Well, this is kind of different. It's kind of like Cinderella, except...not. And it's kind of depressing, I seem to make all of my oneshots slightly depressing, but...oh well. Its in present tense, too, which is kind of weird and I didn't proofread so if I slip in and out of tenses, just tell me, and I'll fix it. Oh and for the one part I used the French version of Cinderella (Cendrillon) cause it just sounds cooler. So I hope you enjoy this, and review!
He watches; the ladies stroll about, some whispering together, some with skirts twirling as they waltz round the room, others simply standing demurely with a hand resting on the arm of an escort. All have eyes cast downwards and heads bowed low as he passes, none would dare to meet the eye of their prince. They showed no life, no passion in living. They were like statues, cold as the stone walls surrounding them. The ball was meaningless: a pointless gaiety to mask the dullness, the lack of fervor in each of their lives.
She walks in suddenly, her head held too high, her stance too tall, her walk too bold. She strides among the courtiers, roaming the room, as if searching for something, or someone. He can tell she is beautiful, even beneath her silvery mask. She has an air about her, something that draws him to her, until he finds himself barely a foot from her. She glances at him quickly and he catches sight of her eyes. Blue, the purest blue. No one has blue eyes, no one, that is, except for the sea dwellers, strange folk, not to be trusted. They were too beautiful, too enticing, too powerful. If any were caught on land, they were to be put to death immediately.
Still, their eyes lock, latching onto each other, and he sees she has something he doesn't: passion, a joy in living, not bound to masks of pride or fear. He extends his hand to her, hesitantly at first, perhaps even fearfully. Dancing with a sea dweller could be suicide, but he had no proof of that yet. She simply had blue eyes. "May I have this dance?"
She seems to smile slightly beneath her mask. She reaches out to him. Her hand is ungloved, pale and smooth as silk. She slips it slowly into his larger, darker one.
They glide onto the dance floor, waltzing together, stepping in time with one another, breathing in time with one another. They talk some, laugh and smile, and often just watch each other, relishing in each and every moment. They spend the next two nights the same way, together through each moment of each ball. Three nights of dancing, three nights of freedom, three nights in which, for the first time, he felt he was really living, yet still she will not remove her mask.
On the third night, the music swells, growing faster and louder each moment. They step and spin, round and round, never ceasing. Each movement of hers is fluid, smooth and flowing, like water in the sea. Their pulses rise, breathing grows ragged, they move into one of the far corners. They stop.
"Who are you?" he asks, as he moves his hands to her face, removing her mask. It falls away easily, but three jewels remain under either of her eyes, encrusted there beneath her black eyelashes. She is a water dweller, there is no longer any doubt of it. The silver jewels are their sign, their mark. She was one of them, and she could put out any fire, flood any land, merely by a thought, a flash of her eyes, a flick of her wrist.
"They call me Cendrillon," she says, "but they are wrong, for I am of the water. Ash and soot were my masks and the flame obeyed me, but it wasn't me. You saw through that, but tell me, do you still love me?"
The only answer is his lips on hers.
Their embrace lasted not nearly long enough, cut short by men ripping them away from each other, with shouts of, "Sea dweller! Witch!"
He is in a blur as he watches her being led away, to the dungeons. At dawn she will be burnt at the stake. If she burns, as any land dweller would, she will be ruled good and innocent, though dead anyways. If she doesn't burn, and the fire obeys her, she'll be hung as a sea dweller. As a prince and not a king, there was nothing he can do.
He goes to see her, he has to, one last time. Through the pitch black stairs, the dim hallways, till he can make out her pale face and blue eyes in the dark, through the iron bars. He takes her hand through the bars, presses it lightly to his lips.
"I cannot save you," he says softly, "but you can save yourself. The flames will obey you."
"For what?" she asks. "For one more night before they hang me? And even if I could manage to escape, they would only fear me more, tear our people farther apart." Her hand is at her throat, she unclasps something and presses it into his hand.
He glances down. It is a pendant, half of it orange as flames, the other blue like the sea.
"When flame and water meet," she whispers. "This is my fate."
He closes his eyes, not wanting to think of it. When flame and water meet...it was the words of an old song, a sad song. It spoke of death, fire and water, but in the end two peoples had made peace with each other and come together at last. "I would not have wished this for you," he says earnestly, looking at her again.
She smiled sadly. "I am water, but I'll bind myself to you, my flame, because I love you. I will not escape it. I'll die for it, but what of you?"
He says nothing, but kisses her hand again. He must make a decision, and soon.
At dawn she is led out in the pale morning light, tied to a smooth wooden stake. They pile wood all around her and at last set it burning. The flames rise high, sweltering hot against her skin, but she will not stop them.
At the shore of the sea, he stands, watching the water. The waves rise high, rollicking tumultuously across the surface. All his life he'd been taught to fear the sea, to fear what lie beneath. His people used fire to drive away the dark, to flee from the sea, but he did not fear her. She would die for him, he would do the same, and perhaps one day, as the song said, their people would no longer fear. He took a breath and stepped into the cold water.
All that was found of the prince was on his bed, a pendant of orange and blue and a copy of the last verse of an old song that was often sung by bards around the fire.
Fire and water
At last shall meet
Two lives lost
Ten thousand gained
A pale grey morning
Silence reigns