Behind the Veil
Diaval found the Royal Court far worse than the distrusting and greasy creatures Aurora described; greedy, apathetic, selfish scum and disrespectful to boot. He had half a mind to fly over their heads and drop little white bird bombs over the lot of them. But he kept hidden, high above in the window alcove of the throne room. Aurora explained that he could pose as a servant if he wished, but he declined, saying he would rather watch as a crow from above than be constantly pushed about doing mundane errands. Only Maleficent (and Aurora, he thought later) could tell him what to do.
Aurora sat with perfect posture in a singular throne at the head of the room. Even in layers upon layers of rich fabrics and fur, she looked small in the wide, cushioned seat, like a child trying on her mother's shoes. Still, she sat tall and stoic, trying extremely hard to appear effortlessly regal. She and her advisors were a few steps above the rest of the court, on a small, plateaued area in front of two great windows interwoven with metal.
Her servants had quickly dressed her in an incredibly gaudy lavender gown minutes before the Appeals Court. She had completely forgotten about the event and was only reminded during a surprise visit from Prince Phillip. Diaval watched her squirm minutely in the ridiculous costume praxis forced her to wear. But it was more than that, he thought; she didn't just wear the costume, she lived the character. Like an actress she had to speak it, breathe it, be it at all hours. Unfortunately, she failed miserably, at least in the eyes of those who truly knew her. Diaval could sense her discomfort, but to anyone else, she just seemed focused on the speaker in front of her.
"Please," continued the man. He wore a beige tunic that had clearly seen better days, but appeared freshly laundered for the occasion. The man himself appeared clean as well, but one could spot the evidence of his profession from his tanned skin and the permanent black beneath his nails. His hair, thick and nearly black, stretched back into a small bun on the nape of his neck, allowing one to fully see the pleading in his eyes and the nervous sweat on his brow. Even Diaval, several feet above them, could see this and took it all as evidence to the man's honesty.
"The flooding destroyed my crops; acres of wheat and barley have rotted on the stalk. Even my small patches of strawberries have turned to mush. I have nothing left; I am sorry my Queen, but I cannot pay my taxes this year. Please, grant me an extension; the weather is beyond my control."
To her right, a scrawny man with thinning gray hair bent down to whisper in her ear:
"This is the third year in a row he has used this excuse. We cannot grant him any more extensions, your highness."
"But this is the third year in a row that area has flooded," she countered. Diaval watched the thin man roll his eyes. Aurora's eyes narrowed slightly at the gesture, but she said nothing.
"Perhaps he should have taken more preventative measures then,"
"Pray tell what would these measures be?" The advisor grew annoyed now, but hid it behind a delicately patronizing tone.
"Well, if he could just move his crops out from the flood land, or build a dam, perhaps a ditch to collect the water— "
"Move his crops where exactly? He lives on that land. And with what funds would he build a dam or a ditch? You said this is his third year of bad crops; he can barely support himself. Perhaps it is time we took some preventative measures to help everyone living in that valley." Diaval had to admit she made a good point. It could use more tact, but still. The advisor clearly did not take her shooting down his idea very well.
"We," he replied, in a slightly mocking tone that, once again, Aurora ignored, "will not have the funds for a public works project like this if you keep granting tax exemptions to our subjects. Word will get around about your," he sneered, "generosity and our subjects will be make baseless excuses left and right as to why they cannot pay."
"But this man's excuse is a legitimate one. Preceding my coronation I lived on a farm and can vouch for the horrid rain we have experienced the past three years."
"It is because of your upbringing that I feel you do not fully understand political matters such as this yet, my Queen. You are still thinking from the mind of the one and not the many. Perhaps Prince Phillip can shed some light for you." Aurora's eyes hardened as the advisor straightened up, smiled, and beckoned for Phillip to come over.
Phillip sat askew on a chair a few paces to the left of Aurora, whispering to his manservant. He'd clearly been caught in the middle of telling an amusing story, according to the smiles on both of their faces. Diaval watched the Prince's movement's, the casual flick of his wrist, his cool half grin, envying his easy style and sophistication, his dashing appearance and natural charm. Diaval wondered if fairies gifted him with these things as Aurora had been gifted.
Phillip, hands clasped behind his back, arrived next to Aurora shortly. The advisor explained the situation, bending the story greatly to benefit his opinion of course, and, as expected, Phillip agreed wholeheartedly with him. Aurora frowned, beaten; two opinions against her own. Sadly, she explained the situation to the farmer in front of her. Her words destroyed his calm faster than the floods did his crops. His mouth gaped like a fish as he tried to further explain himself.
"But my Queen, I do not think you understand, everything is gone. I have nothing, nothing even to feed my own family," he pleaded. Aurora saw his knees shaking as he became hysterical. "Please, please, you must grant this to me!"
The advisor glanced at the Queen and saw how much the man's cries affected her. He knew she was on the verge of breaking and he couldn't have that. As soon as the people thought the monarchy had gone soft they'd ask for political representation, sharing of wealth, decreased taxes; he certainly wouldn't have that, not on his watch. Rolling his eyes again at the Queen's incompetency, he intervened, stepping in front of Aurora to give his own decree.
"She cannot and will not grant you another extension. You failed to pay taxes for the past two years and you admit to failure again this year. When the tax collector comes next week he will take from your assets the sum of this year due as well as the past two years' overdue. If your possessions do not cover this sum, he will arrest you for inability to pay your debts."
A look of horror washed over the farmer's face as realization hit him. He knew he did not have possessions valuable enough to cover his debt. He would certainly go to prison, leaving his family in absolute poverty.
"Is there any other way?" the man croaked. The advisor smiled a greasy, snake-like smile. His liver spots wrinkled together as his mouth spread slicing into the rest of his face. Diaval would sneer back if his beak allowed it.
"How many children do you have?"
"Six," he muttered softly, hesitantly.
"Six? Why, that is enough to spare. I'm sure if you offer up one of your sons or daughters to servitude in the castle some of your debt may be absolved." Aurora's eyes hardened even more. They looked like ice now, frozen in little globes of snow. Phillip, still standing by her, looked sullen at this idea as well, but by no means argued it. Unlike the woman next to him, he understood how the world worked, accepted it, and moved on.
Aurora couldn't take it anymore.
"No."
The advisor turned around, confused at what he heard.
"You heard what I said. I will not have you forcing children into slavery. It's barbaric." She dropped her voice lower so just her advisor could hear. "And you think I'm the uncivilized one."
The room was silent. The farmer went from a trembling mess to stock-still. Diaval could barely breath, the air was so thick.
"My Queen, this is the way debtors have been dealt with for the past century,"
"It is time for a new tradition then,"
"Then what is your sentence?" Asked the weasely man, expecting her to fumble. But Aurora had royalty in her blood. She'd been taught by the best, Maleficent, and she had a plan.
"Community service," she said, loud enough for all to hear. "Work on your fields this summer, produce what you can and prepare for what may come next year. This winter you must donate a portion of your time to community service projects set up by the court."
The farmer did not respond at first, so shocked at her outburst. Then, after her words sunk in he fell to his knees.
"Oh thank you, thank you!" he cried, becoming hysterical. "You will not be disappointed, my Queen!"
The advisor, extremely bitter, made a motion to the guards, who took the man by his elbows and escorted him out, still calling praises. Phillip turned his head and gazed at Aurora in confusion and wonder. She was still so mysterious to him, so different than any other princess or noblewoman he'd met. Perhaps that's what made her so attractive to him, her mystique. Aurora never met his gaze; she continued looking straight ahead, trying not to smile. High up in the rafters, Diaval could see the sparkle in her eyes and the slight curl in the corners of her lips. She was proud of herself, and so was he.
Triumph was short lived, as the court had far more cases to review today. Phillip returned to his chair, the next issue walked through the door, and the entire court reset.
Diaval couldn't watch any longer; he hopped out the window and took a few laps around the castle, checking the parameter as the humans hashed out their troubles with blood and gold. He could not imagine a man asking another to sell his child into slavery to absolve his own dept. The idea sounded just too horrific; to use your flesh and blood to settle taxes. Were all humans this greedy, this barbaric? Obviously Aurora was the exception. She was always the exception when it came to Humans. Funny, how she defies mankind's terrible rules when she came from the flesh of the man who epitomized them.
A few hours later, and after catching a few beetles for dinner, he returned to the window to see the Aurora, Phillip, and the rest of the court enjoying their evening meal. Aurora sat next to Phillip at the high table, making small talk with him as the advisors bickered at their sides. At first, Diaval was happy to see them finally talking. He thought that perhaps it would give Aurora some peace of mind about their relationship, but then he noticed Phillip doing most of the talking. Aurora simply gave him an occasional nod or hum to remind him she was still there. Judging by his hand movements, it was the same story he told his manservant earlier.
Find a new story, Diaval thought spitefully.
He watched as Aurora attempted to covertly pick at her dress. Phillip noticed of course and asked her if she was all right, to which she smiled and replied that she was perfectly fine. A lie. Diaval wondered if she lied to him often and why she just didn't tell him the truth. Weren't couples supposed to practice honesty?
He also wondered, as he watched her pick at her dress again, this time more covertly than before, how quickly after all this was over she would try to get that hideous purple mess off of her. He wondered still if she would ask him to help again. He hoped she didn't. Not only would he have the worst trouble figuring out how to dismantle that monstrosity, he wanted to avoid any more inappropriate thoughts.
She is your daughter, he reminded himself, only to have another voice, much smaller than the previous one say, but not really.
Rather than stick around and watch the humans eat, he took another lap around the castle before returning to Aurora's room and awaiting her return.
Stefan rose blissfully after sunrise, happy to wake with a natural light through the filmy curtains than a harsh knocking at his chamber door. This morning he retained more of his now reoccurring dream; the girl's name, the one with the chestnut hair and tear in her dress, it was Sarah. It sounded strangely familiar, yet oddly new, like a word repeated so many times it's lost it's meaning.
Sarah…Sarah, he tossed it around in his head a few more times. Perhaps it would come to him over breakfast.
He splashed cool water on his face and dressed himself once again in the same clothes as yesterday. The tailor promised the first batch by tomorrow, claiming he'd have all the seamstresses working on it through the night. Truly he didn't mind whether he received them tomorrow or next week, only Ravenna seemed to care. He liked his tunic and leather vest; every inch felt broken-in and soft, covering his body with a cozy and familiar sensation he hadn't felt since before his coronation.
Lumbering downstairs he found Ravenna's brother, Finn, sitting at the table, bruised and unclean, brooding over his porridge. His hair hung limply, a sickly shade of blonde, nearly white in the morning dishwater light, like the glowing of a dog's eyes at night. Upon Stefan's entrance, Finn looked up, grimacing.
"Good morning," Stefan said, good-naturedly. He noticed the fresh cut over Finn's left eye was missing. He swore he saw it yesterday, but today it had vanished.
"Morning," Finn replied with significantly less cheer, a. A serious expression of distaste darkened his otherwise pale face.
"I take it you had a rough night," Stefan tried, attempting to make conversation. Ravenna's brother seemed the odd, moody type; quiet, but with a hint of danger; someone to watch out for.
Finn hummed, "You have no idea."
Sounds like an invitation to ask, thought Stefan as a servant placed his breakfast in front of him, followed by a cup of tea. He dropped a spoonful of honey into the cup, stirring as he looked expectantly at the other man.
"Give me an idea." Finn grinned. Stefan didn't like it. It seemed friendly enough but, upon closer inspection, the eyes held oceans of malice. It was a cat's grin, used to make one feel at ease before they pounced. He felt suddenly glad for the space between them.
"I spent my night in the Dark Forest searching for an escaped prisoner," he began, locking his hands together. "Some of my men didn't even make it beyond the tree line, as their horses sunk into the mires along the outskirts. Unfortunately we could not recover them."
Stefan stopped stirring his tea and put his spoon down.
"We had to continue on foot, as the terrain proved too treacherous for our mounts to safely navigate. We stumbled through yards of bracken, scratched our way through skeletal trees, slogged through countless mudded brooks before arriving right back where we started."
Stefan coughed before saying, "It sounds like you need a new tracker."
"Our tracker went down in the mires. I led the expedition after his demise." Stefan swallowed thickly. Then, the voice in his head spoke up:
You've been in the Dark Forest before, it said.
"I've been in the Dark Forest before," Stefan repeated aloud. The voice in his head continued, guiding his response. "If you ever needed any help, I'd be happy to oblige."
Finn did not see the friendliness in Stefan's offer. He took it as an insult, as Stefan viewing him as unable to do the job. Ravenna already ripped him a new one last night, screaming over his incompetency. He didn't need any more emasculating dashes at his instrumentality.
"I'll be sure to," he replied in a soft voice but a hard tone, losing the grin but keeping those menacing eyes locked on Stefan. He pushed himself from the table and quietly exited the room, leaving half of his breakfast uneaten.
Trying to talk to Finn proved awkward enough, but the awkwardness increased tenfold once he left. It didn't help that he had at least five witnesses to the failed conversation in the form of servants. And servants talk. Boy, did he know servants talked; he used to be one. That got him thinking.
Casting a glance behind him, he beckoned for the girl who served him earlier. She scurried to his side and leaned down to hear his request.
"Have you breakfasted already, my dear?" She was startled by the question.
"Um, no," she answered, "servants eat after their masters."
"Well, I am not your master. I am merely a guest in this house, whose title is quite unknown at this point, so I'd say that since Finn is finished, it is time for the servants to eat."
"You want us to eat with you?" The girl asked, feeling confused and frankly, rather stupid. "But, she calls you 'King'."
"It is true, I once held that name, and while I hope to regain my throne and hold that name again, I don't hold it now. So, it is quite all right for you and any others to eat with me. Besides," he added, almost as an afterthought, "before I took the crown I was a lowly servant, just like you."
He smiled, and she smiled back, revealing two brilliant dimples.
Within twenty minutes the entire dining hall filled with servants from every quarter of the castle, slurping on porridge and tea as they talked. Stefan leaned back in his chair and listened to the buzz of conversation. He needn't ask nor prompt; he knew they would talk about their masters soon enough. Like magic, he picked up the vibrations of the Queen's name on someone's lips.
"Ravenna's been sending an awful lot of mail to England lately," said one girl to another through a mouthful of porridge. "Poor Nathaniel's barely been home, he's been on the road so often delivering her letters."
"Who are they going to?" asked the other.
"Some man named Edward,"
"That's a very ordinary name. Perhaps she's buying something from him?"
"It may be an ordinary name, but I doubt he's an ordinary person. Arthur handles all the delivery men anyway, restocking and such."
Stefan leaned forward, frowning. Who was this Edward, and what is he doing talking to Ravenna?
"Besides, how would that woman know what to order? She's never been in the pantry or the food cellar. All she ever does is sit in that basement room, or talk to her mirror."
"Sad really, isn't it?" The other girl hummed her agreement and they both took a sip of tea.
Stefan tuned out. That's what he got for gossiping and eavesdropping, things he didn't want to hear.
Edward. The mystery man. He'd have to do some snooping, find out what this is all about. He just couldn't believe she would act the way she did around him, touching him, batting her impossibly long eyelashes, whispering so her breath tickled his skin… and then be seeing another man on the side. Or, was he the one on the side?
Then she lied about where she was going. Not that she had any obligation to let him know her travel plans, but still, blatantly lying to him? Where had she gone then? Did she leave to see Edward?
I told you not to trust her, the voice whispered at him.
"I know," he whispered back, freezing when he realized he'd spoken aloud.
Grabbing his tea, he leaned back in his chair and just listened to the dull buzzing of conversation as he plotted. Somewhere deep inside of him, a consciousness sat, carefully hidden in the labyrinth of Stefan's psyche. The being felt the bonds that separated him from his body weaken; he tested them, grasped the bars and tugged. They shook.