A Motley Fool –Ch1: Why Does the Caged Bird Sing? - [prompt#9 _tangled web] [Flip/Camille]

-The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still-

It had always been Morpheus's intent for his sole heir to marry his daughter – it was never spoken, not even to himself, but it was an assumption his entire court, and, thus, himself had held. Princess Camille was the daughter of the King; she carried the ancient blue blood of past sovereigns. She held the strength, the honour, the pride, in tiny, indigo veins that spread like rivers under her snowy skin. To keep that strength, that honour, that pride, the majesty of the lineage needed to passed on. The reality that transpired was not what had been envisioned.

Nemo could come and go to Slumberland as he pleased, but he could not stay as he willed. He would stay in his future kingdom for days, sometimes weeks, but then he would fade away like sunshine blotted out by a passing cloud. His distance between his absences seemed random. He would be there one day, gone the next, and then reappear the following days. More often than not, his departures were marked with lengthy absences, extending weeks, and, upon occasion, months. It was the blight of having the future heir being someone not born of Slumberland, but of that other world that theirs rarely touched. Being in inexistence for long periods of times does not bode well for romances, nor does it give the proper time and etiquette for wooing a noblewoman such as Camille.

It was all well and good when they were young – they were inseparable friends and playmates. People whispered that it would work out, it would just take patience. It was like waiting for the flowers to grow, they said. Without sunshine, though, flowers cannot grow, no matter the care or the amount of water. As the pair grew older, they still remained close, but it was closeness that two people receive after spending adventures with each other in days of sunny skies, and moon-lined nights. The seeds were sown but never grew into anything tremendous. Patience, was what they whispered, conspiring in corners. They are young yet.

They grew. They passed the age where their imagination seemed to sate them, like most children do. They still retained the necessary belief in the fantastical belonging to those of Slumberland, but it lost its shine. Slumberland was a magical place, but eventually, if the foreigner gets used to its glamour and glitz, it almost becomes mundane. Camille retreated to her books and music. Nemo was always suffering through lessons of some sort or the other. The time they were able to make for each other had them spend it leisurely in the gardens; talking about what had transpired since they had seen each other last, or about the serious and supposing content of the books they had read. Sometimes they would exchange gifts, but it was the gifts that old friends gave to each other – knowing each other in that safe way one knows the worn edges of a favoured sweater.

They passed that awkward stage of self known as adolescence. Both struggled independently to know their identity – what did they know of themselves, and was it the truth, could it be changed? Though they both experienced their changes in similar expanses of time, when they grew into their adults forms --wrapping themselves in the cocoon so they would form into butterflies -- they experienced it singularly, as people do. When they finally shed some things and grew into others, they both were shadows of the children they once were. They were still close, but there was that ghostly image the other saw – the child from before.

Camille grew into the grace she once held so proudly as a child, but this time it was not feigned. Her figure was slim, her hair long. She retained the high, noble forehead, but her pert nose had straightened. Nemo no longer was towered over, he was the one that dominated the room with a presence – though still not as impressive as Morpheus's grand stature. Sharp angles shaped the baby fat from Nemo's face, leaving not a boy, but a young man. His innocent brown eyes lost their naïveté, but there was still a jocund twinkle. The only thing that didn't seem to truly change was his untameable mane of brown hair.

They made a handsome couple together, people would twitter. A match made in heaven. As children, they were never aware of the pressure, the expectations, that was placed on them. As they stepped into the world as adults, the hopes of the court was brushing, resting, on their skin like the humid air of a hot summer. They attempted, with fumbling kisses, and unseasoned touches (believing it was meant to be), but it fell apart like cobwebs, the delicacy of what they were trying being torn apart by their lack of experience and knowledge. The line that connected the two was sibling affection, and nothing would change that. Not the wishes of the court, King Morpheus, or even their own.

Camille and Nemo recognized this for what it was, but still the pressure remained. Nemo was provided with escapism – he always had to return to his world sooner or later. He was free to do as he wished; he had all the gratifications men find in having a second life, but none of the repercussions. The nature of Nemo granted him his duality. Camille was trapped. No chance of escapism was offered to her by the powers that be. She was forced to feel the constant pressure of the wants and needs of the courts smothering her. It was worse than a hot humid day in high summer: it was a steaming hot, wet, woollen blanket covering her face. There were moments were she felt like she couldn't breathe and she would shatter into pieces, revealing her soul for the nobles to pour over like a crossword; writing down the words in ink, and crossing it with violent lines when it was later proven wrong. Even in sleep she was haunted by the whispers. The only thing she could do was read her books, play her harp, and disappear from Slumberland for a couple hours.

The unspoken agreement of the nobles in court had determined their fate; there didn't seem to another option. By Slumberland law, Nemo, as the heir would have to marry eventually when he became King. Politics trapped him to Camille – it would be an insult to the man who had named him Prince, if he did not take her hand in matrimony. If a suitor had taken an interest in Camille, it might be avoided. Nemo might be the heir by decree, but Camille held more power because of the ancient blood running in the rivers of her body. If she took another of her choosing, the courts would grumble but they would not interfere. There was no suitor though.

Not to say that there were not number of willing suitors – Camille was a shining jewel, brimming with energy from her beauty and youth. She captivated, and entranced. She was the flame for the moth. It was the fact that age and being provided the examples of true men (her father, the Professor, and Nemo) had granted Camille the ability to see the fops and the dressed up dandies for what they were; men who saw the glimmer of her beauty, her title, her power, not Camille herself. She would rather spend her life in a half-marriage with Nemo than spend her long life suffering with an idiot who had dreams of voyageurs in power.

In situations that women find themselves caged in similar ways to Camille, there starts to be a seed of resentment. Nemo could leave, she could not. She was a princess, his superior, not to mention his senior by a few years; she knew that in his second (or was it first?) life there were women that Nemo didn't mention, but accidently let slip – like water sloshing over the rim of a overfilled bucket – that he was seeing. Somewhere deep in her pride, this burned, but whether it was from the fact that he was seeing other women when the court had silently decided unanimously they were soon to be engaged, or the fact he held this secret from her.

With agitation brewing in her bones, and with resentment coveted in the darker parts of her heart, she couldn't help but distance herself from Nemo. He did notice, slowly, but he had no idea why it was happening or how to fix it. Not that his increasingly difficult and lengthy lessons were taking more and more time, and required more attention from him. It was surprisingly easy how they both could find excuses to avoid one another. The childhood affection still tied them, but it was starting to gray and loose its tangible shimmer; when their lives did touch in brief moments, the tie between the two seemed to echo with hallowed crying.

Their lives had become messes that could not be untangled with the finest of combs. Camille would wonder in quiet moments if this was what growing up was supposed to be – complicated threads and knots that went everywhere, and tugged you along like a puppet on a string. The thought put an odd hallow feeling in her heart.

Yet, for all the changes that had occurred, there were some things, and people, who refused to bend to the wheel of time's will; one particular person seemed to enjoy blowing indiscreet raspberries in Father Time's face.

"Hello, Princessy."

Camille did not bother looking up from her book. She had smelled the distinct smell of his cigars before she had ever heard him.

Turning a page, she sighed, "Go away, Flip, that's an order. I don't have time for you."

She could hear him pacing, practically frolicking, in defiance behind her, "Last time I checked the gardens were public grounds. So that would make your order rather pointless."

She sighed again. "Nemo's not here, if that what you wanted. I think he's taking equestrian lessons. Go check the stables. I'm sure you'll find him."

"Now, what makes you think I came looking for the kid? Did it ever occur to you that maybe I came looking for you?"

At this she couldn't help but turn around so she could see him, her profile to him, and give a look that clearly said how absurd a thought she believed that was. She held it for a minute, before turning back to her book with a huff.

"Geez, Princessy, moody much?"

Her book closed with an angry snap. She turned around again, her eyebrows pulled down in agitation, "Flip, why are you here."

He looked nonchalant, tapping the ashes from his cigar with a finger. "I think I already answered your question once, Princessy."

A glare glowed from her eyes at the nickname. "Well, repeat it again. And put out that disgusting cigar, I thought Nemo and I ordered you to stay away from those things."

Her nose wrinkled in irritation at both the smell of the cigar and Flip's usual flippant attitude. Grinning, he placed the cigar back between his teeth. "Let a man have his vices, Princess. And, like I said, I came to see you."

She maintained her glare; though she couldn't help the curiosity that dragged the question, "Why?" out of her lips.

He shrugged. "Can't an old friend pay a visit?"

She snorted. "Flip, we're hardly friends, let alone old friends."

Flip had the gall to look surprised at Camille's venom – as if he had expected something else. A curious expression crossed his features, and he came forward. The princess instantly found herself the subject of intense scrutiny by the trickster, who hovered around like an archivist pouring over a difficult passage. As his eyes passed over her, making the occasional "huh" and "hmm" sounds, Camille couldn't help the blush that coloured her cheeks. When she reached the point where she couldn't take the visual study of her person anymore, she spit out, "What?"

Flip leaned back, his one hand holding his chin in a thoughtful pose, his eyes still lingering. "I was right."

Surprise flavoured her voice. "Right? Right, about what?"

A smug look crossed his lips, as he announced his findings with a finger snap. "You are moody. Tell me, Princessy, is it that time of the month?"

There was a moment where Camille felt weakened by the surprise that overtook her, which was instantly followed by red anger. She couldn't believe he had said what he just did! How inappropriate for a gentleman to ask a lady such a question! Not to mention a princess!

"Flip! How dare you! You – you – you!" She stood up from the low bench she had been occupying. Sitting, Flip was as tall as she, but standing, she towered over him by at least a good foot. Flip grinned widely as she thought of a word adequate enough for him.

"You depraved degenerate!" Flip's grin just grew at the name she flew viciously at him.

Taking a couple of puffs from his cigar he glanced her up and down again before leaning forward on his toes. "Anyone tell you you're kind of cute when you're mad?"

Fingers clenched into fists. She had the sudden urge to indulge herself and punch him like she had as a child. Her thoughts must have been revealed in her eyes because Flip skipped out of reach. "Lovely seeing you, Princessy."

"Flip! You unmoral base cretin!" She screeched after him, as she hiked her skirts to chase after him. "How dare you speak to me like that! Get back here!"

-and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.-