A Monday update, as promised! Sorry it's so late, but it's still Monday! This chapter is filled with emotions, and sadness! READ UNTIL THE VERY END. I'm glad to say this chapter is very lengthy, nearly 3000 words! Please star and comment if you enjoy my fanfiction!
Enjoy! "Rise, red as the dawn."
Mare
In a sense, Maven loved me. However, today his love would not be enough. Yesterday night the king realized not a single fiber of my being loved him anymore, and nevermore care for him. The razor thin tether had finally snapped. He saw no use for me any longer.
And so, in two days time, I would be gone. Forever.
Not if the Scarlet Guard had anything to say about it. The execution is highly publicized, constant articles about my life had been written for newspapers and past footage about my terrors on silvers had been played nationally. My final moments of breath would take place on the grand bridge, the same spot I kneeled before Maven all those months ago. In a sense, the king was setting himself up. There was absolutely no doubt the Scarlet Guard had heard what happened, and the execution was set somewhere so public, our rebels wouldn't have a problem attacking. The only question was whether or not Farley would keep her promise.
Inside my barren room, there isn't much to do. I throw my plates against the wall and scream at the top of my lungs until they give out with exhaustion. At least this time there's promise for an end, whether it's through death or freedom.
Screaming and kicking, I protest as Sentinels drag me down the hallway. Manacles of silence weigh me down. Maven soon discovered Ada's pill wore off when I never fought back around Arvens or in my room. Thick and clunky pieces of metal cling to my ankles and wrists, so heavy walking is an effort. So I allow Sentinels to pull me through the hallways; it's no longer a worry of caring what silver courtiers think of me. I lost my last ounce of pride.
The men shove me into a large room, only three Arvens staying with me. Glancing around the space, rolled up sheets of fabric litter tables of varying colors. Spools of thread are stacked neatly upon countertops and shelves. And servant girls at small stations run fabric through pulsing machines. The perimeter of the room is barren, aside from the sleek silk dresses hanging from hooks attached to the gray painted walls, and a couple of tiny windows overlooking the snowy forest.
Getting up from the floor, I notice many girls dressed in servant's attire staring eagerly at me. I realize they're making me a dress. Whether it's for my execution, funeral, or both, I don't ask. I suppose Maven has enough love left in him to allow me to die looking nice.
One of the seamstresses whisks me up onto a platform and begins taking measurements. Meanwhile, a few of the others bring over swaths of fabric, which are varying shades of silver and red. One by one, the girls raise pieces of fabric near my eyes. Much closer than needed, I think.
"The king wanted red and silver," a short girl utters, a hint of happiness on her face.
Looking closely at the scarlet red swath, I see words embroidered in a shade of red nearly the same shade. Rise, Red as the Dawn, the fabric reads. I force myself to keep tears dripping out of my eyes, fearful Arvens will discover what the girls have done.
Another girl offers another piece of fabric, this one silver. You will be saved, it indicates. More textiles are offered, but no more with embroidered words. I ask for the first two swaths, a deep scarlet red paired with a white silver. Offering the girls a weak, but secretive smile, they get to work.
"You know my sister sews, too. Before I got swept into this life, I was so jealous of her talents. I was the disgrace of the family, the only source of money I brought in was from pickpocketing. Meanwhile, she created these masterpieces out of nothing but fabric and her own hands." I don't tell them that in a sort, I was the shadow of my family, while Giza was the flame.
The girls don't reply, but gaze at me respectfully and earnestly. I don't think they're allowed to talk.
"Barrow stop the memory sharing, or there will be punishment," one of my Arvens hollers at me gruffly.
"Like what?" I ask sarcastically. "Death? There's nothing left you can do that'll hurt me." The guards can bring down all the silence they want, abuse me with words, take away my food, and push me to the ground as many times as they wish. I have nothing left to lose. The Arven who spoke seems to be stumped by my response, only muttering something under his breath and returning to his post.
I close my eyes after awhile, imagining the hands on me creating the dress are my sister's. While I choose to be optimistic about the future, the dark part of me wonders if they won't come for me. Perhaps the guard simply isn't ready for another attack on Archeon. After all, I'm just another disposable newblood. There are hundreds of others of us out there, and what's a single one's death in the grand scheme of things?
Whipped from my thoughts, "Do you like it?" One of the servant girls whispers, spinning me around to face a mirror. For once I don't focus on my dulled eyes, or the gray tipped hair. I look at the vivid dress, which has a silver bodice and red lace fitting over the silver. The garment has full-length sleeves and drags on the floor just a tad. Rubies sparkle across the chest, forming a low arch, and diamonds dance at the bottom trim of my dress, creating beams of light that land on the walls.
I say something I never thought I'd say. "I feel like a queen."
"The Red Queen," she murmurs are almost nonexistent, so the Arven's can't hear us.
I smile bitterly, thinking of Maven's proposal. "You could've been my red queen," his words echo painfully throughout my mind. "Thank you. For everything," I add, offering her a hug. I cling to the nameless girl for longer than I should, not so much to offer her a hug but to receive a hug. After all, I've been through, human contact is a pleasure.
Time passes slowly when you're terrified of the future. Each tick of a clock marks a single second, but inside these walls, a second lasts an eternity. There are no windows, and the door only opens for meal delivery. The meal delivery seems inconsistent, and while I force myself to believe I've lost my sense of time, I can't help but wonder if they're not feeding me as often. After all, what's the point of wasting food on a dead girl? No notes from the Scarlet Guard. Harrick hasn't materialized inside my room, no sounds of thunder outside. Silver protests have turned into shouts of joy. It's been at least a day since my dress fitting, and it's gotten hard to have hope.
I glance at the red dress draped over a metal chair in the corner. Using shaky arms, I force myself off the bed for the first time in hours. Running my hands over the lacing material, shivers travel up and down my spine and into my arms and legs. No matter how many times I wish to destroy the soft fabric, I can't find it in me. The lacy scarlet garb reminds me of multiple things. I think back to the kind seamstresses that created the dress for me. Perhaps they didn't have any connection with the Guard at all and were only a group of girls who hadn't the faintest idea whether anyone would come for me or not. They believed though. Whether or not the message was directly from Guard officials, they believed.
Slumping back into bed, I curl up under the covers. One of the few nice things about Whitefire has always been the thick blankets. But right now, I do anything to have a single moment alone under the threadbare sheets of my home in the Stilts. It wouldn't matter if I was laying in the dirt, or the snow, just anywhere but in these silky palace sheets. Pounding footsteps often pass down the corridor and with each time my heartbeat increases. The next individuals to walk down the hall could be the Sentinels ordered to deliver me to the bridge.
And at last, the door creaks open. I lurch up from the bed, ready to drag my last minutes out as long as possible. But no Sentinels clothed in the colors of the Burning Crown, armed with gigantic guns. Only timid servant girls, who all wear frowns on their faces.
One of the girls steps forward. "We've been sent to prepare you," she whispers, never taking her gloomy eyes off the floor. Sooner than I thought. "Change into your dress." She gingerly carries the dress into the bathroom and motions for it. "Then we'll do your hair and makeup."
Shutting the bathroom door behind me, my eyes catch on a pair of black leggings folded neatly on the sink counter. Those weren't there before, one of the maids must have put them there with the dress. But why?
Because when escaping or in battle, dresses are not proper fighting garb. And I will be fighting today. A wide grin spreads across my face as I pull my leggings on, and then the bulky dress. While pessimism still haunts me, optimism blooms within my chest like a fresh spring flower. When I walk out of the tiny bathroom, a couple of the makeup and hair girls twitch their eyes, as though to give me a little wink.
When the maids apply the makeup, they don't paint my cheeks and hands with white paste. They let my natural golden brown skin show through, applying a deep red lipstick, pink blush, and thick, black mascara. They pull my hair into a low bun, brushing my neck. While I should think about how this will be what I look like when I am poisoned, stabbed, or burned, I don't. This is what I will wear when I stand before the boy king when he is powerless and weak.
For a moment, the servant girls and I stare at my complexion in the mirror. "Thank you," I murmur, offering them a warm smile through the reflection. They all nod solemnly, hints of happiness splattered across their faces. A couple of seconds later, they skitter out the door, enveloping me in solitude. It won't be long now, I think bitterly as I pace around the room. No matter what happens today, one thing I'm certain of is that this will be my last visit to this room. No more silent stone, no more imprisonment. In some way, I will be free. My gaze darts back and forth around the room. The wall where I smashed countless plates has little chips in the paint, and the bed I spent endless hours laying and having nothing but my own thoughts to entertain me, still stands in the same place. Nothing looks any different than it did all those months ago.
A single Sentinel bangs open my door. I turn to face him as shivers rattle throughout my bones, into my nerves, until they reach the surface of my skin. It's not necessary for him to speak; when his stance gives me everything I need to know.
It's time.
Sentinels and Arvens flank me, creating a diamond formation. Twenty or so total guide me through the weaving palace walls, guarding me as though an assassination would be attempted on me. Or perhaps a rescue. We make sharp turns, the Sentinels giving me shoves if I don't move fast enough. I hold my head high and lace my fingers together, feigning calmness. The guards lead me through just about every hallway I have seen as if they were giving me a farewell tour. We pass conference rooms, servant chambers, and sitting rooms. The sitting rooms I see are like a punch to the heart. Cal gave me dance lessons in a sitting room similar to the ones we pass now back in Summerton. That moment he pressed his lips against mine was the moment I realized who I loved. We pass a specific room I remember all too well. Cal cornered me there, asking why I had been avoiding him. I snapped at him, telling him he was nothing different than all the other silvers after he used a House Gliacon Sentinel to torture Farley. There he told me red and silver could never be equal, it was simply impossible. I could find a thousand more memories of him, but each one fractures a nerve. Because it's simply too painful, I keep my eyes aimed at my feet for the remainder of the walk.
I'm snapped from my haze as Sentinels and Arvens step to sides of the massive hallway we've stopped in. Diamond glass doors hulk before me, dark as night. The gates to the bridge, I realize. The Sentinels have stepped aside so that I am completely and utterly alone, but never far enough so that I could escape. The shimmering doors open with no hands, exposing me to hundreds of jeering silvers. And non-other than King Maven Calore, of the Nortan Burning Crown, stands in the center of the bridge, hands behind his back with a placid look painted over his face. I bet he's screaming inside.
The crowd turns absolutely silent, so quiet and I can hear the unsteady tap of my feet as I walk forward. I concentrate on Maven, never glancing to the sidelines. The boy king stares right back at me, his traditional black suit and blood red cape setting him apart from the bridge. We're mere meters apart now, but our eyes pierce into one another's, never blinking and never relenting. It's almost as if it were only a childish game, to see who would last longer. But under the circumstances, it's much more than that; it's far from a game. It's a competition for dominance, to prove the other will always be the weak one, the individual who can't possibly to stare at their opponent for a second longer. Neither of us looks away.
I stop feet from Maven, as he pulls out a piece of paper from his jacket pocket.
"Mare Molly Barrow," he reads loud enough for the entire crowd to hear. "You have committed the following crimes. Seducing the Traitor Prince to turn against his own country. Interfering with government projects. Joining the terrorist group known as the Scarlet Guard. And committing mass murder of both silvers and reds on multiple accounts." Maven's voice is monotone, dripping of ice. I continue to stare at him. Liar. I broke your heart, and that's the only reason I'm standing here. "For this, you will face the death penalty."
A single tear trails down my cheek, leaving salty tracks. I glance around, looking for wrists bound in red fabric, but I don't see a single swath of red in the massive crowd. Sentinels push me down to kneel before Maven, but my eyes never leave his.
"Do you have any last words?" Maven asks.
"They know I love them," I speak about my family, friends, and Cal. "The people I despise already know it. And you King Maven, are nothing but a little boy who's been given a crown and has not the faintest idea on what to do with it. Your crown is bleeding, your Majesty. You are wearing a crown dripping of red and silver blood." For only a second or two, Maven's skillfully crafted mask cracks. But I see the shame in his eyes, the sadness of all he has done. And he knows I see it. "Rise, red as the dawn," I conclude, getting many shouts of anger from the crowd.
"Goodbye, Mare." Is all he says. Or perhaps it is all the energy and heart left to say.
I say nothing in response, only nodding my head in acknowledgment.
"The silver court has decided the way to your death. They have concluded it would be best for you to parish by the way of electricity. As if on cue, a Sentinel walks from his place on the side of the bridge, holding what seems to be a modified version of the clicker. A version that can kill.
I let out a strangled sound, as the Sentinel lumbers towards me, clicker in hand. More Sentinels come forward to back my arms and legs. Their grip is iron-hard, proving they're all strongarms; my legs can't move an inch, and my arms feel as though they have been soaked in cement. My breathing becomes heavy, like I was drowning in water, and couldn't swim up. The Sentinel presses the clicker against the base of my neck, and Maven's lips tilt downward.
"Do it," I command in between sobs. "Order them to kill me. I promise I will haunt you for the rest of eternity," I spit, tears spilling from my eyes quicker now.
"It'll be better without you here," Maven murmurs. "It'll only be a blink." Why he's reassuring me of a painless I death, I don't know.
"I hate you," I whisper. "You are nothing, not even a monster."
Those are the last words that come out of my mouth before I'm flying. But not in the dying sense, I'm really flying. Someone's arms wrap around the waist, and we're soaring through the sky, towards a plane. Bitter cold snow punches my face, numbing it. However, I'd take an avalanche over the bridge any day.
We land gracefully in the cockpit, and I look around at my surroundings. Ella, Harrick, the newbloods I rescued, and even Farley. She didn't let down her deal. I'm alive.
"Thank you," is all I'm able to muster. The sudden shock of being safe paralyzes me.
But I drop to the floor when I see the figure staring at me in the corner. Cal.
Sorry for the short ending, but you guys know how much I love a good cliffhanger!