Warnings: Betrayal and drama galore!
The Second Slipper: Part the Third
Arimela feels the rush of air surge through her lungs, claw its way up her throat and then tumble haphazardly from between her lips. The shawl is tightened around her shoulders, a worthless barrier against the rain. Her footsteps echo dully across the walls that rise up and into the gloom of the morning, sounding with hurriedly silenced petulance.
Arimela's skin feels taut, as if her skull is the body and her skin the head of a drum. Her fragile nerves feel the same, ready to be snapped at a moment's notice.
Arimela is glad that it is raining. No one knows if the drops that trickle down her cheeks are raindrops or teardrops. As she steps beneath the shelter of a vendor's stall, she wipes the innocuous moisture away, smearing it gracefully across her cheeks.
"Good morning, Mistress. How may I help you?" The robust voice that rolls out from behind a tower of cloth is soon accompanied by the incongruous frame of a thin man.
"Good morning, Goodman. I seek only a respite from the rain, nothing more." Arimela feels her lips twist upwards into an unwilling and unexpected smile. "I am sorry to rob you of the joy of a sale."
"Ach, such things do happen," the scarecrow figure replies, shrugging sharp shoulders in a good natured gesture. "It is rather damp out today, eh?"
Arimela nods, "Oh, indeed… not just damp, either." They both watch for a few silent moments the rain that sluices off the canvas overhang. The silence is broken by another painful cough.
"Oh, Mistress, such a noise I've naught heard before!" The merchant is all effusive concern, taking her arm and leading her to his former shelter. "Sit for a spell, stay as long as you like, admire my wares…" He trails off with a worried chuckle, a laugh with Arimela tries to duplicate but ends as a hoarse wheeze.
She looks at him, noting the aging face, the vague wrinkles around the dark, caring eyes. "Thank you," she says, but even so simple a phrase seems too clichéd. "Goodman, you do me such a service."
"Ach, Mistress, it is nothing to let a lady rest but chivalry, like the knights of old!" He smiles again. "It has been a dreary day so far, but perchance I may brighten yours."
Arimela smiles at the shopkeeper, grateful for the kindness. She opens her mouth to speak, but the words that ring through the air do not come from her lips.
"All the maidens, did you hear?" The feminine chatter fills the street, flying above and across the crowd of young women.
"All of them! Can you believe it?"
"Oh," sighs one with a particularly vapid expression, "I do so hope smiles at me!"
Este glides between them, feeling as if she is the water that floats upon their oil. She is separate, and she prefers to keep it that way. Her silk skirts hiss over their rough cotton ones, and she pretends not to notice the jealous glances that are turned her way.
"All the eligible maidens are to assemble, the messenger said!" The excited words still hum in an intense undertone, creating a throbbing pulse for the gathering.
"This is so exciting! Oh, how wonderful!"
Este refuses to take part in their prattle, considering it worthless.
"Ladies! Form a line!" A tall man stands in the center of the small, frilly mob. His large hand ensnares a thin arm. "Get behind her!" He bawls, his voice carrying over the heartbeat and quieting its nervous flutter.
The frightened wisp of a girl straightens, proud to be first. Her mousy hair falls in lank tangles across her shoulders. Este watches in amusement as the girl wobbles when the tall man grabs her ankle and jerks it from beneath her. The tears flow when the shoe that is jammed on falls off loosely as soon as the helping hand it removed.
The poor, wispy girl looks so sad.
Este does not care. Este has forgotten about the girl, about the tall man and about the press of curvaceous bodies around her. She is thoroughly focused on one man, one man who is so solemn.
This one man wears a crown upon his head of brown curls, shining with miniscule droplets of rain. He is dressed in the finest tailored uniform, a royal seal embroidered neatly upon his breast. Este traces his face with her eyes, at last meeting his gaze with startling recognition.
She is thrown back in time, to a night not long ago, where she is sitting in front of a window and a thoughtless man with cold hands is claiming her as his own, while she seeks freedom in the fleeting glance of another's troubled stare.
As they focus on one another in the present, Este recognizes this look and this face, but separately. Slowly, she merges the two.
This man is Larius val Tännon, Prince of the mother country.
Arimela watches from the back of the line, sees Este once but dismisses it as a figment of her imagination. Her eyes are locked upon the visage of her Prince, the man she both fears and adores. She does not know which to hold as truth. Is the man who berated her so soundly the true Prince, or is the anonymous man who dance half the night with her real?
Arimela does not know, so she waits.
At long last, the mass of girls is whittled away to nothing, with only Arimela and a few others left. She daintily lifts the hem of her skirts, proffering her foot with the utmost grace. She gasps as she sees the shoe that will adorn her foot.
"Oh!" She exclaims softly, surprised etched across her face. "That's my slipper. The one I lost!"
The tall man who is now kneeling snorts. "Of course it is, milady, of course. It's been every other young lady's as well, did you know that?"
Arimela's brow furrows at this indifferent rebuff. "But it is. I ran home, one shoe off, one shoe on. I ran away from…" She stops, aware of the imperial presence that hovers so near.
"That's right, darling, you didn't." It is the man's turn to frown as the shoe fits perfectly, as if it were measured to fit this foot exactly. "But then again…" He smiles upwards. "Perhaps you did." His smile is now friendly. "Go stand with the others, girl."
Arimela rises slowly, confused. She refuses to look at her Prince, and so, when she passes him, does not look at him. A hand on her wrist freezes her in her tracks.
"Sera?" The white glove is planted firmly on her sleeve.
Arimela risks a glance upwards, heavenwards. "Yes, Sera Arimela dy Sharteth."
"Look, at me, Arimela dy Sharteth." He is so polite, this Prince. The second truth must be the real truth.
She looks. "Yes, my Prince?"
His lips quirk into an ironic twist as he remembers the masked woman from the first bal masque and how she said the same. Perhaps he has found his bride. "You remind me of someone. I can't place who. Please, continue on your way. I am sorry to have interrupted you."
"It is no trouble, my Prince." She dips her head again, fear and adrenaline coursing wildly through her veins. She does not know whether to fear or to stay, and so she stays.
She waits.
Este sees her half sister step into the small group of maidens who qualified for the second examination. They all look similar, their slender bodies tapering into corseted waists and then flaring gently into modest skirts. They all appear affluent, for their cheeks are rouged and their dresses fine, but none so much as Este.
Este smiles haughtily.
Two of the chosen five are talking together, whispering in sibilant spurts of breath. Este cannot hear what they are saying, but assumes their subject to be Larius val Tännon. The furtive glances in his directions confirm her guess.
Este keeps her own musings to herself. She wonders that she should have met him before and intrigued him so. She doesn't quite understand anything, but she knows that she can make this work to her advantage somehow. She hopes.
"Ladies, please, come this way." The tall man who has knelt
before them stands finally and beckons them over. Este snaps to attention and
migrates with her new companions. She sees that they have an audience now, an
audience of red-eyed girls and grinning boys, old men and new mothers and any
number of other misfits about the town. They stand in the rain, just to watch
the royal heir find the maid he is searching so desperately for.
"You will each speak to his Majesty now, after you are presented to him, of how
you met him." The valet's resounding voice shivers through her chest, vibrating
with the deep tones. "This will allow Prince Larius to ascertain that you are
the correct woman."
Este watches the two girls out of corner of her eye, watches them frantically exclaiming to each other about how they never met the prince, but they must impress him anyway. They promise each other that they will not be jealous if the other is picked.
Este chuckles, because she knows they both are lying.
"Caryn fa Gelder, step forward please." The tall valet takes her arm and draws the now terrified girl forth, out of the protective and possessive clutches of her friends.
"Speak." Larius's voice is flat, inflected with metallic politeness.
Caryn fa Gelder throws a fearful yet triumphant glance over her shoulder. "We danced, Prince Larius. We danced all night long together, and at the end you told me loved me, by the edge of the pond. You said we'd get married. I had to leave, though, because the night was waning and morning was coming. You said you'd find me again, and you have, Larius my love. You have." Her voice starts out tremulously, just as her tale does, and strengthens along the way, losing the frightened edge. "I ran because I was not supposed to be there. I had to flee because my mother and sisters would chastise me violently if they caught me. I am so sorry, my dear, that our night had to be cut short."
Val Tännon shakes his head only slightly, cutting the merchant's daughter short. She is lead away, her triumph now turned to bitter anger.
"Daciana al Havergal. Come here."
A soft wave of surprise crests of the crowd, reviving the arrested heartbeat of rumor. They are surprised that such a high ranking noble is among the chosen few. The crowd, which has been clinging to the cliché of their poor girls making it big, is shocked, their dream falling into disgruntled grumbles.
"Larius." Her voice is as emotionless as his.
"Daciana, speak." A lock of brown hair is swept away from his eyes.
"I have nothing to say, oh Prince." Sera al Havergal does not bother to conceal the dislike behind her words. "I am not the girl you are looking for. Try one of your common whores. Maybe she'll be the one." The words are spat at him, crass in both sound and meaning.
Larius nods in agreement. "Too true, dear Daciana, I would never tarry with women like you, for there is far too much betrayal within your ranks." The political power play swings back and forth, blow for blow.
"Sera Daciana, this way, please." The valet touches the linen of her sleeve as if it might burn him. She follows without a backward glance.
Este is getting bored, so she amuses herself by trying to guess who will go next. She would guess that it is Caryn fa Gelder's companion, who stands in the rain shivering alone.
"Este dy Sharteth." Este shrugs, she does not mind be wrong on this. "Come forward and give your account."
"Prince Larius val Tännon," She begins respectfully, bowing her head to shield her gaze from his. "I saw you from afar, a woman in a window." Slowly, she lifts her head, trying to make her final revelation as dramatic as possible. "You were dancing with someone, a woman, unknown and masked. You yourself were masked, but still you wore the royal crown." She can see the embroidery on his jacket now. "Our gazes met, and I felt as if my heart was bared to you." A hush falls over the crowd as the all strain to catch her words. "I watched from the window until I was drawn away, back into the confinement of my loneliness. In that single moment, however, I knew you, and I knew I would never forget you." Her voice drops to the smallest whisper, inaudible to everyone but the people closest. "That is my account, true as it is." She is finished speaking.
She still has not met his gaze.
Larius reaches out a gloved hand to touch pallid skin, lifting his fingers gently beneath a rapid pulse. He tilts her face upwards, towards him, so that he may see her face.
He knows her. She is the woman that he saw on the second night, the one that he recognized as if he had seen her before. She must be the woman who ran from him the first night. It must be so.
He wants to believe this siren's song, and so he does.
He watches the clear blue eyes watching him and almost smiles.
Larius believes he is in love.
Arimela gasps. Her half sister has won the prize with a few, well-spoken words. She can feel the heat burning in her face, rushing angrily around the fading scars, leaving her face vaguely striped.
Arimela lets out a breath that she did not know she was holding as the Prince nods, but motions the next girl up. Arimela realizes that she will be last.
"Xavia fa Rellan, come and speak." The Prince himself makes the command, as Este stands at his side, watching the proceedings confidently, arrogantly.
The trembling girl steps forward, her pale hair damp and limp in front of her face. "My Liege, 'twas the ball just past, where we met. You introduced yourself to me and we danced and conversed for a time before royal duty called you away. Another partner captured me before we could exchange names, though I knew yours well enough." Xavia pauses, knowing it is hopeless and that any lie she creates will not outshine the truth. "Is that enough?"
The Prince nods, sensing her humiliation, and the poor girl runs to her former companion with tears augmenting the rain.
The tall man turns to Arimela. She is the last one. "Arimela dy Sharteth, please, regale us with your plea."
Arimela does not look directly at the Prince, instead choosing to look all around him. The window yonder is fascinating, and the child sitting enthralled in the mud is equally enthralling to Arimela. "My Prince. It was dark. Night. The first night. I had been dancing with one of the courtiers. Keldran dy Orinth." Her eyes dart over the patrician features of the man watching her. "Then everyone removed their masks but me. I had my own reasons for not following suit." Arimela pauses and then rushes forward, her words tumbling over each other. "I didn't mean to try and win your heart. I had…other reasons."
Arimela can feel the eyes scouring her, looking for the imperfections that Este inflicted. "You demanded I uncover my face, but I refused. I couldn't. Couldn't. You yelled. I ran. Barefoot. I didn't know what happened to the shoe until today." Arimela watches the angry flush burn through the Prince's cheeks. She can tell he is angry, but forges on anyway. "The second bal masque. We danced in the shadows until something distracted you. And then I saw that it was you, my Prince, and I ran once more. I know not whether I should fear or adore you. I still am undecided." Arimela bows her head and waits.
She waits like she always does.
Larius remembers with a scarlet tide of embarrassment. He can feel the hot fury crashing like a wave over his thoughts.
He remembers her well enough. He remembers the insolent creature from the first night, the terrified child of the second. He knows that she is the girl he is looking for. Her foot fits the slipper best, and he understands this. The damn thing was made for her.
To imagine such a delicate woman subservient to him- it is both horrible and enticing. Larius wants to reach out and touch her, but he dares not.
There is a woman standing behind him who stops him, staying his hand by her mere presence.
Larius wants to draw this paradox in a female form close to him and yet push her away at the same time. The implications are slanderous, but she is so alluring, her story so true.
Both stories are true.
But which is more compelling?
Larius stands, situating himself between the two women, and extends his hand.
Ser Veronj al Camerdyia smiles mirthlessly. His protégé has stepped forward to claim the hand of the prince. Al Camerdyia knows that the cycle ebbs and flows in tidal patterns, but he is always disappointed when they choose someone else over him.
He will never go so far as to claim a broken heart, or something similarly nonsensical, but it hurts.
Veronj al Camerdyia's eye falls on the timid mouse of a girl standing there, rejected. She is outside the circle of euphoria that has enveloped the royal heir and his chosen bride. He watches her watching them, his gaze curving around her figure, caressing her with a look.
Suddenly, Veronj understands that that slumped shoulders are not hiding sorrow, but something more, something that smolders within the protected arc of her shoulders. Not even the rain can dampen the fury that dances down the tension that lines her arms.
Veronj smiles once more, but this time, it is the feral grin of the predator.
Arimela stands there, feeling betrayed. The water dripping down her back in a trickle turns icy, or perhaps her skin is just burning. She should have expected this- this jealousy. She can feel it making its torrid way through her veins, crawling beneath her skin like so many ants. It infuses the very marrow in her bones, making them simmer with a seething envy that refuses diffuse.
Her eyes glance off of another gaze, a fascinated look that captures hers and refuses to let it go. The intensity of this watcher frightens but intrigues her.
She returns the stare, snaring his interest as well, or so she thinks. Slowly, she pushes her way through a crowd that has forgotten her already, making a path to him.
"Ela." No formality. Her name, stark and bare, is drenched by the rain.
"Veronj." She accords him the same informality.
"You are the girl." No question, just statement.
"Of course." She is still angry, but the rigid lines have softened into whip-like curves. She is ready to strike at a moment's notice.
Veronj smiles his feral smile, drawing her within his reach. "You should come with me. I have many things to tell you."
Arm in arm, but following the strict rules of decorum precisely, they depart.
Behind them, the crowds cheer as the Prince indulges in a kiss with his fiancé.
Este stands stiffly, the white dress constricting her breath and making her feel faint. She gasps, trying to discretely draw in more air, but the priest glares at her from beneath snowy brows and she stops. She feels the man beside her shift slightly, the fine cloth of his official uniform rustling.
"We are gathered today to celebrate a momentous occasion," the priest says, he voice scraping across the stones of the cathedral walls. "The marriage of our dear Prince to a fine lady." The holy man drones on, but Este does not pay attention. She still struggles to breathe properly.
Is it nerves? She wonders. She has never been like this. The stays cannot be entirely at fault; she has not had this much trouble before. A soft cough gains her another murderous glare.
"Should anyone have any objections to this marriage, let them speak now or forever hold their peace." The priest does not pause, plowing on with his memorized lines, not anticipating anything unusual.
Este finally gets to gulp in huge draughts of air as the uproar that follows the shrill cry of "I object!" engulfs all other sounds.
The old holy man if flabbergasted, and it amuses Este to see him so. "What?" He mumbles to himself. "What is this madness?"
"It is not madness!" The same voice is raised once more. "It is truth, and as truth is based in reason, it cannot be madness."
Este slowly turns, knowing who it is and yet disbelieving. "Arimela?" She whispers the name, unable to speak louder. Her breath catches in her throat, caught behind tears and myriad fears.
"My Prince, this is not a worthy bride for you," Arimela states passionately. "She is too licentious to be the pure Princess that you dream of."
"My sister…" Este cannot make herself understand.
The man beside her demands angrily, "What are your grounds for this accusation?"
Arimela flounders for a moment, casting a quick look over her shoulder for someone who doesn't seem to be there. "She is not pure, not virginal. On the night of the balls, she had an assignation with a member of your court."
"Where does this information come from?"
Este looks at the expression on his face; she cannot tell what it is. It is too convoluted; there is anger, but there is also something else. Something darker.
Finally, she places it. It is guilt
Author's Note: First off…I take forever to update. Secondly, Fanfiction wasn't letting me login the day I tried to update…so…here we go! An update! Wowie! Thanks for putting up with me everyone…I appreciate it.
Besides problems…school (more specifically, AP History) has eaten my life. Chomp, chomp! Gone! Just like that…the end of quarter push was tough…so many tests to take, essays to write, and units to read! Oh it was crazy…but I rehabbed with a little fun writing. I hope you all like it, and many thanks to those who reviewed!
One question: Is this good and done, or should I write a fourth part?
To the Loveliest People:
HolmesIsMyHomie Thanks for reading:)
Scoutcraft Piratess: My characters confuse me as well. It takes me forever to sort out different personalities when I write in third person because I get them all tangled…but it is fascinating…I s'pose
Smiley Face Person: I'm glad you like it! And I hope that your keyboard is better…:)
SophianwinThanks for your compliments, but I have no idea what you mean by 'those lines that fanfiction provides.' If you tell me what they are, I will probably be more than happy to do so. :)
PearlwalrusWell, thanks for reading, but could you possibly (if you're still reading, that is) elaborate further and tell me what I could do to make it better than ok? Please:)
Arieda Rivers: Well…One more part to go…unless you happen to think that it is finalized enough as is? And yes…mutually glad to meet each other does sound a little silly... :P
So…thanks again to all who reviewed, and please do so again, and tell me whether or not to continue or just leave it. If this is the end, good bye. If not…see you next part!
-EvenSong