Lols. New story. I seem to have a lot.
So. Short thing on 12 dancing princesses. Except I'm making it thirteen. Because MIDDLE wouldn't work with an even number. Oh, and the names are alphabetical, A-M. I know that's a totally weather-worn idea, but it's useful. Haha. Somebody pointed out a mistake...So I'm fixing it. Um...I made a sort of timeline. PLEASE, please inform me if anything seems off.
Synopsis: What about the middle one?
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When she was younger, she had dreams. Silly ones; ones about a Prince Charming, and true love, quests and magic. It was possible-after all, wasn't it her second cousin that slept for a hundred years, to be woken by true love's kiss? It was possible. It would happen.
It wasn't until she was older, when she realized that even fairy tales had rules. And the middle sister of thirteen princesses just doesn't get the man. She'd hoped; oh, she'd hoped. But hope just wasn't enough. You had to be-and she wasn't. Abrielle got the kind, weather-worn soldier. Melanie got the sweet, young gardener. She had a suspicion that Daphne was having an affair of some sort with that gruff Royal Soldier she'd thought was so handsome. She expected Bernice would be announcing her engagement to that nice foreigner any day now. The twins, Elissa and Farah didn't want to get married, not for a LONG while, thank you! Calida had run off with that amusing jokester, much to the chagrin of the King. Ianthe had met a nice young woodcutter, very proper, had even saved her from a horrid wolf. Hana had somehow managed to break a curse, freeing the wise, loving beast, changing him into a charming prince. Jemma, who was sweet, kind and caring, had rescued a widower's child, and fallen in love with him (the widower, not the child.) Kalana had long married her childhood friend, Prince Edward, and was happily ruling a country. Glendolyn. Gladys, Glen, Lynnie. These were her names. And she waited. And hoped. But she couldn't be.
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She was still hurt and angry when they told her. "Lyn, darling, do you remember that quiet young prince? Hugh, I think it was." "We've decided-you're going to be betrothed. No, don't struggle; we've already settled it with King Alexander." "I'm sure you'll like him dear, he's actually quite a darling."
She hated him. She hated him, she decided. Because he wasn't a Prince Charming. He was rather thin-too thin- and his hair was a mousy brown. A mousy brown. And his teeth! They weren't roguishly crooked, and neither were they shining white. They were imperfectly ordinary, as was everything about him. This man, this boy, he-who-was-to-marry-her-and-ruin-her-life, didn't even have the prudence to be ugly. And he had the gall to be kind and caring and humble and witty. It was irritating, to say the least.
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She wasn't expecting it. She wasn't expecting it at all. She wasn't expecting it, especially not after their two years of worthless marriage. Not even an heir to make up for it. So, when she bumped into him on her way to the kitchen, she was not expecting him to grab her and say "I love you." Nor, she supposed, was he expecting her slap across his cheek. That would serve him. He was lying. She knew it. So why did she cry that night?
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Their child was made for only two purposes: an heir, and, besides, she was quite lonely with only Mr. Prince to glare at. He laughed when she said that. "I hope you don't hate our child as much as you hate me." Humph. No, the child would be innocent of the Father's crimes. ("Loving you? I hope not.") There it was again. Love you. I love you. Shut up. He didn't. She knew he was lying. He had to be.
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Twins. Well. They did run in the family. Both families, actually. So, really, she should have expected them. They were beautiful children- a boy and a girl. Almost identical, even when they got older. Dusky-black hair, wide blue eyes, pearly little teeth, wide, childish smiles. Beautiful. Absolutely Exquisite. She loved them.
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That year, a plague swept through the kingdom. Feverish brows, harsh coughing, delirium, yellowed skin, and a strange rotting of the inside. Charles, the boy, caught it. No one could cure it; he died.
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A dark age came to the castle. The Queen would not venture from her bed; the young prince was dead. The King had no power over the illness, and the daughter-child was neglected, sent to a wet-nurse. The King visited her, but she was not allowed to see her mother; she missed her mother.
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The King was irritated. Very irritated. "It's been two years and you haven't even LOOKED at her! She's our DAUGHTER!" "You don't care! You never did! Charles is dead, and I haven't seen you cry once!" "I cried. You were too absorbed in your own misery to notice anyone else's. Stop moping, won't you? She needs a mother, and, I know you hate me, but I need a wife." "LIAR!LIAR!" "Do you think I'm lying? Do you think I'm lying, when I tell you I love you? I'm not lying, Lyn. I'm not lying." Yes, the King was irritated. And he was going to do something about it.
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"Hello, love. I've got some tea. Would you like some tea?" She glared. "Oh, Lyn. Dear Heart. Don't look like that, please." She took the tea. Humph. She might as well, it smelled tasty, and she didn't suppose he would poison her. "What do you want?" Her voice was bitter. "I want you to see her." A pause. She stirs her tea with a finger. "Not now. Not now, please." She is begging. "Why not? She is your daughter." He uses a soft voice. It is like coaxing out a small animal, getting its trust. A lengthy process. "Why not? Lyn. Please tell me. Please, Dear Heart." Tears. Whispers. She is breaking. "I-she-sh-she looked like Charles. She looked like Charles, Hugh." Only the second time she says his name. The first time, the first time it was when the babies were born. That time, he thought she might love him. But she doesn't, he is sure of it. Most of the time. Sometimes, he isn't sure. Sometimes he doesn't know. "She isn't, though. She isn't Charles, she's Raissa. And she loves you." He turns, opens the door. The Nurse stands there, Little Raissa in her arms; she hands her over, and scuttles away. This the Family's time to grieve. "She isn't Charles, Lyn. She isn't Charles. She's our baby, our baby girl. Raissa." And for the first time, she lets him hold her. And for the first time, they see each other's tears.
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"I have to go." A sharp, loud silence. "What? Why?" She doesn't understand the coarse, searing pain that shoots through her. "Why? Why?" His eyes are dark, his shoulders stiff. "You must have heard. It's all over-servants are terrible gossips." He's putting it off, they both know it. "Saebryeains attacked our west coast. We have to fight back." "Why! Why can't we just-just-" He grasps her into a hug. "This is one to many. We can't ignore it. Dear Heart-Dear Heart, don't cry. Hush, don't cry." She wipes her eyes roughly. She shouldn't be crying. Doesn't she hate him?
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"I'll be back soon, promise." She doesn't say anything. He doesn't either-just kisses her on the lips, dashing off quickly, before she can slap him. Their people cheer, clapping and whooping. They're on their King's side. Raissa doesn't know why her Mam's eyes are red.
She waits. She waits and waits and waits and waits. And waits. It's been years, and he hasn't come home. They say he's dead. She doesn't-won't-believe them. He said he'd come home soon. Promised. He doesn't lie. "He was brave, my Queen. To the very last, he was brave." "LAST? What do you mean, General?" The silence was heavy. Waiting and hesitant. Cautious. "He's dead, Queen. His Majesty is dead." She didn't believe them. "Liars! LIARS!Liars…" The piercing screams of the Queen break through the air, wailing through the corridors. She won't believe them.
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She waits. And she won't believe them. But he doesn't come. He doesn't come. And then-then, she is forced to believe them. He is dead. He is dead…dead…dead…The word echoes through her mind…He is dead.
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"Your Majesty?" Wake up…please…There's…there's… a young man, he's asking for Princess Raissa's hand. Your Majesty?" The maid is new, and young. She is timid. "Your Majesty…? Please…I-" But she is not dumb. And she soon realizes that, after many years of waiting, the Old Queen has gone to join the King. Her traumatized screams are heard long into the night.
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The young woman kneels beside two grave-stones, overgrown with beautiful, dusky-red roses. "Mama…Papa…I am getting married today." Her dress shines snowy-white, and a lacy veil covers her black hair. "He is kind, and I…I-I love him." A concerned, gentle wind presses around her, and bells tool in the distance. "I have to go…Mama…Papa…I love you! I'll visit every day…" She caresses the stones, fingering the words engraved there. King Hugh Daniel Lebrun , a Wise Old King. We loved him. Age 33 at death. And, also: Queen Glendolyn Abella Drielle, stubborn and willful. A wild old horse, but a loved one. Aged 42 at death. Side-by-side, they stand. Side-by-side, the roses twining as one.