i was drawing chara in a dress during history and i was like ":000 au time!"
so here we are
why do i do these things
(warnings for: transphobia, misgendering, mental health issues, violence, etc)
san·guine
adjective
1. optimistic or positive, especially in an apparently bad or difficult situation.
2. blood-red.
Many years ago, in the days of old, monsters thrived alongside humans.
The magic they possessed was used prosperously. Some did entertainment, some did healing, and some used their magic just to use it.
But then the queen of the days of old was assassinated by a monster hired to do someone else's dirty work, and thus, the connection between humans and monsters began to deteriorate.
The queen's son took over as ruler. In his grief, he exiled all monsters out of his kingdom and into the forest, never to return. Those who opposed, uncaring if human or monster, were executed.
In order to keep the monsters away forever, the king hired seven magicians to seal a barrier that would allow anyone to get in, but no one to get out.
As the barrier was sealed, the king pushed all seven inside. He blamed them for indirectly causing the death of his mother, fooling himself into believing that, since they had been trained in the method of magic by monsters, the seven magicians gave monsters the knowledge they needed to murder the queen.
Almost all traces of monsters were eradicated from the kingdom. Anyone who dared to bring it up was arrested and never seen again.
This tradition continues, even to the current ruler of our once-prosperous, dull kingdom today.
- The History of Humans and Monsters, by Anonymous
They are not a princess.
Being the only child of a powerful king had its perks and whatnot. You got whatever you wanted handed to you on a silver platter. If you asked for it, it would come to you. There were no limits—you were the ultimate.
Except being the only child of a powerful king meant you must take the reigns some day, and given a harsh reminder that you are, in fact, the king's property and protege.
Sometimes they look at their mother, glance up at the jeweled collar around her neck. To anyone outside, it would just be a normal accessory for a queen to have. But the collar marks something that runs farther deep—it signifies the control the king has over the kingdom. It silently tells the world that the queen is his; his property, his possession.
And they are too, but they don't need fancy collars to show that.
The servants and maids that are at their side at all times, they don't understand, and yet they see more than any other peasant ever would. They see the secrets of the castle. If they wanted to, they could spill the secrets. Spill the secrets of how ruthless and gruesome the king really was, despite the friendly and happy front he put up around the public.
But they won't. They're too scared.
Nobody understands anything. Hell, they don't understand it.
But they're not a princess. Even if that's what everyone calls them. Even if that's what they're known as. Even if that's what the reflection in the mirror taunts them to be. Even if their father pats their little head and tells them that they will someday be, not a princess, but a queen.
A queen expected to be as ruthless and as gruesome as him.
"Princess Chara".
"Queen Chara".
The term sickens them.
They wake in their room as they have done so many times before, except this time it feels different. The memories of their dreams are twisted, but slowly fading away. They can only make out an image of panicked red eyes before they're snapped back into reality by a maid setting down a, quite literally, silver platter of plate onto their lap.
"Princess Chara," the maid greets, and the words make their stomach flip, "good morning." The maid doesn't know; how could she?—and yet they feel a strange sense of anger and frustration as they glare at the maid with their terrifying red eyes (the queen of the olden days had red eyes, their father always told them, so it made them special).
They only give a huff as an acknowledgement, turning their head away as the maid quickly pours the hot tea into the exquisite cup. Once she's finished, she waves the steam with her hand and then picks it up. They decide they can fend for themself, and snatch it away from her hands. The maid doesn't even look surprised—just mildly annoyed. Like they don't hear the rumors the castle staff whisper at night; Princess Chara is such a brat. Princess Chara doesn't know how to be grateful. (She) They don't know how to thank anyone for anything.
But need they remind them that they are a (princess) child of the king, while they are just lowlifes. Peasants. Cowards who succumb to every threat thrown at them.
They glare down at the swirling cup of tea, and down it all in one go. They hope the action makes them sick.
Their mother comes into their room hours after they have finished their breakfast. They still lay in their bed, silver platter on the far end of the room after having been punched and kicked and then, finally, tossed. Their hair is messy, their skin is too pale, and they still adorn their silk, white pajamas. Not a good state for the queen to see her child in, especially when she claims that there's an important announcement to be made.
Their mother rushes them, and even as she lays out specific dresses and ponders over which one would suit them more, their eyes are fixed on the jeweled collar. The bright blue jewel shines a mysterious light, twinkling and sparkling as their mother moves quickly.
They're forced into a tight white-and-gold gown complete with a laced bodice, the edges of the sleeves concealing most of their hands. As their mother tightened the the dress from behind (quite uncomfortably; they could hardly breathe), they studied their reflection in the mirror.
Their hair had been brushed and styled, complete with a white flower pin that tucked above their left ear; they had been left with, surprisingly, no makeup whatsoever (save for the light touches of foundation their mother added). The theme of their outfit seemed to be white, and white was the color of innocence and purity.
Something was up.
Their mother finishes lacing the last part, and they turn to face her with a suspicious look. She huffs at them, her dark brown eyes rolling in amusement. "Don't make that face at me, young lady," she says, and shooting an arrow through their chest would have been less painful. "Now, come on, dear, your father is waiting."
Their mother motions for them to follow. They're tempted to ask what's happening, but they know better.
They should have expected it.
A man waits in front of their father, dressed in expensive clothing and adorning a false facade of kindness. He's older than them—probably by a lot. He's a lot taller too, and he has to kneel down just to take their hand and kiss it. His lips are cold and dry; it makes the spec of skin where his lips had been tingle uncomfortably. Their stomach flips.
"Hello, your highness," he says, and his voice is as disgusting as the kiss he just dared to lay upon them. "My name is Lord—" They've tuned him out by that point, uninterested in learning any further. Instead they listen off and on as he explains why he's here, and after glancing over at their parents for clarification, their excited (mother) and stern (father) faces tell them to listen closely. So they listen in, barely catching the last few words. "—and I've already been granted permission from your parents."
They blink, confused, and promptly ask what he means in a grave voice. They hope it frightens him enough to leave.
Instead, he just smiles. It's disgusting, like the rest of him. "Your hand in marriage, of course! You will be Queen and I, King," he says, and their entire world stills. He's saying more, but they've tuned him out again.
Eyes wide, they look over at their mother. She's smiling, trying to look happy, but they can see it under her eyes. She's frightened. It's like her own life flashing before her eyes. Their mother was part of an arranged marriage too; they guessed she didn't like it too much.
And now she was being forced to see her child be whisked away in one.
"He will make a fine husband," their father says, and they barely have enough time to wipe the angry glare from their face in time when he steps in front of them. "He will take care of you, and you will birth many sons."
Sons. Boys. It's all about men. Daughters and girls and women were barely noticed. Let alone those who were neither. In the kingdom's eyes—in the world's eyes—a queen was useless without a king.
(But it should be known that the queen of old ruled for many years without ever marrying.)
They open their mouth, hesitate, and then close it. Their father nods approvingly at them, and when he turns his back to them to speak to the Lord, they glower at his back with a glare strong enough to set fire to the wettest field. If their mother noticed, she didn't say a thing. Perhaps she could relate.
Their father and the Lord are speaking, but they walk away and turn towards their mother. She's smiling down at them, eyes glossy with fresh tears. She then kneels down, and reaches behind her to unclasp the jeweled collar around her neck. They can hear the relieved sigh escape her, as if the single action brought her more pleasure than any kind of riches or wealth she could ask for. Their mother holds it out in front of them, her hands shaking, the jewel glimmering in the sunlight pouring from the colored windows. Sighing, adhering to her wishes, they turn and pull their long hair out of the way. Their mother scoots closer, and her hands are warm as she places the collar around their neck.
The collar burns.
"And you will pass this on to your own child," their mother says, and takes their hands when they turn to her. "Do not let it become a sign of ownership." Her voice is stern, but not as scary as their father's. They nod, and their mother regains her pleased smile.
They reach up and touch the collar. The Lord walks up, and he towers over them. He's probably older than 20, while they themself are merely 14. He reaches down, brushing his gloved fingers against the jewel. Somehow, they think, he taints it.
"It's beautiful," he says, and they resist the urge to tell him they already know that. "This was your mother's, right? I heard the king gave it to her on their wedding night."
They don't reply. They just stare, narrowing their eyes slightly and hoping the demonic red color makes him back away. But, it doesn't work, and his boring blue eyes bore into theirs. If anything, he leans in closer, his bad breath fanning across their face and making goosebumps rise to their skin. Their heart races, and all of their nerves are on edge as he is far, far, far too close. They begin to panic, blood pulsing in their mind and vision filling with only the Lord. They're tempted to grab the collar and jab him in the neck with the corner of the jewel when they think—no, no, that's not what a ruler does. That's not normal.
That kind of behavior is not befitting of a princess, soon-to-be queen.
They realize the Lord has simply kissed their cheek when he pulls away, a lingering wetness on their cheek. They wipe it off quickly, grimacing, feeling their stomach churn with the urge to vomit. He doesn't notice, and bows as he walks away with their father and mother. Most likely discussing wedding plans, or maybe even baby plans.
Their entire life has been planned ahead. Maybe they were set to marry the Lord before they were even born. He would be at least six years old when they were born; perhaps his parents arranged this accordingly as their mother developed them in her pregnant stomach. Perhaps the sole reason of their birth was to marry this Lord.
The thought sickens them.
Without a word, they storm up to their room.
They tear off the dress as soon as they get up there. They feel the Lord's touch everywhere. He's disgusting. He's vile. But not as vile as them, no, they're much, much worse. They're broken. A broken princess and soon-to-be queen—No, no, that's not me, their mind says but they try to shut it out.
They tear at their hair, nails digging into their scalp and scratching like they deserve it and they do.
After what seems like hours of pain they stop, and they flop on their bed. They rip away the sleeves of their white dress, pull it off their body and toss it away like its garbage (it is), and cover their nearly-naked body with their silken bedsheets. Their bed is cold, and they smooth their hands all along the fabric. It feels nice against their skin, and for a moment, in the safety in their bedroom, they feel at peace. Their mind isn't racing with terrifying thoughts and drunken words like always. Their skin doesn't feel clammy and disgusting and wrong. Their body doesn't feel out of place, their body doesn't feel like it's not made normally.
They feel fine.
But then that moment ends, and everything bad about themself comes crashing down.
They pull the sheets over their head and force themself to go to sleep.
Their dreams are filled with mysterious images. A child with dual-colored eyes, dark skin, frantically telling them to run. A white, furry being with horns giving them the warmest hug they've ever felt. A tinier version of the furry monster with its face nearly completely concealed with yellow flowers.
The last thing they see is a mirror. They're standing in front of it, gazing at their reflection. Their reflection looks different than them, with shorter hair and brighter eyes. Then the reflection opens its mouth and begins to speak, but other than words comes black tar spilling from its gums and over its teeth and tongue, and pouring out of its eyes like soup. It's horrifying, it's disgusting, but they don't react. They only watch.
Then they awaken drenched in sweat, and the moon is shining high in the sky.
They think of the child that screamed at them to run. They think of the monsters hugging and staring. They think of the monster in the mirror more terrifying than themself.
They look up at the moon. The moon is telling them to run, too.
So they do.
The knife is heavy in their hands. It's supposed to be for self-defense, since the child of a king could be targeted by rivals at any moment.
They twirl it around in their fingers, running their fingertip along the blade and licking the blood that rushes to the cut left behind. Taking a handful of their hair from behind, they decide to copy the mirror image's style and forcefully run the blade through the locks of hair. It takes a few moments for it to go all the way through, and they know they haven't cut it all, but it's just enough to make it short and bounce around their chin.
They lean in, staring at themself in the mirror curiously. The fallen hair pools at their feet.
The front strands of their hair are mismatched, one hanging over their eyes and the other behind their ear. The back of their hair is cut in odd ways—most of it bunching in fluffy waves around their chin and neck, and some trailing over their arms and shoulder bones. They slice the strands that are too long, and leave half of their bangs long, and suppose it is ridiculous enough to prevent being noticed immediately. In a way, they decide, it suits them.
Their eyes are glowing as they dig through their closet and drawers. Almost all of the clothes are dresses and pajamas made of silk and golden trims. It's far too bright, and then they find a black dress far in the back saved only for funerals. They've never worn it, so they decide to take the knife and cut only the parts they need. They remove the built-in corset, the sleeves, and take hold of the middle. They slip it on over what they're wearing. It's almost like one of the raggedy tank tops the slaves wear—except this one is nearly flawlessly woven. The only pants they own are pajama pants, so they grab the dullest color they could find—a brown that looks almost metallic as it shines—and slip it on.
They turn to the mirror. They look positively ridiculous. If one of their parents were to walk in, they would be punished for sure.
They grin at the thought.
It's cold outside. The moon is bright; too bright.
Nobody notices them as they slip into the garden. They consider themself lucky. But then they see a familiar figure standing by the roses, and duck into the bushes just as they turn. The moonlight illuminates his face; it's the Lord. He narrows his eyes and scans the horizon, but he doesn't see them. He turns back to the roses, plucking one out despite the thorns making his fingers bleed. He slips the rose into his bag and walks away.
They don't waste their time to escape.
They fucked up.
Guards chase them, about two of them. They're on horses, shouting and drawing near. They storm past the streets of the town until they've exited it—they've only been here a few times before, when the royal family must witness a beheading or a parade. They don't remember it at all.
Frightened people watch. Maybe some recognized them. They doubt it. They're moving too fast.
Just past the village is the barrier. Past the barrier is forbidden territory unknown to even the wisest and oldest of men. They wonder if they will be free and safe there. They wonder if it will be all for nothing, and the monsters beyond will consume them quicker than royalty ever could.
They take their chances, and dash through it.
When they open their eyes, they're on the ground.
A furry white face smiles down at them.
"Are you okay?" the creature asks. It extends a hand.
They eye it warily.
The creature shakes its head. "It's alright," it says kindly, and its voice is soothing. "My name is Asriel. What's yours?"
They don't answer.
descriptions r probably lame and weak but i threw this together idiotically idk if im even gonna continue it
if im not then i hope u enjoyed
(please understand that chara is NOT a princess, nor a girl in this fic. i'm sure that was made very clear.)