Cinderella and the Lighting-storm
He composes poetry for her.
Is that not the loveliest thing a man did for his wife? He writes them on paper more expensive than Anastasia and Drizella's full wardrobe, with ink worth more than her blood. His words exalt her to levels of excellence higher than that of Diana, of Venus, of Minerva.
She becomes inhuman in his words.
Why, she sometimes wonders, can he not see the mark on her finger, where she was burned when rescuing one of Anastasia's errant earrings from the fireplace? Why is he blind to the unladylike muscles of her upper arms and legs? Why does he ignore the calluses of her hands, the bruises on her knees?
She showed him the burn once. He'd pushed her hair back and said her eyes were like polished sapphires in the sun.
She'd wanted to slap him.
Cinderella loves Prince Charming. That's what the palace maids whisper to one another, cheeks red and eyes clouded with dreams of romance. That's what the joyful masses cheered throughout the kingdom on their wedding day, because it meant a national holiday. And it is true, Cinderella supposes. She loves Charming. She loves him for saving her, for pouring silk gowns on her skin where she once wore rough cotton. She loves him for the scented baths she receives in the mornings, for the adoring smiles of the public.
Because Cinderella wants to love someone. If only because what she has with Larxene is so completely the opposite of a pure love.
With Larxene it's an on-your-back, gasping-and-sweating, legs-spread kind of 'love'. Instead of ring fingers, there are fingers twisting inside of her like brutal electricity. Instead of the groom gently lifting his lover's soft veil, Larxene drags at her hair until she bares her neck to wicked teeth. Instead of holy vows, there are rasping blasphemes begging for moremoremore and a rough, "Shut the fuck up, blondie."
Cinderella feels like a little girl caught in the middle of a lightning storm when she is with Larxene.
When dressing her, one of the maids sees a bite-mark reddening on her white shoulder. "Your Highness!" she exclaims. "Do you wish me to apply some balm on this wound?"
Cinderella touches the mark and smiles. "Leave it; a balm will do nothing."
The maid leaves, and Charming comes in. He smiles at her sitting like a pretty canary in a cage of jewels, velvet, and lace.
"How is my little rosebud?" he asks, patting her gloved hand. She smiles back.
And counts the hours until the storm.