AN: Yea yea, long first chapter is loooonnnnggg. (Would you believe I even cut out about a forth of it? pffft)
Some quick notes: takes place pre-movie by about a good 13 years. (At one point I imply that Alice has only just visited for the first time - see if you can catch the reference?) Stayne still has both of his eyes, for a reason. Other characters that will show up occasionally/eventually are Chessur, Mirana, and Iracebeth. (Sorry Hatter fans!)
The OC Anathacia DeVyne is very (VERY) loosely based on the Duchess character from the Alice in Wonderland book, so in a sense she's not even completely mine. xD (By the by, feel free to instigate a Mary-Sue patrol on her, will you?)
In other news, this is my very first (published) fanfic. so any R&R is greatly appreciated. I'm kind of new to the site as well (long time reader, first time publisher) so don't pwn up the n00b too badly. xD
That's all I can think of atm.
Enjoy~
The thrumming chime of the clock in the corner resounded through the overwhelming gaiety of the ballroom, heralding a closure to the evening that Anathacia thought would never come.
Not that the Underland Wabe celebration hadn't been enjoyable, she reflected as she helped herself to another tart—after all, it wasn't often the sun and the moon crossed paths. But really, a few moments of shadow were hardly worth a week of festivals and traveling and balls and frills and courts and tournaments and—whatever else came with such a holiday. After a while, it tended to take a toll more doleful on the mind than the clock tower above the ramparts.
The Duchess of Deymuun readjusted her domino mask, which stuck with sweat to the half of her face it concealed. She sighed and glanced at the golden clock face shimmering next to the throne; only another half hour more and she would be free to return home again.
Anathacia dodged a group of dazed courtiers who swung past her with a tipsy warble; as they did, a cloud of sickly sweet perfume smothered her breath. She gagged and coughed, suddenly aware of just how stuffy the whole masquerade had become. Absently, she leaned into the wall and drew back the gossamer drapes that veiled the oblong windows of the ballroom, searching the velvety black sky beyond for even the faintest of stars—but the lights from the dance floor behind her and the courtyards below drowned out any of the sweet subtlety of the fresh Underland night.
"I do believe I need some air." She felt herself mutter—though she hardly even heard her own words, because at that point the musicians struck up a loud, lively waltz. There was an explosion of girlish squeals as half of the kingdom present fluttered madly about to claim a dance partner. The Duchess unfolded herself from the crevice of her refuge and struck out quickly along the edge of the ballroom.
She was tall—some said unnaturally so. But her Father had always insisted that the long-time descendants of Deymuun still retained the ancient giant blood that came with the mountain territory—and she was rather fond of the idea herself. She was pale, though the olive tinge of calluses and earnest work still threatened resurrection beneath the pallid complexion of a proper courtier. Her snowy blonde hair, finally tamed after hours of preparation, had been piled up onto her head beneath an elegant array of jewels and flowered combs.
They had told her she looked like the royalty she was—but she felt more like a pin cushion, stuffed into a corset and given a skirt.
She gave a stiff curtsy as the funny little doormen flung open the main entrance at her approach— the evening breeze flew into her face to greet her like a lonely nightingale. But before she had crossed the threshold, a new disturbance rent the air in the form of an unintelligible, angry shriek.
Anathacia paused and turned, knowing full well the perpetrator of this cry merely by the sound.
Her cousin, Lady Iracebeth, was at it again—whatever it had the dire misfortune of being this time. Her cousin's face, mysteriously swollen to thrice a normal size and visible from every angle of the room, had turned a brick red beneath her already crimson mask. She was shouting something undistinguishable at the pack of noblemen and women who surrounded her, whose number seemed to be quickly diminishing in a flurry of movement to avoid the princess's wrath. Anathacia gathered the impression that something had spilled on Iracebeth's gown—an elaborate labyrinth of lace and tulle that, had it not been the princess sporting such a statement, would have looked silly.
As a matter of fact, it did look silly; though no one present valued this observation above their head, which would have been the price for admitting such a truth.
Anathacia frowned: it was her duty as a member of the Royal Family—however distant—to rush to her cousin and assist in pacifying the awful temper that had already cost their family decades of embarrassment.
She quite loathed Iracebeth. Completely in secret, of course—she could still afford the proper cordiality when the few and far between instances of interaction reared their ugly, swollen heads. But even at their first meeting, during the days of frocks and ribbons and governesses, Anathacia was struck by the unevenness of Iracebeth's temper and narcissism—she had, at the time, assumed the princess would grow out of it. She had been horribly mistaken.
And now, more than two decades later, Anathacia stood gazing evenly at her cousin, who was working herself into a state of frenzy—with enough volume to rival the orchestra. People were already stopping their dances to stare; but only for a moment, before jumping to resume their step as the princess glared fiercely into the masked faces around her.
Anathacia stood for a moment, deciding between the obligation of the court and the prospect of the sweet night air.
…Oh, to the momewrathes with it, She thought savagely,
His Lordship will be along shortly. Let him deal with her—it was on his own head he married her anyway.
And with insolence conspicuous only to herself, she sauntered through the colossal doorway and into the cool darkness of the Crims courtyards.
The night was moonless and quieting; the Duchess smiled as she gathered her skirts into both fists and leapt down the tiered stairs of the palace gardens. The world that opened up before her was bathed in an uneven medium of glassy lantern light, rendering all given colors into an oblivion of shadow and soft, creamy illumination.
She hastened to enter the hedge maze, determined to leave behind the overpowering smells and sounds of the upper-class royalty she was born into. It was only as she ducked beneath an arch of white roses—or were they red? Some of them seemed to have been molting a thin layer of paint—that she truly felt the satisfaction of solitude, swathed and set in a star-studded sky.
She advanced aimlessly through the maze for several minutes, unsure and uncaring of her direction. The peace of the night and the smell of the fresh earth seemed to carry her mind back to the portion of homeland she called her own: Deymuun.
To think, I'll be back home by morning.
She breathed deeply, savoring the chill that enveloped her with the wings of the timid breeze.
Presently, she found herself in the center of a bridge that forded a dark pond; the shadowy water snaked through the center of the maze beneath her. She paused and leaned against the railing, suddenly spent; her eyes half closed with the sudden onslaught of sleep as she stared into the black reflection of the sky above, rippling eerily in the water below.
"Does my Lady not find the ball to her liking?"
Anathacia jumped upright so quickly that the beams of the bridge creaked.
She would have known that voice anywhere.
"So you did attend, Chessur?" She inquired into the darkness, relaxing again.
"Not technically, my Lady—for, as you will remember, tonight is a special 'Royalty Only' event."
Anathacia extended an arm into the night, smiling a little as a band of smoky grey fur materialized from the shadowy gloom and curled around her wrist. This ring was followed by another, and yet another, until a massive tabby cat, striped in black and grey, had fully appeared, entwining itself along the Duchess's offered arm. Aside from its sheer size, the tabby's most striking feature, aside from his wide, iridescent blue eyes, was his prominent, omnipresent smile, which curled across his whole face into an expression of haunting delight. This smile had the unnerving habit of disappearing more slowly than the rest of the cat's considerable self, which left his audience with nothing more than a twinkling leer in the darkness.
"Since when has that ever stopped you from popping up?" Anathacia said, stroking the cat between his giant, glimmering eyes.
"But no matter—I'm glad you did. I find tonight's company dreadfully tedious. I can't understand how Queen Mirana (May she reign forever) ever puts up with such frivolity day in and day out."
"Ah, but pardon the observation, my Lady," The cat purred,
"We are in the kingdom of Crims. Many of these, how you so delicately put it, 'frivolities' spawn from Princess Iracebeth, and hardly from our good Queen."
"She was in there just now," The Duchess sighed.
"Iracebeth, I mean. She was throwing a tantrum again, just as I was about to step out."
"I can only imagine the scene she caused, my Lady."
"Isn't it a terrible thought, though?" Anathacia's eyes caught in the glistening heavens as they rolled thoughtfully upward.
"If the King—may he rest in peace—had not intervened with specific instructions that the crown go to Lady Mirana at his death, Iracebeth would have inherited the throne?" She shivered—though whether it was from the thought of Iracebeth as Queen, or the chill of the night, she couldn't tell.
"Quite an unpleasant prospect." The cat conceded.
Suddenly, Chessur grew tense; he cocked his head and flicked his ear. His grin seemed to grow even wider in the darkness.
"I do believe we have a visitor, my Lady."
"Whereabouts, my dear puss?"
"Just beyond the hedge that away, Duchess." The cat gestured as his head and tail flicked simultaneously in the intended direction. And with the momentum of his movement, the tabby had rolled from Anathacia's arm and into the air, where he floated jovially between thick tendrils of mist.
"Perhaps I should bid goodnight, Duchess—my considerable intuition tells me this is will be one meeting you would prefer to hold alone."
"Oh? Who is it then?"
"Not a stranger, if that's what you mean." The cat grinned.
Anathacia frowned.
"It isn't."
"Well never mind—I don't care how well it's masked by the roses and whatnot, he'll always smell like horses to me."
Anathacia felt her blood grow cold.
He…He smells like horses…
… Could it be…?
But that's not possible…He was reassigned to the Queast Division just last month…
"Well, good evening, my Lady. I'll seek you out once the night is completely spent."
The cat pressed his muzzle into the Duchess's still outstretched hand with a deep, rumbling purr of pleasure—and then he was gone, just as suddenly as he had come.
Anathacia could still feel the thrum of the great cat's purr reverberate through her fingertips for an instant after he had disappeared. And then she was alone—or perhaps not.
She waited several seconds for the stranger to reveal himself; but the night stood still in trepidation, and the universe remained undisturbed for a whole, silent minute.
Anathacia drew a steadying breath, allowing the cool night air to calm her quickly rising nerves.
"You can come out now, please," She threw crisply over her shoulder.
"I know you're there—I've been informed of it. But I'm afraid I don't quite know who you are yet."
Footsteps—boots, from the sound of it, and then a reply. The voice that responded was grievously familiar; it was as smooth and silky as a spider's web—and equally as misgiving, just as it always had been.
"Really, my Lady—I hadn't expected you to forget me so soon. "
The Duchess kept her composure as she cast a glance over her shoulder: the man who leaned against the arch behind her was tall, even more so than herself. Most of his pale face was still obscured by the shadows strewn about the garden—but she didn't need more than simple starlight to recognize that sharp gleam in his hard, grey eyes.
"Forgive me, Lieutenant Stayne," She turned back to the bridge before her, dipping her head in an acknowledgement of deceptive carelessness.
"But it has been some while."
The guard took this response in considerably long stride and approached the bridge, which swayed and groaned piteously with the combined weight of the two giants. He crept up behind her and stood silently for a few moments—as did Anathacia.
The Duchess held her breath, unsure if her cordial indifference had been too much.
"My Lady appears cold," Stayne said finally, and Anathacia heard the clasp of his cloak release.
"Yes, I suppose." She mumbled, relieved at the chance of conversation.
"I left the ballroom with slight haste you see…I must have left my shawl—"
But she left off her sentence with a sudden, soft cry of surprise: as Stayne had moved to drape his cape across the Duchess's bare shoulders, he had swooped in low and kissed her exposed neck. She exhaled and closed her eyes; his touch grew in intensity as he kissed her again and again, slowly climbing down into the nape of her neck. His scent overpowered her as she fell back into his arms—but it was not the offish odor of horses that Chessur had described; it was more like the musky, untamable smell that came with a horse.
It was the smell of the Wild—and she loved it.
He paused to bury his face in her hair, and she could feel the warmth of his breath in her ear. With her heart still pounding, she opened her eyes and turned herself out of his arms, catching his gloved hand in her own and meeting his gaze.
"What are you doing here, Stayne?" She pleaded.
"They told me you had been reassigned to the Queast Patrol…They said you wouldn't return until the spring."
The guard paused to gauge her expression, hunting for some misgiving of displeasure—but if he found any, he concealed it well.
"I was replaced at the last minute," He began slowly,
"At the Captain's personal request…In order to immediately assume my new duties here in Crims."
"'New duties'? You mean—?"
"I've been promoted to First Officer," He smiled dryly.
"Directly under Captain Blythard."
Anathacia eyes grew bright, and she drew herself up solemnly.
"In that case, I believe congratulations are in order, Ilosovic Stayne—First Officer of the Crims Royal Guard. That has a nice ring to it, by the way."
"Quite right—and I thank you, Lady Anathacia DeVyne, Duchess of Deymuun." As he bowed, he caught her hand up to his lips and planted a cordial kiss over her satin glove.
The laughter in her tone faltered.
"But why didn't you send word? Even a carrier bat would have sufficed—I was resolved not to see you until the New Year."
"Ah, yes, well…Circumstances became…slightly more complicated, in that there were more prohibitions than I had thought." He grew uncharacteristically earnest.
"I had meant to send word, but…I'm afraid, now that I have a seat in Court Politics, I…well…"
"You couldn't risk it." Anathacia finished with a sigh. Her gaze fell from his face and into her palms.
"So, on one hand," She clasped his own gloved hand in both of hers to demonstrate.
"You are quickly gaining favor in the ranks of Crims…But at the price of keeping us even more of a secret than before."
Something she said seemed to touch a nerve; he drew back stiffly and gave her a hard look.
"Are you blaming me for my caution? You of all people should realize the cost of Royalty being discovered with an undecorated soldier. Heads would truly roll for such a scandal…though perhaps in Deymuun and with your status, you could afford it without complete disgrace—"
"Of course I realize—that isn't what I meant!" The Duchess flushed unhappily, caught off guard by the cutting sarcasm of his latter observation.
"That isn't what I meant at all. I understand the risk to your career you're taking—but don't you dare try to undermine the risk I take as well. If Father knew the real reason I pass up every suitor that arrives in Deymuun, he'd probably exile me from the family…or quickly marry me off to some rich, ugly duke from the south district, which ever comes worst—"
"So you've told no one?" He demanded suddenly.
Anathacia paused, clearly stung.
"No." She replied flatly.
"No one in Deymuun is aware…Except Chessur. But he knows everything that goes on around the keep."
A faint snarl of distain curdled the corner of Stayne's mouth.
"That flabby furball from the Cheshire providence? I don't trust him, or his two-faced grin. How do you know when he's going to appear next, and how do you know what he's been up to when he's disappeared?"
"He probably heard you," Anathacia muttered bitterly.
"He's been a loyal servant of the House of DeVyne for centuries, not completely unlike you Staynes and your bondage to Crims. I would trust him with my life in a heartbeat."
Stayne sighed, allowing the topic to drop—but Anathacia locked harshly with his gaze in an effort to convey her offense, still fresh and wounded. Several frosty seconds slunk by, then Stayne allowed his expression to soften; he stepped toward her again, reaching to adjust the cloak he had hung over her shoulders.
"One day I shall be Captain of the Crims Guard," He said quietly.
"When that happens, we won't have to hide. The position will be a high enough rank to please both of our factions."
Anathacia lowered her gaze.
"And then we can be together." She murmured.
They were silent for a moment.
"Aren't you content to wait for it?" Stayne pressed.
"For the time where rules and courts won't inspire fear?"
"Are you?"
Was the only reply.
His hand slipped up her neck and toward her face, stroking her cheek with surprising tenderness.
Anathacia half closed her eyes, pressing closer into his touch.
"You're wearing gloves." She observed, reaching to pluck his hand from her cheek. She tugged the worn leather away to reveal his long, pale fingers.
"You know I don't like them."
"Standard issue, I'm afraid," Stayne said sleekly.
He lifted her chin with his freshly ungloved hand. He carefully began to lean inward, watchful for any sign of objection.
"A requirement when one is on duty…"
But the objection never came; and before Anathacia knew fully what she was doing, she had slid both arms up around his neck, and pressed her lips into his.
Their embrace burned as the seconds slipped by, gaining fervor as a falling stone gains momentum. She buried her face in his starch black hair; the caress of his lips swept across her collarbone, causing a small blaze to course through her nerves.
"We shouldn't," She breathed without conviction.
"But for now, we can." He whispered back, slipping a hand down the curve of her corset as he held her tighter—and for once, she allowed herself to believe him.
He kissed her full on the lips. Then a few seconds of something so intense it seemed to ignite; his kiss—his touch—his passion was everywhere at once. And for the first time, Anathacia found herself wishing the night would never end.