A Sorta Fairytale

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"…like a good book
I can't put this day back."

- Tori Amos "A Sorta Fairytale"

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As a child, her mother always read her fairytales and for a while, Cornelia Li Britannia believed those stories held some sort of validity to her everyday life for she was, without a doubt, a princess. Perhaps she was unlike the damsels presented in colourful pictures - ones with long, flowing hair, at the mercy of a wicked sorcerer or fire-breathing dragon - but a princess nevertheless.

But as she grew older, trading her lace-trimmed dresses in for fitted cotton - less restricting in battle - and manicured fingernails for calloused palms and flowery perfumes for the rancid stench of blood, she realized that stories were just that. Make-belief worlds of perfection allowing momentary escape from a reality of violence and tragedy.

But, she supposed, the stubborn part of her had never let go of her dreams, dreams of riding into the sunset with a gallant knight, dreams she would never admit to.

Perhaps that is why, during the seizure of Area 18, when she first walked into the control room at the topmost corner of the Imperial transport, she'd been so drawn to the man who would, one day, offer his life for her.

She was young at the time, and so was he, both religious in their loyalty to the empire as a whole, and to the family, her family, that made it so grand. Her hair had been longer back then, a sweep of lavender that flowed over her shoulders, dusting the small of her back. His, ironically, had been shorter, only just hovering above the collar of his shirt.

They called him the "Spearhead of the Empire" for his merciless, and impeccable, tactics in battle. Numbers spoke the term out of fear, Britannians out of respect, and subordinates with a hint of a smirk at the explicit rumour they'd attached to it.

But she, second princess and heir to the most powerful nation in the world, more a warrior than a woman, cared not about acquired nicknames or laughable gossip. She and her pride strode, back straight and chin high, towards the be speckled soldier and claimed no man, respectable or not, would order her around. It was she who was in charge here, and she did not care for his attitude as he dropped to one knee with a humble bow of his head.

What attitude? he wondered, still a hint of a grin tugging on the corners of his mouth. He was merely showing respect to his superior.

It was respect she could do without, thank you very much.

They made a good team, the two of them, and others could not help but wonder if their distaste for one another held some of the responsibility for that. He was a master pilot, and her head could inflate a balloon. Neither would willingly submit and it made for good fun. In fact, they soon found themselves in a world of their own, enjoying a dance to lead and follow while the nation expanded around them.

It was a tale for the books, if anyone had taken the initiative to put it down. Perhaps not like the ones she remembered from youth, but life was often grander than fiction anyway, wasn't it?

Perhaps he was right, she mused from her spot on the blanket, beneath the monstrous shadow, larger still, cast by both their faithful "steeds" side-by-side. Beyond them the sun blazed angrily over the peach sand, heat travelling upwards in hazy waves.

But if there are no dragons or wizards, what use is a knight to a princess who can defend herself? He would most certainly not take on a position, more a demotion than promotion, and become something of a trophy.

Afterwards she'd laugh, and truth be told it wasn't a very nice laugh. Hers was sandpaper rough with the depth of a man's chortle; not at all the wind chime tinkle of bubblegum-haired Euphie. But it came with the territory, he supposed, and he liked it just the same. He liked her too, if he was going to be honest - and he wasn't; at least not to any naked ears.

If asked, if tortured, he would say the gentle sway of her hips as she walked did not bring a flush to his cheeks, nor did her eyes, a piercing shade of wine, bear into him with hatred and - perhaps, quite possibly - a stirring of love as well, causing his knees to tremble and his steady resolve, that of absolute devotion and malice, to falter.

Carefully, as if handling something alive, like a small animal or child, Cornelia held out a bundle of soft cloth in the palm of her hand. Inside was a badge; a cross of royal blue and pure gold, with ivory wings spread wide and the imperial crest carved into the face.

A knight is the highest position, second only to the imperial family, and reserved for Purists alone. He would be her advisor, her confidant, so much more than a trophy. Would he then, famed as he was for his services to her - their - country, put down his soul for her, should she request it?

His fingers, with a gentle swish of rubbing satin, folded around the brooch, feeling the weight of the gold and the responsibility it symbolized. Crossing one arm over his chest, and the other behind his back, Guilford knelt in the sand, sliding slightly.

"Without fail, Your Highness." And there was no grin to be worn.

With two fingers pressed together in a Scout's salute, she tapped each shoulder gently. It was a makeshift knighting, but it would do well for the time.

They settled back on the blanket, close, though not too close should any watching dare to assume something and began the strenuous task of waiting for a replacement energy filter, for his would last only a short while longer, and hers was dry as the air around them, which, of course was his fault.

He warned her to go back, he repeated for the time that numbered as many as grains beyond them. Again, that harsh cackle-laugh; she'd soon be dead than allow him to claim all the glory. But even so, if it were not for the heat weighing heavily on the battlefield, rotting the corpses at the rate it spoils meat, she might actually enjoy it here, among the world's first history. Might.

In time, the silence swallowed them. He shifted to shake the pins and needles from his toes. She fell back to stare at the darkening sky. The stars appeared, one by one, forming constellations she knew none of the names of. Cornelia raised her arm, as if to pluck one of the diamond specks from eternal black, and closed her hand around air. With a tilt of his head, Guilford stared down at her, his glasses slipping along his nose. She smiled, a warm expression that lasted only a moment.

Perhaps fairytales were stars: dreams that seemed possible until reached for. Children loved them because it gave them something to hope for in a world without hope. Maybe, even a princess like her, with all the wealth and power in the world, would never end with a happily ever after.

But, it didn't hurt to try…

. fin .