Hi peoples.
I'm alive. I think.
So, here's the new story, Rubies and Emeralds, a continuation of Meant to be. A note to any new readers: you do not necessarily need to have read Mtb in order to understand this one. I'm sure that you'll catch on.
Enjoy!
She clutched the ornately carved wooden bed post tightly, feeling the sharp edges of the stylised snake's scales digging into her palms, wincing as the corset was laced tighter and tighter around her ribcage. Gasping, she rocked back on her heels, her carefully-manicured nails scrabbling uselessly at the stiff white fabric around her stomach. One of the witches behind her muttered something, but all comprehensibility was washed away by the pounding of blood in her ears and the wheezing of her lungs as she struggled to breathe.
Cold white fingers wrenched her arms away from her stomach and stretched them over her head as countless layers of petticoats were unceremoniously tugged down her body, momentarily blinding her. A wave of panic washed through her blood, and she struggled to keep from tearing her way out of the frothy white fabric that engulfed her body.
Layer after layer was added, and when she thought that no more fabric could possibly fit around her tiny frame, more layers were piled on. Take it all away, she thought feebly, squeezing her eyes shut in an attempt to block out the cold, accusing faces of the witches that surrounded her. Just take it away.
But only more fabric was added.
A hand placed itself forcefully on the small of her back, propelling her unwilling feet across the creaky wooden floor until she stumbled to a halt in front of a shadowed mirror. A mutter came from somewhere behind her and the shadows lifted, leaving her own reflection staring back at her from within the glass, its staring eyes dark and dead.
The gown was floor length, its full skirt flaring from her corseted hips down to trail along the floorboards. The creamy fabric was dotted with dark rubies, clustered thickly along the left-hand side of her bodice and thinning out as they fell down and around the dress. The strapless neckline was sharp and straight, dusted with more of the bloodied gemstones. Her hair had been swept up from her neck, some of the long tendrils escaping from their pins to caress her skin. More rubies were dotted through the dark strands.
Her mother came and stood at her shoulder, not letting their bodies touch, but close enough to make her skin prickle with disgust and hatred.
"Astoria, dearest; you look beautiful."
She didn't respond, but stared blankly into the mirror, not removing her gaze from the empty green eyes that looked back at her.
One of the old crones grabbed her wrist. "Come," she rasped, and dragged her out of the bedroom and out into the dark stone stairwell that led to the great hall.
The stone walls emanated their icy coldness, twisting their invisible coils deep into her bones and establishing themselves there, promising to never be melted away, no matter how many fires were lit. She firmly held back the tears that threatened to flow, telling herself that they would only shame her, and bring no more comfort than the ones that she had shed over the preceding month had.
The stairs wound down continuously, the worn stone dipping in the middle of each step, threatening to trip up unwary feet. Her delicate heels clicked softly against the stone, a sound of ringing despair.
A man in a black suit stood at the base of the steps, his greying hair neatly combed away from his smooth forehead. A dark red handkerchief peeked out of his breast pocket, the bloodied depths of its fabric mocking her fate. The old crone left her there with him, as the rest of the witches filed past them into the great hall. Her mother gave her a small smile as she passed, which was dutifully ignored.
The man turned to her and cleared his throat. "Are you ready?"
She turned her head to face him slowly, feeling every individual fibre of her neck strain to make that movement. She wanted to say 'no'; she wanted to spit in his face. She wanted to pick up her skirts and run, as far away as possible, to the place that she was supposed to be. To the people that she was supposed to be with; to the man that she was supposed to belong to. And once upon a time she would have done that: spat in his face and run from this accursed house. But that part of her – the part that would've made her run – had died, almost from the moment that the words "You will marry him" passed her father's lips.
So instead of running, instead of escaping from this living hell that she was in, she nodded stiffly. Gently he took her hand and hooked it through his elbow, pressing the delicate bones close to his side.
And then the music started.