acciaccatura

disclaimer: eternal sonata is not mine.

You used to believe in fairytales, pinkish-white floss that was so light it could burst into bubbles.

The perfect man, a charming veneer, a gentle hand that could warm the coldest hearts, these were your idealisms before they became silenced. The list could go on and on, but it would bore your brother, merely waving it away.

And you love him, so, so much. More than life, more than death. This is the reason you are packing your bags to marry a stranger.

A kind one, but a stranger, nonetheless.

Maybe it will bloom into something, and both parties shall benefit. And Count Waltz shall be delighted, for reasons that you dislike, well aware of his faults.

He can be sweet sometimes, your brother, when the mood takes him; a playful twinkle and an intriguing hand. You know that the moments are few and far between, but you've always craved them in times of your greatest need.

Waltz may hide it, but you show your love to him everyday, pressing kisses on his cheek and watching him fluster, ever so slightly.

But even now, you seek his approval, his attention. (Even if you know it suffocates you, and you want to tell him to stop this! and let me stay!)

But you're not a child any more, and some of those fantasies have faded away. Knights in shining armour, a lovable rogue, a simple composer, there is no one here to rescue you any more. (And really, Waltz would murmur, his eyes rolling predictably, there never was. And even if there were, he would have loved to crush them all the same.)

The door opens, and there stands—

"Waltz." And you can taste it, a dying hopeful desperation that is only sinking in entwined chords. Not a child, not an adult, simply a princess that will do her Count's (brother, brother, always her brother) bidding.

"Serenity." A flawless grin, half crooked, and it nearly breaks you, too alike and too dissimilar to be mirrors of a melody.

This is goodbye. (Only for a little while.)

After all, you love him.

You could stop her. Stop this—if only… if only…

"Good luck, sister." You smirk and it's a bitter sort of thing that leaves your mouth tasting of vomit.

And you turn away, because if you remain any longer, you're going to choke (no, you assure yourself, you're not, never were) and take her away from this momentous occasion and it's at that moment in which her arms are flung around you, tightening her hold and almost begging for you to revert to the person you used to be. (But you can't show her that person any more, despite your attachment towards this gentle girl, sweet sister.)

Times have changed, and while her appearance may be the same to yours, the personalities greatly differ. Yet you still respect (adore) her for it.

A cherished dream, corporeal, that you are about to slip away from.

(For Forte. For yourself. For the best of reasons that can only be deemed as selfish greed.)

"Serenade." You close your eyes, and indulge in this for a second, before wiping it away with a calculating smirk. "Take care."

You are selfish and don't particularly want to do let her escape from your grasp, but pride and your big plan drives you to do this, shaking this woman dressed in beauty off, and handing her to a man who is merely a puppet by another name. You scorn their love, though you never show it, because you know that she will always choose you instead of him.

(You love her, but will never tell her that.)

Because she is still a Princess of Forte, and in that respect, Serenade is still yours.