Warnings: Ratings are for reasons. Hah I can alliterate! Durr...
Summary: Cinderella in stereo- two girls vie for the life they both dream of, seeking a way out of the oppression that stifles their present positions. One ball, two slippers…who will end up with the right shoe, and ultimately, the right happy ending?
The Second Slipper- Part the First
"No!" Este screams, throwing the feather duster at her sister's head. "She wasn't! Take it back, you wretched girl, take it back!"
"It's true, it's true!" The other girl protests, throwing up hands to block the other projectiles launched at her. "Every single word I said was true, and you know it!" Arimela cowers against the wall, trying to fend off the brutal attack.
"No it wasn't'! She wasn't! You are a liar!" Este advances again, this time with a priceless vase in hand. "My mother was the most beautiful, sweet woman ever to live. She loved my father more than your mother ever did! She was faithful to him," she sneers, using the vase to accentuate her gesticulations.
"Este, you're crazy, you're blind! Why can't you see that she wasn't perfect?" Arimela scuttled backwards, scraping her knuckles on the cold stone of the floor.
"Because she was!" Este rages, letting the glass slip out of her hand and shatter on the floor. "She was the best person ever to live and the only thing that's stopping her from being here now is that she died when I was five!" The blonde hair falls haphazardly in front of insensible blue eyes that burn with a righteous frenzy.
Arimela pities her half-sister, and it shows in her expression. "You don't know how she died, do you?"
"She died because a cruel, cruel man drowned her out of spite," Este informs the younger girl haughtily. "She died nobly, and that's the truth."
"You don't know, poor Este," Arimela sighs through trembling lips. "You don't know the truth at all."
Este grimaces angrily. "Of course I know! I just told you, you stupid wretch! And I don't want your condescension, Arimela. Don't you look down on me! I'm older than you, remember. Always remember that!" She brings her own disdain into the argument, crowding Arimela further into the corner. "I am the daughter of aristocrats, you…are just nobody."
Arimela rises to the baiting, snapping angrily at the taunts dangled before her. "I am every bit as noble as you! I'm landed and titled, as are you! My father is the same as your, remember? Or did you forget?"
"Ah, but I," Este smirks, "Have a far, far better mother than yours will ever be."
"Back to that again!" Arimela snorts chidingly. "You're mother was a prostitute, Este, a lady of negotiable affection. A whore, do you hear me?" Now it is Arimela who is screaming as Este is cowed by the sudden onslaught. "She was a little slut that your father took in and married because he thought he was in love! The fool! She was a faithless wench, feckless in everything she did. That's what got her killed, the jealousies of her patrons, so noble, so possessive! You didn't know that, did you Este? See, Este, I'm right, and you know I am. Noblewomen aren't beautiful, but whores are. A whore, Este, a slut." Arimela smiles with cruel satisfaction, her lips twisting into a Cheshire grin.
"No," Este whispers, over and over and over again. "No. You're lying to me. My blood is as blue as- nay, bluer than yours! No, no, no! Lying! You're a spiteful, lying slut, you are!" Her delicately boned hand reaches for something to break, to use as a weapon. Fine, long fingers close on the broom handle that rests against the wall. "You know what happens to liars, Arimela? Do you? They get punished, they do!" Este's full wrath descends upon Arimela along with the handle of the broom.
The screams fill the small room, a duet of agony.
"What is going on here?" A woman appears in the doorway, filling it up with her matronly bulk. "Ela? Este? What on earth are you doing?"
"She's lying!" Este cries, pointing accusingly at Arimela. "She's a horrid liar!"
Arimela simply sobs and watches her mother from behind pitiful, oceanic eyes.
The broom clatters to the floor, and Este's cheeks are coated with tears. "She said my mother was a- a- slut! Can you believe that, Charinla?" Este clings to the skirts of her step-mother. "Arimela said awful things about my poor, dear mother!"
"Get off me!" Charinla gasps, shaking the tightly gripping fingers from the fine cloth. "Ela, Ela dear, are you hurt?"
Arimela gazes at her mother from blackened eyes, and her eyelashes are twisted with clotting blood. "Mother…" she mumbles through swollen lips. "She hit me…" Arimela raises a tremulous hand to the cuts and bruises that now adorn her face.
The fury smolders in the mother's eyes as she watches the defiance harden the face of the girl. "How dare you, you selfish girl! You know better, Este, than to hit your sister. You know, you're old enough by now."
"But she lied," hisses Este, resentment festering in her words at the double accusation. "She lied, and you'd let her get away with it! You play favorites, you evil, conniving woman! I hate you! You stole my mother's spot, I hate you!" Este does not scream, only make sure that each word is enunciated with terrible clarity. "I hate you. All of you."
She turns, deliberately kicking the battered broom aside as she saunters out of the tiny room. She can hear the reassuring murmurings of mother to daughter, and she laughs bitterly. She doesn't need anything of the sort. She knows that they will find some way to punish her, but she will become better than them, she will escape them. Este knows this, deep within her heart. She will become like her mother once was, beautiful and loved by all the world.
Now, however, she must suffer the petty words and cruelties of her family. She knows, though, that se will escape and become better than them.
She knows, and she smiles, walking with new confidence in her stride.
"You can't do this!" Este shrieks as the key clicks in the lock. "You can't, you can't! You can't!" Her palms bleed, the soft skin tearing as it meets the rough wood. "You can't!" She screams again, futilely. "I've been waiting for weeks!" The tears that stream down her face are crystalline rivers of adolescent anguish. "I have a dress!" Her words come out cracked as the heartless footsteps echo away.
She spends several minutes collapsed in front of the door, sobbing with great, gulping breaths. Her entire body shakes as she cries, the bones of her ribs showing as she slumps forward.
She has been waiting for weeks, working the hardest to be the best, so that that lovely dress will fit just perfectly and she will be the most beautiful.
"No!" Este screams wretchedly, slumping on the floor in an incongruous picture of beautiful desperation.
Her thin fingers pry at the lock, sending fragments of nails and strips of skin fluttering to the floor. She scrabbles at the metal handle, wrenching it from side to side hopelessly.
When she tires of her fruitless quest to make the bolt slide away, she turns to the dress that she had been admiring for weeks. It mocks her now, and she attacks it viciously with her bloodied hands. In her frenzied assault on the periwinkle confection, she tears it to shreds, rending tulle from satin and pulling out every last stitch of the meticulous embroidery. She screams as she destroys, feeling her wrath dissipates as her target shrinks rapidly.
Divested of the fragile dress to bear the brunt of her anger, she returns to the door, assailing the door with her broken hands once more.
Suddenly, something gives and Este tumbles into the hallway, gracelessly sprawling on the floor. She stands slowly, assessing the situation. An unlocked door means that she has been released from her prison and let loose on the rest of the house.
A smile curls the corners of Este's lips up, and a throaty chuckle fountains into the silence. She spins around happily, twirling until she is dizzy. "Perfect," she whispers, the heady joy of it all sending bursts of adrenaline through her.
She runs to her room, so recently her jailer, and lunges for the mannequin upon which her dress is hung. Este's steps falter as she remembers her recent fit of violence. The remnants of the dress lie in tatters around her. A wail escapes her lips, echoing across the room and reverberating from the stones.
Este snarls angrily, glaring at her besmirched reflection in the mirror. "It's all your fault," she growls vehemently, striking out again to find an outlet for her passionate hatred.
Este stalks from her room, leaving behind the ruins of a room, and enters the halls of the manor house. She hunts through the rooms and wardrobes of her sisters and step-mother, pawing through their belongings in hope of finding something suitable to wear.
She hurriedly pushes aside all of Charinla's and Fermimly's, but stops at Arimela's. Her half-sister is growing to be quite like Este. Este smiles; she has captured her prey.
The new dress is stunningly radiant; a golden corset melts into layers of lacy silk that is the color of sunshine. She knows that she will be resplendent in it and dons it reverently, almost catching the trailing sleeves in the lacings. Este tightens the silky ribbons as far as they will go, tying them deftly at her waist. The remaining ribbon trails down the back of the dress, and she can imagine it twirling around as she dances with all the aristocracy available.
Quickly, her experienced hand fixes her cosmetics and hair, letting everything be as simple as possible so as not to make her entire ensemble seem too gaudy.
"There," she pronounces finally, a satisfied smirk capturing her mouth. "Perfect." She adjusts the strap on the elegant golden stiletto, making sure that the crisscrossing pattern lies neatly, perfectly. Este pauses to toast herself in the mirror with the goblet of water that she had set there. "To revenge," she states sadistically.
She arrives at the gardens and pushes a strand of golden hair away from the bejeweled mask that adorns her face. The noises of hoof beats and conversation cover her arrival neatly; no one is aware that one last guest has arrived, so when Este makes her appearance on the steps, she creates a stirring of surprise. The murmurs ripple through the assembled people, jumping from tongue to tongue like droplets of water hitting the cobblestones.
A young man steps to her, offering her his hand. "Milady, a name?"
She denies him, but asks for his.
"Ser Veronj al Camerdyia, my nameless lady." He bows with collected control, kissing the healing skin of her hand. "Milady, please, grace me with a dance."
She nods, a calculated gesture that allows her to retain the sultry gaze that has him fascinated. "Dance, then."
Al Camerdyia allows a small, mirthless smile to broach the expressionless wall of his face as he takes her hand and carries her off into her fantasies of nighttime entertainment.
They dance for hours, the jealous glances fueling Este's adrenaline and making her unmindful of every agonizing step that she takes. The blood that drips off of her feet stains the shoes a ruddy crimson seeps instantly into the flattened lawn where she dances with al Camerdyia.
His hand grasps hers tightly, holding her fast when she would turn away. His eyes are chilling grey pits that build iron walls around her resolve, stealing it from her. He keeps her there, tightly held against him so that she cannot breathe. Veronj knows who she is, but plays along just the same until finally she looks at him with tears in her eyes, begging to be set free to find another partner. "Sera Este dy Sharteth," he murmurs into her ear, making the ametrine drops that nestle in her hair slip slightly to the side.
Este feels his breath rushing over her sensitive skin and hears the dreaded sound her name slither into her ear. It comes from his lips. She tries to push him away, but she cannot; he holds too tightly. "How...?" She gasps as his fingers press her closer.
"Este, Este," he croons delightedly, still spinning around, feigning the motions of the dance.
"Veronj," She mumbles helplessly back, still trying desperately to pull away.
"You're just like your mother, sweet little Este, just like her." Al Camerdyia smiles as she stiffens, not knowing of the accusations that are still fresh in her mind, but enjoying her bafflement just the same.
"No." Her tear-thickened voice is hoarse and he laughs merrily at the expression in her eyes.
"Oh yes, little Sera dy Sharteth, you're so much like your mother, in both superficial aspects and temperament. She always came to me like this."
"Mother…not…no!" Este wrenches her hand from his and distances herself from him, although her curiosity will not allow her to leave him entirely. "My mother? And you?" Este stares in horror, looking at the man who has hid his years well behind a mask of agility and endurance. "No…" She realizes then, that the truth had been told to her, but still she denies it with every fiber of her being. "You're lying!" She accuses him, one finger jabbing unsteadily through the air to point at him. "Liar."
"No," he says, that cruel smirk twisting his handsome face. "Do you want to be just like your dear, sweet mother?"
Este, caught off guard, replies with the answer that has always rested deep within her. "Yes…"
Al Camerdyia laughs, laughing at her and her childish dreams. "You want to be like her?"
"Yes," Este answers again, unable to stop herself from suppressing the hope that has fueled her life for the past twelve years. "I want to be just like her…"
Al Camerdyia smiles again, finally letting true emotion invade his controlled façade. "Then like her you shall be," he declares, releasing her physically. "Come."
Arimela dances, wincing as the pulse of the music pounds into her. Her partner's hands grip her arms and make the blood flow on her arms once more. The paint could hide some of her injuries, but it cannot disguise the worst of the abrasions.
The mask is silver and set with emeralds, reminiscent of the sea. She touches it lightly and flinches at the pain. The bruises have yet to fade, but in this light and with their powdery covering, it is hard to see them as anything but shadows.
She is spun and dipped in time to the orchestral music, and the silvery satin of her dress swirls around her ankles like cool water. It slithers across the grass, the hiss of its silken passage lost in the sounds of the people. Arimela does not speak, only sip the cool night air like wine, partaking liberally from its intoxication.
She notices the masks around her are falling away, disappearing to reveal the beautiful, painted faces of the guests. Arimela touches the ribbon tie of her own mask, but does not release the knot. The silver strand continues to rest in her fair locks, a pale streak among the flax. Her partner looks at her strangely and reaches up to undo it for her, but she stops his hand.
"No," she insists. "Leave it." Her lips curve in a way that she hopes is enigmatic. "It's not time yet." The words fall softly from her lips to his ear.
"Oh?" He looks at her curiously, his own mask dangling forgotten in his hand. When he gets no response but for a smile, he nods in resigned agreement. "Better to get the Prince's attention, eh?"
Let him think that, she muses, nodding politely. His hand falls from hers and he steps away, dejected and disgusted all at once.
Arimela sighs and turns to find a new partner, but the people that surround her are drawing back from her, leaving her alone in the middle of a widening circle. She spins again and again, more frantic with each turn. There is no one who will dance with her, no one at all. They have all forsaken her; she is the only one not unmasked.
There is no one who will take her partner and end her social torment, no one until the strong, gloved fingers wrap tightly around her wrist.
Her frenzied breathing slows as she comes face to face with another mask. The designs on this mask are exquisite, etched black on striking blue. The intricate patterns swirl underneath the chin, curling up in a mockery of a beard. The blue lips are shadowed with jagged midnight streaks and as they start to form a word, Arimela's eyes rise further. The lacy design creeps upwards, culminating in stylized, painted crown on the high arch of a forehead.
She sweeps a curtsey, as low as her bruised body will allow her to go, until she is almost horizontally obeisant. "My Prince," she whispered, absolutely mortified at the affront she has given him.
Her wrist is still captured in his hand, as she realizes when he jerks her upright. "Do you think to make reparations for your arrogance by being extravagantly subservient, girl?"
Arimela stifles a moan as she murmurs, "No, my Prince, I do not. How have I wronged you?" She can feel the tears running down her scratched cheeks as the pain increases as his grip does.
"You dare to hide your face from me, the one you so mockingly call 'my Prince'." His sneering voice imitates hers in a cruel charade.
"Oh my Prince," she says, trying to block the sobs from affecting her speech, "You must understand, I hold you in the highest respect." Arimela is bent double now with the pain, only her slender, gloved hand above her head.
"You can't," he denies her claim, bending her hand back so as to cause her more pain. "You lie."
"I do not lie," Arimela sighs, inhaling oxygen with unsteady gasps. The pain is overcoming her, invading her vision and balance. She wavers as she continues on. "Twice, I have been accused of lying, once by you and once by another, and twice, I have told the truth. The truth, my dearest Prince, is why I do not show my face and why I humble myself before you now with the purest of intentions." Arimela feels herself sinking further, dragging the man who rules the moment with her.
"Get up!" He commands, disdain tingeing his voice.
Arimela struggles to unbend, fighting the agony that flares at her every move.
His hand clamps on her other wrist, holding this one tighter than the other. Arimela cannot suppress the cry at the sudden shock of pain, and she tumbles forward. "Get up, you stupid slattern," he orders, hauling on her arms. "Your dearest Prince commands it." The derision fills her world.
"I cannot!" Arimela gasps, the excruciating torture that runs through her entire body making her curl into herself as a hope for escaping it. "You're hurting me!" She sobs openly now, forsaking any hope of control.
Where is her mother? She wonders desperately, unknowing of who might be watching her. Father? Where was he? She falls limply as the Prince releases her roughly, shoving her away from him.
He is appalled at himself; she can see it even through the mask. The blue eyes stare at her in horror, watching her unmoving form with fear. "I-I am sorry, lady, I apologize." He kneels next to her, carefully brushing her hair away from the mask so that he might see her eyes. "I am sorry," he repeats in an endless refrain.
She stops him with a shake of her head as she slowly rises from the flattened earth. "Accepted," She tells him softly, and then turns and stumbles into the people, running away from him, from everyone. She trips over nothing, her steps unsure. She can feel his eyes on her as he watches her go, but he makes no move to stop her, knowing that he is at fault.
Arimela falls but she refuses the hands that offer to help her up, preferring to hobble on barefoot and dirty. She collapses as she reaches the carriage and orders the coachman to take her home, but to return for her parents later.
Curling on the bed, she sleeps in her ruined finery.
Este laces the corset quickly, her deft fingers needing no guidance but the aid of memory. The ribbons bite into her fingers as she pulls them as tight as they can go, but her only reaction is the smallest wince. She knows that she has shown too much already this night, and she is determined not to show more.
"Let me help." Al Camerdyia's hands cover her own, but she spins away.
"No." Este finds that she likes the negative word. It has become her friend in recent days. She repeats it, "No."
Ser Veronj returns to the chaise lounge that he had been sprawled across. "As you wish."
Este feels the whalebone stays digging into her ribs but she does not care anymore. She wishes that she could wrap up all her troubles in the neat little bow she ties and walk around without giving any hint of sadness.
"So, Sera dy Sharteth, do you still love your mother?"
"You did not know my mother." Her voice is hollow in comparison to the rich mirth of his tones.
Veronj stands behind her and wraps her in his long arms like a shawl. "I knew her better than most." He sighs and rests his head on her bony shoulder. "You wanted to be just like her," he reminds her cruelly. "And now you are, dear, sweet Este. Now you are."
She doesn't want to believe him, but she knows that it is true. "Am I?"
"You are," he assures in between light kisses that flutter along her throat. She shivers and pulls away, but his hands are catching her, trying to keep her.
"Ser-!" She rips from his grasping hands, reluctant to give herself so easily again so soon. "Veronj!" Este pleads with him, but that only serves to drive his passion. Twisting and writhing, she slithers out of his embrace and falls gracelessly to the floor.
"Este, just like Else, come to me, come!" Veronj stumbles after her, the fancy attire that has fallen around his ankles fouling his steps.
She scrambles away from him, mumbling, "Can't, won't, shouldn't, no, no, no!"
His fine hands scrabble after her, clutching at the fabric of her skirt, her slippers, anything within reach.
Este feels the petticoat give way, the intricate lace giving way with out a fight. He grabs her feet, her ankles, pulling them together as she kicks and screams, failing at him with blind terror. The shoeless heel that has been floundering by his face connect with something solid, and she hears him grunt with pain. Este works her way upright, defending herself and the scraps of her reputation, leaving behind what she must.
Bedraggled and barefoot, she runs into the night, seeking the comfort of a coach to carry her away.
Author's Note: For all of you who read Catch Me, or are simply waiting for something new from me, this shall have to tide you over. It's two parts, I think, unless it decides to take off on me and have a growth spurt. So, here's the first part, and I hope you like it! The second part will be up…eventually. Once I write it and all. Yeah.
But as for writing in general…School just started for me, so I don't have a whole lot of time to do much other than practice my tuba and do all the AP work I've been assigned. They work me hard! One of my AP's is English, so my writing will hopefully improve!
Anyway, hope you liked this, all reviews are welcome, flames will be used to toast marshmallows (I'm hungry), but constructive criticism will be received with the utmost joy and gratitude. So please tell me what you thought! And any suggestions for what happens next are totally welcome…love you all!