Warnings: Intrigue! Dashing, daring damsels! Emo-ness! All that and more!
The Second Slipper: Part the Fourth
Arimela stands there amidst the crowd, shaking beneath the weight of the gazes that are focused on her. She is suddenly terrified of this sleeping monster that she has awoken. The question of who lingers in the air, dangling before her eyes.
She cannot answer. She cannot betray Ser al Camerdyia, she promised him.
Her lips tremble, desperately holding in the name that wants to burst forth. She promised, she promised. She swore on her love for her Prince that she would not tell.
The tears drip pitifully down her cheeks.
"You won't tell, will you?" He asked her, his intense eyes burning their imprint into her own.
"Of course not," She had answered.
"Then listen. And forget that I told you anything."
"Naturally. Now tell me what I may do to get what is mine." The determination in her voice had frightened even her, but she pressed on anyway.
"On the first night of revelry," he began, "She seduced me, capturing me with wit and wiles, and I was helpless to resist. The second night was the same way, pressing her favors on me, claiming to love me forever and for always. She said that she wanted to be like her mother. You know what her mother was like." He had paused, waiting for her confirmation.
"I do."
"She was like her mother. But better." Al Camerdyia had smiled as he said that, a bemused expression resting on his lips.
Arimela laughed awkwardly, not sure how to handle the offhand remark.
"Now you have your information. I was not your source. If you forget all else, remember that. It was not me," he said, the threatening undertones compelling her to nod her head in submission.
The tears begin to fall as she is jolted back to reality by the rough grip of hard hands on her arms. She is unbalanced, her knees buckling as she gives in to her fear.
"Will you come without a struggle?"
Arimela's world is spinning around her, flying past her in a blur of memories and faces. She is frozen, uncertainty slamming into her with unexpected force.
"I- I…" Her tongue refuses to form the words, obstinately sticking to the roof of her mouth in dry terror.
"You will." Thick fingers dig into her flesh as the hands tighten their hold.
She does.
Este watches as her sister is dragged from the chapel. The wretched girl is limp with exhausted defiance, her head hanging with resignation. Este does not know what to think; should she pity her sister or just regard her with a triumphant contempt? As she turns back to her Prince, she sees the same troubles expression on his face that adorns her own.
"Shall we carry on?" She asks with forced lightness, her nails biting into her palm.
Larius nods, but hesitantly.
The holy man, disgruntled, continues on, his white hair trembling with each word he declaims. Finally, the ceremony draws to a close. "Do you, Prince Larius val Tännon, take this woman to be your wedded wife, Queen, and beloved until death do you part?"
Larius is silent as he pulls the ring from his finger and turns to Este. When he looks at her, his eyes are clouded again with guilt and indecision. They both know that she is not the woman he was looking for, but she knows that she is the woman that he will have.
"I do take this woman as my wife, my Queen, and my…my beloved until death does us part." His hands are cold on Este's. She can feel the moist perspiration that coats the inside of the ring sliding across the fourth finger of her left hand.
His hands are shaking, making hers shake as well. As soon as the ring is secure, he drops her hands as if they burn.
The wrinkled old man turns to Este now. "Do you, Sera Este dy Sharteth, take this man to be your wedded husband, King and beloved, until death do you part?"
Este breathes in as deeply as she dares and captures her royal husbands gaze unflinchingly. "I do take this man to be my husband, my King and my beloved, until death does us part." She takes the fingers of his left hand and singles out the fourth one. The ring in her right hand, which has impressed a circle into her palm, goes easily on, slowing only slightly over the joint.
"I now pronounce you," the priest drones on, "man and wife."
There. It is done.
"You may kiss the bride."
Larius feels her skin, so flushed under his fingertips, as he tilts her face upwards so that he can touch his lips to hers. Her eyelids never flutter closed, the eyelashes never cloak intense eyes with a fringe of blonde.
He knows because he watches her, their gazes locked in a stalemate.
Este spins around the room, dizzily holding onto her husband's arm. Then, the room is spinning around Este and she reels as if intoxicated past the sea of faces that meld together into one accusing stare. She is choking on all the apologies, the worries and the fears.
Larius places cool fingertips on her cheek, trailing them through the tears that have trickled across her unblemished skin.
"You wonder," he says softly, his voice a deep current beneath the orchestra.
"I do," she whispers, the words barely coming out from behind the tears. She can feel the crown resting heavily on her head, and she worries. "I wonder and worry, and all sorts of other things." She pauses, and he wipes the tear drops away. "Do you?"
He does not answer at first, choosing instead to focus on the complicate dance patterns that sends them flying across the room. All the other dancers make way for the future King and his Queen. "I worry as well. Most of all…" he trails off, substituting an off-key humming for words. "Mostly, I wonder."
The orchestra crescendos in a rush of whining strings, and Este smiles as one lone, discordant wail shatters the harmony. "What do you wonder about?"
She waits, but Larius does not answer.
Arimela presses her body into the curve of the window, exulting in the cool touch of the glass that calms her flushed skin. She does not dare to go out into the sea of people that writhes beneath her, the churning waves of fine material lapping at her hiding spot.
"Sera dy Sharteth," a whisper trails down her spine, making her shiver.
Arimela turns slowly, knowing who she will see. "Ser al Camerdyia," she murmurs softly in reply.
"Why are you not dancing?" He is all gentlemanly concern, his expression a finely sculpted mask.
"I do not feel like it." She looks away, staring into the candlelit reflections on the glass. "I am through with dancing."
Al Camerdyia scoffs at this, his lips curved in a mirthless smile. "You danced twice. How can you be through? Surely one more dance would not kill you."
Arimela's eyes crumple, shining with tears.
His expression softens into something far more real. "Come, my dear, and dance with me one last time." He takes her hand in his. "Please?"
It is the only time he has ever been less than demanding, and Arimela knows that it will not happen again. "I suppose." She feels herself sliding across the floor, the soles of her dancing shoes swishing lightly across the floor.
They position themselves and wait for the music.
The roiling tide of music pours over them, drowning them in memories.
As the tears fall from her eyes, Veronj wipes each one away, carefully, gently, trying to make her shine before he has to bring her down.
The bell tolls midnight, the twelve, sonorous booms announcing to all that the masque is over and the gift giving is to begin. All in attendance have brought a gift to bestow upon their new royal couple, trying to garner favor.
Este looks at the throng of people, some bearing the gifts of their masters, others looking satisfied at the offerings that their servants held.
One by one, they step forward, bringing her luscious fabrics, sparkling jewels, and anything else a royal Princess might desire. All are expensive, and none show restraint. Larius is given horses, hounds, and a plethora of other things that Este does not care for or about. She sighs and scans the crowd, searching for a friendlier face.
Her eyes alight on Ser Veronj al Camerdyia, and her cheeks flush with memories. She notes that he is not orbited by a host of servants, instead choosing to hold his gift alone. It is a small box, wrapped in the finest cloth. She can tell even at such a distance that the cloth is woven with gold. Veronj holds the box as if it is something prized, something delicate or fragile; he holds it lovingly.
Este vaguely wonders why, her thoughts rambling from one subject to another in the stupor of boredom.
As the minutes tick by, she nods and smiles countless times, not listening, not caring.
Veronj holds the box carefully; though his gift is light, it is fragile. Finally, he steps to the dais, his hands steady and cool, a smirk gracing his lips. "For you, my lieges." He sweeps a low bow, proffering his gift to the couple.
He can feel her eyes on him, watching him warily. "Dearest Princess Este, I pray that you take this gift from me and cherish it always. It commemorates a very special night- the night you met your husband."
Este's cheeks flush with heat, the crimson color burning across her pale skin. Veronj does not permit his mouth to curve further, although he would like to. Carefully, ever carefully, she unwraps the delicate tissue paper.
"Thank you, Ser al Camerdyia, you really are too kind." Veronj allows a satisfied smile to slide onto his lips.
"It is no problem for me to give something of such sentimental value to my most beloved monarchs." Veronj bows, a deft courtier's trick, and backs away. "Anything for you, my dear."
Este's stifled anger pleases him to no end.
Larius studies the slipper carefully. It is not the same one, he realizes belatedly, that the mysterious dancer had left behind that first night. "Este," he murmurs softly. "I wonder about so many things, but most of all, about that first night."
Her eyes dart to his and then away in the span of a heart beat. "What do you mean?"
There is no term of endearment to take the edge off of her accusatory words. "Why would you not take off your mask, dearest one?"
The only color that remains in her cheeks is that which has been painted there. "Because I could not."
"Why, Este, why?" The persistent questioning has flustered her.
"Because..." His wife is suddenly lost for words.
In that moment, Larius is certain; he has married the wrong girl.
Slowly, the pieces that had been missing from the puzzle of that night start to fall into place.
Arimela watches the proceedings, dread slowly cooling the blood that runs through her veins. She begins to shake, her hands blurring with motion.
"Sera?"
Ignoring the inquisitive voice, she turns and flees from the great room where the masses have been gathered. Her shoes make no noise on the floor as she run, her pulse pounding so dizzyingly fast that the room reels around her. She stumbles but once, hesitating only to make sure she has both shoes on her feet.
She wouldn't want to end up in such a mess as this again.
It has broken her not once, but twice. This second slipper cuts deeper than the first; its cruelty eclipses the humiliation of the first. Desperately, she promises herself that she will never let a third chance come. Never again, she vows.
Arimela lets the bitter tears tumble down her cheeks like saline rain.
Fermimly enters the darkened room, shivering as the dank chill seeps through her thin shift. "Arimela?" Her voice is slight, delicate. "Ela?"
Arimela's angular shoulders heave as she sighs. "Yes, Fermimly?"
"Why don't you come with us?" She wraps her around her waist to ward off the coolness of the air.
"You wouldn't understand." Arimela's elegant fountain pen scratches across the paper. "There is no mask that is crafted well enough to hide the truth."
"Why must you always be so cryptic?" Fermimly bites her lip as if to hold in the words she has spoken, realizing that they sound childish.
Arimela doesn't answer.
"Ela?" She takes a hesitant step forward. "Why can't you go and enjoy yourself? It will be fun! Just think of it- all the people dressed in costume, all the lovely music and dancing! Oh, Ela, please?" Fermimly smiles hopefully, encouragingly even though Arimela is not watching.
"You wouldn't understand, Fermimly." That same dismissal again. "You can't." Slender fingers push wayward strands of hair back into their proper place. "I promised I wouldn't...I promised myself," she murmurs, half to herself.
"Arimela? What do you mean?" There are too many unanswered questions in the room, and Fermimly does not like it. "Ela?"
Suddenly the older girl whirls around, anger defining the hard lines of her body. "You just don't get it, do you?"
Fermimly, terrified by this unexpected fury, whispers, "No." Tears prickle in her eyes and she turns to leave. "I don't understand." One last futile attempt to find answers- "Ela?"
"No."
Fermimly leaves.
Arimela wishes someone would understand. Quietly, she picks up the pen, dips it, and begins to write. She starts in the middle, because there is no beginning that she can remember. She writes down her story as no one will remember it, as no one will tell it.
She writes down her truth.
As she finishes, the words running together in her vision, Arimela finds an odd solace in the ink on the page. Within her truth lies the mask she has been searching for- the mask of lies.
Author's Note: It took me forever to get the ending right, and I'm sorry for making you all wait, but it just wasn't right. But now it's acceptable at least. How do you like it?
Since I'm now forbidden to respond to reviews here…I'll just say thanks to everyone who did! I appreciate it so much! Your reviews keep me writing.
So, now that this is over, I shall start working on…something. Maybe the Catskin thing I was talking about, maybe Promises Broken…ack I have no idea!
After May, when the AP exams are over, I will have more time to write for me…and then I should become my prolific self again. I hope!
See you all whenever, as always, feel free to email me at next time…
Even Song