I am back, it seems. Thanks for everything. I hope what follows makes sense
faisyah865: Haha, that was bound to happen… wait what? Can I please see that photo? Pleeeeaaaase? :)
Chapter 19, where two characters (and the author, in fact)realisethat they are not that different and some mysteries are unveiled, but not all.
CW: class-based discrimination, [purple prose, discussion of feminism, sepia-and-sepia morality, mild symbolism]
She was the queen of Plant Alpha. At the head of a commercial empire that was ascending to the rank of most influential in all of the Eastern Extremesian Continent, there she sat. She, Elinor DunBroch, who had come from the rainy highlands of Northern Cornucopia less than a decade ago. She, who had learnt the art of placing her pawns of steel behind curtains of silk and velvet. She, who had risen by the strength of her words and her observant eyes from behind feathery lace fans. She, who had entered the complex engine of trust and trade, altered it and made the powerful mechanism need her. She, as powerful as a woman could hope to be on this Continent. Even the General would have been proud of his disciple.
Jerome Corona had an ever so slightly excessive sense of self-delusion. In his residence zeppelin amongst the fleet of Plant Alpha, he had designed and built a reception room not without resemblance to a throne room. The long gallery was covered by a high trompe-l'oeil ceiling, where the finest artists in the region had represented a pantheon against the composedly clouded celestial vault of a perfect blue sky. Amongst the tropical birds and exotic flowers, were evidently painted Jerome and Evelyn Corona, bearing to the skies the small silhouette of their daughter, whose solar hair flowed down amongst the clouds, the draped silks and ornate velvets like a river of gold. The brightly white alabaster flourishes framing the picture descended in graceful vegetal volutes amongst the wrought iron structure that supported the ceiling. Between the metal columns studded with evenly spaced hexagonal headed bolts, white marble busts were disposed, their well-proportioned traits all slightly turned towards the end of the room, where, on a raised platform, next to the bust of the late Madam Evelyn Rose as the Amazon River, the folds of her cashmere veil exquisitely chiseled into stone before her traits, stood the imposing stainless steel throne of the hegemon of Corona & Sons. A simple, angular chair, whose back, far higher than its occupant's head, was engraved with the ubiquitous sun of Crownsworth. Such was the chair in which Elinor melancholically sat.
She was the queen of Plant Alpha, but such a desolate Plant Alpha it was. At the apex of its splendor, its sky was depleted of the dirigibles and other balloons that had spun their helices away to attack the Weselton Exposition in retribution. As the Corona & Sons empire was about to vanquish the old monopoly holders of the Company of the Southern Isles to impose their supremacy over the New Continent, its gentlemen and mercenaries had left the platforms and hallways empty from the thumps of their nail-studded boots and the metallic clangs of their canes and rifles. Only the dark little workers scurried down there in the mines, like termites digging their mound. Mr. Jerome had left Elinor, his most trusted advisor, in charge during his absence. As the world and the rich depths of the Earth sat at her feet, she had no choice but to wait for her fate to come at her.
Elinor DunBroch knew Mother Gothel would come. Of course she did, she had ordered it. A little bit of gold always helped to hire an intermediary. She had craftily designed all of this, every tiny tooth of every little cog of a well-oiled strategy. She had done it for the peace. She had done it for her daughter. For if she was a leader of men, she was first and foremost a mother.
Her brown eyes watched with apparent impassibility as the matron in red was led in by the servants in their gold and purple livery. She showcased her beauty like a blooming flower in autumn, Mrs. DunBroch noted. Behind the perfectly put-together outfit and the lusciously brushed ebony locks, she saw the shadow of wrinkles that betrayed a greater age than she would admit to. She had prepared to meet a man, as was obvious. A man whose heart she had hoped to claim. A man whose wife, from next to the throne, looked down at her with her white marble glare.
Instead, she stared up at the frail, elegant Elinor on the oversized metal chair.
"Madam, I do not believe we have been introduced. I am Mrs. Gothel, of the household of Crownsworth in Camfordshire, Cornucopia and advisor to Mr. Jerome Corona."
Every word of her mouth was charming and conciliating. Every syllable was an attempt to seduce and persuade. Every letter breathed confident ambition.
"Mrs. Elinor of Clan DunBroch, acting manager of Plant Alpha and executive officer of Corona & Sons. Delighted to meet you."
"And so am I."
The highland woman shifted on her chair, concealing her pale streaks of gray hair beneath her long brown braids in the process. The loose sleeves of her dark green dress covered her knees with their intricately embroidered golden patterns. From within her black lace gloves, her fine fingers tapped the arm of the steel throne. Her calculating gaze remained expressionless. She needed to get that woman rid of that mask of self-confidence to see what she was really plotting. She would rip off that velvety skin of courtesy to bare all the little mechanisms to the sunlight.
"We're between women. There's no point in formally standing here. Should we take a turn around the room?"
As Mother Gothel could not refuse, her host walked down the steps to offer her arm. Emerald bat-wing sleeve against tight scarlet fabric, they the casually strolled on the chequered floor. Lifting her slender chin, the Prussoroman woman looked ahead, away from Elinor's eyes. No wrong move was allowed. They were queens on a chessboard. And only time would tell who, of the red and the green women, would be the dark, and who would be the light.
"The original of the Cardinal Stokes's bust is in the infirmary in Crownsworth," commented Mother Gothel matter-of-factly as they walked past a bust. "He bears such a resemblance to Mr. Corona from the right side, do you not believe?"
"You have a sharp eye, dear Gothel… surely, you have seen in which state the Colonies are. Surely you have heard about the situation."
It was less of an attempt to shift back to business than a topic change to attempt to destabilise her interlocutor. The matron was well aware of it, as the brown burning gaze suddenly turned to her.
"Indeed, I have. Jerome Corona is avenging his daughter's death by attacking the Exposition held by the Duke of Weselton, patron of the Stabbingtons who attempted to take Miss Rapunzel as a hostage. But the girl is alive and well with the seventh Andersen brother. I have come to let Jerome see the truth. He will believe me, that I know, and bring back the peace in exchange for her. But Mr. Corona is away, so I ask you to trust me. I have brought a letter signed by Miss Corona's own -"
Mrs. DunBroch waved her hand lightly as the Gothel started to withdraw the slip of paper from her sleeve.
"So you did believe the letter."
The letter. The letter. So Elinor knew everything. Either she had hired a spy, or, more likely, she had orchestrated everything. Oh, the woman in green was a ruthless schemer. Not that there were rules. Not that there were laws. Not that there was a moral compass that pointed towards the light and away from the darkness. Not that there was anything more, after all, than shades of sepia.
"The letter? I didn't. But Jerome would have. That is how little he has time for his own daughter, to the point not to be able to identify her writing style. But tell me, you found a good counterfeiter."
"Servants are perfect for the job," Elinor answered, noting how quickly the Gothel had understood. "They are discreet, nearly invisible in fact. They follow their masters all day, borrow notes scribbled by their hand or weapons left on tables. They act right there, behind our noses, and we fail to see them. You see, the household of Arendelle is noble but broke. The Baronesses hardly have enough to sustain a majordome and a handmaid. Naturally, their most faithful servant, a certain Kai, whom I met at the Exposition, accepted to shadow Hans Andersen, a competitor of ours, for a handful of coins. The youngest Andersen had his eyes on Kai's mistress, Lady Anna, as is well-known. He also happened to have exceptional falsifying skills. I mean, seeing the number of servants going around Mr. Andersen, there had to be one a bit less stupid than the others. And seeing how many servants who have been regularly reporting to me, I knew I would have been able to find Miss Corona as soon as any of them saw her, dead or alive."
Oh, Mother Gothel was starting to see who Elinor was, behind the masquerade of velvet and lace. A small bourgeois who had reached her status through cunning and effort. A woman who had known the servants for she had lived amongst then. A woman who had risen from the bare ground, just as she had herself, who had used every jagged tooth of every rough gear of the social engine to climb to the level she was at. A woman who was fiercely determined, not unlike…
"If you have someone after Rapunzel, why did you bring me here? Why hire that Kai to dress up and ask me to come escorted by the Stabbingtons?"
She had a certain idea, but she wanted to hear the words from Elinor's mouth. She wanted to hear her voice break over the sharpness of the syllables…
"Because servants are invisible, and the Corona & Sons heiress cannot be brought back by someone invisible," the highland woman spoke evenly. "She will only follow someone she believes."
"You speak in parallels and parables. Why would you trust me to bring her back? And what would I get in exchange?"
That bargaining power. That delectable bargaining power the Gothel had when she was needed. She felt the chessboard turn as the two negotiators reached the far corner of the reception room. Elinor had to be more desperate than she seemed willing to show in order to ask for the help of an unknown woman who courted the man she was obtaining favours from. That only secured the matron's position. Elinor deliberately
"You want a parable, you will have one. There is an old legend from the plains of my native land. Once upon a time, in a faraway land some your people would call, I believe, by the name of Caledonia, was a young princess, with hair as bright as a summer fire, who attempted to change her fate..."
"I may be from Prussoroma, Madam, but I do know the folk tales of Cornucopia," Mother Gothel interrupted. "After their dispute, the princess and her mother finally reconciled, and order and peace were back. What is that you mean? It does not determine our destinies. It is but a legend."
Elinor abruptly swiveled around, the whirl of her sleeves forcing Gothel between two impassive marble statues. Their eyes were mere inches away. The Gothel's hand was on her wristwatch, ready to release the blade concealed within. In their casual silence, a storm broke loose. A trigger had lit the engine of war, and its blind power was strong enough to crush all of them. And there they stood, as solid as menhirs and as motionless. For the futures of those around and behind them rested on their slender shoulders, on those frail pillars to the chessboard.
"Legends are lessons," Elinor murmured to the matron's ear. "They ring with the truth."
The last silky veils of doubt were shed. The Gothel knew.
"You have a child, probably a daughter," she said in an equally low, threatening tone. "And you have a dream. To mend that bond between you and her, a bond torn by pride. Pride on which side, I would not know, not that it matters."
"How do you know?"
For the first time, she thought she could perceive the slightest wisp of worry dance in Elinor's eyes. Check to the green queen.
"I am a mother, if not by blood, but by milk and by love. I can recognise one when I see her. You live to protect your child, just as I protect mine. We are like two bears casting their tall shadows onto our enemies. No one can stand in your way but another bear. No one but me. Now tell me everything. Trust me."
As she edged forward, her supple black locks bouncing off her ample breasts, Mrs. DunBroch had to back down, the woman in red having shed full light over her heart.
"My daughter, Merida, has been rescued by Mr. Andersen and the Ladies of Arendelle just after Kai found Rapunzel. She had left Plant Alpha for the Berk ship after we were attempting to strike a trade proposal… My relation with her was… tense. I… fear she would not trust me. She would not trust me. I see you have love for your Rapunzel. Fly to the Andersen villa and convince her. Persuade her to come here with you and ask her father to stop the war. Maybe she will trust you. Maybe we will manage to bring the peace back. Maybe you can… try and bring my Merida back, too."
Check again. Even though the foster mother took no pleasure in this one. They were two mothers trying to patch up their relationships with their daughters. Two mothers whose pride had gone too far. Two mothers who would destroy anything on their path and alter fate itself to get their children back. Legends rung with the truth. They were lessons.
"Give me the Stabbingtons and their ship again. I will do everything that is in my power. I swear on my daughter's golden hair."
"And I swear on mine's red curls."
Elinor's delicate hand went to the oval medallion hanging at her belt and handed it over to the Prussoroman woman. With febricity, the latter opened the delicately embossed lid, half as large as the palm of her hand, to see a most meticulously embroidered portrait of a young girl, as elegant as her mother was, orange locks cascading down her pale shoulders. A short, curly strand had been pinned by the tiny image, as bright as a will o' the wisp.
"Then we have agreed," said the highland woman, almost disappointed.
"One last thing. Mr. Corona will know nothing. You know how close he is to me, how he has come to trust me after long years of faithful service. A word of mine to his ear can mean your triumph – or your demise. Everything has to appear as the initiative of Merida and Rapunzel. Jerome shall never know either of us has been involved."
For both of them were women, the Gothel thought bitterly, and women always bloomed in darkness, be it amongst the cinders of a kitchen or behind the curtains of a bedroom, away from the lights of power and fame, silently weaving the tapestry of their entangled fates. And in that instant, they were so intricately interlaced that breaking their mandatory pact would mean nothing but chaos. Elinor knew it very well; she had no choice. Within her, only her pride boiled angrily at the imposed condition. She had wished to kill two birds with one stone, to have her daughter back and gain Mr. Corona's confidence for reestablishing peace. She had hoped to bring back order amongst the torn fabric of the commercial clans and achieve a durable balance. She had dreamed to be able to protect her family and her people, as willful and belligerent as they were, as scarred and imperfect as they would always be, with her thin white hands. She, the puny woman with an ego as large as the shadow of a bear. What did she think? She was a bad woman. She was a bad mother. She would never be able to put others before her self-importance.
"Your dirigible is ready and waiting for you. I wish you a safe trip, Madam Gothel. It was a pleasure to meet you."
And even in defeat she was poised and elegant. Her courtesy was her ultimate weapon, the one she would never put down on any table or by any bed. Her courtesy was her shield, and for a second she hardly cared about anything else. Ah, how accomplished a woman she was. Yes, even in defeat, until she was alone.
Ah, her daughter. Her little Merida.
Her wing-like sleeve powerfully swung around, knocking the nearest bust to shatter onto the floor. She hardly noticed which one it was, as she stood still amongst the uneven shards of white marble. For an instant, she almost wished it were the disgustingly perfect sculpture of Mrs. Corona. Check-mate. To whom, she could not tell. Not that it made a difference.
Her Merida. Her daughter.
She would let no one touch a hair of hers. She would let no one trade her against their precious conditions and their scrap of approbation from the hegemon of the Corona empire. She would defend her until her last breath, with the last drop of blood that ran in her veins. If only… if only the young archer could read her loving mind. If only she could hear her voice. If only.
Her own little lass. Her noble maiden fair.
"Madam DunBroch."
She saw the purple livery from the corner of her eye. What was it, now? Servants were invisible, but they were not deaf. Even so, that did not allow them to interfere with their masters' business. If she destroyed the furniture, that regarded her, and her alone. And then she was acting like a teenager. Throwing a tantrum just like her rebellious daughter. Her own youth had been far from wise and uneventful…
Collecting herself, she turned to the valet with a graceful dip of her head.
"Is there anything?"
"Madam, the General has sent a radiomessage to your quarters. The Queen has sent him here, with the Onyx aboard his Nightmare."
"Good. You may dispose."
The Nightmare. The Onyx. The General.
None of this would have happened without Merida's provocation at the Exposition, without that spark that set the machine on fire. None of this would have happened had she been a better mother. The bad news were: with the Cornucopian army sent to the Colonies with the most advanced weapon of the time, the era of trade and trust had turned into one of faith and fear, and deterrence power of the military was everything in the balance. In other terms, the General was everything.
The General was everything, and the good news were: he was on her side. Or rather, Elinor was on his. He had educated her in the arcana of negotiation and politics, initiated her to the highest spheres of his world. For both of them fought to maintain peace, he with the protection and respectful dread inspired by his army and she with the weight of tradition and the skill of her persuasion. He would back her up and allow her to hand Rapunzel over to her father. He would not stop her from getting Merida back. He would defend her when she tried to strike a truce. Ah, how proud he must have been for all her scheming. How good a team they formed. How high she had risen, to the constellite light of his experience. How hard she had fought for her clan and kin. And that would be all legends would remember.
For legends were lessons. For they rung with the truth. For they were luxographs in dark and light. From this conflict, the one who emerged as the victor would be sung as the white player, and the defeated would be the have played the black. Shades of sepia were too complicated for fairytales.
The green queen or the red queen, after all, none of that really mattered. Elinor DunBroch or the Gothel, only the ending would determine who had played the bad guy's part. Their legends would be immortal, but they, the women in the shadows, were as short-lived as gray clouds under the tempest. As unsubstantial as dust clouds stuck in an intricate clockwork mechanism. For that was what mothers always were.
If mothers were such strong protectors, it was because they had been fighting since the dawn of time, for as long as they could remember. Because what they had been fighting was none other than the powerful, heartless, amoral engine of Time, irrevocably withering their hair and crushing their bones. Because they had always attempted to stop it, to alter the course of fate to keep their children by their side until the last split second.
Ever since the first candle was lit by night. Ever since the first mother sang the first lullaby. What did they hope to achieve? Keep their children asleep on their knees? Stop and reverse Time to make them stay in childhood, with them forever? Avoid their inevitable teenage, blossoming, adulthood and eventual departure? Evelyn Corona might have had something about golden flowers and halting Time. Elinor's lullaby, however, emanated from the deep roots of her native emerald plains.
A naoidhean bhig, cluinn mo ghuth
Mise ri d' thaobh, O mhaighdean bhàn
Ar rìbhinn òg, fàs a's faic
Do thìr, dìleas féin
In her pitiful, profoundly pointless task, immobile amongst the marble debris, on the chessboard floor, she let the words sprout out between her lips, like a summer source that could not be extinguished, as long as lived a mother singing her child to sleep.
A ghrian a's a ghealach, stiùir sinn
Gu uair ar cliù 's ar glòir
Naoidhean bhig, ar rìbhinn òg
Maighdean uasal bhàn
Maybe, in the great tapestry of entangled things, Merida could hear her. Maybe her noble fair maiden would grow and shine to the sound of her voice. Maybe, even, she would come back. Maybe.
Fun fact: First time there's anything in a foreign language in this story! For the English translation of Noble Fair Maiden from Gaelic, refer to the Disney wiki. Eek, red herring in previous chapter. Did you think the wig guy was Hans? I did, too… just kidding… really? I was re-watching/re-listening to bits of Brave today and realised how similar Tangled and Brave are. Which has given a lot more flesh to this chapter. I don't really feel like going into the detail of the symbolism, which has some very basic elements of psychoanalysis… I kind of intend to write some kind of dissertation/blog post about it though. References to both films are plentiful, hope you'll notice them ;) Even though some feminist ideas have cropped up in characters' thoughts in this chapter and tiny bits of the previous, I do not see myself as a feminist writer. There aren't strong female characters, just strong characters, from their overall environment and independently from their gender. I claim to be a technophile humanist… ahem, back to the story. Taking a turn around the room is a Pride and Prejudice thing *shouts out to Jane Austen* I had no idea for the cardinal's name… Stokes is the name Alec's family had before they bought their noble name and title in Tess of the D'Ubervilles *shouts out to Thomas Hardy*, the Coronas having obtained the Crownsworth lands and titles in the same way. And Stokes's theorem is the fluid of life. Don't think I have much else to add.
PS: I remembered what I wanted to say in the previous chapter. I find 'Snowball Effect' is a good nickname for the Hijack/Frostcup pairing, don't you think? Tell me in the comments below!
Announcement: I HAVE A DEVIANTART ACCOUNT. Yes, it is true. I do not intend to use it for any other means but dumping story-related character sketches. Please not that I do not consider myself a graphic artist of any worth. But I am pretty happy with Astrid's drawing, so please go check it out! I have the same user name and links to the pictures are on my FF profile. Don't forget to R&R, F&F, constructively comment and stay awesome xx