I don't expect people to take me seriously, so when they do it feels very weird.

        Like I tricked them somehow, letting them think I was worth the noise.

        Because I'm not worth anything…I don't have any real views.

        I'm so superficial…all I'm interested in is pleasure.

        And can't they see that?

        In the filmy eyes of slumber, my lids shut and saliva escaped from an uncaring mouth as the temperature grew to a sickening heat, and in all the irritation, I turned and coughed, working out the crick in my neck from sleeping on a hardwood floor. The fire must have died down; I could barely feel its warmth, yet I had no desire to restore its glorious life…I couldn't even open my eyes. No, all I wanted to do—all I could do was shift and bunch up the jacket, a lousy companion for a pillow, and fall in an uncomfortably heavy sleep once more. I felt I had a conversation with myself, pleading to pull up and leave the territory, for it was no use waiting around to meet the unhappy owners of a broken window and an occupied den.

        But I couldn't budge. Something was tying me here; my laziness, probably; its utter fatigue—but however much I fooled myself, how long I resolved to snap out of it in five minutes, it was becoming longer and longer, until finally I was stuck in a sort of half-sleep, keeping myself alert when the next set of five minutes was up. It soon grew cold—icy, even, and I felt a darkening freeze run through my body, giving me cold shakes as my head was pounding and practically on fire. What a mess I was, but I stayed.

        My dreams were slipping one by one—as I mean, one on top of the other, and the reality of each was phenomenal. At one point I had to be restrained from throwing myself into the grand hearth at home, for I knew there was something there—some portal, or other, and I went into another feeling scared and worried about myself. I curse that I worried so much, worried for those five minutes that stretched into hours, for they entered my subconscious, plaguing me with unadulterated nightmares. They didn't frighten me to awaken; in fact, they made me even more tired—so dead in life, I never even noticed the darkness growing in the windows.

        "Ra…if you wer…God, this would…"

        Sound was my immediate caller, but I didn't rouse back to life so easily. Through time, some two minutes or so, my ears opened up, honing their abilities for a handicap on my blindness. I knew the fact: someone was there, but I didn't want to face it.

        There was much trifling after this, whispering, pillow fluffing the other furniture, firewood fueling the blaze; I could hear the crisp ashes welcome their feast as they clung to the logs instantaneously. Footsteps thumped around me—they put that quick, vibrant sensation in my stomach—and more talk from every corner of the room. I wondered just how many people were present with me; perhaps whoever lived here had called a whole town to survey this marvel in their living room. I might have been scared, but I was too distracted to fear anything. I did all I could to be silent and still, trying to gather what I could observe through hearing in hopes of finding out where I was, but it was growing hot, and I was anxious, and the time when I could at last open my eyes would never come fast enough.

        Some five minutes past, my skin growing ever warmer under the eyes of scrutiny, just—lying there, not being able to move, knowing they were watching me…it was horrible. I held my patience though, for as long as it took. Ten minutes must have past, but it felt as though the world had ended; flushed into the sea, and I would never get the chance to be heard.

        In a race of the heart, my stomach pumping like wings, I let my eyelids flutter. I was turned over on my stomach, head halfway buried into the pillow, so if I opened them, it would be discreet to those not looking exactly at the time. Just long enough to survey the room, and then I would figure this mess out.

As soon as I let my auburn pupils show, I moved them in all directions to see what was up, collecting my surroundings in such a short amount of time, with a million different things going through my brain. There were two people by the window I shattered—fixing it, I presume, a few others rummaging in the kitchen or around something I couldn't see, some on the couch, and one or two near the fire, so close to where I was.

My vision landed on the curious intent of a young man, sitting on the sofa's arm, with corn flour hair and soft blue eyes, the kind that seemed easygoing—never tense. But now they widened and blinked two or three times, before he gave it up and we locked gazes curiously, motionlessly, before his blazing grin appeared and, warmed by this secret affection, I could do nothing but smile back. We watched each other in this fashion, all the time wondering who we were, speculating, happy that we didn't look like murderers or something equally nefarious. I knew I could make myself appear quite angelic, but in all honesty, this was sincere.

"She's awake!" a strong voice croaked, and I sang out a surprised "Oh!" as my arm was pulled like a stick from a pond to sitting position, in front of the room, and I only had a trio of seconds to glance; see over the friendly young man who identified with me and the girl sitting tranquil if not a tad miffed against the cushions, legs neatly crossed with the hand of a tall, appealingly intelligent looking man on one thigh. I took in others' presence, but I couldn't describe anyone's physical beauty; not more than a flash, before the loud tintinnabulation of a sword coming out filled my mind with blood, and the cold steel was placed against my throbbing neck.

Jungle hair, pallid skin, a distressed state of mind—I must have looked très bien to them, now sitting at the mercy of a blade on a nameless floor. As I whimpered the one who saw me stood up, exasperated and saying something like, "Stop, Jérôme!" and others leaned forward and quipped, anxious to see what he would do. I didn't get a chance to even glance at my persecutor; I felt something crawl through my hair, as I always do when troubled, and ran my fingers harshly through it.

"Are you prepared to die for your sins?" he asked, slow and steady, though somehow false; as in a play. Maybe it was just my own consciousness refusing to take him seriously. "No one is spared when committing a crime."

"Look, you don't have to feel threatened by me, alright?" My voice was on the point of tears, and I spoke looking at the ground in the most pathetic condition possible. "I'm not armed, am I? I haven't taken anything—anything at all; not even any food. I found this place…I was just doing what anyone would have in the circumstances!"

"Doesn't matter," said the voice; he took his time and talked through a half-closed mouth, as if he had other intentions, hinting only by his tone. He steadied the blade right at my throat. "Breaking and entering is a serious offense, one punishable by death."

"Okay Jérôme, that's enough," piped a new voice, somewhat stressed, but I didn't dare look up.

"No, this isn't a game." I could almost feel his eyes cast back down at me. "Do you have any last requests?"

I wouldn't cry. I wouldn't cry. "Yes," I rejoined, louder than I had ever spoken to them. "Please take me back outside. I'd rather die by the cold than by an imbécile."

No Nicolette, what did you do?

He will kill you now—no—he will torture you and then kill you.

I hate you so much.

My eyes went awry, scanning the square of floor in front of me and then freezing, not even daring to breathe. No one made any exclamations…I wondered what they were thinking…most likely their faces told it all. I couldn't move though. In a few seconds' time, the sword, so shiny and grand, pulled away from my neck, upward and then down into the wooden floor, serving as a cane to balance my assassin on. I couldn't help it; I was breathing hard now—silent but deep, as in after intercourse, and I had to lift my eyes—so slowly—to meet his stare.

I saw he was void of expression as he watched me, except for his eyes; they were dark blue in color and full of electricity, blazing from some cavernous region of incensed nerves. And they were deep ingrained, like two walnuts with shady intentions, and brows that perpetually arched themselves—much like Julien's. His lashes were quite long, or so it appeared to me, from that angle, and his eyes on the whole were spaced apart, the farthest they could be without looking queer. In fact, it looked rather in proportion. His nose was rounded and in the air, his lips sultry (yet at the time emotionless), his clothes seemed rather downcast and finely cut for one not exactly close to my father's courts, and the last detail was his burnished, darkly golden hair that shagged to his ears in the most tailored way. Was he handsome? Yes…I would say so, but not in the conventional way; as in not in Julien's way. His age was probably thirty or thirty and something; not too old…just on the verge of growing into his features (imagine how utterly gorgeous Julien will look in his thirties), nonetheless it was rather childish of him to be acting so callously.

He stared down at me, hard as stone from such a slight angle; I mostly saw the bottom of his chin and nostrils, and the hint of those eyes. Stuck up in our own pride, neither of us moved for at least the next thirty seconds, and finally, finally his mouth twisted into a cruel smile, contracting like a rose and then spreading to show pearly white teeth. A laugh emitted low, like a shaking cavern, and before I realized, he had already closed his lips, evil seeping from his pores and scorching from his eyes, yet so calmly, vociferating, "These are the charges against you so far. Breaking another's property, entering another's property, insulting the owner of the damaged property, and," he eyed me up and down, "entering the wild unattended."

I knew those words.

I breathed, refusing to acknowledge these things so quickly as they wished, and looked blank for a moment to a square on the couch, and then at the other girl, who simply stared. She wouldn't help. I swung my eyes back to meet him, trying not to seem pleading, but I'm sure I failed miserably. "Is there nothing I can say to convince you that I had no other choice?" I was back to speaking to my hands, clasping themselves like scared kittens in my denim lap. "How could I just let myself die like that? And…how can you not understand another's problem? I know all of you would do the same thing." To play up my recital, I lifted my eyes slightly, staring at whoever was in front of me, though not being able to really see anyone at all. "Is the human race really so unfeeling?"

And my friend, the pleasant boy, kneeled down to equal my stance, our faces one inch apart. He shook his head and raised his eyes in a fascinating smile. "No. No, we're not."

Ahh, a moment of peace.

 "I don't believe this." The man standing over me whipped his weapon up, attacking posture, and smirked as I once again fired my feelings into his heart, a glare so hateful even I felt it. His hands were shaking.

My peripheral vision showed the one at my side switching views between us, and immediately he jumped up and pummeled Jérôme, causing the blade to fly to the other side of the room, the two or three there taking cover from its deathly promise. Horrified, I backed away from their fight, trying to collect my thoughts on what I saw: the two strangling each other and climbing over legs and arms for domination, cries and vicious grunts spouting from their voice boxes. The decent one caught Jérôme's fist in his palm, and took the diversion as a chance to clutch his breast and throw him from him, though instead my would-be murderer grabbed him by the collar and began to bang his head repeatedly against the ground.

He wriggled away from his grip and kneed him in the stomach, and as the one went back the other came up, and finally Jérôme was wrestled down and locked to uselessness, darting eyes to me and almost shouting, "I hate people like you—"

"Shut up, Jérôme—" his jailer tried to intervene, though he persisted.

"No, I hate people like you. No feelings, no thoughts except appearance. You have no real personality." I was hurt; he went on. "You don't deserve your beauty, because that's all you're good for. It's only physical—you are nothing inside." The blond boy elbowed him and tried to quiet his charges, but he only grunted and shouldered him away. "I hope you die soon, and put an end to your misery. You're—uhh!" his face was being pounded, "a walking ghost!"

I have never been so insulted in my whole life. Perhaps because he really struck a chord within me. But…if he did, then, it would really contradict his words. Because I would know how to feel. Maybe…I don't know…maybe I was just afraid his convictions were real, and that I was nothing; no one, just a girl so caught up on physical beauty and loving handsome men.

But I'm not; otherwise I would take it as a compliment.

I was backed against a wall, knees together and in front of me, hand up, fingers to my palms as if waiting to catch something. My eyes were slick, I'm sure, and I looked at him as though he were some mental ward escapee. I hardly noticed an exquisite, white-haired angel crouching in front of me as if to protect me from the reckless wonder; I should be the one to guard him with my life.

I looked here and there, collecting my thoughts, collecting myself, and ultimately, I attempted to press against the wall to raise myself up.

The man next to me: a short, somewhat slight character, with docile brown eyes and dusted brown whiskers put his gentle hand on my arm, igniting a start as I turned to face him. He had kneeled to my level, relatively speaking of course; in actuality, I was taller than him down on the ground, and his fashionable overcoat dusted the floor with clinging warmth.

"Mam'selle," he implored, smiling wide with his eyes. I knew immediately that there wasn't a hurtful impulse in his body, and that he wasn't particularly attracted to women. "Please, if you would honor us so, stay here tonight. I'm so sorry about your troubles. And," he hesitated, glancing over to their side of the room, "pay no attention to Jérôme." They were now talking—arguing civilly in a tone not meant for us to hear. "He's having a hard time right now. He has more problems than even I can comprehend. The only one I can be allowed to tell you is his attempt to cold kick la coca, which is more than just harming him right now. He got…addicted after the tragedy."

I had to throw him another glance. I'm sure my eyes were wide to the brim, but I was thinking very unclear things.

"Thank you…" I began as I angled my face, absentmindedly, to the one addressing me. I was still watching the other.

I shook my head and smiled. "Thank you. I really do apologize for breaking into your house…I would never, ever do anything so vile in normal conditions." I noticed the sheepdog lounging on the couch, panting and watching us through thick bangs. "I would have never found it if it weren't for your ange over there."

He grinned and drew her over to us. "Then I thank her for bringing us another." He kissed her hair and ruffled her, causing her little nub to shake, and it was the only real warmth in my heart I felt this whole night. "This is Minette, our only girl, usually," he threw his head in the direction of the flaxen woman tenderly whispering in her lover's ear, who was staring at me in turn. "She brings comfort not even human companions can. It's no wonder she should help save another's life, no it's not, no it's not," he humored the dog, scratching her ears and letting her nuzzle her snout into his breast. I smiled for convenience, though I was not feeling exactly up to par. "I'm Nicolette," I bowed my head, and he gallantly kissed the top of my hand, still holding the neck of his pet. "Nicolette…de Neige le tiers de Ange Beau."

He withdrew.

I dusted my skirts, arranged them, and waited.

"C…come again?"

"I'm…Princess Nicolette. My father is Alexandre."

The girl leaned forward from her seat, hand on a small flask of brown glass and her other arm around the man. She had long, wavy blonde tresses and a very healthy glow, something of a natural beauty, tropical; not usually from these parts. "The very one whose father was just wed to la baronne Vivienne Meunier?"

"Indeed. Um, she's the reason I'm here in the first place."

"I was at some of the reception," she went on intrigued, pushing her lover's hand away when he tried to lock it with hers. "But, I didn't see you…I don't think…"

"Our guest has a very lovely face," the man at my side amiably remarked before me, "I'm sure you would remember it, Sophie." Her eyes, unlike her face, shifted toward him. "And so do you, of course."

"I was only at the first part of the reception." I felt I had to intervene before another more heinous fistfight arose. "Just long enough to make an appearance." I attempted a smile. "I suppose the party spirit wasn't with me. Oh, but I was at the wedding. Were you?"

"No. I was going to go, but someone couldn't put down his pen fast enough to get there." She glared at the frozen man to her right. "You see, I'm rather well acquainted with the Madame. I used to date Nicolas."

I immediately sat up stiff and made a disgusted sound.

"Yes, I know the feeling."

"Exactly, but…" Words washed through my mind, and I tried to find out exactly how to spell it out. "He tried to kill me. That's why I ended up here."

She lowered her head, eyebrows high and floored. She mouthed the beginning of the word 'what' and looked as though she didn't really trust me…trust anyone for that matter. Mon Dieu, how many shocks could they take in one night?

"The bottom line is, Vivienne sent her sons to kill me this morning, while we were all hunting. I got away in time, got lost, and ended up here."

"But…why, why would she try to kill you? Vivienne is a wonderful person."

It was my turn to look perplexed. "Come again? Not to me, ever."

"Perhaps you just don't know her then."

"She never gave me a chance to know her. She was always against me from the beginning."
She didn't speak for a moment. She must hate me. "Well, why would she want to kill you?"

Because I'm the most beautiful in the land and she couldn't handle the competition. As if I would say anything such. She'd think I deserve to die. Maybe I do, I mean, what have I done for anyone anyway? I haven't exactly helped anyone…I've decided to dedicate my life to it, but it's always eventually, eventually. When will it begin?

        "I don't know," I finally spoke. My eyes darted over to Jérôme, leaning against the opposite wall, listening to me with rather intrigued, if not friendly eyes. "But…" I leaned against the wall, exasperated.

        "Nicolette should get some rest," the man at my side said, putting a hand on my arm and imploring me. "We can discuss this all in the morning. Things have been very hectic around here and, everything's always worse at night."

        "She's staying?" said the beast, a look of rather considerable animosity for me or, for anything intrusive into his turf abound.

        "I can leave. I don't wish to be a burden anymore than I have to." For the first time, I really didn't know what to do or how to feel, and I looked around for my tarnished jacket mumbling mindless rhetoric and gathering my hair behind me. "Uhh…umm, if you could just point me in the direction of a town or something…"

        I immediately flushed, hearing the sniggering from all axes—especially Jérôme, whom I wanted to kill, and Sophie, whom I wanted to slap, but even the boy next to me, the only one trying an ounce to be amiable could hardly keep from smiling. The blond angel I had skimmed over just before kneeled in front of me, perfection to the core, with androgynous features of blue eyes and feathery hair; of clothes dripping in red velvet, a sign of eloquent nobility. "Ma princesse, the nearest town is some thirty miles from here."
                "It wouldn't be in your interest to walk, especially with no money and such tattered clothing." This new, strong voice allayed any hostility he might have had toward my breaking and entering, only giving his professional opinion, something that burned my skin all the more. This is what I deserved, I presume, for being so stubborn about dying. I dipped my head once, agreeing sullenly, and in words too tired to contain expression, I asked the floor what I was to do.

        "I think we should let her stay for the night. Come on, she's right; it's an honest mistake, and she had to do it. We'll let her get some rest and sort it all out in the morning," the golden boy next to Jérôme finally piped in, letting his crystalline eyes flow into my soul once more. I had to grin at least a little; he was toying with me, but in such a way that meant no evil.

        "I do too," said perfection and the one at my side at about the same time. A few more murmurs of agreement bound the room in unison—I suppose they really were nice people—and Sophie's boyfriend nodded at her whisper to his brain. "We're going to go, so she can sleep in my bed tonight." With that, he stood up, black leather and all, and with the hand of his foreign girlfriend they reminded me of a burning star—something fireswept.

        "Am—am I the only one against this? We're housing the burglar! We should hang her at the very least."

        " That's quite enough now. Be a man Jérôme; you're incensing everyone and there's no reason to show such hatred."

        "Look," I tried to intervene, but the one by my side would just not let down, no matter how sweet his nature may have been.

        "No, everyone else here is trying to cope. We have to work together to stay in one piece."

        Jérôme said nothing.

        Ten minutes later, I was ushered into a dim room nearest to the stairs.

                I was left alone to collect myself, though I could see there were two beds in here; one near the lattice window, a big, thick white down that I was to sleep in, and another smaller, wine-colored mattress someone else would eventually take. White patterns of dancing light flew in from the thatched glass, making their mark on the opposite wall, and for a minute I could only watch their splendid lifespan play out in numb curiosity…they were caused by some type of pool outside, and what an angle it must have been at to reflect on a second story quarter. There was one lone candle on a dresser table for light; completely yellow and setting a rather medieval mood across my skin and nails. I looked down at them in the glow and saw their shiny endeavor, and knew that the only thing missing to perfect such a tranquil area was the serene strum of some classical guitar.

                I had to accept it: this is where I was at the moment; this was my life. But it didn't hinder me from being scared out of my wits.

                A rapid knock on the door sent my restive mind flying, and as soon as I spoke admittance, that blond boy, the one who had fought for me so gallantly before crept in, smiling as always, to sit down on his demure mattress. I feigned a grin—maybe rose a side of my mouth at most, until seconds past and I was able to avert my eyes to the ground in miserable self-pity. An uncomfortable silence ensued perhaps…a second and a half more, until he fidgeted through his pockets and then in the drawer beside him for a tiny metal box.

                "Pills?" he bluntly voiced. "They're for sleeping and…such. They might relax you."

                I didn't even think, accepting them graciously and then edging back to my bed. "Thank you." He nodded laxly in return. "So…" His hair looked apart of the yellow flame itself, in it's light and all. It looked so very alive. "How did you come by the smaller bed?"

                "Ahh, we're always deciding things oddly around here, bets, gambles, whatever…I don't even remember. It doesn't bother me, though. And the larger one is more suited to him, since he has Sophie and all."

                "And where do you go when they're together in here?"

                He scratched the indenture right below his lip, eyes widening to ethereal heights in the dark. "What makes you think I go anywhere?"

                My eyebrows steadily drawing themselves up pledged that his shock trick had worked, and to maintain at least a speck of dignity, I let myself limply fall on the cushiony pillows. "I'm exhausted. Maybe we can speak more tomorrow, before I leave."

                "I hope we're not just two passing ships."

                I let my gaze fall on him.

                "You somehow seem like a good friend."

                And with that, I closed my eyes.

                Dreams consisted of…odd things as usual. Forests and lakes, and watching myself dally in a chair, but most certainly the height of it was attending a gathering in the woods by witches and sorceresses, all dressed in rather beautiful medieval clothing, singing songs in old French and pouring shimmer dust on their bonfire and each other. Behind them, somewhat hidden by the shadows, stood an ancient well—ancient even for that time, with vines growing in the cracks and out of the bucket, still majestically swinging from a breeze. And behind this work of a people long past, stood a small apparition, silhouetted in black, with burnishing eyes I shall never forget.

                I felt a hand smother my face and I cried out, but no use: my vocal chords were useless. I was pulled back and I twisted and thrashed so violently I was even shocked myself. Whoever was there persisted, and wrapped a hand around my waist and arms, so even though I struggled with every bloody impulse I had the strength to evoke, an imposter, nameless and daring, was still controlling me. I kicked at his legs with my own, hurled my shoulder blades at him, and vowed never to give it up, how futile it might have been. I could never go silently to a death and just lie down and die beforehand.

                Halfway down the stairs, he stumbled and we both fell—hard—and I've never known such solace as the hard stones of the kitchen floor. I felt alive and cried out the beginning of a loud scream, but, never relenting, he flung himself on top and put out that fire fairly quickly. Stifled again, I raised my arms what I could and clawed at the black figure, still trying to get away, and he used his free hand to press down on my eyes, though I rocked hard to the left and threw him somewhat against a cabinet. He then rushed and wrestled me, both of us trying to get on top—him to probably kill me, me to get away, but in another plot turn he began pulling me forward across the room, dragging me is more the word, while all the while I pushed and kicked and kept him at a continuing pace of staggered blows. After a few, violent strides he yanked us both up and slammed me against the wall, putting his hands tight around my throat and turning on the gas lamp in the next room. Jérôme, I knew it.

                "What did they tell you?" he screamed with such anguish, though I could barely see the body, just the blue tint on the left side of everything.

                "Nothing," I croaked out, "nothing…"

                "Everyone that lives here is a brother to me, and none of them would blame you if I killed you right now."

                "Please…you're…hurt…ing…me…"

                "I'm in hiding right now. Do you know why? I murdered someone."

                "Please…"

                "I was a count, I had a good life, I married young and happily, but three years ago she left me for another, for a banker with long, almost blue-black hair and a taste for travel. She left me because of these things, and two days later he came to my home and asked for her dowry and possessions; he couldn't marry her without them, and when I asked why not, he said she is only worth as much as her fortune, of which there is plenty. Disgusted, and knowing she would never leave him if I asked her, I shot him. I fled to the country, to here, and it's been safe, and it's been the perfect life; a new name and new people, but now, you will surely confess when you're back at your castle and sentence us all!"

                By now I couldn't speak, just make horrific gurgling sounds, while my eyes had since closed, and when he persisted and continued telling me the sordid feelings he's had to endure and how hated I am because of who I was, I murmured, before I let my hands fall from his, "I forgive you."

            I heard his voice cut off, filling the air with an odd silence; a reflective one. I felt his hands being taken from my throat and feeling my body slump to the ground, but I remember actually feeling all of these things too, and remaining in my body. My hand gravitated toward my neck, rubbing the sore indentions (of which there were plenty) and I remember breathing hard, long and still, trying to collect myself, while not trying anything more than just to stay alive. My lids drew up, eyes following, to see him destitute in his sorrow, watching me through wet eyes that wouldn't allow their tears to fall, and stunned that he had actually come so close to taking another life. Through some odd whim of my soul, I don't know what, and he surely didn't deserve it…perhaps…I reached my hand to him, drawing him down their with me, and, in that low light, he cried long and hard into my hair for the first time in, my guess would be, three years.