DISCLAIMER: I don't own any of this. But I wish I did. I wish I owned Char. I love Char. I want to marry Char. I love Ella. I love Ella and Char together. Ah, so much love.
A/N: I'll be quick with this, since after that last chapter I don't think anyone wants to be reading a long author's note. One, I love all your reviews. Keep them coming, my lovelies. Two, thank you to everyone for their threats. They were, ah, how would one say it-encouraging.
Where we left our oddball heroine last:
How ironic it was, that for a moment, I was stupid enough to believe that I'd actually saved Char. And now I'd managed to land both him and myself in peril. And all for nothing.
The last thing I saw was Char's feet walking towards my enemies, and long sword swinging at his side.
My last thought was that perhaps I could still save the Balance.
And then everything went black.
Chapter 12
A Prince and a Priestess
or
Ella of Frell
If the crown prince of Kyrria were told to document his relatively short life in chronological order, he wouldn't choose to do so based on the number of days he had lived, or the vast expanse of people he had met, or even, ironically, the almost embarrassing number of times he had nearly been tricked into wedlock. He would, without a doubt, choose to do so based on his encounters with a certain Ella of Frell. It wasn't as if he didn't have a life outside of her circle of influence; in fact, he had only known her for little over a year out of his total of eighteen.
Truth be told, the life of a young prince wasn't nearly as fascinating as everyone made it out to be. Between legions of tutors, endless lessons, meetings, and military campaigns, he'd hardly had any of the experiences a young man his age should have had. He wouldn't find it particularly interesting to write his story wasting pages on his day-to-day activities. Instead, it would be on the few, vivid moments in his life that came in the form of a slender figure of a girl, sporting a dazzling smile and big green eyes.
He almost hated to say that he had met his wife at her own mother's funeral. Not because it seemed to give people a morbid and disastrously wrong impression of their relationship, but because he himself wasn't entirely sure if it was completely true.
There was a hazy memory in the back of his mind, one that he wasn't even wholly certain of. For all he knew, he could have become delusional, desperate to form a childhood connection to her. After all, he had been a toddler, and a small one at that, occasionally still clutching the backs of his father's knees to keep himself from toppling over. Nobody then would have guessed that he would one day surpass the king in height, who, in his prime, towered over most of the court.
That particular day though, he had refused to hold on to anything for support, for his father was allowing him to attend a formal greeting. Even when his mother had offered him her hand, he had simply shook his head determinedly.
He couldn't help but be excited despite the fact that it was all a rather boring procedure; some of the city's higher-ranking nobles were to bring their newly born infant to meet their sovereign. He was sure the event in its entirety wouldn't last twenty minutes.
He watched as the king stepped forward to greet them: a man with slick hair and a willowy lady holding a small bundle in her arms. He had forgotten the man's name already, but the lady's stuck in his head: the Lady Eleanor. He shook the temptation to stick his thumb in his mouth out of boredom; it was a habit he was trying to break. Instead, he reached up on the tips of his toes and placed his hands on the large bump of his mother's stomach, waiting for the baby to kick. She chuckled and placed her hands over his.
As tradition followed, his father took the newborn into his arms, formally bestowing a title upon her.
"Eleanor of Frell," the king had said, a smile decorating his voice, "what a quiet babe. Char, come here." He turned around to look at him, beckoning his head.
Char looked up at his mother, startled. Was he supposed to hold the baby too? He would drop her for certain. She smiled at him encouragingly, patting the top of his curls lightly before he scampered his way to his father, the queen following slowly behind.
The Lady Eleanor knelt down in front of him, and offered him her hand. "Your Highness. What a pleasure." Despite her formal voice, his two year-old ears couldn't help but pick up the tremors of hidden laughter. He grinned happily, and then kissed her hand with a short bow.
She laughed, and he found he enjoyed the sound of it. He decided he liked her, not like her husband, who only gave a stiff, formal bow when the queen approached him.
"How charming you are," she said as she stood up, "fitting name, I think."
He blushed and giggled, ducking behind his mother's skirts.
"Char," the king this time, knelt before him so that he could see the little bundle that was nestled in his arms. He looked down into the face of a sleeping babe, with rosy cheeks and a small, aquitaine nose, her pink lips puckered as she dreamt away peacefully.
"Can you say Eleanor?"
He didn't understand why her name was exactly like her mother's-wouldn't it be terribly confusing?-but he tried anyways, furrowing his brow. "Ell…El…Ella." He said finally, giving up.
Ella's mother grinned with mirth. "What a clever nickname!" Her father merely scowled.
"Perhaps you will have a sister like her soon," his father said to him, "isn't she a beauty, Char?"
He had no idea what the word meant, but at that moment, Ella opened her eyes. The big orbs were the colour of fresh grass, sparkling with a strange intelligence he had rarely seen in the most of the adults he had encountered. She eyed him wearily, as if to say get me out of here.
He found himself nodding at his father's question. He still hadn't a clue what beauty meant, but he decided if it meant pretty or keen, it could apply to Ella of Frell.
In his later years, he realised, his opinion never changed on that matter.
After they had gone, he had placed a tiny hand over his mother's swollen belly once more.
"Am I going to have a sister?"
His mother had kissed the top of his head. "Perhaps, if you wish for it hard enough," she had grinned.
"When?"
"Soon."
A month later, he grumbled quietly to himself as he was woken in the middle of the night by Cecilia's screams. Perhaps, he thought to himself, all little girls weren't as good and smart. Perhaps that was only Ella of Frell.
Much to his happiness, Cecilia soon grew out of her screaming stage, and became a blubbering, happy babe, often red in the cheeks from giggling, her curls tangled about her head from trying to run after him. He held her hands when she was learning to walk, even helping her pick herself up off the floor when she fell.
Soon enough his brothers followed, though by that time both he and Cecilia were old enough to sneak into their nursery and tell them all the tales that their mother had told them, of dragons, and fairies and damsels in distress. They would sit up in their cribs, clapping their hands in delight.
He then became too old for trivial games, and was abruptly sent to tutors that would train him to be a good king. His mother thought it was all too much for a boy his age, and his father had shrugged ruefully, saying that there wasn't really much he could do about it. There were the languages, sciences, politics and manners lessons, not to mention the endless combat training.
His life of fun and games seemed to be over, and he began to dread every minute of it. He didn't like the idea that his life had been laid out for him without his say in the matter. You're going to be king after your father, people would say to him. You're going to rule the kingdom and end all feuds. You're going to marry a nice foreign princess and have lots of little princes and princesses.
This low point in his life was ended by two events: one that gave him more hope that he had ever had as a young prince, and one that understandably, involved Ella of Frell.
The first occurred just shy of his eleventh birthday. After a particularly gruelling set of lessons, he had set off to tell his father that he did not want to be king. He could dump the responsibility on his sister, or even one of his brothers; he just wanted, more than anything, to be free. He stopped short of his father's study, hearing the voices of his parents blooming from inside.
He knew he shouldn't eavesdrop, it was rude, but he couldn't seem to help himself, seeing as he was the subject of their conversation.
"I heard word from Bramarre the other day," his father was saying miserably, "they want to create a permanent alliance."
"Isn't that good news?" his mother asked, "Why do you speak about it as if it were a declaration of war?"
"I refused the offer."
"Jerrold! What were you thinking?" He could imagine the shock on his mother's face; worry coiling behind her eyes just as it did every time his father was about to proceed with something rash.
"I haven't finished yet, Daria. I didn't refuse the alliance, I refused the terms they had laid down."
"What terms?"
"They wanted a betrothal that would make their princess the next queen of Kyrria."
"So with Char, you mean."
"Exactly."
Char paled. He didn't want to have to marry a dull, nameless girl, even if it wasn't for many years.
"What did you say then?" his mother gasped.
"I told them I would agree to any terms other than a marriage alliance. I'm not handing my eldest son over to a three year old."
After a pause, his mother spoke, "You did right Jerrold, but…what next? It won't be long before we hear the same from every neighbouring kingdom. Most princes in line for a throne would have been betrothed by their fifth birthday."
"We're going to refuse them all, my dear," the king said gaily, barely concealing his laughter, "Kyrria has thrived for centuries without a foreign queen. There's no need to start now."
"You want Char to choose himself?"
"Yes. I don't even particularly care if he picks a peasant. I mean, somebody belonging to the peerage would be nice, just to keep up appearances, but it doesn't really matter. I just want him to be happy. How is he supposed to love his people and his kingdom enough to rule properly if he doesn't know what love is at all? Don't you want him to have a marriage like ours, Daria?"
"Yes, of course I do…"
Char didn't stick around long enough to hear the end of the conversation. He turned back around, a newly found spring in his step. Perhaps he could handle being king after all. Perhaps he could save himself for a girl that made him laugh uncontrollably and make his heart pound, unlike his elder cousins that had made a habit of bedding every willing woman.
He had a choice regarding his life after all.
He was free.
The second event occurred barely a year later; he was twelve. He was much happier, now that he didn't feel as if his princely duties were a set of walls, pushing in on every side, closer and closer until they suffocated him.
This was the point in his lifetime in which he would make a habit of escaping to the kitchens, whether it was to avoid his tutors or to hide from his sister's giggling ladies. The cook, Lydia, was nice. She would let him sit for hours just as long as he didn't get in the way, occasionally feeding him a sweet.
"What brings you here today, Majesty?" she asked him one day as she filled a decorating pipe with icing, "ogre raids? Peasant revolts? The state of the palace treasury?" she joked.
"My languages tutor," he said sheepishly as he sat at one of the long tables, chewing on a scone, "he makes me feel like a fool."
"You're no fool," she wagged a finger at him as she expertly weaved a pattern of icing roses on a tiered cake, "you'll master all the languages soon enough, I'm sure." She momentarily turned around to bark a flurry of orders at her cook's helpers.
"No I won't," he sighed, placing his chin in his hand, "I can't get my tongue to roll around the syllables properly. I just don't have the knack for it."
"If that's the case, then you shouldn't feel too disappointed; you can't excel at everything," she ruffled his hair with a floury hand, "besides, maybe that's a sign that you should look for a bride with a fluency in tongues." She winked at him.
He ducked his head, blushing. "As long as they're not any of the court ladies," he muttered.
Lydia smile turned sad, her heart going out to him. She knew the real reason he hid in her kitchens so often. He wasn't afraid of his father's councillors; they barely spoke to him save for a polite smile and the occasional brief conversation. He enjoyed learning, and except for a few, he didn't have a problem with his tutors. It was in the ladies that presided in the court where his worry lay.
They hunted him like hawks, batting their eyelashes and twisting their hair if they were young enough, otherwise pushing their daughters at him at any chance they got. Their beady eyes watched him as if he were a particularly tender piece of meat as he made his way through the palace halls, as he sat in on council meetings, as he duelled with the swords master. They were at the front of every introductory line, grimacing through painful smiles and powdered white noses, daring to peck his cheek with a kiss upon greeting. Sometimes they hid in alcoves, waiting to catch him in surprise as he passed by with the intention of making him fall in love with them, or their niece, or their daughter.
It terrified him to no end. After the king and queen had let it slip that they had no intention of betrothing their son for a foreign alliance, every Kyrrian lady had come to the conclusion that they also had a shot at becoming royal. The only thing that stood in their way was the issue of winning the princeling's heart.
The matter wouldn't be as great as this if his parents had kept him off limits for just a while longer; did they really think that every noble with an eye on the crown wouldn't try to ensnare him while he was still young?
The poor boy didn't know what love was at all, or anything about the fairer sex for that matter. How was he, at his age, meant to be able to see the border of the line between a genuinely kind gesture out of goodness and a plot to betroth him for his title?
He had yet not reached the epoch of distinguishing between genders; he still threw mud pies at his sister and swam with her in the river, he had yet to cease to offer a stair rail ride to the daughter of any delegate that came their way. Beneath his swarthy skin his cheeks still bore the hint of the rosy tones of a tot, and his hair curled adorably around his too-large ears, often flopping into his eyes.
But already he had begun to shoot up, slowly becoming wiry and smooth. Though not yet nearly as broad or as angular as he would one day be, open-collared shirts revealed hard planes, and the softness of infancy had faded away to bear high cheekbones and a sloping jaw that maidens would fight to run their fingers over in a few years.
Lydia often wondered what would become of him when he came of age. He would be achingly handsome, of that she was sure. But would he stay as oblivious of it as he was now, content by escaping his princely duties for just moments at a time? Or would the ogling stares make him aware of it, and use it to woo women of every age and martial status on his personal so-called hunt for a bride? She desperately wished that he would remain, as he was now, kind, courteous, and earthly.
"May I have a bite of that cake?" his voice swam to her.
"Absolutely not," Lydia slapped his reaching finger away from a plume of pink sugar roses, "this cake had better be perfect for the princess's birthday banquet. You can eat it then."
"But I don't want to go to the banquet," he grumbled.
"Not even for your sister?"
"It isn't as if I can do anything. We have to sit there for hours on end, pretending we're enchanted as Chancellor Thomas rambles on."
"Very well then," the old cook chuckled, "you may take a pasty from that platter to ease your pain."
"Thank you," he brightened immediately.
"I think the banquet might be fun this year," she told him as he scampered back to the bench.
He gave her a strange look.
She laughed. "Oh, don't look at me like that. I only meant that I've heard the Lady Eleanor will be there."
"Really?" he asked excitedly around a mouthful of blackberry tart, his ears perking up.
The Lady Eleanor, a witty acquaintance of his mother's, could always be counted on for entertainment at tedious court events.
"Mmhm," she nodded, "it's a shame she never brings her daughter to court. I think the two of you would make great friends, seeing as she's closer in age to you than her mother is."
"She has a daughter?" this was a surprise. Lady Eleanor had never mentioned a daughter.
"Yes, apparently she takes after her mother, though she's far clumsier."
He raised his eyebrows. Could it be possible that there were two people like the lady in this world?
"Are you friends with the Lady Eleanor too?" he asked.
"Heavens, no," she exclaimed, "I've never met the lady in person. Her cook is an old friend of mine. We meet at the market sometimes, and she tells me tale after tale of the two of them, though most seem to feature around the daughter. Just yesterday, she told me about the time she managed to break an entire of set dishes in the span of half a second-"
"-What's her name?" he leaned forward on his elbows curiously. Perhaps Lydia was wrong. Perhaps he had seen her once or twice at court before.
"-Apparently she insisted that she could carry a pail of ice chips and a stack of plates to the dining hall at the same-Hm? Oh, her name is Eleanor too. But I've heard she bites anyone who calls her that. She goes by Ella. Ella of Frell." She turned to help a manservant place the cake on a trolley.
He smiled, knowing how she felt about her nickname.
Ella of Frell.
He racked his brain, trying to remember why the name sounded so familiar. Had he met her before? Had he read it somewhere? He felt it on the tip of his tongue. Ella of Frell. It had a nice ring to it, he decided.
"So she carried the ice chips and the dishes?" he urged her to continue.
"Oh, yes," she returned to him now, wiping the tabletop with a rag she kept in the pocket of her apron, "so she got as far as the doorway, but I suppose she swayed a little because some of the ice chips fell out of the bucket. But instead of stopping to clean them up, she continued on, and what did she do? She slipped on the ice, and there goes a set of the finest china in Frell." She made a whooshing motion with her hand.
He laughed, revealing purple stained teeth. "Perhaps she will come tonight too."
"Perhaps," was Lydia's only response.
That night, he asked the Lady Eleanor of the little catastrophe with the dishes.
"Yes, that's my daughter," she smiled, "She's a feisty one."
"Did she come here tonight?" he asked eagerly.
Her easy smile turned nervous. "No, she was feeling a little under the weather, sadly. I left her at home," she traced a pattern with her finger along the edge of a napkin. He furrowed his brow.
"Happy birthday, Princess," her smile resumed it previous glory as Cecilia dashed up to them, dressed in so bright a pink that it made Char's eyes water.
"Thank you," she beamed at the lady, a half-eaten scone gripped in one hand as she reached for Char's fingers with the other, "I want to sit with you," she demanded.
"Proceed," he gestured to the empty chair next to him distractedly.
He turned back to the Lady Eleanor, and opened his mouth to ask another question about her absent daughter just as Chancellor Thomas stood up, clearing his throat.
"Dear friends…" he began.
Char groaned quietly, placing his head in his hands for only a moment before he straightened up, staring intently at the speechmaker, a perfect picture of rapt interest.
He gave up only after three quarters of an hour, when he realised no end was in sight. He looked slightly to the left to see Lady Eleanor arrange her napkin into the familiar profile of a man with a narrow nose and a jutting chin, mouth open in an extravagant speech. He began to feel a bubble of mirth crawl its way up his throat before Sir Peter grabbed the napkin and crumpled it up. He pursed his lips, thinking that if he were ever lucky enough to have a wife that would distract him so, he would never try to dampen her bright spirits as Sir Peter did. He looked up at Chancellor Thomas again.
It was no help. He imagined him painted blue, his features pulled and poked at grotesquely by an invisible hand. This time, he couldn't contain the giggles. He promptly excused himself to dash outside and dissolve into peals of laughter, snickering over the thought of the high chancellor as a marionette.
His parents and Cecilia would give him hell for it later, but he could hardly care less. He hadn't laughed so hard in years.
Later, when he found himself in the kitchens to fill his empty stomach with the dinner he had missed, he told Lydia that the Lady Eleanor hadn't brought Ella.
"She said she wasn't feeling well," he said to her over a meat pie.
"That's a perfectly reasonable excuse, Majesty. She wouldn't have been much fun if she was feeling ill anyways." She pumped water into the sink.
"Yes, but the way she said it, it was as if it wasn't the entire truth," he thought about the way her smile all but slipped off of her face, and the light in her eyes had momentarily vanished.
Lydia shrugged. "Perhaps she doesn't want her daughter to mix with the court company. Many nobles like to keep their children away from palace gossip these days."
"Just the once couldn't have hurt though," he protested, "most of the guests were under the age of ten. There's no gossip between them."
"Do not complain so, my Prince," she began to dry a stack of plates, "I'm sure she will come to court when she is older."
"Yes, but it would have been nice to meet her," he said dejectedly, polishing off his fourth pie.
The cook smiled at him. "Never mind that, I've got another story for you I'm sure will cheer you up…"
And so it began. Lydia came back with a new anecdote every time she returned from the market, and Char would dash to the kitchens the minute his lessons were over, eager to hear about how the clumsy daughter of a well respected merchant cleverly imitated her manservant, or punched someone in the nose, or tumbled headfirst down a flight of stairs because she wasn't careful enough as she stepped down.
As time went on, only two questionable habits remained from his childhood. One, his dangerous obsession over sliding down any banister that was slippery enough, and two, his fascination with Ella of Frell. Even as his tutors declared him educated and he began to spend as much time in the council chambers as the king, he would always find a measly quarter of an hour to sit in the kitchens with Lydia over a pastry and the latest antics of a certain rebellious maiden.
He slowly began to think of her as his best friend, though he had never once come face-to-face with her. He imagined conversations with her, thinking of what he would say to her and what she would say back. He liked to think of her as a scrawny girl, all elbows and knees, with a goofy face and skin brown from spending too much time in the sun. Her head would be decorated with her mother's light brown curls, and her two front teeth would be slightly larger than the rest.
But despite his wildest hopes and dreams, he didn't expect to finally meet her in the last place he ever thought he would.
The Lady Eleanor's funeral.
He could see the tomb from where he stood, perched on the crest of the hill overlooking the ceremony. Ignoring pointed stares from nearby guests, he couldn't help but wonder if the body in the coffin was the same one that belonged to the lady he knew, or if they had replaced her with an older, grimmer sister. Her lips were hard and thin without the whisper of a vivacious smile, her face empty of the glee it had possessed when she was alive, and her eyes were closed, forever shutting away the bright sparkle that always seemed to hint at hidden mischief. Whoever the unfamiliar body belonged to, she slept away peacefully in her wooden casket, carved through with fairies and unicorns and flowers.
Beside him, his mother sobbed silently into her handkerchief while his father laid a hand on her elbow, staring up at the sky. He let a few tears escape himself, though he hurriedly wiped them away with the back of his hand. At that moment, he could hardly care less about the daughter he'd been so desperate to meet in the past years. He didn't care if she turned out to be the most wondrous person he had ever met. All he could think of was the sudden passing of the woman that had almost been like a humorous aunt to him, always there when he needed a cheering up. He had seen her last only a week before; he would have never thought that it would be the last time he ever saw her alive. Never again would there be someone to make him laugh during dreary court events, or someone that didn't speak to him as if he were set on a pedestal, but rather as an equal. Never again would someone tell him that there is no better way to spend a rainy day than to slide down a bannister.
But then he saw her.
The group of people circling the coffin had blocked her from his view, but now they stepped back, and as the high chancellor made an almost dramatic pause in his speech, Sir Peter nudged a figure in black towards the tomb. She stumbled forward a little, hands fumbling with the lid of the casket.
He almost laughed at the sight of her. Not because he found the sight of a child struggling with the lid of her mother's coffin funny, but because his image of Ella of Frell had been almost entirely false.
She was as thin as he imagined her to be, but far closer to lithe than skeletal. As she moved, a mane of hair as black as midnight swept about her, and he noted appreciatively that the clingy silk of her gown did nothing to hide her blossoming form. He wasn't nearly close enough to distinguish individual features from one another, but he could see that she was paler than she would have normally been. Her hands shook the entire casket as she pushed the lid down, and like her, he flinched as the coffin sealed shut with a loud click. What followed next was unexpected. She had remained utterly silent throughout the whole procession, but now she burst into tears, a heartbreaking sound emerging from her in an unbroken wail.
If her father had not pulled her back, she would have collapsed to her knees by the side of the tomb, and it was clear that she was fighting him even now as loud sobs racked her body, one hand outstretched as her mother was lowered into the ground. He whispered something in her ear that made her rigid, and then she took off running as suddenly as her waterworks had come. She tripped as she passed by him, landing hard on one knee and elbow. She was up and running again before he had the chance to help her up, catching only the sight of a brilliant pair of green eyes filled with grief. Almost everyone turned to see her go, all with either real or pretended pity etched upon their faces.
Suddenly he itched to go after her, to tell her to wipe her tears away, to tell her that everything would be okay, but he couldn't. How would he go about it? She had no idea who he was. No matter how close he felt they were, he was still a stranger to her. He couldn't share her grief, he had no right, but strangely enough, he wanted to know more about her. His curiosity had been heightened. He wanted to know if everything he had thought about her was wrong, or if he was right in at least one aspect. If she deemed him worthy enough to talk to, would her voice be as loud and cheerful as he always imagined, or would it be soft and husky, to match the dark, brooding figure he had recently been acquainted with? Would he see her walk with two left feet, as he'd always been told she did, or were the stories he'd heard all from a childhood long gone, leaving him facing a young woman with a graceful gait?
After a silent moment, Sir Peter turned to face the front again, and Chancellor Thomas resumed his speech as if nothing had happened.
Someone nudged his side. It was Cecilia, looking drawn and pale in her black gown.
"I don't think her father cares much for her," she said sadly.
He nodded. To lose a parent at that age, while the other was only there for decoration, it must feel like the end of the world.
He had always thought that she was much younger than he; Lydia had never mentioned her age. But now that he had seen her, he realised she was perhaps only a year or two his junior. At any rate, she certainly wasn't any younger than Cecilia. It was easy to comfort a young child; they were easily distracted, and would be effortlessly convinced of anything said to them by someone older. But how would one console a maiden who had just lost her mother? A maiden who, from her sudden departure, obviously had no connection to her father, nor any other family to turn to?
As soon as the high chancellor finished his speech, the guests began to slowly trickle away, some pausing to place a flower or two over the fresh grave. As the lot emptied, his parents stepped forward to speak a few words with the new widower.
Char swept his eyes over the remaining figures. She still had not returned, though he suspected she wasn't far off. He saw his opportunity to go looking for her. Yes, that would be his excuse; he wanted to tell her that the funeral was over.
He took off in the direction that she had run in, towards the outer gates of the graveyard. She couldn't have gone very far, it was a small lot, reserved for the royal family and Frell's elite. Unless she escaped from the graveyard altogether.
He had almost given up hope and returned to his parents, who were no doubt waiting for him, when he heard a quiet weeping emitting from the leaves of a willow. He turned his head this way and that, and yes, there it was, a smudge of black was visible between the curtains of shrubbery.
It would be rude to intrude now. He already felt as if he was imposing on her privacy, so he decided he would wait for her to come out. She would have to, eventually. He decided to occupy himself with the reading of nearby tombstones. Quickly, he realised that they were all of his mother's family, some belonging to those he had met only once or twice, most belonging to those he had never known.
His eyes were scanning one of the former, a nasal-voiced cousin that constantly liked to remind him that his father was the richest man in all of Bast, when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He dared to peek a little, tilting his head just far enough so that he could see her hesitantly emerge from the curtains of the tree. She started as she saw him standing there.
He should have probably said hello, or at least something vaguely comforting, but as she stepped closer, he found himself unable to form a coherent sentence, and instead blabbered a few useless phrases that he was sure went right over her head.
Her eyes were red and puffy, and the front of her gown was caked with dirt, but there still an aura of almost surreal beauty about her, as if she were a statue of angel right as it fell from the heavens, breathtaking and tragic and wicked all at the same time. Her expression softened only a little as he spoke, but still she did not utter a word.
And then he managed to say something that was almost worthy of an introduction "You can call me Char," he blurted, "everyone else does."
She only raised an eyebrow in confusion.
"My father calls me Char too," he continued.
"Thank you," she said finally. Her voice was soft, almost melodic sounding, though now it quivered from the recent tears.
He began to wonder what she would sound like in a joyful mood. Selfish, he realised he was, as he began to think of ways to make her smile as they slowly made their way back, a rather large space between them. He decided he would close it a little. He should have let her be, let her to grieve in her own way, but he couldn't help but think that her mother would have wanted her to laugh and sing and dance and bask in the memory of her rather than arrange her face into a permanent frown, wishing that she was still here with her.
He jabbered some more, and was rewarded only with a sad, distracted smile as she turned her head this way and that as they approached the fresh grave.
"Where did everybody go?" she asked curiously. Her tone was flat, as if she could hardly care less about where everybody was. She was likely trying to maintain a polite conversation.
"They all left before I came to find you. Did you want them to wait?"
Her refusal was firm. "I didn't want any of them to wait."
He couldn't help but wonder if there was an accent on any, as if she was pointedly directing the sentence at him. He wanted to tell her that he wasn't anybody, and that he wasn't like the others, who had shown up just for show. He had truly cared for her mother.
He was about to tell her so, if it had not been for the fact that she looked up into his eyes for the first time, and suddenly he felt his tongue flip over on itself, deeming him unable to speak. What a piercing gaze she had. When it finally unfurled itself, all he could manage to utter was-
"I know all about you." he cringed before he'd even finished the sentence, hoping that he didn't come off as too much of a pursuer.
Her head snapped in his direction. "You do? How could you?"
Finally. A question he could answer without making a fool of himself.
"Your cook and our cook meet at the market. She talks about you," he said excitedly, "do you know much about me?"
She shook her head. "What do you know?"
He supposed Lydia didn't talk of him at all, opting to listen to stories that she would replay for him.
He found himself chattering about a select few of the more memorable tales he had been told as they neared her waiting father, laughing as she protested in her own defense, when she smiled. She smiled. It was a true, happy smile, not anything like the one she had bestowed upon him before, lighting up her face like a warm beam of sun in the early spring.
He replayed it over and over in his head as he handed her, stumbling, into the carriage, everything happening around him a blurry mess of colours and words.
And as she sped away, heavy droplets of rain began to fall, and still he did not move from his place. He found himself grinning like an idiot, thinking that perhaps he did care after all if she was the most wondrous person he had ever met.
The year that followed passed in a quick blur of tedious balls-he was at a marriageable age after all-, the excitement of his first solo campaign-he would make his father proud-, and Ella, Ella, Ella of Frell.
Looking back on it, he felt it best to remember it through what he had felt, rather than what he had seen or what he had heard; after all, he supposed when in love one would hardly listen to anything but the pounding rhythm of his own heart, pumping every kind of passion through his veins until he thought he couldn't take it anymore.
He could list them off one by one, from the pang in his chest when he found the strange daughter of the late Lady of Frell in the menagerie and the swarm of butterflies bouncing around his stomach when she smiled at him, to the delicious tingling in his ears when she spoke his name, as if the word Char was the remaining whisper of the last note of a song.
He had decided then that she wasn't really a friend, what friend could make him feel so? Everyday he ached to learn more about her, to see where her interests lay, what her dreams were, what she thought about on a day-to-day basis, to discover what it was that made her tick.
He remembered anticipating the flutter he would feel in his ribcage when she would see that he had caught her a centaur colt, just as he had promised, only to be replaced by an irritating anger that swept through to the very core of limbs when he found that she had been sent of to finishing school. What was there about her that needed to be finished? She was perfect just the way she was, he had thought to himself indignantly.
When he found himself in the company of six cavaliers on an ogre campaign, he would chat away about her to his knights until they had stuffed beeswax in their ears to tune him out, grumbling that he should just propose to her already and save their beeswax for the ogres. He would redden in the cheeks, spluttering that she was only a friend, until Sir Martin would look him square in the eyes and point out that most maidens didn't have quite so many virtues.
Nevertheless, he found that ogre hunting proved to be a splendid distraction. It gave both his hands and his mind work to do, unlike patrolling the border, which left him free to think of how she didn't act stuffy around him, how smooth her porcelain skin looked, or how quick her humour was, always leaving him guessing. But when he felt the constant threat of an attack over his head, it became evidently easier to not dwell on the strange fact that his feelings for Ella of Frell had developed rather quickly.
That is, until he came outrageously close to witnessing her becoming an ogre's lunch. A stab of fear had twisted in his gut when he recognized the profile of the maiden who had, by rumour, supposedly enchanted a band of ogres to sleep, to be achingly familiar. And when she turned, a flare of brief excitement made his hair stand on end-she was here, she was here- only for it to extinguish, quickly replaced by panic as he realised that there were more pressing matters to attend to other than breathlessly telling her how glad he was to see her.
He felt a swell of pride bubble up inside him as she spoke in ogrese-only she could make the slimy tones of their tongue seem attractive-, confronting the vile pack that had kidnapped her. She seemed bigger then, more powerful, more mature. She would make a wonderful queen, he thought, unable to stop himself. At that moment, she had turned and smiled at him, and he found himself furiously blushing-he hadn't spoken his thoughts out loud again, had he? Relief washed over him as he realised she was only happy that she had said what she needed to say to the ogres, but her grin was contagious, and he found himself shyly smiling back.
This was the moment in which he realised he was ridiculously, incredibly, exceedingly in love with this lass. He wanted to be with her forever and beyond, but he suspected he wasn't more than a friend to her. He was sure that this was the girl that his parents always talked of him finding, someone to be there to remind him to rule justly and with love.
He remembered feeling immediate regret for letting Ella to go to the giants' wedding. Desperately, he wanted to get on his knees in front of her and beg her not to leave him, and only his desire for Ella to get everything that she wanted allowed him to lift her up on the saddle behind Sir Stephan.
After that, they began to use Ella's little tactic with the ogres, and became tremendously more fruitful in their raids. Of course, none of them were nearly as skilled as she was, and he often discovered himself wishing that a dark haired girl armed with only a carpetbag would leap out of a bush, helping them get out of particularly sticky situations.
He recalled glowing with pleasure as his father stood proudly over him, congratulating him on the success of his first campaign.
"You did well," the king beamed at him.
"Thank you," Char smiled sheepishly. He could have never done it without Ella of Frell.
He vividly remembered the disappointment at being told to show his face at Sir Peter's marriage; his parents were occupied elsewhere, but he had wanted to sleep early so that he could find Ella the next day. After all, she had said she would be back in Frell soon.
But then it struck him that Ella would likely be there as well, and he dashed off to find his horse, leaving a tremendously amused king behind him.
His pounding heart and his ear-splitting grin were back the minute he caught sight of her disappearing into an upstairs hallway. It hadn't occurred to him how much he had missed the little games that she liked to play until they went hunting for a secret passageway.
In a way, he was glad that they never found it, for then they would have never stayed for as long as they had in that indoor garden, dancing away around the balcony for as long as the orchestra music wafted up to their ears. Her hand was cool and soft, and he felt it run him through with electricity that left him wondering if she felt it too.
It was all he could do to stop himself from bringing her hand close and kissing it.
He had wanted to tell her then how he felt, before he left for Ayortha, before he was away long enough for her to forget about him. But something stopped him; something that told him now was not the time. She had a faraway look in her eyes at one point, as if there was something that was deeply troubling her. When he asked she only replied that a fairy had given her father and his new bride and strange gift. But an aching thought told him that it was not yet the time to ask her all her secrets, so instead he left with a promise to write.
After that there came the disappointment of not being able to see her once more before he left, deepened only when he spotted her in a window as he left the second time, though he had clearly been told multiple times that she had been out calling.
He spent nearly a month moping about, the majority of it in the Ayorthian court, wondering what he could have done so wrong for her to ignore him so. But then her first letter came. And then the next. And then the next.
With nothing else other than the antics of the lovesick newlyweds that were the Ayorthian prince and his wife to amuse him, he would spend hours at a time fawning over a single one of her letters, hunting for hidden meanings, laughing at the frequent joke that she was still too young to marry.
He found he loved her more with every single one of her letters. He loved her spikey, crabbed handwriting, he loved her prose, he loved how she expertly weaved fact and fiction until he couldn't tell which parts of her letters were true and which were made up. He loved the way he could imagine that she was sitting there with him, telling him a joke or town news, or sometimes, even asking him his opinion on a serious topic.
He deeply, truly wished that he could go to her in Frell and make her explain herself; what did she really think of him? Did she love him as he did her? He had wanted to tell her in person, but his father was becoming impatient in his letters, frequently asking if there was a maiden that he fancied. He wanted to tell him yes, yes, yes, there is a maiden, but how could he be sure that she returned his feelings?
And so it was with that, along with a twinge of nervous energy that he sat and poured his heart through a pen unto paper, sealing the letter with a shaky hand.
And then pain, pain that consumed his very bones, pain that shattered his heart into a million tiny pieces, leaving them to jab into his gut every once in a while. How could she have done it? How could she have fooled him so? She had seemed so good-natured, so loving, how did he fall into her trap?
After that came only numbness. He shut himself off from the rest of the world during the remainder of his stay in Ayortha. Their court, quiet as they were, hardly noticed anything was wrong, assuming that the chatty prince had finally adapted to their ways. Only Ijori cast him a worried glance every once in while, but still he remained too polite to ask what was wrong.
The heaviness that now permanently resided in his chest refused to lift, even as he made his way home. Funnily enough, it only sunk deeper, pushing him into a black abyss as he heard the news of the balls in his honour. How was he supposed to pick a bride from the line of scheming ladies, when the one maiden that he had thought seemed the most genuine out of all of them turned to be a plotting wench like the rest of them? How could he give himself to another woman?
Some of that heaviness slowly began to disparate as he met Lela. She was kind, and didn't latch on to him like the other maidens. There was something almost ridiculously familiar about her, from the way she smiled or the way she joked about things. When he had first caught sight of her dark hair his heart had almost dropped through to the floor, but quickly he realised that her voice was different, more mature. She wasn't-oh, how he hated to say her name-, Ella. Lela was thin, almost too thin, and a trifle taller; she reached his shoulders. She didn't seem to have the same spunky personality that Ella had had.
But he didn't care. He had found a friend at the balls that made the event less tedious.
And then that vile Hattie had whipped off Lela's mask. She had covered her face, but not before he saw the memorable porcelain parlour and the wide green eyes. Ella. It was her all along. It was her.
If he had been asked then what he was feeling, he would have not been able to give a straight answer. Anger; he could feel a little in the pit of his stomach, she had broken his heart after all. And then wonder; she had come alone, did that mean she wasn't married? Her masked appearance, what did that mean? She hadn't wanted him to recognise her, but had perhaps wanted to see him. Did that mean she cared about him? Was that letter not her own words?
Over that came a blanket of hope, and a rushing determination when he spotted a tiny glass slipper lying on the palace steps. That must mean something, didn't it? If she didn't care for him one bit, she would have never come, let alone wear the shoes that they had found together. He couldn't lose her again.
When he finally found her at Dame Olga's, she wasn't the Ella he remembered. She wasn't gloriously dressed for a ball as she had been moments ago, nor did she have the mischievous smile that he had missed so. She was dressed in rags, and from the look on her face it was clear that she was terrified of him.
He had to ask her. He had to know if she loved him. And when she nodded her reply, he felt all the pain of the last six months lift off of him. She loved him, she loved him. He thought it had all been worth it, even if just to reach this moment.
But then his smile slipped of his face as tears began to stream down her cheeks, and her stepfamily began to issue a flurry of ridiculous commands. How dare they order her to not marry him? Did they think they really had a choice in the matter? She would be his and he would be hers, and nobody, nobody, could ever stop them.
He desperately wished that he could sweep her into his arms and pepper her with kisses, but she seemed to be battling something inside her, and he knew that he couldn't interrupt her just yet. She was staring at him, but it was clear she wasn't seeing him. She gave no response to indicate that she had noticed him put a hand on her shoulder.
And then she was up and shouting, running around the room like a crazed heroin in a fairy tale. Something fell inside him. She wasn't going to marry him. She loved him but she wouldn't marry him. He almost passed out in a daze, but then she had wrapped her arms around him and he clung to her, kissing her in front of the entire household before he knew what he was doing.
Stunned for a moment, he only saw the blur of a rounded woman hugging Ella, and when he came to, she had taken his hand and knelt before him, a reminder of their old joke dancing on her lips.
He smiled so wide he thought his cheeks would split as he pulled her up and kissed her once more. She would never kneel in front of anybody again.
For two moons after that his life had finally turned right side up after an endless age of it being in shambles. It was almost like the fireworks they set off for only special occasions, bright and colourful and awe worthy all at the same time. He had never been happier; he had Ella of Frell.
He could see her everyday, he could smile at her everyday, he could slide down bannisters with her as much as he wanted. He found he fell deeply more in love with her with everyday that passed. Because now she wasn't just a spunky, kind maiden with a pretty face, she was a brave, graceful woman, one that loved him and her country enough to sacrifice her own happiness and life.
He remembered a bubble of warmth growing inside of him as the weeks passed, growing larger as he introduced her to his parents, as she presented him with the letters that she had never sent, as his eyes caught sight of a molten sapphire in a jeweller's shop. He thought it would burst when she slipped her hand into his on their wedding day, dressed so beautifully it almost hurt to look at her, but still it kept on growing. It grew even through their wedding night as she pressed herself to him, her hair spread out on the pillows like a black halo, through the next day when he found her curled up against him, right through the first fortnight of their marriage, until the news came at breakfast that the Puvian king was to attack.
He had thought that this bubble of his would never burst, but it did just that, leaving him cold and empty. He wanted to tell Ella that everything would be all right, to tell her to remain strong like he knew she was, but all he could do was watch as she sunk into the shadows, a strong pain flickering in her eyes as she looked at him.
It didn't take much to guess what she was thinking. After all she had done, after all the pain she had put herself through to be with him, she thought it was all for nothing. He wanted to tell her that it wasn't, that they would always be together and nothing, not even war could come between them, but she was beyond the point of listening.
Oh, how he had wanted to take her with him, and she had wanted to come as well! But couldn't bring himself to, it was too dangerous and he didn't think he could ever forgive himself if something happened to her on his watch. No, it was better that she stay in the capital just this time.
And so he had kissed her goodbye with a promise to return with a rose for her and leapt on his horse, itching to turn around and run to her all the way to Bast.
Everything after that had been hectic and tiresome; the journey to the border was long, and the strategic meetings were endless. They had been right in guessing that the enemy army was thin, and the battle had been going beautifully.
They had put up a good fight, but they nearly annihilated them after almost two days in combat as they began to retreat, and the Kyrrian men had begun to whoop in victory in the now barren valley. Near collapsing out of exhaustion, Char had only stood there with a small smile, feeling proud that he had done his job properly; they had managed to surprise the Puvian king's forces with little casualties to his own men.
He had opted out of celebrating with the other soldiers-he would rather not drink himself into oblivion- and instead went looking for a moment of peace with his horse.
And that was when his entire world came crumbling down.
He had just been thinking of how everything was coming right again, of how in the morning they would set off home, when he thought he heard Ella's voice calling out to him. No, he hadn't thought he heard her; she was actually there!
He had felt a brief bout of happiness-he had missed her so-, until he realised that they weren't alone. A dark man had appeared out of nowhere, collapsed on the forest floor. Who was he? And why had his wife just run into the clearing, blubbering a stream of words he couldn't understand?
And then as suddenly as Ella had come, he felt a sharp slice of pain in his side, and had looked down momentarily to see a dagger between his ribs, its silver handle glinting. A fire began to spread through him, and it was all he could do to not cry out. Everything began to swim before him, to clear only when he heard a stream of battle cries. Ella had been clutching him then, sobbing, and he had been trying to tell her that he was fine, he really was, when he heard a high pitched whistling and her sharp intake of breath before she collapsed.
The moment he saw the arrow protruding from her back, it was almost as if everything began to move in slow motion. An energy he didn't think he had came to him, and he stood up in fury, ready to run his sword through the person who had done this to her. How dare those red-cloaks try and take away her life? One by one he picked them off even as they circled him, until he stood in the middle of a clearing, surrounded by the motionless bodies of the enemy.
His adrenaline had left him, and now all he felt was pain, pain, pain. Not the dull throbbing that came from his hastily stitched wound, but of one far greater, of one that struck closest to the heart. She had come all the way here because she had believed he was danger; that much he had understood from her hurried explanation. Who else did he know that would do such a thing? Who other than Ella would put herself in danger's path time and time again to save the ones she cared for? And now he was about to lose the person he loved the most. He had already lost her once, with the letter she had feigned, and nearly twice when she had run from him during the third ball. Now he felt the third time approaching, and he didn't know how to evade it this time.
When inhabitants of the camp had rushed into the clearing to see what the commotion was about, they had been met with the site of their crown prince in blood-soaked shirt, clutching his wife in his arms surrounded by dead bodies lying in heaps.
All at once a commotion and a burst of noise had broken out. Despite the shouting demands for answers from their king, they had been surrounded by doctors, and somebody had pulled him away from her limp body.
He had clawed at them, screaming to let him go.
"Let me go to her, she's hurt!"
"You are as well, Sire." A healer had told him patiently as he threaded a needle, while another pulled his arms behind his back and poured a stinging liquid over his wound.
He had only struggled more, and when it finally became apparent that he wasn't going to allow his wound to be stitched up, the healer had only sighed exasperatedly and covered his face with a cloth that stank of something foul. After that everything went black.
He awoke a short while later, wrapped in thick blankets on the forest floor with dried blood all over his hands, to see a doctor carefully pull out the arrow from Ella's back.
He saw his father approach him. "Char-" he sounded panicked. Why was he panicked? His father never panicked.
Kicking his wrappings aside, he had wasted no time in staggering over to Ella, pushing the flurry of people that stood in his way aside. Collapsing on his knees, he pulled her into his lap.
"Majesty, I wouldn't-" the healer protested.
"Is she going to be alright?" he asked frantically. They had bandaged her back. Surely, she was going to be fine.
"I-I don't know, Majesty."
"What do you mean?" he bit, looking at the doctor for a brief moment before looking down again, pushing Ella's hair back from her face with a shaky hand.
The doctor looked nervous. "I healed her physical wounds, but-"
"Then she should be fine, shouldn't she?" he was getting hysterical. At that moment, she began to shake, her body moving uncontrollably in short spasms in his arms. Her eyelids fluttered rapidly, and her face was contorted in an expression of immense pain.
He clutched her even tighter, hot tears springing into his eyes. "Ella, love, please, tell me what's wrong," he slipped his hand into hers, "I-I'll make it better, I'll make it go away, please, I-I can't bear to see you like this."
He looked up at the doctor, who sat there, unmoving. "Help her!" he yelled desperately.
"The arrow was poisoned, your Majesty," he healer said gravely.
"Then give her the antidote," he snapped.
His response was only a shake of the head. "Essence of Oleander, your Majesty. It is one of the rarest poisons known to man, and even rarer is its antidote. Most kingdoms carry only a single vial of it, locked away in their coffers. I would have never guessed that the Puvians had laced their arrows with it."
All the colour immediately drained from his face.
"How can you be sure?" he asked frenziedly.
"See how she's shaking," the doctor pointed out, "it's already traveling."
And indeed she was shaking; her breath coming in short gasps now, beads of sweat lining her brow.
"The speed at which it travels varies from person to person, Majesty," he healer continued, "by the time we get a hold of the antidote, I fear it will be too late."
"What do you mean?" maybe if he held her tight enough, she would get better. Perhaps he could squeeze the poison out of her. Yes, that would be the cure.
"What I mean to say is," he doctor said sadly, "that perhaps you should face the possibility that the princess might not make it."
If he could have smacked the healer into saying that she would be perfectly all right, he would have done it. But then he looked down at her, and he found himself lost in the world that was Ella, Ella of Frell, Ella his queen, Ella his everything. She was deathly pail and thinner than he had ever seen her-almost bony-, fitting in his arms almost as a small child would. Her clothing nearly hung off her shoulders and her hair was limp, crusted with dried blood. And still he thought she was the most beautiful creature he had laid eyes one.
She couldn't leave him now, no, he wouldn't allow it. She had yet to become everything she was meant to be; she had yet to become Ella the mother of his children, Ella the greatest ruler Kyrria had ever seen, Ella a prominent figure in history books to come.
"Stay with me, Ella," he whispered to her, "stay with me."
She didn't respond, though perhaps she quieted a little, relaxing into an almost peaceful slumber.
He wouldn't wait for the doctors to get a hold of the antidote. No, it would take too long. They would want to put her in a carriage, traveling at a reasonable pace. She would never last that long.
He would take her there himself. He would ride through night and day. He would ride to the end of the world if he had to, but he would never, never, lose Ella of Frell.
"Where is the antidote?" he asked suddenly. It could be in Bramarre for all he cared.
"In Frell, your Majesty."
He felt a small bout of hope rise up in him. Frell wasn't that far off. He could get there in time, he was sure.
"In the palace?"
"Yes," the doctor responded, "I could arrange for her to be taken there in the morning, if she lasts through the night-"
"No," Char said forcefully, shaking his head, "I'll take her there myself. How long do I have?"
"Anywhere from a day to a week, but, your Majesty, you lost quite a bit of blood, you can't run off-," the healer gaped.
He ignored him, standing up shakily with Ella in his arms. She weighed almost nothing.
"Yes I can," he said determinedly, "and I will. And if you loved your wife like I do you wouldn't try to stand in my way."
And with that he staggered off, closing his eyes for a moment and praying to the heavens that Ella of Frell would fight the poison burning its way to her heart like she fought everything else. He prayed that she would last for as long as the poison allowed her to.
Even as the darkness consumed me, I could still feel the burning in my veins. It was hot, scorching hot, as if I had been set on fire and left to turn to ashes. It licked at my skin, charring it in its wake as a fiery tentacle wrapped itself around my neck, leaving me gasping for breath. I choked and tried to clutch at it, to pry it off, but it held on fast, squeezing me until I could no longer breathe. I could only manage to cough once as I became enveloped in a bubble of smoke and raging flames; the blaze had won. I could no longer distinguish between what was burning and what was not; it had eaten me to the dust of my bones. I had become the very fire itself. If I had arms to spread I imagined I would almost resemble a phoenix, taking off in a trail of red and yellow and orange as a tribute to the night.
And then all at once images began replaying in my head, of Bertha smiling at me as a child, of Mandy bossing me around with for-your-own-good orders, of Areida teaching me Ayorthian. I don't want to leave, I don't want to leave any of you, I thought. I saw Hattie's large teeth, Mum Olga's ice-cold gaze, Olive's blank expression. I saw Madame Edith's scolding finger, the childhood friend that I punched in the nose, and the ogre that tried to eat my leg. And then I saw Char; Char laughing with me, a breeze whipping through his curls, Char kissing my hand, telling me he loved me, Char talking to his parents about me, a proud expression adorning his features. Char's wounded eyes when he said goodbye to me as he left for the border, Char with a dagger between his ribs, Char bleeding, bleeding everywhere.
Everything I had done to prevent him injury and pain had been fruitless, everything I had put myself through to save him had all been for nothing. I had lied to him, broken his heart, fooled him into thinking I was someone I was not. I had given him my love and destroyed nature's Balance in the process, I had condemned him to a fate he did not deserve. I had run through the night, I had run after him, I had nearly gotten myself killed to save him. I had chased time that I did not have, I had leapt in front of the enemy knife without knowing in which direction it was pointing. And what did it all account for? Nothing, nothing at all. He had forgiven me, he had given himself to me, and what did he get in return? A dagger in his side.
It was my entire fault; it was my entire most treacherous fault. I had always been a walking disaster, why had I thought for a second that I would become safe to be around with the breakage of my curse? I should have stayed away from him. I should have never gone to those balls. I would still be cursed, but Char would be alive. Char would have been safe without me.
If I had any water left in me I would have surely cried. Instead I only felt a painful pricking behind my eyes. Perhaps I should extinguish the fire. Perhaps if I stopped holding on so tightly Char would survive. Perhaps, if I let go, Char would be forever safe from me.
And suddenly the burning stopped.
Instead I felt a cool mist cover me in tiny droplets, and I gasped. I found I could breathe again. I could feel my limbs. The flames were gone. The fire was gone.
My eyes flew open, and I bolted up.
Where was I?
Not in Kyrria, that was for sure. All I could see was grey, grey, grey. It enfolded me in a thick haze, and I felt as I were floating; I could see neither ceiling nor ground. There was silence, silence all around me. I couldn't even hear myself breathe. As I moved a little I felt something plush underneath me. I couldn't see what it was; in fact, the only thing my eyes could distinguish from the fog was a strange, unfamiliar set of robes wrapped around my body, soft and only a few shades lighter than what surrounded me.
And the pale hand that had suddenly appeared in the mist, gripping my arm.
I nearly screamed, wrenching it away as the body of a lady adorned in a pink gown followed, and then a neck, and then a surprisingly familiar head crowned with flowing silver hair.
"Do not be afraid," the strange woman said to me, "I am here to help."
"Who-Who are you? Where am I?" I looked around frantically. Where did the forest go? Frederick's assassin? Where was Char?
She laughed lightly in response, a twinkling sound that echoed about my ears. "But, my dear, you are where we had hoped you would be," she gestured to the space around me with a wave of her hand, "welcome to the cross-roads of the fairy world."
Was this the place Mandy talked of? Was this the land of the grey? But- "Am I dead?"
The lady's smile slipped off her face.
Just then, a different voice reached me, one of a lower pitch, one that sounded older, much older. "Not entirely, but you're nearly there."
A different woman followed the voice, dressed in billowing robes so white the very air around her seemed black. Her head was surrounded by a wild halo of coppery hair, ancient irises set deeply in an ageless face. A small smile graced her lips, but it did not reach her strange eyes.
She kicked her feet back as if she were about to sit in a chair, and she settled herself on the haze a few feet from me, though I failed to see a solid form underneath her. She must have seen my shocked expression, for her smile widened a little, bringing a twinkle to her fathomless eyes.
"Alta of the High Priestesses of the Council of Magical Creatures," she said in a business-like manner, "you, Eleanor of Frell, have caused me quite a bit of trouble."
I frowned. "That's not my name."
"Oh, yes, that's right, you go by a spunkier nickname, don't you?" she waved a hand dismissively, "Ella, isn't it?"
"I didn't try to cause any trouble." I ignored her.
"Nobody does, but you did anyway," she shrugged.
"It wasn't her fault, High Priestess," the other lady spoke.
I had seen them both somewhere before, but I couldn't quite put a finger on it.
"Ella, my dear," the silver-haired lady placed her hand on mine again. This time, I didn't pull away. "My name is Rosaline. I am a friend of Mandy's. I offered the high priestesses to cross when you did."
Mandy?
And then everything clicked into place.
"You were at my wedding," I told her, "standing beside Mandy." She was the strange lady with silver hair that I could have sworn I saw.
"I was," she smiled, "I apologise for not introducing myself earlier. I had only come to have a quick word with Mandy. I hadn't realised it was your wedding day."
"Speaking of Mandy," the High Priestess interrupted, "I should have her denounced for what she did. She should have slipped you the poison I gave her; then perhaps we wouldn't be in as big as a mess as we are now."
I flinched, stung by her words. How could she say such a thing? "But then I would have never reached Char."
"Yes, and a fat load of help that was,"
I reeled back. I wanted to smack her, high priestess or not.
But she was right. If I had never run after Char, he would have been all right. It was my fault he was hurt.
This lady clearly had a talent for deciphering emotions, because her expression softened. "Child, nobody blames you. You couldn't have known. It is your fairy godmother that should have warned you."
She did warn me, I wanted to scream at her. Everything that went wrong was my fault, my fault.
"Yes, fairy trinkets are largely unreliable," Rosaline patted my hand kindly, "but you cannot blame Mandy for not wanting to kill her," she said to Alta, "she didn't want to take the risk of Ella not reaching the grey land."
"My sister's crystal showed the same image your magic book showed you," Alta mused, one finger on her chin, "even up until when we possessed our magic, we were never shown the alternate outcome; we were never aware of Aloysius's involvement."
Sister?
Of course.
I had seen the image of three women like her in Achilles's eye. They must have been watching me this entire time.
"Aloysius?" Who was that? My head began to swim. It was all becoming too much for me.
"Aloysius is the fairy who arranged to have the assassin concealed," Rosaline told me, "I believe you heard his voice through the killer."
He must have been the one that told me he never meant for the prince to die. But why? Why would he come to an arrangement with the king of Pu, and not follow through with it?
I expressed my concern to the two of them.
"Aloysius is-" Rosaline started.
"-A pain-" Alta interrupted.
"-No, he's-"
"-A nuisance-"
"-High Priestess, please," Rosaline protested.
She continued when the older woman finally quieted. "Aloysius is a rather special case. He is a fairy, yes, but he broke away from our traditions long ago. He works for no one. He does not take sides. He will not do anything if it does not benefit him in some way."
"Then why would he agree to help King Frederick?"
"I assume the king offered him a rather large sum of gold. From what I gathered, his task was to conceal Beldana-the assassin-, and to ensure that he made it where he was supposed to be. Apparently Beldana was not a willing killer."
"Not willing?" I frowned. I couldn't wrap my head around it. What kind of an idiot would one have to be to hire a killer that did not want to kill?
"Adrian of Beldana was a traitor to the Puvian crown," Alta shrugged, "he was the one who warned his cousin, a Kyrrian duke, of Frederick's attack. The assassination plot was his punishment. Apparently the king of Pu did not find a death sentence to be sufficient."
A little of the fog cleared in my head. It explained why Beldana had seemed almost possessed, why his voice had not belonged to him. He must have been under a spell. It also explained why the mad fairy's intent was to hurt, not to kill. To save his own skin he would have had to convince one king that he had tried his best, and to convince another that he had done no harm. But that did not make me forgive him, or hate him any less. The anger that had sparked in my heart the minute I saw the dagger covered in Char's blood still raged.
I wished, more than anything, that my magic book had shown that. Why would it show an alternate image? I didn't believe Rosaline. My fairy book had never shown me anything wrong. This Aloysius must have changed his mind at the last second, too late for my book to show me, or perhaps had simply hidden it very well.
But still, even with my newfound knowledge, the facts remained the same. Char had been hurt, he was dying, perhaps already dead, and-I was here. I was far, far away from him.
"How close to death am I?" I asked the high priestess. She had said I was nearly there, but not entirely. What did that mean?
She smiled mysteriously. "As close as you want to be."
I furrowed my brow. Was she playing riddles?
"But-"
"Please. We have much to discuss," she interrupted, holding one hand up, "I will explain all in due time."
I crossed my arms.
Alta snapped her fingers, and suddenly, a bright turquoise loom appeared, glittering in the air in front of me.
"Might I just say, I'm very happy that our powers are back."
I raised my eyebrows. Did this lady enjoy turning conversations this way and that, taking it only where she wanted it to go?
"This is yours and Prince Charmont's loom."
I stared up at it, a medley of bright aqua thread, weaved through with diamonds and pearls. Was this the loom Mandy had talked of?
Alta flicked one hand, and the loom began to split down the middle. Slowly it separated into two smaller rectangles, one a light blue, the other a forest green. Still thin threads of turquoise yarn connected the two at large, even intervals, but a small space nevertheless resided between them.
"You have already begun to cross over, and thus, the Balance is beginning to redeem itself." She spoke gaily.
Well, I thought to myself bitterly, at least one person was pleased with the situation.
"It has not yet redeemed completely-see how many threads still attach the two? But they will slowly snap, and perhaps only one or two will be left. By the time you choose one of your three given paths, the Balance will be complete again. Lives will be brought forth, and those on the brink of death will be allowed to pass on. Life will return once more to nature.
She closed her hand in a fist, and the looms disappeared.
This was the moment I had been waiting for.
"Choose what?" I wish I could have been more concise, but at that moment, it was all I could muster. My heart had leapt to my throat. This was the part where I made my decision.
This time, Rosaline spoke. "You may choose to begin a new life on Earth," she pointed to my right, and all of a sudden a black tunnel appeared in the mist, and at the end, a small image of a white cottage on a mountain cliff.
"You will not have any memories of your old life. You will start afresh." Alta pitched in helpfully.
I didn't consider that a choice. I didn't want to live if I couldn't have Char, or Mandy, or all the people that I had grown to love.
"You may also choose to, as we say, go on." Another tunnel appeared, but no image followed. It remained black.
"What's at the end?"
Rosaline shrugged. "I do not know. Only those who take it may discover the truth."
Perhaps I should move on. Perhaps I had caused enough damage. Perhaps, everybody would be safer without me.
"There is a final path that you may choose," a third tunnel appeared, and this time, it was followed by an image of the castle in Frell, its rosy lights twinkling merrily. If I tried hard enough, I could imagine the sound of laughter and the strums of music wafting from the open windows. I smiled a little. This was home. I had been ripped from my mother's house too young, finishing school had been unwelcoming, and Dame Olga's manor had only been a prison cell of orders and servitude. In the castle I had felt loved, in the castle I had felt as if I belonged.
"It is the path of sober second thought, as we like to call it. You will return to your old life, perhaps a little while after you left. Or perhaps, who knows, at the same moment that you departed. Time works in strange ways here." Rosaline trailed off, looking up.
I stared at it, mesmerised. It was so tempting.
"What image do you see in it?" Rosaline asked in a hushed whisper.
"Can you not see it?" I asked, shocked.
She shook her head sadly. "I came here once before, many years ago on a rash decision I immediately regretted. I can only see the two trails."
Then why had she come here with me? Had she come here for me, as she said she had? Or did she have another intention?
"The palace," I told her
"Ah," she closed her eyes.
"I think we all know what the obvious choice is. After all, our intent was for you to return to where you came from." Alta crossed one leg over the other.
How dare she try to make assumptions about what I would choose? I decided I didn't like her very much.
"Of course," she continued without giving me a moment to speak, "keep in mind that when those with fairy blood find themselves here, they have passed on peacefully; their bodies have remained whole."
What was wrong with my body?
For once, she answered my question without me having to ask.
"Your case is special, in more ways that one. The arrow that struck you created a rather deep wound. If the king's doctors had not reached you in time, you would have bled out. Thankfully, that issue is resolved, expect for perhaps a small scar."
Somebody had found me? I had been treated? Had Char been tended to? Surely the crown prince would have been their first priority.
"Yet poison from the arrow runs through your body, one of which those same doctors do not carry the antidote for."
That much I knew. What other reason was there for the fire that burned through my veins?
"If you return, there is no guarantee that you will stay. You did not take care of yourself during the past few weeks; you are, unfortunately, too weak to fight it for long. If you find yourself here again, know that you will have only two choices to pick from."
I could return, but I was still in danger of dying.
"Then isn't it a waste of time to choose the third path?" I asked flatly.
Alta shrugged. "It's worth a try. There may be the smallest chance that an antidote may be reached in time."
I shook my head. "Char is the reason I'm here. Why would I return if he is dead?"
Her eyebrows shot up. "Dead?"
Why did she look so surprised? Was she not aware that the dagger hand sunk right up to the hilt?
"It was a deep wound."
She narrowed her eyes. "You're awfully dramatic, Ella of Frell. Your prince is fine. He was stitched up before it was too late. Of course, he is suffering from heavy blood loss, and he's going to have a nasty scar, but he's very much alive."
He was fine?
I felt something lift up from me; something that I had not even known was weighing me down. He was alive, he was alive. He was hurt, but he was not dead. I hadn't killed Char. I could almost jump for joy.
"Does that make your decision any easier?" Rosaline smiled at me.
I shook my head. Knowing that he was all right only made it harder. It meant that I was still a danger to him. I was a walking catastrophe, whether my fate had deemed it so or whether it was the cause of my excess fairy blood. He would never be safe from me. I had caused him and everybody else I loved so much pain; they deserved to be free from me. If I passed on they would be relieved from my threat.
"I have been the cause of everything horrific to have had happened to him. Surely another one will follow, and perhaps he won't be lucky enough to survive," I said, "You told Mandy yourself that a being like me is unnatural; I should not have existed. Perhaps it is best for everybody, and for the Balance, that I move on."
Alta's eyes almost popped out of their deep sockets. Rosaline gasped.
"Eleanor," Alta thundered, standing up to her full height, "are you out of your mind?"
"I-"
"Do you fancy yourself a heroine? Your life is not a fairy tale, you silly girl. Nobody is going to live happily ever after if you walk away from it."
"But-"
"Did you ever think, even for a second, about the reason why your looms became one?" she snapped, her hair beginning to stand on it end. She clicked her fingers, and all at once the looms were back. She jabbed at them with a pointed finger.
Truth be told, I had not.
"Emotional, even spiritual connections, that's what makes looms attach to one another!" she was screaming now, "most don't even have a single connection thread, but yours, yours became one with his for heaven's sake! Yes, you are right, your unnatural blood caused it to take such an extreme path, but that doesn't make the fact that it did any less valid!"
She brought her face close to mine. Her eyes were furious. "Do you really think," she said in a deadly hiss, "that you will save the prince by choosing the unknown? You will destroy him. You will destroy him and he will destroy your entire kingdom out of grief because of it. You will rip his soul to shreds. How can you live with yourself, wherever you go, knowing that you caused more damage than good?" she yanked herself back, her lips pressed in a thin line.
I would also destroy him by going back. I couldn't do that to him. Char wouldn't die because of me. Char would live.
"Don't think for a second that we will let you off on your own," Alta settled back into her makeshift seat, "my sisters and I will be watching you from now on, ready to intervene. You may be a thunderstorm alive, but you will be a plague if you're dead."
"And the Balance?" why did she care about which humans got hurt? Wasn't the fabric of reality her first priority?
"The Balance is not a concern of yours," she bit, "we are the protectors of the realm; we will ensure that it stiches itself completely the minute you choose your path."
I would be the cause of Char's destruction whichever path I chose. The ultimatum crashed into me like a wall of bricks, and I nearly stumbled over. Char would live. Char must live. I would rather he be alive and sad than dead. No, how could I say that? I wanted him to be happy, I wanted him to be joyful, I wanted his laughter to fill the palace halls in an endless stream. Char would never forgive me if I left him. But I wouldn't forgive myself either if I was the cause of another disaster such as this. I had never expected this Balance to be broken because of me. What other epidemics lurked in the corner, waiting for me to trigger them into action?
But then the thought of something filled me, the thought of something light. A balloon. A giant balloon. I had broken my curse, despite the odds. I had loved Char enough to do it then, to bring him out of danger. In my own way, I had reached Char in time; my love for him had been had made me desperate enough to find a way. The mad fairy's alternate plot had had nothing to do with me, hadn't it? Time and time again I had found away to save him, with nothing but the force of my love pushing me from behind. Couldn't I find a way to do it over and over again? Wasn't my love enough? Hadn't the joining of our looms proved it so?
No, there was too much of a risk. My balloon deflated a little.
But what was life without a little risk?
How would I survive if this flawed plan of mine failed?
I wouldn't.
And then I suddenly knew what I had to do. My mind was clearer than it had ever been before.
I felt Rosaline slide an arm around me shoulders.
"Do you know what you will choose?" she asked.
I nodded. "What will you?"
She smiled gently. "I have lived long enough. Perhaps it is time that I discover what lies on the other side, don't you think? And you?"
I closed my eyes, blocking out the grey haze. I imagined the sight I wanted most behind my eyelids. A wide, curling bannister, the branches of a large tree against a window. A head of tawny curls and a swarthy nose spattered with freckles. I felt a smile begin to grace my lips.
"Home," I whispered.
