Okay, so this is for Riko Naitou's contest! Whee~ I originally wanted to write a multi-chapter story, but...I figured it would be too long. So yes. This story is inspired, and sorta based off Cendrillon!
Knowing me and all my crazy one-shot ideas...TRAGEDY HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Well, sort of, anyway.
Disclaimer: Nope.
She smiles, her hand in her pocket and finding the dagger strapped to her thigh. She remembers what the king told her. "Kill him. Or don't ever show your face in front of me." She smirks. What a douchebag, an old fart, son of a b - she stops herself before going too far. What audacity he had, to think that she would actually fail in this mission. How stupid. He should trust her already, after her risking her live for all those dangerous missions. Anger rises in her.
She thinks of another topic before she blows her top. It works – she wonders about the young prince. Word had reached her as soon as she stepped into this country that he was handsome, and the innkeeper whispered to her that before long, she'd be the next one to fall under his spell. She doubts it; she has seen her fair share of handsome young men. And what befell them? She giggled darkly, and can almost see the blood staining her hands.
The carriage stops, interrupting her train of thought. She checks that the elaborate mask covering her face is properly in place, and her ruffled skirts are presentable, before stepping down from her transport. She steps back in surprise from seeing the majestic palace. It was simply splendid, in its golden exterior and sparkling diamonds – she wonders briefly if they were real – and the maids and butlers waiting in rows, bowing respectfully. The Kagamine family is rich, after all. Even though she has caught a glimpse of the building from the small town, it is even more extravagant close up.
She shakes her head, suddenly excited, and steps into the palace, a butler with a monocle opening the oak doors for her. Even the inside of the palace is beautiful – tables overflow with food, banners rich in color drape over the pillars, and the golden staircase in the middle of the ballroom catches her attention. That's where the prince – Kagamine Len is his name? – is going to come from? How cliché. She giggles to herself, and a couple of young nobles come to her, sending each other threatening glares. They ask for a dance with her, but she waves them away, disinterested, leaving them to pick up pieces of shattered pride. She has no time for these buffoons. Her target is Kagamine Len, and him only.
To another, she is just a young lady in rich skirts, wide-eyed and pleased at all the decorations. But she herself knows that she is not simply that alone. Her long teal hair shuffles against her back; her hair color gains others attention as she moves to the tables, reaching for some food. The roast chicken, especially, catches her attention. She thinks that she might as well wait, since the prince doesn't look like he is going to come any time soon.
Her hypothesis is correct. It is only when she finishes her second plate of neatly sliced up meat that he arrives slight after the bell chimes eight times. She drifts nonchalantly to the middle of the room, some distance away from the staircase, forcing herself not to look at him even though she is curious. She knows that will attract his eyes.
Sure enough, he politely declines all offers to dance and heads straight for her. He asks for a dance, and she accepts graciously, placing her gloved hand in his. His hand is gloved, just like hers, but warm, instead of her cold ones. She barely has time to relish in the warmth before she is whisked to the dance floor. She places her hand on his shoulder, and he positions his on her slim waist. Strangely, she finds her heart beating profusely at this simple action.
She finds herself observing his features. A mask covers most of his features, just like her – it is a masked ball, after all – and she is unable to see his hooded eyes. His blonde fringe is spiky and sticks out in all directions, reminding her of a peeled banana. She giggles at this, and the partner's mouth quirks into a crooked smile at her voice. His hair is twisted into a small ponytail at the back, something she is supposed to think of gay, but can't, in their slow dance. She suddenly finds herself with the urge to rip away his light blue mask and see his eyes, and she blushes and hides her face, staring at the floor and chides herself for thinking of this weird thought. Looking back up into his face, she concentrates in the dance, instead of his strange and funny hair.
Her clothed waist feels smooth under his hand, and he feels himself drifting away from the dance at the touch of her cool hand on his shoulder. Teal hair spills and covers her bare shoulder, and he holds himself back from touching her skin. A teal mask covers the top of her face, obstructing his view of her eyes, and he almost groans in disappointment. Almost. She spins, and he catches her scent – roses and lavender. It is a weird combination, yet fitting for this teal-haired lady. He has to wonder why he would ignore all the other young ladies – no doubt, sad and jealous by this time – and head for her. Perhaps it was her mysterious aura, or that she showed little interest in his arrival.
They dance the night away, each trapped in the other's spell.
She toys with a strand of her teal hair as the prince stares at the sky. It is a full moon today, and the light spills down over the balcony, where they are standing. He turns around suddenly, surprising her by the absence of his mask. Warm cerulean eyes stare at her, and she fidgets, blushing, under his gaze. She feels like she is expected to remove hers, and his gentle voice confirms her thoughts. She covers her face with her hands after she does so, suddenly feeling very exposed under his scrutiny. Her hands pry hers away from her face, and he finds himself staring into the most exquisite eyes he has ever seen. Long eyelashes frames her teal orbs, and she looks away in embarrassment before he can drown himself in her teal eyes.
He grabs her chin, forcing her to look at him, and they stare, transfixed by each other. Their faces drifted closer and closer, until...
Blood.
Blood stained his white gloves as he stared at the dagger that was embedded into his side, narrowly missing his organs. He collapses onto the ground, and stares up at the tealette, whose hands cover her mouth. "I-I'm sorry," was the last sentence she left, before fleeing desperately, before he can tell her it's okay.
Behind her, the palace erupts into chaos, as do her mind. Tears stain her cheeks, ruining her makeup, but she doesn't care. She doesn't care about anything but his wide eyes as she stabs the dagger into him. She stumbles, and one of her slippers is left on the road.
It's been two months since she's stayed here. She can't – no, she doesn't want to – go back to her hometown, doesn't want to see that dratted king. Most of all, she can't face herself. She lives under a false pretense each day, helping the innkeeper out for free to continue renting her room. The innkeeper was a kind old lady, her hair white from old age and wrinkles and small scars marring her complexion. She wishes she can be like the innkeeper: peaceful. But no, she can't.
And all of a sudden the messenger comes knocking on people's doors saying that the prince is going to visit the inns and shops. She flies into panic, but deep down, she is glad. Glad that she hasn't killed another. Or is he really just another man to her...?
She stays in her room when he comes to visit. She can hear the excited squeals of the girls and wishes bitterly that she can be down there as well. She can hear him asking the innkeeper about the room upstairs – her room – and she desperately wishes that he doesn't come up.
Another part of her wishes that he does.
It's another two months before an announcement came up on the board, declaring that the prince was to be engaged. She can't help but feel her heart sink at this news, can't help but frown when everyone else was partying. She wants the fiancée to be her, instead of some random princess from some random country.
She can't help but feel jealous.
He sighed in bliss, and rested his chin on top of her head, inhaling the familiar scent of roses and lavender. She giggled, and blushed, and nuzzled against his chest, burying her head into his arms. They stood there like that in silence, and time seemed to stop for them. In that space, it didn't matter if he was an engaged prince, if she was an assassin; it only mattered that they were happy.
They were happy.
I...wanted Len to die. But then I realised it'll be he-dies-I-die-everyone-dies kind of tragic. So nah.
The ending was so epic in my head T_T but then when I wrote it out...it just seemed so...ugh.
Reviews, nya!