Warnings: We still have ratings for reasons, folks.
Quick Note: For some further explanation, check the Author's Note at the end. I have some explaining to do. I'm also terrible sorry that this is a little on the short side!
The Second Slipper: Part the Second
Arimela looks in the mirror, running her fingers over the colorful blotches that adorn her face. "Truth," she says bitterly, her eyes falling to the mask that rests on the vanity. "It means nothing." The knock on the door and the flurry of voices that follow draw her attention away from the feathered confection, and she follows the sounds, eschewing shoes and letting her feet sink into the lush rugs on the floor.
Arimela watches from afar, as the door opens and the man who is standing there starts to speak. He tells of the ball of the night before, and as she watches his lips form the shapes of words, she finds with amazement that her own story is being told.
Este's lips curve into a bitter smile as she listens to the herald speaking of Ser Veronj al Camerdyia's new pupil. Oh what respect! She laughs to herself and thinks of how naïve they all are. They know nothing of the truth- they do not know that the new pupil that they exclaim over so is standing in their midst, walking past them everyday like a ghost wafting through the halls.
Este wears the mask of the expressions, but she does not feel them. She fancies that she does not feel anything anymore.
It would be so romantic, if it weren't so melodramatic.
She watches the messenger, listening to the words, "And she is the fairest in all the land," slide across her ears, infiltrating her mind like a disease; it is silent and invisible, and it may yet prove harmful.
"I am beautiful," she whispers.
"Este?" Fermimly looks askance at Este, pale eyes scrutinizing.
Este smiles loftily, condescendingly at her younger sister, saying, "Oh nothing, my dear, nothing at all."
Days go by, interminable days that stretch the hours to no end, never ending days that are so unbearably tedious. There will be another ball, but it will not beginning until dusk has fallen, and it is only midmorning now. Fermimly stands behind Arimela, brushing her fine hair with endless strokes.
"Ela," Fermimly ventures softly, "What happened at the bal masque last time?"
Arimela is silent, brooding on the words. She settles on an answer, "You heard the messenger, Fermimly, you don't need me to tell you."
"But Ela," the younger girl protests, "You never told me what you did. Este didn't go so I can't ask her, but you did. Oh Arimela, please tell me, please!" Fermimly catches the brush in a tangle and Arimela winces.
"You shall have to pick out what is true, though." Arimela sighs and begins to speak, relating her disastrous tale. She tells the absolute truth, every word coming directly from experience. When she is done, Fermimly giggles.
"Oh Ela, how can I pick the truth from that web of lies? You're such a good storyteller!"
Arimela sighs sadly and pulls the brush from her sister's hand. "You shall have to decide for yourself, Fermimly. I won't tell you; that's the secret of the storyteller."
"Arimela!" Fermimly kneels before the elder girl. "Please, please tell me the truth?"
Arimela's voice becomes harsh. "Hush, child. Go to mother. Perhaps she has something useful for you to do, instead of me feeding your fancies."
Fermimly rises, the hurt expression that blossoms on her face cutting Arimela to the quick. She must not care. She must be invulnerable to everything; she must wear her mask once more.
"Fermimly?" Arimela whispers softly, "I'm sorry, sister." A tear rolls across the healing skin of her cheek, but she knows that Fermimly is gone. "Dania."
The maidservant comes when called, padding softly across the carpeted floor. "Yes, miss?"
"I must get ready for this night's spectacle," Arimela informs the woman, her voice devoid of expression. In her mind, she replaces spectacle with debacle, for that is what it most certainly will be.
Arimela sighs and then gasps as the stays are yanked tightly against her spine, locking her into the bodice of her dress, just as she has locked herself with the commitment of this bal masque.
Este grins, her teeth showing pale white, hissing breath escaping from between her lips as the laces draw the whalebone into her back. "Wonderful, wonderful," she whispers, feeling the rigid fabric restricting her lungs. "Perfect."
She looks at her fingers, red from the pressure of the laces. "Masks for fingers and face, then," she murmurs softly, demurely, for that is all she can do. Were she to scream, it would be a sad noise indeed, for she can barely draw breath to speak, let alone shriek.
The dress, a pearlescent cream reminiscent of innocence, fans out from her waist, spreading in elegant white folds down to the floor. The cloth is as fine as the cut, and Este wears it well, looking ironically angelic. With a careless grace, she sweeps her pale locks up so that the crest like waves from the crown of her head, continuing the simple elegance of her attire.
Este has been excluded by her family this time as well, although now it is her choice rather than her fault. She had told them, so many hours earlier, that she did not want to go as she did not attend the first ball, and as they left, she smiled with pride for her skillful acting.
Now, as she watches the powder glimmer on her eyelids, she smiles again, again proud, but this time of her cosmetic skill. She slips out the door to her room, letting a dark shawl drape around her shoulders to ward of the chill that she imagines is floating through the air.
Este refuses to believe that the bumps that rise on her arms are caused by nervousness; she attributes them to the breeze that drifts across the lawns, bringing the scents of perfumed flowers to her attention.
A casual wave of her slender hand calls the carriage forth, and the driver she has hired hands her into the coach, grateful to be near such a splendid being. He knows where to go and therefore, does not ask.
She reposes on the cushioned seat, feeling the velvet cushions beneath her fingers give as she presses on them.
As the carriage comes to a jerking halt, Este steps out of the carriage and into the night, finding Ser Veronj al Camerdyia waiting to take her hand as soon as her feet touch the ground. His hand is warm on hers as he leads her away, away from the hired horses, away from the crowds. He takes her away from the security of reality and away from her life, leading her into her deepest desire.
Arimela can feel the music as it thrums through her chest, but she does not want to dance. She walks alone, alone through the towering hedges in the garden, separated from the merry guests. The mask still rests lightly on her face despite the lack of need; it gives her security in anonymity.
Footsteps create and irregular upbeat to hers, and she turns, ready to run with feral instinct. As the other approaches, her stance eases and the tension flows away from her in rivers.
"Good evening, Lady." A familiar voice speaks, and Arimela readies again to run.
"Good evening," she cautiously replies, the words floating lethargically through the humid air.
No more words are spoken, but his hand grasps hers as he pulls her into the shadows and begins to dance. Both wear masks, whether they are physical or otherwise, so neither knows who the other is. They simply know that they dance together, following the musical instruction with an artless grace that comes from desperation. Her hand holds tightly to his, the pressure equaled by his grip. Their gloved fingers twine elegantly around each other, pale silk catching on fine leather.
Arimela loves the brief touches of the night air on her exposed cheeks, and she imagines wistfully that they are the bare fingers of this unknown man. She wonders who he is, but finds that she cares nothing for knowing, but everything for anonymity.
She feels safer with this mask on, safe from the cruelties of the last bal masque, safe from the prejudices of the world against those who hide.
As the music slows, preparing to flow gracefully into the next selection, Arimela pulls away from her partner, choosing to slip into the shadows once more. She is surprised when he follows her, his hand rising to cup her cheek, the leather warmed by his skin touching her face with the utmost delicacy. She is even more startled when he reached up to his own mask and pulls it off without any hint of bravado.
In the shadows, his face is not clear, but she can tell enough from the light to know that he is not ill favored. Her hand mirrors his actions as with one hand, she traces his jaw line, and with other, removes her own mask.
Arimela knows that the darkness hides her fading imperfections sufficiently and so she feels secure in that no one will recognize her. The sweet caress of both hand and air make her shiver with delight, and as their hands fold together once more, she feels the joy dance down every vein that runs through her body
She is happy, until he looks up.
Este stares balefully out of the glazed window. It is such an expensive window. How easily she could break it though. Why are the fragile things worth more? She muses over this as she waits for him, watching the dancers below her.
They twirl in circles voluminous skirts flailing about like tortured daisies, sparkling in the light of the numerous candles. Este almost wishes that they would catch on fire, for what a splendid sight that would be!
She watches the hurried exchanges as partners whirl by, the desperate snatches of conversation that she cannot hear. Este almost wishes that she was down there, but she forgets all that when a hand rests gently on her shoulder.
"Este," his voice murmurs, low and loving in her ear.
"Veronj," she replies, equally sensual.
His fingertips trace lightly down her throat, tease the sensitive skin. "Este, my little protégé, my darling," he calls her, his lips echoing the words on her cheek. "You have come so far in such a short time. How proud I am of you!"
Este continues to observe the ever shifting scene below with the same dispassion that has masked her expression for so long. She does not respond to the advances that Veronj makes, only sits there, watching.
Este can see her reflection in the fragile mirror, and she watches her fate unfold behind her. She can feel his fingers pulling at the strings; feel the pads of his fingers pressing against the bare skin of her back, tracing the contours of her spine. She sits straighter as he splays his palm across her waist, curving first and last fingers around the edges.
But as al Camerdyia strips her of both clothes and dignity, Este spies of face that is lifted upwards, trained on hers, watching every move she makes. Then Veronj pulls her into his hard embrace, and that one connecting moment is lost.
Este does not forget it.
Eyes widen, and a gasp escapes painted lips. "Milord!" The word falls from a startled tongue, and skirts hiss over the cropped grass as they are spread for a sweeping curtsey. "My Prince," she says softly, hating the way that she is reminded of the humiliation from the last time.
Arimela is no longer safe, no longer hidden behind the protective barrier of her mask, She is exposed, her flaws uncovered for the judgment of her sovereign.
Her hopes rise as he pays no attention to her obeisance; instead, he is watching somewhere far above her head, his face illuminated by a shaft of light. The shadows are banished by the radiant intensity which burns in his eyes, and Arimela wonders vaguely if she should be frightened.
Slowly, ever so slowly, she backs away, still half bent at the waist, her skirts tangling gracelessly around her ankles. It is a shuffling walk she has, trying to be as respectful as possible while still in his view.
Arimela does not want a repetition of last time.
As soon as she deems herself to be far enough away, she straightens, gathers her skirts up and runs, looking back only once.
He is reaching after her, one hand extended towards the direction she has run, his expression both hurt and confused. Frantically, he searches for her in the light, but Arimela has escaped to the shadows.
Before she disappears completely, she hears him cry, "But I don't even know your name!"
And then she is gone.
Author's Note: Okay, I said I had some explanation to do, so here goes…this story keeps running away from me and getting longer and longer. Originally, it was going to be one ball, but now it's two. Possibly three, even. It's…odd. It'll end eventually, though. No more than four parts, I'm guessing. I'm hoping…
As for my lack of updating…school is dominating my life entirely. This is what I get for skipping lunch to take extra classes: extra work! Luckily, my AP classes haven't given me too much work (yet), so I still have some time. I've also been sick for just about the entire month of September, so time not spent on schoolwork is spent napping.
But here it is! Part the second! You can all celebrate now! Or maybe not…:)
Thanks to all the people who reviewed, I really appreciate it. Again, any suggestions, critique or any type of comments are welcome and encouraged!
To those who reviewed…
Lupusregina I'm addicted to Cinderella stories as well…I hope this gets less confusing as it goes on. Is there anything I can do to make it less confusing?
Aerinha Thank you!
SmileyFacePerson But…but I couldn't leave it at a one-shot! It made me write more! Although, when I think of it, I can totally see your point. Thanks for the comments!
HolmesIsMyHomie Aw, I'm sorry I scared you! But at the same time…I'm glad you love it:)
Scoutcraft Piratess: Something else will be coming…eventually. Once I decide what 'Something Else' will be. Sooner or later…:)
Areida Rivers: Anne has told me about you- you're Gavin's writer (creator?)! is excited to meet you! Wow. Thanks for all the compliments! They make me feel really good:D As for how I leave all the hanging possibilities…well, I don't actually know who ends up where, so that's how that happens. I have to leave myself plenty of elbow room to do what I want to do…whatever that ends up being.
Well, cheers to all and I hope you enjoyed this installment of The Second Slipper! Tune in next time to find out what happens next…!