.1820. Paris. ballroom in royal castle.
As an 18 year old princess in a country where royalty no longer matters to the political well-being in said country, it is quite tiresome when your family insists to keep the royal blood-line going. Napoleon had run rampant through France, and there was not much left of the royal family. Her father's father's cousin, Louis XVII, held a strong conviction in this. As the youngest daughter to still be wed of a distant, remotely nonexistent bloodline of royals, it was her turn to marry a duke or a lord. Today was the day she picked. She rolled her eyes and let her chin rest on her hand as she sat at her throne. This was the third ball her father had thrown to marry her off and she refused to be a piece of meat for his father to auction off. She was better than that. She thought that she meant more to him than that.
"Penelope Amarante Mélanie Swynford De Beaufort! Allons donc! Asseyez-vous cet instant! I will not 'ave my daughter sitting there like some log! Look alive, child. Soyez vivants, for God's sake," her mother chastised her as she yanked the girls arm from right underneath her chin. Penelope fell over momentarily before picking herself right back up and into the same position she started in.
She probably should have listened. The tightly woven bodice was beginning to pinch at her sides, and she was starting to lose the ability to breath, but she refused, again, to be treated like this. She was a human, an actual person with thoughts and feelings! She loved art and science and books and reading and writing! She didn't care for political nonsense. Why were they still caring about the royals when the French monarchy had died decades ago? It angered her that her family insisted. She felt the task was useless. She'd rather be in a library, reading.
"Pammy! Pam!" Her three little cousins ran up to her as fast as they could. They loved her dearly, and she loved them. Amelia, Domitille, and Fleur were aged seven, six and five, respectively. They affectionately called her "Pam" once the eldest, Amelia, learned to read and figured out that Penelope's names spelled out PAM.
"Yes, mes petits bébés?"
"Will you come to dance with us?" Amelia said in her terrible French. She was from London, and was visiting with the other girls only for the party.
"Oh, yes! Please, Pammy! Please come to dance with us!" chimed Domitlle.
Fleur just stared up at Penelope in awe, her jaw nearly dropped to the floor. She was the most beautiful person she had ever seen in her tiny life. She wanted to be just like her when she grew up. She wanted the big, beautiful gowns and the long hair! She was like Rapunzel! Her blonde hair was curly and it reached all the way down to her hips! She must have been growing her hair for a million years to get it that long.
"Well," Penelope said, "I might as well. I will not dance with another tonight! Come, girls! Laissez-nous danser!" She gladly stood up with a smile and took Fleur's hand in hers. She loved these little girls. They were really the only reason she managed to stay sane in this infuriating family.
She spun the girls around and danced and laughed with them for quite some time. Out of the corner of her eyes, she could see her parents' anger rising, but she did not care. She did not want a husband. With a laugh, she spun around swiftly, only to bump into someone. He caught her before she fell over. He held onto her arm while she settled herself, mumbling to herself in French about how stupid she was for having not paid attention. When she turned to face him, she was mesmerized. She might have even forgotten her own name. He was so tall, SO tall, with ice blue eyes. They pierced her all the way down to her soul. He smiled at her, perfect white teeth shining in her eyes. They were as white as the ivory on her tiara. His skin was as white as the stars, his hair was as yellow as the hair on the end of corn. He had the clearest complection, the brightest skin, the liveliest eyes. He was the most beautiful man she'd ever seen.
With that cheeky smile, he moved his hand to hers and raised it to his lips, brushing them against the top of her hand. "Bonjour, princesse. Je suis venu pour vous sauver."
She cocked and eyebrow and removed her hand from his rather roughly. By the sound of his accent, she could tell he didn't speak French. "I do not need saving. Who are you?" Her English wasn't much better, but she could hardly understand his French.
All the tall, blonde man did was laugh at her. "My, my. Aren't we feisty? My name is...Emeric. That is all you need to know."
She narrowed her deep set eyes at him. "Liar. Tell me your real name, or I will tell all of the guards that you mean harm to me." He set off something fiery inside of her.
Again, he grabbed her arm, but pulled her close to him. He leaned into her right ear and whispered, "I will never harm you. You are too beautiful. I wish to save you, and that is my only wish."
"Monsieur, you speak to me as if I am a damsel in distress, une jeune fille solitaire! I am not a lonely girl who needs to be rescued, not by the likes of you! I do not even know of you! How dare you come to the castle of royalty and assault the princess as you 'ave!"
"It comes as quite a shock to me that a simple woman speaks this way to a man. Especially a man of royalty. You do not know who you cross, Miss Beaufort."
She raised her hand to slap him, but he was quicker than her and he fiercely grabbed her wrist. She cried out in pain. "Stop! Who on earth do you think you are?"
With a smile that was all too telling, he loosened his grip on her wrist and again, kissed the back of her hand. "Let me show you what you are missing, Penelope. Do you want to see the world? Do you want to live freely? You don't really want to marry any of these stuffy, useless men, do you? They cannot give you a third of what I can. Riches, beauty, life. I can provide that for you." He looked her deeply in her eyes and she gasped softly. "Please, let me show you what I can provide for you."
"I-I...How do I know I can trust you? Who even are you?"
He grinned at her. "Just say 'yes.'" Penelope carefully nodded her head. Anyone who wasn't distinctly paying attention would have missed it. The man pulled her into his arms and caressed the side of her face. "You are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in one hundred years."
She scoffed. "You're hardly older than I."
"You'd be surprised." He smirked. "Are those your parents?"
"Of course. Why?"
"Permission, dear. I'm a man of tradition." He led her through the crowd of people to the two elaborate thrones at the head of the room. "Excusez-moi, monsieur, but is this your daughter?"
The king nodded. "You are Emeric of the North, are you not?" The blonde man grinned. "Very well. Penelope, meet your new husband. Monsieur Emeric is a wealthy duke from Norway. You should do very well to make his acquaintance."
Emeric sat her down in a chair, his eyes scanning the room for the window. He moved to it and set eyes on the moon. With a smile, he turned back to her. She was openly weeping in front of him. She had never been known to show weakness, especially not in the company of men, but she was in a strange place with a strange man. She knew not of whether he wanted her alive or dead. It was the dead of night and she was in a strange home with a strange man with strange desires. Of course she was scared.
"Penelope..." he whispered. "Why the tears? I told you... I will never harm you." He crossed the room to kneel at her feet. He bowed his head. "I will truly cherish you from this day forward, if you chose to have me by your side."
She lifted her own head. "What?"
"I didn't lie when I told you I was here to save you. I've been watching you. You are the most lithe, beautiful creature I have ever had the honor of meeting in my years on this earth. A white lie is no cost to what I will be gaining by gaining you as my mate. Your beauty contradicts everything I've heard in stories, ancient and new. You are like a painting, beauty only fabricated by the imagination. It's as if you are God's painting. I need check my eyes twice to make sure you are even standing in front of me." He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. "Please, let me save you. Let me love you as you are."
"Tell me your name."
He obliged. "Eric."
"Where you from?"
"What is now Sweden."
"Are you really a prince?"
"Yes, in my country. Here? Not so much, but father doesn't need to know that." She gave him slight regard. She still didn't trust him. He'd been watching her? Where? For how long? How long had he been talking to her parents? How did he even know she existed? She was some randomly descended, non-important princess. Why did he care about her? "I understand. You're confused. Let me prove to you that I can change your whole world, for the better." Eric truly believed in himself that this was true.
"I trust you. You are like some kind of God in and of yourself. I have never seen another with eyes a blue that matches yours. What are you?"
He grinned, flashing his fangs. Interestingly enough, she did not retreat away from him. Her eyes widened and she marveled at him. She leaned forward and carefully traced his right fang with her index finger. He inhaled deeply, taking in her scent. He smelled her blood from miles away. Something, someone, her, drew him to Marseille, France.
"Êtes-vous un monstre?" she whispered.
"Un vampire."
