Xirysa Says: Because sometimes I need a break from my school workload.
Gilded
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i. the princess and the delusion
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The day he proposed is one she will always remember, an evening late in the spring months of Etruria on a small knoll in the estate of House Caerleon. He had knelt before her in the dying light as the words fell gracefully from his lips; he had learnt the art of words and the silver-tongued during his life with the Count Reglay and his family, placing himself another step away from the dirty orphan child he was rumored to have been during his youth.
His clothes were made from the most luxurious bolts of cloth, his boots from the finest leather. He carried himself with poise and elegance, every movement conscious and precise. She could make out the shadow of stubble across his fair cheeks, interrupted on one side by a long pale scar he had sustained during the war that did nothing to take away from his feature but instead enhanced them, making him seem all the more attractive. He had matured in every way since the days of their campaign across Elibe, into a man any lady would want.
(And indeed, she thought, how many women of the court had she seen about him, beckoning to their bedrooms and to pleasures of a more intimate nature?)
She looked over him at the setting sun, saw a dark shape crossing the hills and making its way towards them, blinked; the shape was gone. She smiled, and did not know why.
"Yes," she said.
-x-x-x-
It was a grand affair, the wedding; as their only child, adopted or not, her parents had spent lavishly on every aspect, no detail going unnoticed. Priscilla had fought the urge to cringe when she inquired about the prices for the most beautiful laces and fabrics for her dress, had shuddered at the extravagant dowry her parents had insisted on presenting to Erk, even though the man hadn't even asked for one.
"It is only right," they told her when she had asked. "It is only proper." They would say nothing more.
(She still remembers a poor dirt road, shadowed in the twilight—a few children scrabbling for a glint of copper in the dust.)
They told her she was beautiful as she stood in the great cathedral, these people with the painted smiles and lying eyes, told her she looked like an angel in the sunlight shining through the building's great glass windows, her new husband by her side as one of the gods of lore. A match made in heaven.
But you're supposed to say that, she wanted to scream. You only know how to speak lies.
The Reglays were one of the last families to congratulate them. Lord Pent, as handsome and regal as ever, though there were lines about his eyes and mouth she had not seen before. Lady Louise, the glow from her second pregnancy about her, making her beauty all the more alluring. The child Klein, as fair as his mother—and who, even at such a young age, was rumored to have inherited his mother's skill with the bow as well—as bright and warm as the first rays of sunlight bringing the end to winter's chill.
Priscilla dipped her head in thanks as the Reglays congratulated them; Erk did the same beside her. Lord Pent made his way through the crowd as Lady Louise gave Klein to a waiting servant, turned briefly and gave them a sad, fleeting smile before following her husband and allowing the remaining guests to congratulate the couple before the reception.
She barely remembers the reception. There had been rich food and good drink, yes, a large orchestra that played the most popular ballads and love songs. She danced, looked demure and elegant, played her part beautifully as a perfect daughter, a blushing new bride, an elegant lady of the court.
And then the hour had grown late, and the guests had left; they climbed to the bedroom in the tower that would be theirs for the night, to the room that had been set aside and decorated especially for them.
The door closed behind her with a dull thud of finality.
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The moonlight on her bridegroom's pale skin made him seen unearthly, ethereal. She marveled at his body, wondered when he had grown from boy to man in the few short years since they had returned from the campaign. They had been nearly the same height back then, perhaps a hairsbreadth of difference in their measurements. Now he towered over her by more than a head, his body long and lean with muscle from continued training with his master, despite his decision to live the life of a scholar and nobleman.
She could see no trace of the boy he had been unless she looked closely: there, in the way his thin lips curved into a shadow of the scowl he had been known for in their ragtag army, the slant of his eyebrows and an almost unnoticeable bump on the bridge of his nose—all that remained of an accident at the riverside, an attempt at joy and fun in the dark, grim world of the war.
A cool breeze blew into the room through the bedchamber's open window; she shivered, but did not draw the bedclothes around her naked body, ignored the dark smear of blood on the sheets beside her. Instead she stood, crossed to the window, looked out onto the surrounding lands. It was calm, serene; not a hint of turmoil or strife.
It frightened her—as if it were only an illusion, a mask to hide the bitter grey reality she had come to know those years ago; the screams of the dying, the putrid smell of the battle field as the scent of fear mingled with the stench of ash and blood and the reek of entrails and bodily excretions. She almost gagged at the memory; the bile burned the back of her throat.
She closed her eyes, exhaled as she thought of a happier time. A boy in the garden, a few dirty daisies clenched in his grubby fist because he knew they made her smile, the promise of a wedding to soothe her tears and the deep, bloody gash on her knee.
Almost reverently she touched the scar there, felt the ropy line of skin that traveled from the top of her knee and wrapped around almost to her calf. It was the only physical reminder she had of her childhood in Lycia and of the brother who had lived—and possibly died—there.
"Priscilla?"
She turned to face him; he was sitting up, his long hair framing his face in dark sheets as he wiped the bleariness from his eyes. The scar on his face shone in the moonlight.
"Priscilla?" he asked again. "Is something wrong?"
She shook her head, made her way back to the bed. "No," she said. "I am fine." She sat beside him, almost flinched when his arms wrapped around her, unused as she was to such an action; from the way he felt against her skin, taught and strung like a bowstring, she suspected he felt much the same way. The thought touched her.
He held her closer as she began to relax. "I hope you know that you can tell me anything," he told her. "Anything at all."
This was a bad idea I shouldn't have married you it wasn't supposed to be like this it was a mistake a mistake a mistake—
"No," she said as she leaned in closer, inhaled the smell of burnt parchment and ink that always seemed to be around him. "Please, just hold me."
He complied, and she felt herself relaxing into his comforting warmth. She didn't stop him when he pressed his lips gently to her shoulder, her neck, her jaw and mouth, said nothing as he pushed her back onto the bed and let his fingers ghost over her skin.
Perhaps she had loved him once, she thought idly as she bit back a moan.
At this point, though, she did not care.
-x-x-x-
Dreams of a tower, its flawless walls of white marble tall and cool. Impenetrable.
Standing at the window on the tower's highest floor, hair blowing in a nonexistent breeze. Her staff shattered into a hundred thousand fragments.
(oh, my poor princess. locked away in a cage of gold and gilded lies.)
She cried.
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A week later they set out for Baral, an estate neighboring the larger Reglay lands—the place she would now call home. From the lands of House Caerleon, the journey itself would take no more than a day or two at most; all the noble houses of Etruria were centered around the capital at Aquileia, and as such were within easily traversable distances of one another.
In the early hours of the morning, when the day was still cool and fresh, Prscilla sat upon the back of a pale gray gelding they had given her called while her husband rode at the head of the group with the scouts. She so longed to join him, to feel the wind against her face and blowing through her hair and know the sensation of freedom once again.
But she did not go.
And so she stayed toward the end of the group, surrounded by her entourage of guards—all of them so young, more than half barely out of adolescence. Only two were girls, their figures still slender and lacking the curves of maturity.
Had she been so childlike to the older members of the army during the campaign? Perhaps she had. She hadn't been out of girlhood much longer than the two girls who hung at the back of the entourage, the arrival of her moonblood still a strange and frightening thing.
One of the knights of the entourage approached her, reigning in his steed to a comfortable trot beside her. She noted the insignia emblazoned upon his armor, and realized him to be the captain of her guard. He bowed his head to her before speaking. "Milady," he said, "is their some way I can be of assistance?"
She looked at him. The knight was a young man perhaps only two or three years her senior—twenty-three at most, she decided—with the fair hair attributed to those of pure-bred Etrurian stock and a pleasant, open face. "What is your name, knight?" she asked.
"Bren, milady," he said, "of the town of Adige."
She looked back to the rear, where the two girls rode beside each other. One of them wore the white robes of the Eliminean order and seemed be some manner of cleric; she clutched her staff tightly in one hand as she led her mount, her mouth set in a grim line of determination. The other appeared to be far more unsure of herself, leaning towards her companion often to whisper frantically in the other girl's ear. "Tell me, Sir Bren," Priscilla said, "of those two."
The knight looked at the girls for a moment before responding. "The cleric is called Eva; the one who rides beside her is my younger sister Thea." He shook his head. "Many of the men in the company do not care for their presence here, but their roles are important. A healer is necessary, aye, and so they do not complain about Eva much, but there are tongues that wag, claiming Thea has joined us only because of my relation with her, weaving tales of witchcraft and sorcery. They fear her knowledge of the spells in the ancient tongue." He shook his head. "My apologies, milady," he said. "It is not in my place to bore you with such trivial matters."
"This is no trivial detail, Sir Bren. She is, as you said, an important member of our group, and I feel that we shall be relying on her skills more than once in the coming days." She paused for a moment. "She has knowledge of the elder magicks, then? I knew a man who practiced those same arts. He was a good, kind man—though he is gone now, or so I am told, succeeded only by his young son. Strange though, that a child of Etrurian blood should have the gift of the dark arts."
"It is true, the skill is rare in most Etrurians," Bren told her. "Our grandfather took a mage woman from Bern as his wife, and it is from her that Thea gets her powers."
She nodded, turned her head to watch the girls again. "I see. I would like to speak to those two when we make camp for the night." She looked back to the young captain. "You may return to your position, Sir Bren," she said as she spied her husband returning. "I'm afraid I've taken far too much of your time."
Bren bowed his head again before steering his mount back to the head of the guard. "Not at all, milady," he said. "Not at all.
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When they stopped to make camp for the night, Priscilla asked to speak to the girls. They were brought to where she waited on a flat expanse of land as the men set up tents and prepared the evening meal, while the dying sun painted the campsite bloody bright.
Eva was a young girl with thick black hair and of uncommon height, her slender frame making her seem even taller. Her eyes were dark and heavy-lidded, but burned with determination and resolution. Thea was, by contrast, the more docile of the two, choosing to stand just behind her companion and allowing the cleric to do most of the talking; she had the same fair coloration as her brother, and the most alluring and enchanting apple-green eyes—hardly someone Priscilla would have imagined to be a practitioner of the darker magicks.
It became apparent that the cleric was the more strong-minded of the pair. "If I may be so bold," she began, the sarcasm in her tone barely concealed, "may I inquire as to our summons?" Behind her Thea gasped, clearly fearing the repercussions of speaking to a noble in such a manner.
Priscilla smiled, put her hands up in an attempt to placate the girl; the dying sunlight glinted off of her wedding ring. "Peace, Eva," she said. "I only wish to better acquaint myself with those who guard me."
The cleric held her chin high, proud and defiant. "Then why do you not speak to the men?" she asked. "Surely, they are more capable of protecting you than two girls."
Oh, such blunt honesty was so refreshing after the gilded lies and sugar-coated words of nobles! Priscilla looked at the cleric again. For all her words, her dark eyes still betrayed a flicker of fear and uncertainty, proof of the little girl Eva truly was. She was silent for a few moments before she spoke.
"Once upon a time, there was a princess who lived her life locked away in a tower."
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Xirysa Says: You know, for everything I say about Priscilla and my immense dislike for her… I think I may be developing a soft spot for her? At least, she's extremely good tragedy fuel. Perhaps that is why I'm starting to like her. I dunno.
This is part I of… I don't know. I don't even know how often I'll update this—we'll see what school decides.