[ 2 ]
It was the same. The looks, the eyes, the whispers; all of them were still there. "Should have expected it," Celena grumbled to herself, glaring disparagingly at the mirror on her vanity desk. Well, she decided, pulling violently at the strings holding the front of her dress together, that would be the last one.
Slim fingers easily untangled her short curly hair after she had managed to free it from the pompous style Eliste had put it in to try and hide the fact that her tresses were shorter than her brother's. It had grown nicely within the last year and a half, so at least she could say that it was "getting there." She twirled around a lock of hair absentmindedly. Years would pass before her hair could get as long as some of those uppity noble women's, but when it did, they could stop silently haranguing her for being unfashionable.
Her finger froze. The silver strands of hair unraveled themselves from her finger and fell back to her skull. Unerringly she knew that she liked her hair short; that it was attractive that way; that she was attractive that way. Everyone should appreciate something so unerringly beautiful. A smile of self-appreciation crawled to her lips as she gazed longingly upon her reflection. She found a familiar path to trace along her right jaw and her smile grew wider
"No!" Celena cried hoarsely in frustration, pounding one tightly clenched fist into the mirror. The entire desk shook, rattling containers of makeup and boxes of expensive jewelry, while the mirror gave birth to a tiny crack in protest. She bit her knuckles to prevent herself from crying out any further, for fear of exposing herself to any overly-curious servants.
"How long?" she whispered, "How long can I keep hiding it?"
Not for too much longer now. And then
.I'll destroy you.
Homecoming, at first, held nothing except thrills and joy. Celena couldn't remember ever having been happier at seeing the Schezar mansion, and it was more than her long absence. There was a safitisfying feeling of security, of family, that she knew she had been lacking for years.
The flowers! The fields! She ran through them as she did as a child, waving her arms around like a bird, chasing butterflies and lizards, falling more than once over a rock or into a mud puddle to only pick herself within seconds to resume the chase. Her mother or Allen had often called out after her to be more careful, reaching out with hopeful arms for her to return. Her mother she always returned to with muddy shoes and some sort of interesting form of plantlife that had caught her eye. With Allen it was more likely that she'd expose a candy-colored tongue in their direction, then turn heel and keep on running. His long legs would catch up to her easily, and his words would be sharp. Celena would then gaze up at him, eyes innocent and adoring, a flower held up in one dirty hand, and he couldn't help but forgive her. Now her beloved mother was dead, and Allen merely watched, allowing her indulgence while a sad, wistful smile held his lips.
Things seemed so peaceful and normal at first. Allen and the house servants did their very best to act as if she'd never left. They laid out foods that were once her favourite, and who was to argue if she said that perhaps she liked her meat a bit rarer nowadays? Pink dresses suited her quite well, though she was right, the darker the red the better it brought out her complexion. And who was to do anything other than compliment the fact that she already knew how to read and understand the latest essays regarding the Gaean recovery from the War of Destiny?
Then she began to notice that discussions regarding anything remotely Zaibach halted or turned quickly when she came into earshot. She brought up the issue with Allen, vehemently demanding to know what people were hiding from her. He sat her down and asked simply if she remember a young man named Dilandau Albatou.
Celena had paused, cocked her head, and thought for a good long moment. She did, and she did not. She knew of him, from the whispered talk that she'd managed to catch. And she knew that she had been him, of that there was no doubt. She had tapped her head. There were visions, terrors, and feelings that were there that could not be hers, but were fragmented and hazy. Late at night, while trying to sleep, she would grasp at one, trying to hold on to a murderous intent, the smell of blood, the silky touch of the Guymelef's chemicals surrounding her (his) body. She'd sniff, feel, and her heart would race, but it would slip away swiftly, leaving her confused and empty. Allen had blinked in confusion, and she had smiled brightly. It was nothing for him to worry about, she assured him.
"I am Celena Schezar now! And no one else!"
And then, six months later, the Sickness began.
One day while exploring the Schezar estates (one of her first valiant escapes from the Terrible Eliste) she had been struck suddenly by a terrible nausea. She had vomited violently among a grove of trees. At first she attributed the sickness to that entirely unenticing new experience called menstruation. She had started covering up the mess with a pile of dirt.
Then her muscles threatened to tear from their tendons making her incapable of movement. She collapsed onto the ground. An unbearable pain ripped through her head as a voice as familiar as her own screamed frustrated obscenities at the body that had become a prison. Her mouth was frozen in a silent scream, and her body contorted and froze in a shuddering curled position on the muddy earth.
It faded after several minutes, leaving her feeling physically and emotionally weak. The back of her dress was caked in dirt, and there were more tears in the delicate fabric than she could count. Slowly she picked herself up, ran home in tears, exploded out with some half-baked story about falling down a hillside, and was sent to bed after a thorough bath and a small dinner. Further incidents became more and more frequent to where it was nearly a daily battle, and with experience it was easy to make up the stories and to hide herself when necessary.
Soon after the Sickness came the Nightmares, in which she regretted ever wondering about her former life. There were those that were pleasurable to Dilandau, sickening to Celena. He gleefully reminisced of towns burning, soldiers being crushed underneath Guymelef feet, knuckles cracking the faces of insubordinates, murders, as sadistic as they were bloody, and through it all Dilandau's boy-sweet voice and piercing laughter, coming from what felt like her own mouth.
Then there were those that terrified the both of them. Escaflowne, slaughtering every Dragonslayer one after the other while he (she) looked on in helpless horror. More rattling were those of being strapped down to a table, crying out for Allen, Jajuka, anyone, while black-robed Zaibach sorcerers prodded, pricked, and spoke in deep, monotone voices to one another of changes of fate. Celena woke up from these, sweating profusely, thankfully not screaming, and did not sleep.
Celena slid out of her evening dress and into a light, soft nightshift. Under the feather covers she went, curled up on a bed that was obviously far too small for her current frame. Exhaustion, permeating mind and body, swiftly spiralled her into sleep.