peel away the layers till you're nothing and no one
She spends the next few days in a state of painful uneasiness. There’s still no news on Francis’ wellbeing, and the situation in the contestants’ wing is, well, tense. She’d personally been rather shocked when the guards had first appeared, but despite being aggravated by the confinement, she hadn’t argued with them, unlike some of the other contestants. Really, there’d been no point - it’s not like she could’ve fought her way past them and out of the castle (they’d taken her knife away after all). And besides, there is still that slightest, remotest chance that Francis won’t mind the ugly cut (soon to be scar) marring her face … she doesn’t want to completely ruin her chances. If the contest is still happening that is.
But as the days roll by her anxiety continues to grow. What if something had happened to Francis? One would assume that they would tell the contestants, unless they suspected that one of the contestants was involved …
It would be the perfect cover, really. Pretend to be interested in marrying the prince, take the opportunity to get close to him, and then one day when he’s least expecting it …
After all, Kirke’s own experience in the battle had proven how unprepared men are for women who can actually fight.
But even though it’s plausible, Kirke can’t entirely believe that explanation. She’d met these women, eaten with them, taken classes with them, and while she’d made a determined effort not to befriend any of them (why befriend your competition?) she has a hard time believing that any of them would actually harm Francis. All of them had seemed to genuinely care for the prince, and all of them were from much the same situation as Kirke - lowly peasant girls. Why would they throw away their chance at being royalty?
Even with that possibility potentially crossed off, Kirke still can’t help but be nervous. This state of not-knowing is truly awful. She has no idea whether Francis is dead or alive, or perhaps even lying weak and injured in his palace rooms. And worse, she has no idea of what her own fate will be. Will they lock her away in the dungeon? Execute her? Put her back into the competition (if Francis is alive)? Or will she simply be kicked out the door and sent on her way? She hates to think of the smug look on Airy’s face if that were to happen.
When the fifth day rolls around her poor mind is still full of these questions and more. She barely hears the knock at the door and in her dour mood completely fails to greet her team of servants when they begin to tumble into the room. She glares past all of them through the bedroom door as it slips close, once again shutting out the world that she’s so eager to rejoin. What had she done to deserve this?
As her servants begin to bustle about she throws herself down beside the bedroom window, staring blankly out at the grounds. Only a week before she would have still marvelled at the sight, but now it only makes her feel angrier. She would give anything to leave this blasted room.
The servants ignore her rudeness, which she appreciates. None of them deserve it, they’re just doing their jobs. She feels guilty for being so awful to them, but she can’t muster up the energy to be the pleasant and polite village girl that they’d dressed in the weeks before the battle. She’s too tired, too angry, too anxious.
But when they beckon for her she forces herself up off the window seat cushions, and allows them to bathe her, dress her, and paint her face as if preparing her for a ball. They are just doing their jobs. She might not feel enthusiastic about their presence, but she won’t make it difficult for them. Even if she can’t see the point in what they’re doing. Who’s she really going to be impressing while locked in her room?
When she’s finally all dolled up they slip away, casting apologetic sidelong looks at her as they walk back through the bedroom door. She can sense the pity in them, but why? What fate does the crown have in store for her?
When the last servant finally leaves she moves back to the window, slumping back down on the soft silk cushions. Her purple eyes stare blankly out into the grounds, only occasionally picking up details of what she’s seeing - the palace gates, the gardens, the lake far off in the distance …
Sometime later (she’s not sure how long, time has become one long, dull blur), a loud knock sounds at the door. She doesn’t bother to answer. She’s a prisoner after all, there’s no point in perpetuating the illusion that she has any choice over who enters her room. It rings out a second time and she sighs loudly, waiting for the person to loose patience and open it themselves when … “Lady Kirke?”
Kirke sits bolt upright, frozen. “Lady Kirke?” It is him!
She flies off the window seat and races to the door, throwing it back so quickly that it crashes into a delicately painted lake scene that hangs on the wall. The painting falls, but she doesn’t notice - she’s already in Francis arms, throwing decorum to the wind and holding him close. But almost as quickly she pulls away, searching for any sign of the injury that must have kept him away from her.
But there is none. Her joy quickly sours to anger and suspicion.
Francis senses her change in disposition. He reaches out with tentative fingers to her cut cheek, but she pulls away. He sighs. “Father locked everyone away for the first day, minus his personal guard which searched the palace. He has been … questioning … everyone one at a time to find out everyone’s loyalty. He thinks it’s one of you; The Selected. He demanded you all be kept away while the castle was cleaned and the staff was tested. He has yet to find a spy and believes he is right in his logic. The cleaning finished a day and a half ago, he finished questioning the last servant last night. I have been fighting him on this matter for most the night. He will not be persuaded. Three of the Selected I was unsure of have already gone, and hence been removed from the Selection. It is now your turn. … I’m sorry about all this, but it is necessary.”
It appears her earlier theory had not been entirely foolish. Or at least, the King does not think so.
As his voice drops off she’s instantly hit with a wave of nerves. Her legs feel shaky and she sags to her side, putting a hand up to the door frame to prevent herself from falling. What … questioning … methods might the King have in store for her? She’s good under pressure … but torture?
Two guards immediately enter and grab her by the elbows, guiding her out of the room and down the hall. Even though it’s the first time she’s been out of the room in days all she feels is fear. They continue to walk until they reach a wing of the palace that she hasn’t been in before. This part of the palace is drab and barren, it feels ominous in comparison to the extravagant opulence of the rest of the palace. It makes her think of a dungeon, though it’s lacking in prison bars and shackles.
She’s led to a small room with an odd looking chair in the centre and her fear deepens when she notices the leather clasps. The guards set her down on the chair and then none too gently strap her in. They leave, but Francis moves to a stool in the corner of the room and sits, his expression hard to interpret, though he seems upset.
She’s watching Francis when the door opens, and the prince’s head jerks up. Kirke’s eyes quickly follow, and her nerves increase yet again when she realizes that it’s the King and another man. She’s had few interactions with the King so far, all formal, and she has a feeling that this particular interaction is going to be a lot less pleasant. That feeling is confirmed when the King introduces the other man as one of his interrogators - a man specializing in truth-telling.
This is going to be ugly.
The King steps back to join Francis and the man steps right up to her, shoving a foul-smelling liquid under her nose. He explains that it’s a neurotoxin that will make her susceptible to hypnosis and when he orders her to drink it, she tips her head back and opens her mouth. What’s the point in resisting? She’d just get more bruises and still be forced to drink the damn thing anyway.
The interrogator tips the entire container down her throat, and she chokes and splutters as the horrible concoction hits her tongue. The interrogator begins chattering about something, but she’s not paying attention - she can already feel the toxin beginning to work. The edges of the room begin to darken, the King and Francis in their corner become a blur. She feels at peace suddenly, her nerves magically drifting away. It’s kind of nice actually. She’s been so anxious lately. It’s nice to not have to care.
She distinctly hears the interrogator say that it’s time to begin, and he mentions something about loyalty, and leadership qualities. Strange, she thinks, as she slips off into blackness. She really hasn’t given much thought to these things before.
The first thing that swims into clarity is her father. Kirin, leader of the Church of Khaos, son of Khaos himself. He’s a handsome man, tall and lean with a chiseled jaw, close cropped blonde hair and the same vibrant purple eyes that Kirke has. He smiles at her - an expression that instantly fills her with light and happiness. She hopes so much that she can make him proud. A figure appears behind him - the iron statue of Khaos (his body as they call it in the Church), though it takes her a moment to recognize it. But as quickly as Khaos appears he disappears again. It’s not their god that she loves, truly, only her father.
Kirin is quickly joined by other members of her family - her uncles, damnable Airy, and her younger siblings Halocyn, Apothyx and Kaide. They all smile at her, even Airy, and beckon her forward to join them. Kirke can feel a smile break across her face in return, and she tries to reach her arms out to them, though the are strangely still. It doesn’t matter though - she steps forward and they all pull her into their arms, pulling her forward until …
No. Not this.
She doesn’t want to remember this, she’s blacked it out. She doesn’t want … oh Khaos she doesn’t want Francis to know this part of her.
Her family forces her up in front of an empty door frame and push her inside. She tries to keep her eyes closed - she doesn’t want to see this, she doesn't want to remember. And yet somehow, despite her closed eyes the vision continues.
She’s in a small, windowless wooden room. There’s a single candle on a table to her left, providing the only light in the room. To her right stands her father, holding a squalling purple-eyed newborn. And there in front of her …
No, no, no, she doesn’t want to remember this.
A dishevelled woman lies on a plain straw pallet. She’d been pretty once, but her looks have long left her due to malnutrition and abuse. She looks exhausted - she’s panting slightly, and sweat drips from her brow, mixing with tears that are falling from her eyes. Beside her kneels an oh-so-familiar 10 year old girl. The girl is shaking, her trembling arms holding a long hunting knife high above the woman’s neck.
Kirin’s voice rings out, echoing through the depths of her memories. “We can't have daddy unhappy can we Kirke?” Then, the girl’s voice, tentative, weak - she’s crying too. “No.” Then - “do it now.” The girl’s hands tighten about the wooden handle … then she brings the knife down. The woman doesn’t even try to resist.
Kirke’s world dissolves into a wash of blood and tears. She’s tried so hard to shut out that memory, tried for so long to tell herself that she doesn't care about what happened, that Carys … no, her mother … had deserved it …
And all because of her desperation to win her father’s affection. It’s her greatest flaw really, her crazy need for her father’s approval. It had started with Airy, stunningly beautiful, talented, perfect Airy. Kirke had seen the way Kirin had looked at Airy, the way his eyes had shone with pride every time she mastered a new task. And Kirke had wanted that.
Her poor mother had been ill-equipped to provide the affection she so desired. Carys been downtrodden in Kirin’s house, considered nothing more than a vessel to bear children. And young Kirke had seen the way her father had sneered at the broken down woman … and had joined in.
Had Carys deserved to die the way she had? Even though, deep down, she knows she hadn’t, Kirke can’t help but hope that her mother had truly been an awful person. She can’t help it because, if Carys had been blameless and innocent, what would that say about her murderer? What would that say about Kirke?
Eventually the red dissipates and her tears slow. The background of black and red becomes soft and golden. And a face appears before her.
Francis. Oh Francis.
He really has been a light in her sad excuse for a life. She’d joined the contest hoping to draw her father’s eye, make him proud, but over time her participation in the selection had morphed into something more.
She … dare she say it … she loves Francis. Perhaps not the rich full love that comes with knowing and compromising with someone for a long, long time, but she loves him all the same - a fledging love that she still does not fully understand. A love that scares her. Because she knows he could never love her back. She’s flawed, broken. Her face is now marred, but it doesn’t even compare to the damage done to her soul. No one could love her.
And - there it is. Her real flaw. The real flaw that runs right down to her deepest being.
She’s desperate for love, whether it be from her father or from Francis. And she doesn’t believe she deserves it.
And yet …
And yet she still strives for it, somehow. Even if she believes that she’s without hope, a part of her still keeps fighting. It’s why she keeps trying to catch her father’s attention, why she’d joined the contest, why she’s worried herself silly these past few days over Francis’ wellbeing.
It’s pathetic really, and yet a part of her suddenly begins to feel proud. Because, if nothing else, she at least hasn’t given up. Not truly. Even though she’s been handed a poor hand in life she still clings on and tries to fight her way to the top, no matter how unlikely success might seem. It’s … tenacity.
It’s the trait that had kept her mentally in one piece growing up in the Church of Khaos, the trait that had kept her level headed during the battle, that had allowed her to get to her knife, kill those rebel fighters, find the servants quarters. It’s allowed her to survive.
And, as the interrogator’s voice whispers in her vision - “leadership …” - she comes to the realization that it’s her best leadership quality too. That tenacity and levelheadedness has allowed her to wrangle her younger siblings through all the years, and it had allowed her to bring that wounded soldier back to reality and make him help her.
And if she were to be Francis’ wife, she would bring that same quality to her duties in the kingdom. She would fight tooth and nail for her husband and for her subjects. Because her loyalty isn’t truly to the kingdom itself - it’s to the people she cares for.
But it doesn’t matter. It won’t happen. She’ll either be imprisoned in the palace dungeon or executed. Because no King would want his son marrying a woman capable of matricide.
She’s done here. It’s over.
Her vision of Francis dissolves in tears.
____________________________________________________________________
Some time later her vision begins to clear. The cold, dark room swims into focus. The King is gone, the interrogator is gone … and Francis is gone. She chokes back a sob, and a guard that’d been leaning against the wall stands up straight. “My lady, are you in control of yourself?” She nods weakly, and the soldier approaches and undoes the leather straps. “I’m under orders to take you back to your quarters.” She doesn't protest and he helps her up, and they begin the long walk back to her rooms.
She doesn’t remember anything from the walk back. Everything is just one long blur.
When they reach her rooms and the soldier opens the door, she heads straight for the bed, not bothering to change into her nightclothes. She climbs in under the covers, clinging to one of the silken pillows for comfort.
She wishes she knew what she’d said. The visions had seemed so, so real, and she has no idea what had been only in her head, and what had actually come out of her mouth. But knowing her luck it hadn’t been anything good. She’s kind of glad though that she hadn’t been able to see Francis’ real face. She wouldn’t have wanted to see the shock and horror there when her secrets had been revealed.
Tears begin seeping from the corners of her eyes, and she burrows deeper under the covers. There’s nothing she can do but wait … and see what fate the royals have chosen for her.
kirke