, the blood spurting out – gallons and gallons of it, it seemed; she'd never known that a person possessed so much – immortalized itself in her memory. One glassy eye further shut than the other, as if winking. A strange thought, when its owner had never winked in life. Full lips parted slightly in eternal surprise.
The flames drew closer.
The window. That's where she should go, straight ahead. The door burned, as did the walls, eaten with a blinding speed. She veered left sharply instead. Swiping the smog away, she knelt and scrabbled at the floor. Wet velvet. Something like bile rose to her mouth, but she continued, sightlessly groping at the doublet of the dead man. She was not sorry he was dead. The feeling was more like vindication. Still, the corpse – about to burn – it frightened her, an omen of what she had been so close to being and would very likely still become. Her hands closed around vellum.
Swallowing convulsively, she blinked away the stinging tears – tears which she attributed to the smoke – and unrolled the scroll, her arms shaking so badly it took a moment to make out the words written in bold, crisp script.
Neutralize all threats.
C.
She froze. Her limbs seemed dead, unmoving.
And then it was as if something in her broke, and rage poured out, boiling hatred simmering in her veins.
Slender fingers, so skilled at the harpsichord, fumbled at the window latch. She could barely breathe. Her throat ached, and for a few precious seconds, she couldn't continue, doubling over in hacking coughs. One flick of the thumb and she would be there.
When they had all forgotten her – well, she could not forget them. Especially C.
The window swung open, rocking on its hinges. Fresh air slammed into her. It felt so good, cool and crisp and clean as it filled her lungs. She inhaled deeply. Refused to look down the two stories she knew was below.
She jumped.
A/N: Noire is set in Tudor-era England. The lives of main characters will be very loosely based on the lives of members of the court of King Henry VIII. This fic will probably be heavier on political intrigue than most B/C historicals, but then again, it is Chuck and Blair. Chapters post-prologue will average about 3,000 words.
Review!
-Alle