"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
04-30-2016, 11:17 PM (This post was last modified: 04-30-2016, 11:27 PM by The Selection Committee.)
Royal Notice
The morning of your first day comes before you know it and you are awoken by an entire team of palace servants. They usher you off from your private quarters and to the awaiting breakfast that sat on a table off to one side. The spread of pastries, meats, and cheeses was more than you would eat in a week’s worth of morning meals and you realize just how differently you have lived compared to the royalty of your beloved, yet torn, nation. Your team of servants are chatty,, but friendly, and you listen to them chatter on about how excited everyone is, and what the events of the day held in store for you. By the time you have eaten your fill, they have all left you alone to wash up. You move to the attached bath and look at the size and detail of the room, thrice the size of your largest bathroom at home. Walls are trimmed in gold decals and everywhere there is marble and granite. The tub itself is almost large enough for swimming, or so it seems to you. You stand in awe of this space and get lost in your feelings of that moment. However, you remember you could meet the heir today so you end up giving yourself the most thorough scrubbing of your life.
The water feels amazing and you drift off into a series of memories and thoughts. You had never seen the heir in person, nor the royal family, but you knew they had a child about your age. A few years back you had seen a sketch of the entire family - the heir looked like anyone else had at that youthful age, at least from the image - with sandy-colored hair, honey eyes and slightly tanned skin. You wonder how much the Heir had changed, you wonder how much the time had matured the Heir and if you would connect and have a fairytale life like when you played as a kid. A shiver shakes you from your daydream as a breeze caresses your skin; you realize the water has gotten cold.
Upon finishing your time in the once-warm, perfumed water you wrap yourself in the most plush robe you have ever felt and move to your bag, that had been delivered shortly after your arrival to the room. You shuffle through your belongings, trying to find the outfit that made you feel as if you fit in with the lavish space the most. You had barely gotten yourself together when a knock on the door jerks your head up with a snap. Your heart races and you instantly think of the Heir, you try to gather yourself, and you call for the visitor to enter. The room suddenly filled with activity as a whole other team of people move into your room, some carried boxes upon boxes of supplies, others carried reams of the most elegant fabric you had seen. You look down at yourself and then at the whirling mass of people seeing to their tasks. They were palace servants and while their clothes were simple, they were nicer than your nicest outfit. You instantly knew what they were here for… a makeover. Of course you couldn’t meet royalty, or be expected to court royalty when you didn’t look the part. The King and Queen would not have nothing less than the best, and they must have extended that to you, the Selected, as well.
The next few hours are a blur or measurements, given opinions, and critiques. Some you gave, others were given to you, but by the end, you have a single finished outfit crafted from the first measurement to the very last perfected detail. You also looked different, as the makeover was composed of more than a change of clothing - your hair has been cut and styled; your face primed and painted, and by the time you looked in the mirror you were as glamorous as the theatre stars that acted on the big stages. You are given a note from the Heir when the tailor is packed and ready to leave, that held the next leg of your journey: the first meeting; a date.
You were surprised that your first meeting with the Heir would be a date, that you had to plan. Your mind raced to formulate a plan. The note said that you could choose anywhere within palace grounds, except a few private chambers, and a few obviously off limits places such as the treasury, armory, and the watchtowers, and palace guard areas, and that you would have two hours time from start to finish. Dates would start today and go into tomorrow afternoon, with the first eliminations to take place after dinner. You had been given one of the first dates, you had little time to prepare but your team of servants had just returned, and you had them to help with preparations, so you wasted no time. The time flew by and the guard was there to escort you to the stairs where the Heir, Frances (F)/Francis(M), would meet you at the bottom. You take a breath and descend the elegant stairs... now it is time to shine.
Questions? PM: The Selection Committee or post in Connect
No eliminations in Round 1, congratulations to all!
All entries for Round 2 are due Thursday, May 5th, by 4PM EST
Prompt
1. Describe your makeover, how does your appearance change? How do you feel through the process? What type of clothing do you have made (sultry, sweet, unique, fashion forward, remember that it is 1900-1910).
2. Describe your date decision and how the date goes. Remember you are attempting to woo, charm and catch the Heir’s interest here; you must convince the Heir to keep you around. How do you do this? Seduction? Girl/boy next door? Be a mystery? Etc. The book is wide open and there is no right or wrong way to go here. Be creative and dynamic.
3.Optional: Since you were one of the first dates, how do you pass the time the next day until the elimination after dinner? You may include interactions between your character, servants, other contestants - but remember it is not interactive, so keep it vague and make up a fellow contestant.
Helpful Info
# Remember this is NOT interactive, your story is yours alone, and nothing you do affects anyone else’s quest.
# You may power play servants, tailors, and the other Selected (NOT the other entries in the quest, just the other contestants that exist within your story).
# You may powerplay Fraces/Francis (a strong unisex name here, popular in 1900), the Heir, however, there should be no absolute validation given from Heir to your character. You can sense connection/chemistry, and the heir can show strong interest, but it should all be “above the belt,” though the committee doesn’t frown upon toeing the line-- if your character is attempting to seduce.
#The prompt was written to fit the majority of the storylines. If your storyline doesn't match, make small edits where needed. For example, Besra wasn't led to private chambers but to a temporary group lodging area. So Besra can have her team wake her in the group area then lead her to her private chambers so the prompt fits her story. Ask if you are unsure about this, we'll gladly clarify.
#Your post should end at the gathering for the elimination, after dinner.
Reminders
#This is a writing/elimination quest. The Selection Committee will be looking at your effort in drafting a creative story, full of vivid imagery and detail that helps us envision your story, fluidity from round to round, and how well you react to the challenges ahead. (Please note The Selection Committee will not be looking at grammar or writing structure.)
#The kingdom, Illea, is in an alternate universe some things that occur here may not be possible in our reality but here they are normal. Again, everything you see here should seem mostly normal to you (except for the announcement of the selection).
#Illea has limited technologies/luxuries. For the most part, you can assume you would have the luxuries/technology of working/middle-class people in the 1900-1910's.
#The palace/castle interior is mostly based off of Buckingham Palace, for assistance in descriptions. The picture in the HTML is representative of the exterior.
~~~As always, please contact The Selection Committee with any questions. Best of Luck!~~~
you're metophorical gin and juice so come on give me a taste of what its like to be next to you
As it were it was not angels that heralded the gilded rays of sun through Kirin’s window as his dreamy, fog filled mind had, for a moment, led him to believe. In fact it was a short, twitchy sort of fellow in crimson tails that strode around the room with a practiced grace. His hair was dark and slicked back, his face pinched with a large hooked nose. Later the lavender haired man would learn that this particular fellow was called ‘Honoré’ and with him bustled about a group of castle servants, drawing his curtains and fussing about the room as if it were somehow untidy.
Kirin rises in his plush bed, blinking around blearily as the bold shocks of red become a blur of movement to his sleep filled eyes. So many people were awake and nervously flitted about the chamber with obvious things to do and little time in which to do them. Previously he was a bit peeved at the sudden and unceremonious awakening, but now he realised as he sat just how well rested he felt. It had been a long time since he had enjoyed such a long stint of rest, actually he really can’t recall when that was. That mattered very little though, as now Honoré and several glove-fingered women ushered him from the warmth of his blankets, wrapping him in a fine robe as they scooted him out the room.
Though his mind raced with protests he didn’t have breath enough to utter the words as they flooded his mind. He was led with intent to a grand breakfast table made of polished oak with a delicate lace runner, atop which, sat the most glorious array of foods. Kirin was flabbergasted by the number of dishes that greeted him from their silver serving trays, it was more than he could eat, more than he could ever afford to attempt to eat. Steaming piles of scrambled eggs beckoned his growling stomach, while platters of fried bacon and oily links of sausage still sizzled where they lay. Piping hot buttermilk biscuits were among the selected menu items, as well as bowls of fresh cut fruits and buttered halves of toast. Jams of all sorts were lined up near pillowy stacks of flapjacks and boats of cream gravy, while crystal goblets twinkled full of orange juice- fresh squeezed.
Talk filled the room as Kirin watched each moving body with intent interest, they chatted freely about the day and what it might hold for him. As he had predicted, Kirin could not possibly place a dent on the lavish assortment of eats. He enjoyed the treat of a meal as best he could without gorging himself sick on the contents, and admittedly he indulged the sweet jams a bit more than necessary. When he finished the last bite his plate was cleared, a smiling red-haired woman coming to whisk it away for washing, while he himself was left alone to clean himself up.
Kirin found that this room had an attached bath, a grandeur one, thrice the size of any bathroom he had ever seen. Here, the eggshell colored walls were adorned with gold trimming- delicate swirls of filigree. Countertops of granite gleam in the fluorescent light, while a perfumed marble bath waits in the corner. Without much hesitation Kirin strips down to stand nude in front of the mirror, eyeing the the lines and curvature of his body that he had not beheld for some time now. At least not as a man, it was rare to have such a large expanse of the reflective material and he scrutinized as well as enjoyed the ways in which his form had changed into manhood.
Lost in his thoughts he jerks at the sudden realization that today might be the day he met the heir and there was no time to gawk at himself in the mirror. Taking the provided soaps and scrubs, Kirin washes himself thoroughly, not once, but twice. Over and over again he rubs small bars of rose soaps and sugar scrubs against his ever pinkening flesh until he is certain he is as clean as he will ever be- or ever was for that matter. Once the top layer of skin is surely sloughed off, he soaks in the steaming water, thoughts drifting back into his memories.
When he was young he recalls hearing of the heir, everyone was overjoyed at the birth, but times had been far better back then. A sketch comes to mind as well, a picture he had once seen of the Royal family depicted a youthful girl with sandy hair and honey eyes. Coffee and cream skin made her seem exotic and beautiful in a foreign sort of way, he wondered now if she was still as mesmerizing, his thoughts delving into fantasy. A shiver shakes him from his daydream, a breeze pulling him from carnal thoughts to that of the present where the water had long since grown cold. Slowly rising from the cool, perfumed waters, he wraps himself in the plush robe he had been previously provided with, snuggling against the soft material.
Today he had to look his best, he thought, slinking from the bathroom to the first bedroom chamber once more. Inside he finds his bag where he had carefully placed it on a velvet chaise and begins to dig inside, tossing the contents around in search of something worthy. Loose coins jingle against each other, money he had set aside for a cut and a shave but he had never really gotten around to that. There was too little time, he was in such a great hurry.
With a sour look Kirin selects his most presentable clothing items, those with few or no holes though the edges of material hung frayed on most of his ‘best’ pieces. Bits of loose string, seams delicately pulling apart from each other, it was pitiful at best. Surely he could distract her from his attire well enough to have his mediocre dress matter very little. He would have to.
One look in the full length mirror and it is more than obvious that even the servants clothes were nicer than his own best outfit. Self-scrutiny is short lived when a knock on the door jerks Kirin back to the awareness of his surroundings, his stomach curls as he rushes to smooth back his hair thinking it could only be one person- the heir. With a firm tone and tight jaw the lavender haired man calls for the visitor to enter, “Come in.” This however, was not the guest he was expecting. Instead, a whole group of someone’s descend upon Kirin and his private sleeping quarters, arms laden with boxes. Literally, boxes upon boxes, all shapes and sizes and colors.
Another wave emerges through the open doorway emitting a group carrying reams of fabric, the most luxurious threads he had ever seen. Not even Arthur carried such fine quality pieces in his shop, though Kirin was sure it was not because he hadn’t wanted to. Such pieces were quite obviously made only for those that could afford them. The best silks, wools, and cashmeres began piling atop his bed, while velvets and cottons made their own heap atop the plush chaise lounge. If they were not all right in front of his face he would never have believed that they existed, and it seemed that the hired help were just as excited and in a frenzy as he was.
Running his fingers against the different colors, he only half listens as the chatter grows and it becomes obvious that he is in for some sort of makeover. Both women and men titter away, placing swatches of color against his skin and holding up bolts of fabric to test them in the light from the window. He was expected to be making decisions, telling them what he liked and did not like while they catered to his fashion whims. It was really something else to be so involved with the process of clothes making, they even brought out a stool upon which he was to stand while they pinned and measured fabrics against his form. Kirin of course stood proudly, nodding or shaking his head each time a different color or pattern was offered to him for consideration. The whole ordeal took a lengthy amount of time but he was having such a delight in being waited on that he truly never realized.
In the end he made selections on color and textures. Not only did he want to look magnificent he wanted to feel it also, delving into the senses in more ways than just one. The final ensemble consisted of a rich, navy wool jacket with a crisp, voile cotton white dress shirt. To top it off he selected gold buttons and a floral patterned silk tie printed with delicate lavender flowers. Traditionally, he was not far off in the cut and style of his suit but as one might guess there were a few fashion forward elements to the entire thing. Kirin was sure to make a statement while looking presentable and proper for the era in which he lived.
On top of his perfectly fitted suit, Kirin had received a fresh haircut. The most slender woman he had ever seen had taken a pair of shears to his lavender locks with a precise and practiced skill. Truly she was a waif, thin and elongated with large blue eyes, and no perceivable curves whatsoever. She was magic with scissors though, and he couldn’t help but wonder just how magic her bony hands were.
The stout man to shave his face was quite the opposite, it was truly amusing the night and day looks of the two hairdressers. Where the woman had been thin, the man was large, rotund and it was no question that he had never missed a meal in his life. He had great red cheeks and a twinkle in his green eyes and he loved to laugh in great chortles that shook his belly as he worked. However large and sausage like the man’s fingers were it made no difference to the skill in which he worked with a straight razor. It was surprising to Kirin as the man gently waved his silver wand across his cheeks to reveal the smooth, porcelain skin beneath.
Once all was said and done and he stood to admire himself in the full-length mirror, a gloved-fingered woman handed him a rolled piece of parchment as they all bade him farewell to leave the room. There he stood, dumbfounded as he read the contents scrawled inside, it was the next leg of the competition, a meeting with the Heir- a date. He had to plan a date, and soon, like, very soon.
Mind racing Kirin quickly steps down from the pedestal, racking his brain and mumbling to himself as he paces across the room. What kind of date should he do? What would she like? As he tries to come up with something quickly the team of servers reenters, looking to him for decisions and offering to help him with any preparations.
Immediately Kirin knows he’d like to have a nice lunch or early dinner with the woman, and more importantly he wanted a hand in its preparation. “I’d like a meal of course and I need to be escorted to the kitchens. I want to see what kind of cuts of meat are available today and fresh ones.” He adds because he would only have the best, he would even make the cuts himself if they would allow him to, best to make sure it was done right no? With his meal plan discussed he thought he ought to do something more, an outing of some sort. “The horses. I’ll have Jack made ready, we’ll do that first actually- then the dinner.” The hired help only nod with each request, a few are making notes and others still are delegating who should do what. Without much direction a few men are already heading off to the stables, no doubt to prepare Kirin’s horse as well as the lady’s. Kirin himself was lead to the kitchens to inspect today’s meat selections and after that he was escorted to the end of a staircase for his date to begin.
It is not a long wait before the lady of the hour is approaching him, escorted by several guards and hand maids. Age has done her well, leaving the tan skinned beauty with long locks of spun gold, and gentle but comely curves to fill her dress. He bows as she nears, turning his torso the way he had been shown as a child and he can feel her eyes and smile on him as she extends a hand. “A pleasure to meet you, I am lady Frances.” Her voice is sweet and soft with a pronounced confidence that only the royal born could hold. Taking her silky hand in his he places a light kiss on the top before returning pleasantries. “On the contrary, I am the one to be pleased to meet you. My name is Kirin, won’t you join me for a ride?” The question is aided by the gesture of his free hand as he is reluctant to let her palm go and instead means to walk her to the stables.
Kirin was finding he was rather fond of Jack and he wasn’t aware just how glorious of a creature horses were, he should have bought one much sooner.The Heir’s own horse is a fine bay mare, with a prominent star and several white socks. She is just as calm and mannerly as her owner and stands patiently as Kirin boosts Frances into the saddle.Once on his steed he sets off towards the fields, several sprawling acres where orchards line the grassy hills. Although he has little saddle time to speak of Jack is a generous ride, needing little direction and taking up a slow leisurely pace. For a time Kirin feels as though he has been here before or at the very least had done this all his life- riding a horse that is. The reigns feel light in his clasped fingers and the gentle roll of the animal’s body beneath begins to match the pace of his own breathing.
Talk is often and it is polite. He does his best to make her laugh all while learning things about her, finding ways to know her more than just on the outside. Inwardly he commented to himself about the way her hair gently to her rounded breasts, and the way her hips found rhythm with the movement of her horse. She was striking and he could not be more pleased to discover it, she was even able to carry on intelligent conversation, a commodity he once thought lost on the beautiful. As the pair made it’s way through the sprawling clusters of trees her discovered many things about her childhood, her likes, her dislikes. The horse on which she rode was sired by her very first mount and the bay was fondly referred to as ‘Abby’.
Kirin was pleased that Frances was so easy to talk to, it made the entire competition all the more enjoyable and worthwhile. Not only was he eager to have a hand in her monetary assets but her physical ones as well, and afterwards he was sure she would be fine company to to enjoy the afterglow of sex with. Kirin shared the finest points of his own childhood, all things before the economy had turned over on its back but she was indeed curious about that part too. She didn’t pry near as hard as he might but she was a lady and she presented herself as one both in presence and in while in the midst of conversation. It was tactful the way she conducted herself and he couldn’t help but feel that his date was going exceedingly well, especially when they reached the garden gazebo for an early dinner. The surprised intake of breath was enough to puff his chest and the twist of her smiling face was indeed a good sign.
Frances was light as he scooped her down from her horse, holding her small waist between his hands and taking a long look into her honey colored eyes. With a blush she looked away and he released her to take her to her seat and offer her a pulled chair. Against hanging wisteria the soft flicker of flame lit the space even against the not yet drifting sun. Honeysuckle was a complementary perfume to the meal, a light portion of beef against a bed of greens and seasoned potatoes. White wine filled a crystal decanter and fresh baked rolls steamed with pats of butter melting on their golden tops. Pouring them both a generous glass of chardonnay he proceeded with a toast, “To us,” he clinked their glasses together with a rueful smile.
As far as the meal went Kirin could not have been more satisfied with the cut and preparation of their meat, the star of the meal. A light wine sauce coated the seared top and a sprinkle of herbs added freshness and color to their menu. Talk was light but he tagged that to the fact that the food was top notch, Frances had even commented on how lovely the meal was and Kirin tipped his glass to her with a nod.
Part way through Frances dripped a few spots of sauce down her chin to her exposed cleavage, looking embarrassed with a gasp of surprise. Before she could wrestle the napkin from her lap Kirin was up with his own, lightly dabbing the mess with a smile and quick comment. “You would be most beautiful even covered in sauce my lady.” His hand finishes quickly and the other tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, fingertip drifting to her delicate chin, her skin so smooth and soft. Moments later a bill is ringing, the gentle ting-ting from a crimson coated staff member and it is a signal that time was up, the date was at a close.
The rest of the evening is a blur and the next day speeds by in mere breaths. After supper (to which he could barely bring himself to eat) the hopefuls are brought to a room where they are told the first round of eliminations will begin...
05-04-2016, 07:06 PM (This post was last modified: 05-04-2016, 07:27 PM by Topsail.)
I was in the darkness --so the darkness I became
Despite her excitement, she had fallen asleep at nearly the same moment she hit the bed. It was exquisitely soft, unlike anything she had ever felt before. The pillow cradled her head in just the right way; she was quite sure she had never experienced a bed quite so comfortable. Throwing back the heavy duvet she stretched her arms above her head, sweeping her eyes once more over her room. It was possibly even more beautiful now that she was awake enough to appreciate it. Suddenly there was a knock and she could hear the servants excited chatter through the door. “Miss Topsail, if you please! Breakfast will be served soon, and you’ll need your nourishment!” Even without seeing the woman’s face, Topsail imagined her to be a kindly, plump older lady. She probably had gray hair tucked into a tidy bun and the kind of eyes that twinkled when she spoke. Smiling, Topsail called back “Coming!” before throwing her legs out of the bed and setting her feet on the oriental rug peaking from beneath the bed. Like the sun rising higher in the sky, so did her excitement rise. By the time she had gotten herself presentable, the smile was as much as part of her face as her clear blue eyes.
Much like dinner the night before, breakfast was a bustling affair. Everyone appeared to have rested well in their private quarters and were coming into the day with the wind at their backs. For now though, breakfast demanded their attention- and what a breakfast it was. The castle staff had clearly outdone themselves, presenting the finalists with every baked good known to the kingdom. Sweet cakes and hot rolls, bear claws and muffins- the choices were endless. Beyond the baked goods were meats and eggs staked high for the taking. Glazed ham on one plate, sausage on the next. Topsail was quite sure an entire herd of pigs had met their maker to fulfill this breakfast order. It was unlike anything she had ever seen. Not wishing to miss anything, she grabbed a tiny bit of each before sitting down at the far end of the long table. She was close enough to the hum of things to listen to idle chatter, but far enough away that no one bothered to make conversation with her. Which was entirely fine with her. Not a recluse by nature, she had simply made up her mind that this wasn’t the place to make friends but rather a challenge needing her full and undivided attention. It wouldn’t do for her mind to be cluttered with chit chat. So instead she ate her breakfast in relative silence, speaking and smiling when spoke to but otherwise, focusing on the day ahead of her. Something told her that “busy” would be a generous term.
After breakfast she was ushered back to her room; sure enough, the servant who had woken her this morning was a kind-faced older woman. She was an animated little thing, a right flurry of hand motions and facial expressions. Topsail found her to be endearing and even somewhat comforting. Finally, they reached the turret room once more and the pair came to a halt. “Miss, you’ll find your bath is ready and waiting for you. Don’t dally now, you’ve an exciting day ahead of you! Go on now, hurry along!” said the maid, whom Topsail now knew as Mrs. Lanham. Mrs. Lanham swung the door open and bowed Topsail in before taking her leave. Alone again, she found the bathroom. In her exhaustion last night she hadn’t noticed the door set off to the side of the massive wardrobe. As she entered, the scent of vanilla and jasmine was almost overwhelming. It seemed to be coming from the steam rising from the bathtub. It was a massive thing; pure white porcelain, with golden clawed feet poised on the floor. A small fireplace provided heat to the room and also to the bath water, by way of a heavy iron kettle hung above the flames. Sighing, she slipped off her clothes and slid beneath the perfumed water. This was a luxury of the likes she had never known. A warm bath was hard to come by in her drafty cabin, but a hot, steaming bath? Unheard of. She hadn’t realized how much tension she held in her body until the hot water began to ease it. There was a certain part of her that was quite sure it could stay in the bathtub all day, but fortunately her brain was still functioning rationally. No prince was looking for a pruney-skinned wife, so Topsail hurried along with her bath, taking extra care to scrub behind her ears, just as her mother had always taught her. As she scrubbed she thought about the one time she had caught a glimpse of the prince. He had been riding along behind the royal carriage. His horse had been a handsome black stallion with strong legs, likely some baroque-type. But the prince himself…Topsail was hard-pressed not to sigh fondly at just the memory of him. He had been everything she had ever dreamed a man could be. Devilishly handsome, with a rogue mess of dark hair flopping carelessly over his smooth forehead. Arms that could have belonged to the kings best knight. Long legs wrapped around the barrel of his horse…and now here she sat, possibly a room away from him.
Before she knew it, nearly an hour has passed. The water had gone cold and even more horrible, her fingers looked like prunes. That would not do at all. Pulling herself up quick enough to make water slosh from the edge, she hurried out of the water. Jasmine and vanilla clung to her like a second, much softer skin. While her skin wasn’t rough per say, she was also not a girl accustomed to the finest lotions and powders. She made do with what she had, which was usually a scrap of soap made from goats milk. Now, however, she bore the skin of a much more affluent lady. Pulling a robe from its hanger on the mantel (the servants thought of everything, and the robe was gloriously warm), she looked into the mirror over the wash sink. A pretty face peered from beneath still-damp curls. The blue of her eyes picked up the blue and golds in the bathroom, mirroring them back to her. She smiled at herself in the mirror, contorting her face this way and that as she struggled to find her “best” smile. Little did she know that her best smile was her original smile, and no amount of scrunching her nose was going to change it.
Piling her hair atop her head she walked back into her circular room, her eyes sweeping over it in search of her belongings. A thought popped into her head and she walked to the wardrobe, throwing it open to reveal her small amount of things. They were by far the finest things she owned, but here in this room…why, they were little better than peasants clothing. The only thing that would stand her apart from a common street urchin was the fact that her clothes were at least clean. A frown creased her pretty mouth as doubt rose in her throat. This was ludicrous! She was a blacksmiths daughter, not the next heir. She was nothing but a foolish, silly girl with the type of hopes and dreams foolish, silly girls have. But fate had a way of assisting silly girls, and the assist came in the form of another knock at her door. Gasping, she quickly pulled on a dressing gown before going to answer it.
Suddenly, her room was a flurry of activity. Clearly, all of the kingdoms best dressers had appeared for the occasion, eager to not only assist but to show off their designs. Dress after gorgeous dress was pulled from a rolling wardrobe and held before her. How could she chose? She had rarely seen such fine things, let alone been given a choice in wearing one. However, when the sky-blue one emerged, she was sold. It was everything she could ever have wanted; a flowing confection of lace and silk. “That one, please.” she said softly as she gestured towards the dress. The dresser returned her smile and she knew then that she had made the right choice. It would match her eyes almost perfectly. At once the team set to work. A seamstress appeared at her side, needle and thread waiting to make any adjustments. But the seamstress would soon find that her presence was quite unneeded, for the dress fit Topsail like wings fit a bird. While she watched, the blacksmiths daughter she had been was transformed into the princess she could become. Her trim waist was cinched tight by the whale-bone corset, while the skirt of the dress flowed around her feet. The servants helped her slip her feet into a pair of modest black heels. Through a small panel of lace peaked her delicate collarbones and alabaster skin. Rouge had been added to her cheekbones and a small dab of pink paint to her pouted lips. Atop her head, her hair was piled into loose curls that came down to frame her pretty face. She sighed…Father had always said she deserved to be wrapped in silk.
Reaching forward, she touched her reflection in the mirror. It was as if Topsail, the blacksmiths daughter, had disappeared somewhere beneath the silk and lace. Before she had much time to admire the change though, a note was thrust into her hand. Startled, she took it, noticing that the dressing team appeared to be clearing away. Hurriedly she opened the note and upon reading it, noticed her stomach drop at least four inches from its original position. The first meeting. Of course she had known it would all lead to this, but she thought perhaps she would have more time to prepare. However, Topsail was nothing if not resourceful. Looking up from the small scroll, she spotted a maid still in the room. “Excuse me, please!” she called as she hurried in the maids direction. “I’d like the cooks to please prepare a picnic. Something light, but still filling. Fresh bread, of course.” As she spoke, her voice took on a new authority, something that surprised even her. There was much to be done in a short amount of time. “Also, I’d like an open carriage to meet us out front to carry us to the viewing pond on the castle grounds. When I arrived, I was brought by a strapping team of chestnuts. Those horses, if possible.” The maid was smiling and nodding excitedly, clearly taking in each and every instruction. “When the picnic basket is complete, please have it packed into the carriage. A blanket as well.” With those final instructions the maid took her leave. Closing her eyes, Topsail allowed herself several deep breaths…it was now or never.
Heading down through the castle she was hard pressed to swallow her nerves. Every few steps she took a deep breath, hoping to clear her mind and settle her errant nerves. It worked, at least to a point. If anything it gave her something else to thing about. Finally she rounded the final corner and stepped into the massive entryway, only to find the heir standing there waiting on her. He was dressed casually but so handsome, and now that she was close she noticed just how blue his eyes were. “Topsail. I’m Francis. My, this is a pleasure.” he said, and for the moment she lost herself to his smooth baritone voice. “Francis, the pleasure is mine and mine alone.” she replied with a courteous dip of her head. Reaching forward he clasped one of her hands in his, brushing a soft kiss just over her knuckles. While his lips landed only on her knuckles, the effects went straight to her knees. “I see Fury and Flame waiting quite impatiently outside. I’m assuming they are here at your wish?” he asked and she nodded, an attractive blush creeping up her elegant neck. “Then my dear, lets not try their patience any longer. After you.” And with that he pulled open the door, revealing the anxious pair of horses beyond. Stepping over the threshold she immediately stopped, giving the heir ample room to cross himself but careful not to stand in his way. When the door had closed he once more grabbed her hand, leading her down the stone steps to the carriage waiting beyond.
Just being near Francis was a joy in itself. He was eloquent and well-spoken but with a certain dark charm she found herself drawn to. There was a twinkle in his blue eyes that spoke of mischief and something else, something sultry perhaps, had she known of such things. Leaning over Francis whispered in her ear “Watch this” before reaching forward and goosing the carriage driver. Already having a hard time controlling his eager team, he jumped, thus giving the horses the extra rein they had been begging for. Snorting they plunged forward into a canter, throwing Topsail and Francis back into their seats rolling with laughter. The driver was not amused as he gathered up the extra drive line, mumbling admonishments under his breath. “That was a rotten trick, you know.” said Topsail, scolding and smiling at the same time. Francis responded by shrugging and winking. Finally, the driver managed to haul the horses to a halt. Topsail looked over and saw that there on the edge of the pond was her planned picnic, blanket and all. “I believe we’re here. Shall we?” It felt strange taking the reins, but this was her date after all.
As the heir stepped down from the carriage, Topsail found her waist in his waiting hands. He lifted her down easily, setting her gently on the ground. “I haven’t been here since I was a child. It brings back fond memories. Mostly, memories of me sneaking off to swim naked while a contingent of worried servants trailed after me.” said Francis with a chuckle, his eyes falling fondly on the tidy body of water. “Well then, it would appear I’ve chosen well. Fond memories of your errant, nude youth and all!” It was easy to return his humor. She found him to be like a Sunday morning, the kind where you were slow to rise and spent the day doing just as you pleased. It didn’t take them long to reach their place setting, settling on the ground and digging into the basket. Breakfast seemed like a long-ago affair and suddenly, she found herself starving. Opening the basket she was pleased to find fresh bread, still warm and wrapped in a cloth napkin. Removing the bread she found an assortment of cheeses, grapes, and a bottle of the kings finest dandelion wine. At the very bottom were two simple plates, two glasses, and two knives- one for cheese and the other for wine. “Shall we?” she said, gesturing towards the place she had sat before them. “My dear, I thought you were never ask. But first, lets uncork that fine spirit and toast to this wonderful day.” Topsail couldn’t agree more. Handing him the bottle he quickly uncorked it before handing it back to her to fill their glasses, which she did happily. Smiling, they raised them high before toasting merrily. As she lowered her glass she looked at Francis, almost staring but not quite bold enough to do so. He was very handsome…she could get lost in that face. “You know, I was very nervous to meet you.” she said, an attractive flush rising up her neck. He opened his mouth to speak but she raised a hand to cut him off. His lips sealed with a roguish smile; clearly, he wasn’t used to being admonished in such a way. “But I know now that was silly of me. You’re so easy to talk to…not at all like I’d imagined. Its nice to know that even princes swim naked in filthy ponds sometimes.” And with that she began to laugh and so did he, until the tears rolled down their cheeks.
The analogy about time flying while fun was being had was all to true. At the height of their laughter the carriage driver called to them, announcing that their date had drawn to a close. Both smiled, Topsail more than a little sadly. A few hours simply weren’t enough, but rules were rules and she had no choice but to follow them. The trip back to the castle was somewhat more quiet, but there was a certain loveliness to the moment. They both sat on the same seat, their hands lightly intertwined. Through the layers of silk she could feel the heat of his leg brushing against hers, and she was surprised to find that heat transferred to other, more sensitive parts of her body. As they neared the castle and the carriage slowed, she laid her head on his strong shoulder. Hesitantly at first, and when he didn’t object, she settled her weight more firmly there. Too soon they were back, the horses slowing to a walk as they neared the sweeping stone steps. “Well, I suppose this is all for today.” she said gloomily, her eyes staring off into the distance. “Indeed. But perhaps there will be another?” She couldn’t help but think there might have been a hopeful lilt to his voice. Maybe it was only wishful thinking on her part, but it was something to cling to in any case. As they rose from their seats and stepped down out of the carriage, Francis turned to her. “May I?” he asked, and she agreed before even knowing what she was agreeing to. Leaning down he brushed a kiss on her soft cheek and then allowed her to do the same. She would have very much liked to have put the kiss on his lips instead, but a cheek would suffice. “Thank you for a wonderful time, Francis. I do hope you enjoyed yourself. Goodbye…” she said, drifting up the stairs and towards the waiting Mrs. Lanham. “The same to you, Miss Topsail. Goodbye.”
Mrs. Lanham led her back to her turret room, where she wiled away the next hours and day by reading a book she had brought with her. She could scarcely see the words on the pages. Her mind was still on the banks of the viewing pond. The rose fell in the sky and rose once more, and still she could see his blue eyes. It was as if he was just out of reach, as if he had only been a dream. She went to meals as she was expected to do but only picked at her food. A knotted, nervous stomach was not a very hungry one. At the end of the last dinner before the elimination she headed with the rest of the contestants into a handsome room she hadn’t seen before. Refusing to sit she twisted her hands nervously, attempting to rid her body of the nervous tension that hung in the room like cigar smoke. A small man stepped through a heavy door, clearing his throat to garner their attention. “The eliminations will begin soon…”
peel away the layers till you're nothing and no one
When she finally awakens the next morning, Kirke remains still for a moment, simply … experiencing. The bed is the most comfortable thing she’s ever slept on - lovely and soft (definitely no hay in this mattress!) - and the blanket (she doesn’t remember pulling it up) feels wonderfully silky against her skin. She sighs happily and settles deeper under the blanket. She wouldn’t mind staying here forever.
“Miss?” Kirke jerks upright, clutching the blanket to her chest. Her bed is completely surrounded by maids, all of whom are currently staring at her. One of them, an older woman with a no-nonsense look on her face, immediately steps forward when she sees the look on Kirke’s face. “Miss, it’s time for you to get ready. You have a busy day ahead of you.” Kirke stays still for a moment, frozen. “Oh …”
Then the enormity of the task ahead hits home and she hauls herself out of the ever so lovely bed. The maids usher her out of the room into an adjoining sitting room, where a massive breakfast awaits. Kirke immediately tucks in, savouring every single bite she takes - the food is simply mouthwatering. As she eats, the maids chatter on about the day’s plans. Kirke listens politely and nods occasionally, but doesn’t add much input - she’s too busy filling her stomach. And by the time she’s full and ready to ask questions, the last of the maids is disappearing through the door with a gesture to something behind Kirke.
She turns and her mouth opens slightly. Through another door that she hadn’t noticed before, she can see a massive gold and marble tub, steaming in the slightly cool air. She moves through door and is immediately struck by the extravagance. To have a whole room for washing up … at home all they have is a little room for the toilet, and a simple metal tub that they pull out when needed.
But, there’s no time to dwell. The maids had mentioned that she might meet the heir today, and she knows that it’s vital she look presentable. She doesn’t want to put him off before they’ve even had the chance to get to know each other. Kirke climbs in and sinks back into the delightfully warm water, her mind drifting to a sketch of the royal family she’d seen some time ago. The prince had been quite a bit younger then - a cute little thing, as most children are, with sandy blonde hair and honey brown eyes. She wonders what he looks like now. Has he aged well? Or does he, like many of the inbred royals, look a little worse for wear? It won’t matter either way, she’ll still woo him no matter his appearance, but her youthful heart can’t help but hope for a handsome prince.
A cool breeze shakes her from her thoughts, and she realizes that the water has gone cold. She pulls herself out, wraps herself in a wonderfully fluffy robe, and walks back to the main bedroom. Her bag is on the floor, having finally arrived, and she moves to it to find something to wear. She sighs immediately. Nothing in her bag is going to even begin to fit in here, in this place of such monstrous wealth. But it’s all she has, so she pulls out her nicest dress (rather, the one with the least amount of holes and tears) and pulls it on.
The moment she’s pulled herself together, there’s a knock at the door. A team of palace servants suddenly spills through the door carrying a whole parade of sewing supplies. Kirke smiles in relief when she realizes what they’re here for - they’re going to give her a makeover. She won’t have to appear in front of the heir in her poor, drab attire.
The next few hours are a blur of measurements, pin pricks, stitching and prodding with makeup brushes. Kirke almost starts to believe it’s never going to end, until, finally, the seamstress and maids step away. “There we are. Purple really is your colour dear. Matches your eyes.” Then she turns Kirke around so that she can see herself in the mirror.
She can’t help but gasp - she’s a far cry from the little village girl that had walked in yesterday evening. Her face has been painted - made slightly more pale, with her cheeks tinted slightly pink, and her lips painted a bright, vibrant red. Her long wavy blonde hair has been pulled up into a very stylish pompadour. Her feet are secured in a pair of simple, but well made black heeled boots. And the dress, ohhh the dress. It’s a silk satin and chiffon confection that is a lovely deep purple - a colour that, as the seamstress had suggested, brings out her purple eyes, making them all the more vibrant. It cinches in her small waist (with a little help from a relaxed corset), giving her a practically perfect figure. And the workmanship is stunning (and very fashionable) - two long silk panels drape down the front and back, stitched all over with the beautifully detailed purple flowers. And perhaps her favourite part - the neck, chest, and a small part of her upper back are covered with a panel of wonderfully detailed black and white lace, topped with a choker of pearls sewn into the lace.
If only Aily could see her now.
She turns back to the seamstress who’s standing back with a rather proud look on her face. “Thank you so much!” The woman smiles kindly. “You’re welcome dear.” She hands Kirke a piece of paper. “Good luck!” Then she, and the rest of the troupe of servants, march out the door.
Kirke unfolds the piece of paper, discovering that it’s a note from the heir. It says that she must plan a date for the two of them … and that her date is in only a few hours! Her mind instantly springs into a panic. It’s so soon! What on earth will she do?
She glances out the window, at the bright sunlight streaming through, and an idea comes to her. When her team of servants returns she springs into action. “Please, could you ask the cooks to prepare a picnic basket? Some light sandwiches and some sweets will do.” A maid nods and rushes off. “And could you obtain a carriage for us?” A servant nods his head at her and takes off through the door. “And finally, could you ensure that a boat is brought out for us at the boat house?” Another servant’s face lights up with a knowing smile, and he disappears to do her bidding. “And I will need a hat!” It wouldn’t do for her to get a sunburn on her first date with the heir. “I have just the thing!” The seamstress reappears from behind her, holding a wide-brimmed black hat. She places it gently on top of Kirke’s pompadour, and pins it so that it will not slip. “All done!” The woman steps back, admiring her own handiwork. “You look lovely dear. Now, the rest is up to you!”
Time simply flies by, and within minutes of the last servant returning to confirm that he’s carried out her request, she is called to meet the prince. A guard leads her to a elegant set of red carpeted stairs, and tells her that the heir is waiting at the bottom. Heart in her throat, she begins her descent.
It’s time to make her father proud.
She catches sight of the prince as her feet travel the last few steps, and she finds her gaze transfixed. Her foolish, girly wish has come true - Frances is a handsome specimen of a man, with the hair and eyes she remembers from the picture, plus a chiseled jaw and muscular physique. Her heart flutters. The heir’s tanned face splits into a dazzling smile as he spots her, and gives a little bow. He reaches out his hand as she passes the last step and she catches it, pausing for a little curtsy. “Your highness.”
Her eyes meet his, and she can’t help but match his smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Kirke.” His own grin widens. “The pleasure’s all mine. Just call me Francis.” They begin to walk towards the door, Kirke’s heart fluttering in her chest. This instant attraction … it’s like nothing she’s ever felt. “So Kirke, I hear you have quite the date planned for us.” Her chin falls, her face flushing. “Yes, I hope so. Shall we head to the carriage?” He nods in agreement and they head for the door, followed by a servant in a black suit.
They make polite small talk the entire short ride to the lake, and in what seems like only minutes they are pulling to a stop. Francis climbs out first, then graciously assists her. Kirke pauses for a moment, eyes dancing out across the lake, then takes a deep breath and turns back to face Francis’ bright smile. “Considering the good weather, I thought it might be nice to have a picnic on the lake.” She’d lucked out with the weather. The temperature is warm, but not unbearably hot, and the sun is bathing the picturesque lake with a rosy glow. A good enough backdrop as any. Francis glances at the lake, spotting the little row boat (basket already inside) moored at the dock. “A lovely idea, my lady. Shall we?” The walk down the path to the lake, across the dock, and climb into the boat - Francis first, then Kirke, then the servant that had followed earlier. Kirke requested accompaniment while organizing the date - it’s only proper of course - but she's now beginning to regret it.
The servant rows them out to the centre of the lake and Kirke opens the basket, revealing the spread. Both of them tuck into a sandwich (Kirke has to suppress a little moan when she tastes the bread, it’s just so good) and lean back to enjoy the sun, the water and the birdsong emanating from the nearby trees. She’d had some concerns about conversing with him (what if she doesn't know what to say?), but is surprised to find that talking to him is easier than talking to anyone else she’s ever met. They talk and they talk and they talk, discussing everything from family to food, to the surrounding countryside. Kirke doesn’t tell him about the Church of Khaos, not yet, but she speaks of her father, and the both of them bond over a mutual desire to make their fathers proud. He asks after her application, particularly the self defence comment, and chuckles when she explains that it’s always good to be prepared.
Francis eventually moves to sit right beside Kirke, slipping an arm about her waist, and the servant raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. For her own part, Kirke finds herself becoming more flirty as the conversation progresses. At one point she even slips a small piece of battenberg cake into the princes’ mouth, surprising herself with her own daring. She’s even more surprised to find that she’d like nothing more than to kiss him, but she suppresses that particular urge. It wouldn’t be exactly proper, especially not on a first date, and she has painted herself as the innocent, young peasant after all …
But, eventually her allotted time comes to an end. The servant rows them back to shore, and they take the carriage back to the palace. Finally, at the door, they bid their adieus, and Francis disappears back into the palace, though not before giving her a little kiss on the cheek. She stays there for a moment, thinking, as the sun disappears behind the horizon. She thinks it’d gone well. She’d certainly felt attraction, and Francis had seemed to as well - especially with the way he’d cuddled up to her, and the way he’d lingered with that kiss at the end. But … he has many dates ahead tonight and tomorrow. Will their afternoon on the lake be enough to keep her in his memory? Will it be enough for her to get past the first round of eliminations?
The thoughts plague her all evening, through her dreams, and on through the next day as she tours the palace grounds. She tries to keep herself occupied, keep her thoughts off the prince, but every once in a while she spots the prince on another date, and her nerves threaten to overwhelm her. She barely eats at dinner and her eyes dart in amongst the other contestants, who all seem to be in similar states of anxiety.
Then, finally, it’s time. The dining room door opens, and a man in the royal livery steps through the door. It’s time for the eliminations to begin.
In her dreams, Besra rides across an empty field. She doesn’t know where she’s going, only that she must get there, and soon. The night is behind her, the day ahead. A sun looms at either end, one wreathed in blue flame, the other resplendent in gold. She gallops but still she seems to go nowhere, running, running to the light. From behind, the dark flames eat the grass, wind up the mounts legs, catch fire to the trail of her cloak …
“Wake up…” She dreams. “Wake up!” She hears, and with a start her eyes fly open and she sits upright in bed. Her senses are slow to return, drowsy head turning around her to make sense of the other girls and the strange furniture. She rubs her face and the memories flood back. “That’s right, girls. Up, up, UP!” A nagging voice calls: it’s the grey-haired madame from the day before, striding down the middle row to nudge a foot here and there. “There’s a very long day in store for you all, lessons and a tour.” Besra sighs and swings out of bed, brushing hair up behind her before stretching to pop the numbness out of her back. Soft beds made for rough sleep. “But for one of you,” The silver lady teases, “there’s a surprise in store. The heir will accompany one lady on her choice of the very first outing!”
The screams are deafening. Besra has to press her palms over her ears, but she chuckles at the wordless flurry of nightgowns. The madame realizes her mistake and with waving arms attempts to quiet the stampede. “LADIES!” She yells, and Besra’s hands fall to her side. “Please! Maintain yourselves … goodness.” She instructs, smoothing her skirts. “Prepare for breakfast, promptly. I will explain the process after you can conduct yourselves with decorum.” She tells them, turning on a heel before gliding through the double doors. With her exit, a murmur of excitement falls over the group and the girls become like a hive of bees: circling about each other, trading shoes and ribbons and knick knacks. Some help braid while others help with powdering. In looking around her, Besra realizes a fault of her own. She’d made no attempt at friendship here yet and that might cost her.
A girl beside her fiddles with her necklace and with a smile, Besra leans across her bed, fingers extended to help grasp the clasp. “Here, let me help you.” She offers, but the other girl leans away quickly from her hands. “Don’t touch me!” The girl shrieks, turning around to pin her down with a cold, honey golden stare. She looks over Besra with petulance, mouth turning down at the edges. “I know you,” She snivels, a smirk evident in the corners of her eyes, “You’re the peasant girl that sells pastries.” Besra’s blood is pounding in her ears and she can feel her cheeks beginning to flame. The other girl stands, dark locks tumbling about her shoulders as she stares down at her. “You’re pretty. In a common sort of way. But you won’t last long here. My father is a bookkeeper for the King, I’ve been brought up around the palace. I’ve already got a foot in the doorway.” She hisses, walking slowly around the foot of her bed to meet Besra face to face.
“You’re a lucky one. But that’ll run out soon enough. People like you don’t belong in places like this.” She warns, letting the words sink in. Besra’s blue eyes harden, face tilting up to meet her enemies stare. “People like me feed people like you.” Besra tells her, the statement dropping from her lips like stones. “Be careful the next time you pick up a pastry. You might not find the taste so sweet.” She warns, holding the girl’s stare for a breath of time. Quietly, she brushes past her, leaning over her trunk to open the case and retrieve a simple, grey gown. It was true; what the girl has said. A girl like her, with so little in possessions and knowledge, was incredibly lucky to be here among them. But she refused to believe something as paltry as pretty fabric and tasteless jewelry would be enough to fool the heir into marrying you. With a huff, she blows back a tendril of pale hair, gathers her things and readies for breakfast.
By the time she’s placed a fair, white hat on her pinned-up hair, the other girls have begun to file out of the massive double doors, heels clicking against marble as they descend the main staircase to the banquet hall. Breakfast is an incredible display, like nothing she’s ever experienced before. But the rich food and the dark haired girl’s words sit heavily on her tongue. Too quickly does her stomach fill, and she finds the food lacks some of the luster it previously held. It’s only as she stabs idly at a bread roll that the mood begins to change. The uptight madame rises from her seat at the head of the servants table, butterknife glancing blows at her clear glass to catch all of their attention. Besra’s head jerks suddenly to the front of the room where the elderly matron’s eyes meet hers. “Beginning in alphabetical order is miss Besra.” She calls, and the collective groan from the various letters who’s digit was more than ten rose around her. Besra’s hands shake, but her body isn’t long in rising from her seat. With a nod to the lady another servant leaves her position at the table, coming ‘round to escort her on her way.
When they arrive in the private chambers, Besra doesn’t have any more time to be nervous. Various other chambermaids have come to help move along the progress: from helping her out of her meager gown, into a soothing bath, and washing her unkempt hair. The only moment she does have to close her eyes is when she’s sunken beneath the water, but even that doesn’t last when she hears the door opening. “Besra.” The voice calls, and the girl in question opens her eyes to the see the madame. “In a gracious manner, the Heir has decided to let his prospective brides choose their style of an outing. In order to prepare fully for his companion’s choice, his grace has requested to know what yours will be.” The woman concludes, hands grasping together with affirmed authority. Besra sits up, hair gliding into the water as she turns about to face the madame. “I was never told that I’d have to choose!” She exclaims, disbelief clouding her face. “I have nothing in mind, m’lady.” Besra pleads.
“His grace will be very disappointed to hear this.” The madame chides, hard eyes looking down over her prominent nose before she turns as if to leave. Besra understands suddenly why her people had begun to resent the higher class. It was a setup, surely. A planned failure in hopes to thin the herd. “A hunt!” Besra declares, palm slapping against the marble tile. The madame turns, confusion twisting her otherwise expressionless face. “Tell the heir I’d like to go on a hunt with him. Around the castle grounds.” She declares, challenging the grey-haired woman to deny her. Unabashed, the madame sniffs, turning once more to exit and mutter under her breath.
A soft-spoken girl she may be, but a weak woman, she was not. Besra would defy the odds. They could play their petty games and try to restrain her, but she would never roll over so easily. The bath ends and they help her into a riding gown: navy blue cotton with black detail, complete with a matching jacket, a soft, pale white silken undershirt, and matching ebony brooch and buttons. Her riding gloves are ermine, colorless as milk with navy blue stitching. Her hair, golden as thread woven by rumpelstiltskin himself, was bunched prettily beneath a sapphire hat, ringlets tumbling free over cheeks that blushed like eden roses. Besra doubts she has ever been so lovely in her life. She fidgets with the tool nervously, nodding once at her reflection before turning around to face the servants. “You all work magic.” Collectively, they laugh, the moment ending sharply with a rap upon the door.
A man in hunting reds stands behind it, waiting with an unsure smile and a fist firmly clenching the lapels of his deep, v-necked coat. “My lady.” He bows, the action stiff and rehearsed. When he rises, Besra can think of nothing to say. It … cannot be. But it is. The Heir apparent stands before her - much more a man than she could have hoped to guess. When last she saw him (a painted rendition in the town hall) he was as young as she had been - nothing more than a healthy child. Every time she returned to that same place though, he’d stayed the same age and she’d grown. No wonder he looked so … different. His hair was the same, thicker perhaps but still a shining bronze. Those cheeks once flushed had now grown sharp, square, shaded by the hint of stubble. His eyes, however, seemed eerily the same. Gazing down at her with molten appreciation. Besra realizes that she may have seen his face a hundred times, but this is his first time seeing hers.
She smiles with that knowledge and visibly he exhales, extending a hand that she eagerly takes. In the hallway, he chuckles. “I’m not going to lie. I’m a bit nervous.” He tells her. Besra grins, winding a hand through his arm to grip the bicep of his jacket. “If you think you’re nervous, imagine what it’s like to be the first on the list.” She tells him, head tilting as she shrugs her shoulders. He gazes sideways at her, smirk lighting on the corners of his mouth. “Probably better than being nearly in the middle, or nearly at the end.” He jokes, leading them out into the back courtyard. “Afraid you’ll forget someone, or that they’ll all blend together?” Besra accuses him, a single brow quirking as he comes to a halt. The Heir gazes down at her, shaking his head with a soft laugh.
“Not at all.” He says, taking the reins of a grey horse from a waiting servant to hand them to Besra. “I’m afraid of the monotony. That each one will sing some pretty song about me and honestly take me for a weak-minded, lustful fool.” With a gentle exchange, Besra takes hold of her mount, watching him loosen in stride as he gathers his own horse and rises fluidly into the saddle. She cannot say her ascent is graceful, it’s been some time since she’s ridden, but the servants help and she adjusts quickly, settling into the odd saddle seat and taking a firm grip on the reins. “It’s a good thing we’ve got two hours, your Grace.” Besra tells him, breaking into a fit of laughter as she trots her sooty mount in a circle around him.
“Why the hunt if you’ve got no skill at riding?” The prince wonders aloud, laughing briefly before leaning onto his horse’s withers. “And please, call me Francis.” Besra slows her old gelding, pats him gently on the neck and sighs, blue eyes watching him with a hint of remorse. “Truthfully, I was in a cinch for time. Thinking on it now I’ve always wanted to see the kennels, what kind of dogs you’re raising here. My father breeds the best hunting hounds you’ve ever seen, and I’m curious to know if yours compare.” She says, pale pink lips turning up into a mischievous smile. Francis can only shake his head, a rumbling laugh echoing from his chest at her conniving tease. “The dogs need an off day anyways. How about a trail ride and you can watch them work on the training grounds? He offers, sitting upright once more with a broad smile. “That sounds agreeable.” Besra says, “You give me tips on riding, and in exchange I’ll give you tips that might improve your dogs.”
Francis laughs at her boldness, urging his horse forward with a jolt to pass by Besra’s grey gelding and tap it lightly on the rump with his crop. The old horse plows ahead at a brisk trot, and Besra is thrown back into her seat with a wild grin.
By the end of the ride, the two of them are cantering with ease up the back hillock to the estate, a few dogs bounding at their heels. In the courtyard the madame waits, arms crossed in obvious displeasure as they draw to a halt together, cheeks flush from the activity and tilting chuckles. The dogs wind about and Francis dismounts, dropping the reins into an attendant's hand to come around and help Besra from her saddle. His hands are firm, authoritative without too much pressure. She likes the way he clings for maybe a second too long before turning back to the madame. “Sorry we’re a bit late, Ms. O’Brien.” He says, taking his gloves from his hands so that he might clasp them behind his back. All traces of disdain disappear from O’Brien’s face when he addresses her. “Your Grace, please, no excuse is necessary.” She tells him, curtseying low.
With a nod Francis turns his attention back to Besra, striding back to gather her hands in his own. “It’s really been … “ He begins, but he can’t seem to finish. The dogs gather around him, sensing the change in mood. Francis clears his throat and looks Besra in the eye, dark lips revealing his discomfort at the action of goodbyes. “Keep practising. Your leg needs work.” He tries, and Besra rolls her eyes away before swatting him playfully on the arm. “But please, make yourself at home here and in the kennel. The dogs seem to rather like you.” He finishes, smiling down at the pups whose tails wagged in response. Besra feels at a loss for words. The time had been so short, and seemed to pass so quickly. It hadn’t been terrifying in the least, almost relaxing in fact. “I’m glad I was first.” She tells him, pretty chin tilting up to give him full view of her face - that he might not forget it.
“As am I.” He whispers, releasing the grip on her hands as she breaks free of him, skirts brushing against his legs as she sweeps past, the dogs padding at her heels. Francis whistles for them, and Besra cranes her neck longingly over her shoulder to watch them bound back to their master. The copper prince waves and she smiles, breaking the contact to head up the walkway. The doors open wide for her and on her way in, another girl passes by: mounds of pink lace and a low neckline. Besra can only smile. She meets the others during lessons, gorging on the wealth of knowledge that the royal libraries held captive. Kingdom history, etiquette, duties of the court. It’s not long before night descends, and the girls gather for dinner. Over roast duck some bolder girls ask what he’s like. Is he handsome? Does he seem thick-skulled? What’s the color of his eyes? What did he smell like?
Besra answers them all, enjoying the frivolity of company and timid friendship. One girl strikes her in particular - a pixie-like creature with flaming red hair and bright, green eyes. “My father who’s friends with the cook’s apprentice says that the kennel master here sees more of the Heir than the King himself. Francis must love those dogs.” The wild-haired girl says, forking a potato into her mouth. No wonder the Prince had seemed so at ease with her the whole time … he probably enjoyed the hounds more than Besra. She smiles, happy that she’s not made a total fool of herself but more than glad to think that she’s begun to see not everyone is at each other’s throats.
The next day, during lessons, the red-haired girl takes a seat next to Besra. “Reading gives me headaches.” She tells her, leaning back into the stiff, red cushions. “I don’t see how you sit over here the whole time so quiet and studious.” Besra raises her head, sideways smile pulling at her mouth. “Well I don’t see how you can possibly remember so many steps to so many dances.” She sighs, closing her current read to indulge in the flame-colored girl’s attention. The pointed, delicate face erupts in a grin. “My name is Miriam.” She says, leaning over the armrest in a very unladylike manner. “Besra” The bookworm replies. Miriam seems deep in thought for a moment, pondering on something before sparking up conversation again. “Besra, if you help me master the history of this ancient place, I can teach you all the popular dances.”
Besra doesn’t need to think it over. The two come to an agreement and spend the rest of the afternoon gliding around a spare, empty room in the castle. One girl memorizing steps while another recited foreign dignitaries. Besra’s careful not to trust Miriam so fully, but she’s not willing to lose out at the opportunity to shine rather than look incompetent. If their arrangement worked for now, so be it. Miriam, on the whole, seemed a headstrong sort of girl. She was determined to not seem so air-headed as the other girls, so in a strange way the two made fast friends. Night falls once more across Illea and with well-earned exhaustion Besra and Miriam take supper with the other girls, enjoying the quiet moment before the inevitable.
Another clinking of metal on glass, and a hush of anxiety falls over the room. Ms. O’Brien is standing, lips drawn in a thin line. “As you all know, now is the time for us to bid farewell to some of ladies you’ve come to know. Please, join me in the main entrance so that we may announce those departing.” As if orchestrating a great concert, she raises both hands, the entire assembly (Besra included) rising with the motion. In reverent silence the girls sweep out of the banquet hall and down the twin staircases, congregating together once more like doves in a roost at the front most area of the castle.
Besra, heart thudding eagerly against her chest, waits with clenched fists.
Bonfires, poetry, and livin' life right and there's
Beaches, boats, sailing, togetherness
The feelin' like you're smilin' even brighter when the weather's shit
Her morning does not begin with a dream of elsewhere - indeed, her sleep had been of a black, notionless nature. Her snap to reality begins at the light tinkling of bells by her bedside, and at once, her heart starts into its beating. The ebony lashes which encase her nutmeg eyes shimmer in the unfiltered sunlight, but she does not blink - today, of all days, is the one in which she must be the image of utter, radiant confidence.
She does not blink.
Raising herself to sitting in one graceful movement, Kagerus surveys her living quarters quietly, although the activity around her bustles. A dozen servants or more have entered her chambers since the initial tinkling of bells; many smile cheerily at her, and she offers a solemn nod in return. They are not the one she is here to impress.
“Miss Rou!” It is Sir Rhaego come to her aid once more, mustache just so atop his thin lips, suit shimmering splendidly in the summer sun. “I am surprised to see you already awake; but all the better! You have quite the day ahead of you.” Kagerus’s lips do part in an effervescent smile at this man’s entrance; since the tour he had given her the night before, Rou has taken a shine to the valet. His gentle nature appealed to the quiet farm-girl inside of Kagerus, and she allowed herself to blossom to him.
“Is breakfast to be soon?” The young woman asks, resplendent in her own reserved, mysterious way. Many locks of the deepest auburn hair frolic from the updo she wore to sleep, and while perhaps unbecoming to some, Rhaego couldn’t help but appreciate her outré beauty.
“Why of course, darling. Come this way, if you will.” Rising from the plush mattress which expands immediately upon being freed of the small weight of her, Kagerus brushed her hands over her plain undergarments, almost feeling cowed by the simplicity of her garb - but she stops herself from the dreary self pity, and strides alongside her valet, eager for the break of her fast.
That said meal turns out to be an extravagant feast, and Kagerus cannot help but feel just a pinch of self-pity when forced to face it. At a grumble from her tummy, she forgets anything about her melancholy thoughts, and lays into the grub.
The brain may lead, but the stomach rules.
As a last crumb slips discreetly into the Zon mouth, all of the chatty servants have vacated the premise, Rhaego last of all, with a helpful gesture as to where she might refresh herself. Patting her lips with a napkin finer than all the garments in her closet at home, Kagerus rises, emboldened by the filing of her stomach - yes, she is ready for anything the day might throw at her.
After this sinfully lovely bath, of course.
Despite being one of modesty and reservation, Kagerus cannot contain the animalistic moan of pleasure as she slips beneath the steaming, perfumed waters of the bathtub. She had barely taken into account the size and grandeur of the bathroom itself upon entering it - all she had eyes for were the bathtub of immense proportions. And, ah, yes, she reflects, it is glorious.
Shaking her head to clear herself of the ecstatic stupor,. Rou sets to scrubbing herself thoroughly from head to toe with an extravagant sponge provided just for this use. Her tan skin gleams like newly cut grain as the suds dribble from her toned appendages into the glistening murk of blue-purple water below her. Perhaps she hadn’t needed so much soap, but ah, considering that she might be on her way back home tomorrow, she figures a little sinful pleasure now cannot truly harm her in the way of pride, gluttony and sloth.
Leaning into the marble back of the tub, Kagerus falls into something of a daydream - just behind her eyes, an image of the heir is recalled. She smiles softly, playing into the wildness of her imagination for just a moment. Perhaps there would be a spark between them, a fairytale, even. He, Francis, is, in fact, a prince. And should she capture his affections, well, that would make her… Well, it would make her someone, to say the least.
The now cool water glubs unhappily at her starting, for she realizes that her moment of fantastical thought has turned into one very long hour. Cursing her other-world mind, Kagerus lifts her slender frame from the marble bath, and slips a leg over its edge; one, then the other. Deftly lifting the plush robe to rest atop her tapering shoulders, Kagerus strides into her main chamber, and sets to work.
Just as the woman deems herself acceptable, another team of servants burst into the room. Her cupid lips part, a question playing upon the tip of her tongue - but she needn’t ask, for she understands upon seeing the reams of fabric brought in.
Another sip of self-pity, girl, and then back to it.
Laying on the Look (eyes hooded, lips together, teeth apart) for all its worth, Kagerus allows herself to be remade. The servants talk her inside out despite the haughty look, and as they go poking and prodding around the farm-girl’s frame, the frost of her visage has already all but melted off - she silently reflects that not all company is bad.
“No, Rayelle, dear, that high collar simply won’t do at all. Might I have a corset fashioned? A… Bustier, even. Yes, like that, with the lace to spill out. Yes, that will be lovely. But no, don’t bunch that up around my rump like that, I prefer to flaunt my natural frame, as it were. Yes, that red will be lovely for my complexion, especially with those cream flowers, and oh, yes, more lace for the trim. Yes, I do approve.”
The servants giggle and gawk at the hermit’s bold demands in the ways of her first fine gown. The older women in attendance shake their fingers in her angular face; naughty, naughty girl! To think if my daughter asked for a lace bustier! The younger servants are more of a problem, and serve only to further the look Kagerus has asked of them.
As the final stroke of rouge falls across her high cheekbones, Kagerus turns to survey herself in the large seeing glass which has been brought in. A natural blush works itself on to her already cherry face upon taking in the complete sight of it all - the servants coo and simper, but Rou herself has naught to say - only beaming smiles to bestow upon her helpers.
Her long, previously eccentric auburn hair has been tamed into spiralling curls - with the help of a curling iron heated in the hearth - which cascade elegantly down to the small of her back. Her nutmeg eyes are illustrious, though they have maintained their exotic, slanted nature. Her cupid lips sit jauntily atop her chiseled chin, which connects to her slender neck, which extends to the imploring divet of her collar bones - imploring, if not rakish. From there, the first hint of fabric appears in an off-the-shoulder style: the finest of cream lace spills from the bustier cleverly hidden beneath her gown, framing the luxurious curve of her breasts. The short straps are loosely connected to the bodice of the dress, allowing Kagerus movement, and further framing of her figure. Just beneath this, the wine-red dress begins. The firm fabric supports her figure, and the embroidered cream flowers upon it simply glisten. At the peak of her hips the dress loosens, flowing elegantly to the floor, whereupon the hemmed cream lace brushes.
“It is just the thing,” She breathes at long last, but the tone of her voice brings all the hilarity to a momentary halt. “Well, except for one thing…” Leaning precariously atop her perch in all directions, Rou scours the room for a certain fabric she remembers seeing - ah, yes, there.
Pointing to the sheer cream fabric used in the making of illusion dresses, Kagerus instructs the women to attach a length of the filmy fabric to her bustier, and to the tops of her off-the-shoulder straps. The lace of the bustier is sown into the now-illusion neckline, and when she gazes in the mirror once more, Kagerus is truly satisfied. Her various assets no longer seem to be falling out of her top, and are instead coyly hidden beneath the sheer-and-lace fabric.
“There. Wonderful.”
Without further ado, her harem of helpers disappear through wide, arching doorway, and leave in their stead a single letter.
Upon reading its contents, Rou’s mind sets into a flurry of irrational thought. Whatever could they do? She knows how to sail a small boat, but that would show off her masculinity all too boldly; she knows how to host a little picnic, but what are sandwiches to a prince?; she could show him the arts of gardening, but he must have legions of servants bent to that one lonely task already. Her mind races, and races, and races, and -
Yes.
As the plan forms in her mind like spider webs in the night, her harem of helpers return, and she voices her wants to them. Already aware of her demanding nature and obliviousness to common sense, they set to their task, buzzing like the happiest bees one could ever imagine.
With not a moment to spare, a guard arrives to escort her to the heir. The past hours have flown by in a blizzard of activity, and it is only one long, deep breath that Kagerus has time for to steady herself and to sooth her nerves. But it is enough - has she not grown under the watchful eye of Kavi? Has she not mastered the art of calmness?
She has.
He stands at the bottom of the elegant stairs, stairs she expertly maneuvers down. His sandy locks fall lengthy, framing his dynamic face - chiseled, and yet soft, touchable. A light stubble shadows his strong jaw, beneath which a smile blossoms - a delicate smile, cautious; reserved. Upon seeing the beautiful expression, Kagerus adopts one of her own, the corners of her cupid lips unfurling into a secretive smile. Her eyes, languidly hooded, rest upon his booted feet until she stands across from him, his hand extended towards her.
She takes it.
Curtseying in a way that brings her gown to billow effortlessly about her, Kagerus smiles all the more at the low bow the heir offers in return. At long last, they lift their eyes through ebony and honey lashes to meet. Their patience is rewarded by a flutter of the heart, and for a long moment, neither man nor woman retract their clasped hands.
“It is an honour, your majesty,” Rou manages at long last, her hand falling to her side (though not before she lended the heir’s hand a subtle squeeze). “I am Kagerus Zon; or Rou.”
“The honour is mine, lady Zon.” His honey eyes, intense and beyond handsome, never leave the woman’s angular, regal face. Whereupon her hand had squeezed, his skin tingles. “But please,” The reserved, calculated smile which graces his lips explodes into a teeth-showing grin; “Call me Francis.”
And so she does.
The courtesies having now been taking care of, Francis offers the lady his arm, and she takes it gently, eyes demurely downcast. The heir’s eyes look to meet them, but instead are lead to follow their downward trend, and he feels a catch in his breath at the beauty of her - the closeness of her… The sheerness of her neckline. Kagerus’s eyes flash back up into his, and Francis does not delay in meeting them, but by the coy smile traversing the planes of her round lips, he knows she caught his wandersome gaze.
“To where are you secreting me off to, lady Kagerus?” He asks in a low, gravelly tone which sends shivers down her spine.
“If I were to tell you, it wouldn’t be secreting, now would it?” Her reply is breathy, feminine - unyielding. They come to the entrance of the palace, and doors are opened by Illean Regulars. Francis and Kagerus murmur their thanks, each mentally noting the other’s good manners. Letting slide her arm from his with another imperceptible squeeze, Kagerus strides to the horses which have been made ready for them. “I do hope you enjoy riding, sir Francis.” The title tumbles playfully from his lips, as it had from his.
Chuckling a seemly, royal chuckle, Francis motions away the groom who stands in attendance, ready to hoist Kagerus onto her mouth. Coming up behind the woman, Francis gently lays a hand on the small of her back, before kneeling before her and cupping his hands atop his leg.
That’s an image I could get used to, Kagerus thinks as the feeling of his hand on her back replays over and over in the ends of her nerves. Thanking the prince with a beat of her illustrious lashes and a curve of her bowed lips, she steps lightly into his waiting hand and mounts. She can, of course, perform this task by herself, but she figured that the male pride would appreciate some fluffing - and she seems to have figured right.
Francis, now, leaps admirably atop his own mount, a handsome bay thoroughbred stallion called Rodrik whose spirit the grooms said could only be contained by the prince. Kagerus finds herself seated side-saddle atop a lovely little grey Arabian stallion by the name of Infernal, though his kind nature suggests otherwise. Together, the two stallions look resplendent, and indeed, their riders do, too.
Lending her heels to the grey’s side, Kagerus begins their journey in a cloud of dust, a bright laugh accompanying the clatter of hoof steps. Francis eagerly follows, and is soon racing ahead of his date - Kagerus had meant only to leave the grooms in a dusty confusion, but it would seem that the heir holds within him a competitive, playful spirit - and she has no qualms with that.
Tearing along, their own manes streaking behind them just as their mounts’ do, Kagerus and Francis’ gazes cross often, and with heat; Francis moves always to close the distance between them, but Kagerus leaves off just so. The frost in her nutmeg eyes is contrary to the red curve of her lips, and it antagonizes the heir, leaving him mystified as to the woman who races alongside him. When their gazes part, Kagerus’ laugh again graces his ears; and his, hers. She enjoys the sound. Warm, inviting, homely… Somehow, she is reminded of her father’s own smoky laugh, and she thinks momentarily on how very far, far away she is from that dear cottage now.
But dwell long she does not, for very quickly do they approach their destination: the orchard.
Huffing madly through sweat-glazed nostrils, Rodrik and Infernal slam to a halt just outside the fence encapsulating the emerald land. Both stallions dance on the spot, eager for a chance to show the other up in the way of masculinity and prowess, but no - their brawling shall have to wait upon the romance of their riders.
Hopping lightly to the earth (without aid), Kagerus wonders if perhaps the prince caught a flash of her risqué petticoat in the action of it all. If he has glimpsed such a lovely sight, she wishes him the joy of it - by the roguish smile gracing his smooth lips, she figures he is partaking in that joy with full ardor.
Once more accepting Francis’ offered arm, the two hand of their gallant stallions to nearby grooms before proceeding into the orchard. Fruit trees, strategically organized, are in full bloom above their heads, and their preened branches offer patched shade from the sun. The two exchange sidelong glances freely, the patchwork lighting lending the whole situation a fantastical feeling.
“This way,” Kagerus announces suddenly, shattering the ever rising tension between them with those two simple words. Covertly, Francis wonders just what this woman wants from him, with her frosty glances but fiery smiles, her gentle caresses and her sudden upheavals. Overtly, he follows his date, ever happy to accommodate her wishes.
Rounding a corner, the two enter a wide area, treeless save for the massive oak tree in the center of the space. Its emerald leaves shimmer in the waning afternoon sun, and the gentle whisper of a breeze rustles those same leaves like the sheets of lovers in the morning. Kagerus falls in love with the space at once, and Francis does too - he may have ran across this field many time before, but never yet has he graced the well-kept grasses with the feet of a beautiful woman.
Just as planned, a string quartet hidden in a nook of the surrounding foliage begins playing upon the entrance of the romancers. The deep roll of the cello compliments the other-worldly keening of the violins, and the viola dances melodically between the two as a ballerina might dance between partners. The quartet has gauged the mood between the heir and his date perfectly; the music floats towards them neither too heavily, nor too jovially. The sound is romantic and encouraging; and encouraged they are.
“Might I have this dance, my lady?” Francis deftly steps in front of Rou, sliding his hand into hers seamlessly. The patchwork sun falls just right across the high planes of her cheeks, collar bones and coyly hidden breasts; it falls just as well across the prince’s regal nose, alabaster teeth, and high-collared shirt. His gaze is hot; hers fan at his flames, whether in an attempt to cool them or heat them further, he cannot decipher.
“Of course, my sir.”
After a bow and a curtsy, the dance begins in earnest. Kagerus thanks her lucky stars that her mother taught her to dance before disappearing, otherwise this date would be a dud; as it is, the two float across the green grass like nymphs across rivers. He leads, she follows. She spins, he draws her closer. His hand holds her lower back firmly, hers rests suggestively on the plane of his upper chest. He lifts her easily by her slender waist into the air, and she rewards him with a beatific grin, nutmeg eyes aglimmer with wonder. The prince’s own honey eyes radiate warmth - or rather, heat.
The song the quartet has been playing comes to a close, which seems to be purposeful if you were to ask either of them; by the end of the very upright and noble dance, the two have found themselves in a very close, friendly position. Definitely not upright, to say the least. Smiling abashedly, Francis extricates himself from the pose - Kagerus’ gaze only intensifies, her smile a careful smirk.
“How about I show you one of my people’s dances?” She asks suddenly, breaking the tension between them once again with her light tones and fluttering eyelashes. Gesturing to the quartet, a roudier tune soon comes drifting their way, and as the sun begins casting long shadows across the orchard, she has taught him a fast-paced country dance, freely utilizing her hands in the instruction of the art. A pattern begins to form between them, a sort of challenge of ice and fire - a brawl to see who could bear the tension longest before either breaking it, or succumbing to it.
As the date drew to its entirely unwanted end, the dancing has stopped completely, though the quartet continues to serenade the couple. The two sit with their backs to the great oak tree, though their eyes are caught in an infinite duel. Their pinkies touch daringly, and when one is not gently brushing his against hers, the other is brushing hers against his. Outside of the toying physicality, the romancers enjoy the sharing of trivial, childhood tales - and, in the end, they end up finding many common grounds between them. They hadn’t any true friends growing up, and enjoyed the stars and the outdoors; they were both literate, and hugely enjoyed literature; they were not afraid to get their hands dirty, and in fact, welcomed the chance to do just that.
It all comes to a predictably abrupt halt when Rhaego the valet comes to inform them that their two hours have come to a close. Neither participant welcomes the interruption of their simple outing, but that is the way of this thing, they suppose - a selection must be made, for the good of Illea.
Kagerus walks the prince to the fence of the orchard. Their stallions, now cool and calm, stand at the ready; a little in the distance, a wonderfully dressed woman sits atop a great black beast of a horse, clearly impatient for her turn at the prince. Kagerus feels a leap of possessiveness in her throat, and for once, she does not push it away; she has never connected with another person in this way. Francis has accepted, even admired, who she is - who she truly is, on the inside. A bright spark of a mind in the sea of a dull, homogenous society. She is allowed to be possessive of that.
Emboldened by the sight of the competition, as it were, Kagerus slides the hand which rests on Francis’ arm into his hand, and as they say their final goodbyes, she leans into him, pressing a fiery-cold kiss upon each of his regal cheeks. The tension between their gazes as she pulls away for the final time seems almost insurmountable; but it breaks, as it always must, and the prince leaves, off to be with another woman, on another date, in another world.
Breathing deeply, Kagerus steadies her romantically-frayed nerves, and mounts Infernal effortlessly. At a much slower path than two hours before, the lady returns to the castle, endlessly resplendent in her ruby gown, but now found wanting in the aspect of suitors. She wonders if she shall ever see Francis again, or if he will chance more glances to her chest before all is said and done. Shivering at the thought, Kagerus finishes the last leg of the journey to the castle at a gallop, and hurries to her room in a similar manner.
When the bell for supper is rung that night, Kagerus quietly requests that hers be brought to her private chambers. She has no wish to invoke the fury or gossip of the other ‘selecteds,’ especially not after her little stunt this afternoon outside the orchard. No, she is happier to push around the veritable feast on her plate in private, and to analyze and overanalyze the happenings of the day.
Eventually, the shutters are drawn and she is ushered into night-linens and then to bed; although her restless mind does not welcome sleep at first, the woman falls into a deep slumber, and once again, it is a black, notionless sleep. It would seem that, now that she lives a dream for her reality, her subconscious has no muse from which to create dreams of the sleeping nature. She doesn’t complain.
Rising late the next morning, Kagerus decides to remain in her living quarters until dinner. She goes first to the bath she so fell in love with yesterday, and she attempts to memorize just how luxurious the hot, soothing waters are, so that she might have some good memories of her own, if all of the other ones turn out to be ill-begotten in the end.
When a bell is rung for lunch, she takes it once more in her quarters, and manages to eat more than her last night’s dinner. She inquires as to any available quills, and they are supplied to her, along with wells of ink and pages of parchment paper. Hoping to stem the anxiety blooming in the crevice between her ribs, Kagerus sets to writing an account of the past three days happenings without sparing a detail. The letter could have been written indefinitely, but when an hour warning is given before the elimination dinner, Rou finishes it up right neatly, addresses it to Kavi, and places it in the hand of her kind valet Rhaego, with the request that it be posted as soon as possible. Rhaego assured her it would be so, and ushered her back into her chambers, wherein she is fitted into a dress identical to that of yesterday, save that this gown is of the deepest honey colours.
At long last, the call for dinner is heard.
She sweeps elegantly down the staircase just as she had yesterday, though today, no prince stands at the bottom, eager for her hand in his.
In the dining room, she barely has the mind to take into account the splendor of it all - the usually cool-headed girl spins with anxiety, and scarce two bites of food pass between her cupid lips.
And then, with a chilling finality, the call comes:
“Ladies, this way. The elimination shall now commence.”
05-05-2016, 09:11 AM (This post was last modified: 05-05-2016, 05:27 PM by Nixie.)
Her heart thunders in her chest, the scream lodged in her throat shredding through the quaking figure. A deadening horror pumps through her veins using her racing heart to gain passage to each muscle. Nixie is nailed to her spot, everything in her writhing, screaming, and running, but none of it is able to wrench themselves through the walls that confine the chaos in her mind from the rest of the world. Led consumes her, led forms her, led holds her mouth clenched in a vice grip. All she can do is watch. Watch as the colt stumbles into a death trap, watch as the cats eyes narrow, watch as muscles coil and prep for the kill, watch as the innocent colt rummages through the clover. Fangs shed their sheaths, curved daggers springing into action, filling her view, cutting her off from the foal. Only then does it hit her. I’m going to die.
Wake up her back rigid as she flew up into a sitting position. Breathing comes in grateful gasps, her gossamer gown clung to the wet patches of sleep induced sweat. The sound of three demanding claps makes her jump. “What the hell?!” Panic grips her when she finds herself across the room splayed against the cream stained wall, “where am I?” Wildly looking around the rich textures, the bright colors consume her; red, gold, cream, splashes of purple, yellow, and blue pastels; roses, daffodils, and lilies; decadent scents of exotic perfumes pass through her lungs. “What is this? a palace?… palace… palace… The Palace!” It registers where she is, what she is doing, and why she was doing it. With that her shaking begins to subside and she is able to peal herself from the wall. Silly girl, whatever are you doing? The escort from yesterday shakes his head a thin disapproving line on his face. He strides from her bedside to the doorway never looking back. Well are you coming or not? She takes a step to follow him, then two, then three. Each step easier to make until she is near the door slipping the velvety robe around her. Smoothing out the band it’s not until she has it folded and pressed in all the right spots does she bind it. Taking the collar in her hands she buries her nose in the light pink fluff the scent of freshly washed fabric, clean and aired to perfection has her listless with pleasure.
Following him through the short corridor towards another room he opens the door for her. Remembering her manners she curtsies for him before stepping through only to find herself gazing at a spread larger than any she had seen before. The amount of food could stuff her small bedroom at the farmhouse to the brim and probably spill into the other rooms as well. Ok so maybe that was an exaggeration, but still not by much! How was she to eat all of this? He snaps her out of her revere No wonder you’re so scrawny, I see you didn’t touch dinner, and now you won’t touch breakfast? He shakes his head condescending her with that sour look that seemed to always be plastered on his face. How am I going to explain this to his majesty? Her stomach announces its presence urging her forward to eat. Just as she goes to sit down someone is pulling her chair out for her. Roving over the maid her plain garments look just as clean and pressed as Nixie’s Sunday best, maybe even more so.
Sitting down she places her hands in her lap unsure as to where to start. soft cheeses, and flaky crackers look to be mouthwatering, but the smoky scent of cooked ham pulls her attention way. Scanning to find water, in its place is a pot of steamy coffee, along with cream and sugar. The spread didn’t end there though. Even as this was overwhelming, the pungent scents of tangy fruit greet her. Plump strawberries, and grapes look about to burst from their skins. Slices of mango, and melon decorate the edges flashing their colors in proud arches. A shaky hand presses on her shoulder, Dear won’t you eat? Nixie can feel tears prick at her eyes, so this is what the rebellion was about. Fighting to have this in every household? No wonder… It’s all so much. The elderly woman smiles warmly towards her. Her peach fuzz softening the friendly wrinkles that littered her skin. She takes a plate and begins to fill it with a thick slice of ham, a lump of buttery cheese, she takes the crackers flaying them along the edge, some strawberries and grapes roll around on the plate as she lays it down in front of Nixie. The hands swelled at the knuckles, knobby with years of use, though soft, they were surprisingly strong and nimble. Nixie couldn’t help but adore the loving touch of the woman, like a grandmother she never had.
She watches as the woman pours her some coffee, the thick black drink steaming from the cup. Would you like some cream and sugar? Nixie shook her head feeling guilty for consuming any of the rich food at all, taking cream and sugar as well would be just shameful gluttony. Coming out of her captivated state she asks the woman, What is your name?, the maid looked at her for a moment likely forgetting that she was talking to someone just like herself, someone that wasn’t royalty and didn’t know the customs in talking with servants. You can call me Thelma dear Nixie smiled, the name sounded right for her, practical, simple, yet gentle. Not mean at all, one meant for a strong woman full of life. Nixie, I’m Nixie she pops a grape into her mouth the round fruit filling her pallet until she bites down and the juices trickle down her throat sending delicious trills down her spine with it. Chewing on the fruit each bite splashes bursting with flavor sweet and cool, thirst quenching really.
The woman pats her shoulder before hobbling away. The escort comes back, Maybe we can get some meat on those bones after all. When would you like to start preparing? She blinks her eyes growing wide. Nixie’s index and middle finger press against her lips until she swallows the bit of cheese that she had snuck in guilty pleasure. Prepare for what? He looks at her incredulously, sighing in exasperation. Your date with the Heir. Her mouth forms a O and she pauses for a moment thoughts whirling about. How about after I draw a bath. He claps his hands sharply, and a maid scurries across the room hands folded primly against the stark white of her apron. Draw the bath Throughout the time that she had been here he had pointedly made a note of not referring to her at all, in any manner. As if she were an annoying fly on the wall that eventually would be crushed and dismissed with no afterthought.
Thelma leads through the bedroom towards the water closet that Nixie had used the day before. Last night she had been to drowsy to take a good look around, but this morning was a completely different story, her mouth gaps open as she looks to the marble floor, and the porcelain tub, the feet making it almost look like a fat bellied pig. Thelma takes the pink robe and hangs it on one of the hooks, before announcing herself I shall be right outside should you need anything missNixie, its Nixie The old woman smiles sympathetically, and Nixie’s cheeks flush as Thelma hands her a razor, Its best not to let a single hair be missed. slipping the dress over her head she hangs it next to the robe. The bath water looked steamy, and the perfume wafting towards the ceiling smelling like rich ladies she met walking around the market. The door clicks shut, and once again Nixie is alone with the gaudy gold and cream décor. Tall and dripping, it’s the only words she could come up with, to most it would be impressive, but to Nixie it was menacing. It was miffed that she dare present herself to them, that her presence was an eyesore and solely undesired.
Untangling her braid she steps into the water, sliding down until she is completely submerged. A giddy smile crossing her lips she could sink her head below the water without any trouble at all. Rising she grabs the scrub brush and begins to religiously scour her skin until it is raw. Mother would be so proud that Nixie had retained that much of her lesson. She then reaches for the soap bar lathering it thickly, polishing the red skin. Tender to the touch she sinks into the tub with a deep sigh, letting the suds wash away. For a minute she lays there relaxing and enjoying the warmth, but she knows not to let this go on to long. Mother always said that pruning would ruin her skin. Looking to the razor she bites her lip, taking it in her hand she had helped father shave on several occasions thus doing so now wouldn’t be so bad. Soon she is as hairless as a newborn baby, expect for the head of hair that dripped down her shoulders of course. Smooth legs brush together creating a tingle up her spine. It felt… naked… in a good way to be precise. Now she was starting to feel like she was one of the rich ladies.
Stepping into the bedroom, there is a bustling group of maids running around setting up what could be an entire entourage of supplies. They spilled over the dressing table onto the floor, fabrics falling over the bed even a corset flung over the canopy, it was pure chaos. Tilting her head she looks to Thelma questioningly. The older woman only offering that knowing smile. She guides Nixe to the middle of the room positioning her, so that she could see out past the balcony. Fusing over her Thelma extends her arms even with her shoulders, tapping her feet until the old woman is satisfied that they are far enough apart. Then someone begins to brush out her hair, she only knows its not Thelma because the touch lacked the warmth that emitted from the older woman.
She stands there silent, gazing out over the balcony, what kind of date would she want? Why was she even here, it seemed frivolous, if not desperate. She had given up on love long ago, her family needed money, not romance. Wasn't this taking it to far? Was this disregarding any respect for the royalty? Outside looked a million miles away, the attentions and whispers of the servants felt similiar to a prison. She started daydreaming about flying out the window only to dive beneath the waters of the pond below. That was it... she smiled to herself, she would take the Heir there. Even if it was the farthest shot from winning she could possibly get, at least she would taste the freedom once again. Miss She startles a pin pricking her skin the maid before her asking for styling ideas. Lace, short sleeved, neckline about here, the belt here, and the skirt past my ankles They work out the details critiqued as they go along pins prick, and tender skin grows sore, but not as sore as her feet in the newly tailored shoes.
Eventually the women looked pleased their sleeves rolled up, their faces red and sweaty, once neat buns rumpled from their work. Thelma has tears in her eyes her hands clapped together, her chin resting against them slightly tilted in admiration. You look beautiful Nixie! Nixie blushes tucking her head in attempt to hide it. Stepping towards the mirror her legs shake with nervousness, what was she going to find? Astonishment consumes her. The stranger in the mirror looked nothing like the skinny dirty girl from the farm. No this was an elegant lady decked in satin and lace. Her hair she touches in awe. The bright pink ended just below her cheekbones crimped with gentle waves. Her sapphire eyes that once looked to big was now lined with a gentle black that was almost imperceptible.
Long lashes flutter attempting to discern reality from fiction. The gentle pink highlighted her cheeks bringing out the heart shape of her face. Her rosebud lips accentuated with red, "so this is what makeup is." Her gown oh her gown, exquisite just didn't cover the glamor of it. White Lacy sleeves cascade down her shoulders ending above the elbow. Its neckline has her mouth parting it cuts across just above her cleavage, hinting at what lay beyond. Desplaying her long neck and curved collar bone. It was revealing, but at least it wasn't to scanty. The silk matching her hair was held together at her waist with a belt made of the same fabric cut so that it pointed downward. This laid just above her hips giving her all to thin frame a sense of femininity. The fabric spilled down into a train that kissed the floor. Her shoes were invisible under this, something that she had slyly intended. The white lace overlay softened the pink and gave the dress a sort of shimmer when the light hit it just right.
She turns to Thelma trembling, Thank you! Thank you so much She chokes out blinking back the tears the rest of the day blurred together, the maids trying to convince her to plan something, to put something together. She just smiled at them nodding until they gave up one by one trailing from the room. Its then and only then that she removes the shoes tucking them into the back of the armoire. She opens the door and finds the older woman standing right there. Thelma, could you bring me a fresh rose. A pink one if you please The maid nods before moving off to do as bided.
Finally the escort arrives knocking at the door, she spins hands clutching at the balcony, her stomach doing summersaults beneath her belt. For a moment he stands there his face unreadable. Then he clears his throat. I shall escort you to the meet the Heir She nods disappointment flooding through her, she hadn't impressed him. If she couldn't impress a servant then how was she to impress royalty? I never did catch your name, curiosity getting the better of her. Before he could see how nervous she was, Nixie steps through the door taking the offered rose from Thelma with a grateful smile. The older woman patting her hand You will do fine miss, No other looks as pretty as you do. Nixie takes solace in the niceties of the woman.
He steps behind her remaining silent, not offering a name. Her hand glides across the banister each step bringing her closer to her fate. Then at the top of the stairs she looks down to the steps each one she travels across has her heart thundering louder. Final step and she is on solid ground, the granite cooling her feet. Gentle breeze taking the flush from her cheeks until she summons the courage to look up at the Heir. Her lips part Oh, and presses her two fingers against her lips. She had bumped into him yesterday and didn’t even know it. Humiliated she drops her head curtsying out of respect. I am Nixie, His eyes are warm gold, but they also seem to be condescending. She notes the scowl on his face. Had she displeased him already? “Of course you numbskull”, she chides herself.
He offers a bow, formality of course, she is sure that it couldn’t be stiffer. Francis, pleased to meet you milady. Nothing could be further from the truth, at least it seemed that way to her. He assesses her just as she does to him. They stand there for a minute just looking. His hair a dark brown, curls neatly tucked behind his ears, they fall to his jaw except for one lock shorter than the rest, this one is left to tickle his forehead. His jaw firm and squared. Thick brows hover just above those perfect eyes. Tawny, and broad her eyes just reach his shoulder. But it’s his full lips that have her transfixed, her tongue wetting her own. He offers his arm and she takes it grateful to be distracted. Weaving her arm with his she lays her hand gently on top his massive hand, that if he had grasped it, she was sure it would have swallowed hers whole. She offers a tentative smile blushing as her attempt to be friendly is not returned. He looks straight ahead, not bothering with even a flicker of a glance. Leading them through the great hall the servants part the doors for them. I thought we could head towards the pond? Its more of a question than a statement, voice quivering as she tries to keep from sweating. What an embarrassment that would be. He nods leading them down the steps towards the hedged opening in the grass.
Her toes crinkle the grass, and a secret smile of pleasure has the warmth rushing through her. You will catch cold if you don’t where your shoes. Nixie gasps blushing deeper, I, uh, I find shoes to be pinchy. At this he breaks his gate confounded at her statement. Pinchy? she smiles, yes, it’s the name I came up with for them, because… I don’t know why, just sounded good I guess. His stern expression breaks and he starts laughing, a sort of awkward one, almost like he was out of practice. Large blue eyes gaze up at him in wonder, and he shrugs in response. To hell with it then! He kicks off his own shoes and stockings and this time it’s her turn to laugh. She takes off running lifting her skirts to keep them from ripping. He waits a minute startled at her brazen actions, before he too is dashing across the grass. Out of breath and now arriving at the pond she begins to slow her pace allowing him to catch up. When he does she finds herself tumbling pinned to the ground under his arm.
For a moment she is stunned into silence, he releases her rolling to his back. They stay there for a minute relaxing sprawled out in the grass. Why did you come here Nixie She bites her lip, Not quite sure accually. It was spur of the moment, all I could think about was helping my family. They fall into silence and she pulls up walking to the deck. Sitting at the end she dips her feet in the chilly water. Hoping to calm her fluttering pulse, embarrasment making her shake some more. Soon he is next to her doing the same. Looking up at him she smiles, he ignores her for the moment simply looking out over the horizon.
They spend the rest of the evening getting to know each other through awkward pauses, questions, and jokes scattered throughout. What is your activity.Hmm, this actually. I don't know how you knew this was my thinking spot She didn't know though, only that this reminded her of the pond out by the farm house, one of her other favorite places. Twirling the rose in her fingers, as the last rays of sun dip behind the trees he takes it from her slipping it behind her ear. A gentle smile creasing the once stony face. Thank you for the wonderful time. Her stomach does flips listening as the bell rings. It was over, her one night of careless fun. It was over, and she was crushed that this might be the end of it all. thank you… Francis her words trail off in a whisper.
Walking back to her rooms, she feels light as a feather, lost in the dreamy day she had spent with the prince, she doesn't notice how many hours or days go by. Food seems inconcequential, and the other contestants completely ignored. It was perfect, her time, her special moment that she owuld cherish forever. It’s not until the servants call her to the eliminations that she feels almost sick. Tears prick at her eyes, how could she start liking someone so quickly, they had just met! Yet there was something about him. She is forced from her dream world, reality crashing around her. One date never solidifies anything. Maybe it was because he wasn’t opposed to her sort of fun that she was so enthralled with the man. Stepping into the room that she was escorted to, looking to the others, she feels all that more intimidated. She didn’t stand a chance why did she ever think that she could? Nerves rack her body as she stands in the furthermost corner waiting for what was to come. Sweaty palms pressed against the same dress that she had worn to their date, knees knocking together with fear.
05-05-2016, 01:21 PM (This post was last modified: 05-06-2016, 10:25 AM by Lagertha.
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I AM IRON AND I FORGE MYSELF
For once, Lagertha does not wake with the sun; heavy, navy blue curtains are drawn across the windows, leaving her room in a dim grayness that keeps her sound asleep until gentle hands shake her shoulder. She knows how to grab sleep when she can, and to fall into it quickly. The same could be said for coming out of sleep, and all it takes a slight touch to startle her into waking. Her hand automatically goes to the knife under her pillow, brandishing with a growl it to whatever imaginary enemy is before her.
The servant girl screams, and trips over herself in her haste to back away, which causes the rest of the serving people - and there are an awful lot of them, she thinks - to turn suddenly. One drops a silver pitcher of water, another bolts for the door, and before she can drop the knife and apologize, the woman is gone. Probably to get Fiona. Or tell the rest of the castle that there’s an armed barbarian in one of the guest rooms. Lagertha realizes her mistake quickly and stuffs her knife (really, it’s not that big!) back under the pillow and throws her hands up into the air, showing that she means no harm. “I’m sorry! Please, it’s just a reflex! Please, I’m not going to hurt you.” But the four that are left - the mousy girl who woke her (who ran into the man who dropped the water) the blonde woman by the curtains, and the man with the tray of food, just stare at her until she climbs out of bed (practically naked, all she’s wearing is an old man’s shirt that barely covers her lady bits) and goes to pick up the silver pitcher that now lays in the middle of a dark, sopping wet puddle on the carpet.
“Here.” As she moves towards it, the mousy girl skitters to one side, frightened as a filly. She hands it back to the man, who mutters “Thank you, miss... “ He looks her up and down with wide, hungry eyes and then turns his body a quarter of a ways away from her. “Ah, sorry about that. We aren’t - “ Lagertha also looks away, and motions for him to stop. “It’s my fault. I’m a merc - uh, soldier…” she lets that one hang in the air a bit before plowing forward. “You can leave the curtains open at night. I’ll just wake up when it gets light, ok?” The blonde woman who opened the curtains scurries towards her with an extra blanket (where did that come from?) and places it around her shoulders. She is matronly, and pleasantly plump, with round, rosy checks and a cheery voice. “Here you go, miss. Nothing to worry about, ‘eh? We’ll explain to Ami” she jerks her thumb towards the door, indicating the girl that ran away, “that you didn’t mean no harm.” The woman then gestures towards the table that is now being set by the man with the tray, and places her hand on Lagertha’s shoulder, gently nudging her in that direction. “You go eat, miss, you’ll need your energy for today! We’ll take care of everything else.”
“Thank you…?” she begins, but the blonde woman shrugs her words off and turns back to her work, waving Lagertha towards the massive pile of food again. “Oh, I’m just Maeve, miss. Like I said, dontchu worry ‘bout a thing. We’re all very excited to have you here.” How could that be? Lagertha wonders as she sits down in the chair to the feast before her. It could easily feed a family of five all day. Were they - these servants - part of The Resistance too? No, she couldn’t assume that every underling was part of the movement against the Crown. Then again, how could they not be, when they work in the middle of this opulence and excess - what do they go home to? How well does the Palace pay? Were their masters kind or arrogant? Abusive, drunk on power? And here she is, thrust suddenly from the have not’s to the have’s. Even after 48 hours of knowing, she sometime still cannot wrap her mind around it. There is a single thought that perseveres through the thick of it: perhaps she could be the change Illea needed. Their muted conversation occasionally drifts towards her, and she can hear the excitement in their voices when they talk about the competition. It seems genuine.
Lagertha wonders about their lives, picking at some glaze covered pastries, meat, and an exotic looking fruit that tasted rather tart. She’d eaten well the night before, there was no point in stuffing herself. And the food is so very rich - she isn’t used to it. An idea comes to her, and she turns back to the servants, but they’ve disappeared, quiet as mice. She didn’t even notice that their background chatter had floated away. Damn. Lagertha isn’t sure of how the Palace works, but she hopes the leftover food won’t go to waste… an offer to share, or to at least put some in their pockets was on the tip of her tongue when she’d turned around, but alas, they were gone.
She glances around the room, at the now made bed and the steam wafts up from the large, wooden tub that peeks out from behind the embroidered, foldable silk wall. It seems so quaint (despite being thrice the size of any tub she’s ever seen) compared to the marble floors, the impossibly soft carpets that cover it (have her toes ever felt anything so welcoming?), and the gold crowning that seems to touch every surface. Even the hanging pictures appear to have some flecks of gold leaf in their scenes. To have twenty of these rooms? It must have cost a fortune, twice over. But the tub - the tub is more Lagertha’s style, and she happily drops the blanket and whisks her shirt off, stepping heavily into the hot water. Ahhhhh, the often suppressed feminine side of her comes out, as she relishes the soothing heat and takes the time to give herself a thorough scrubbing. Again. She might as well enjoy it while she can, because if she doesn’t, it’s right back to sweat-covered skin and breakfast in the rank barracks. Men really have no idea how bad they smell sometimes.
Pleasant smelling soap? Check. Skin rubbed within an inch of rawness? Check. Nails cleaned? Check. Hair? Well.. her hair is another story. It is clean from last night, but free flowing. No need to wash it again. Soldier Lagertha and Applicant Lagertha were one and the same, but she would rather die than be presented to the Heir alongside the carbon copies of the other women.
Speaking of the Heir… Lagertha lays back against the curved edge, draping her golden locks over the edge. They were all scrambling to win his love, but what did Lagertha actually know of him? Very little. She could have told anyone what Count Odo’s vile son was like, but the Prince of Illea was a mystery to the common people, and if it weren’t for heralds and crowns and parades, she doubts that most of them would even be able to pick him out of a line. Personally, Lagertha remembers a picture of the Royal Family when she first came to Illea. It sat above the immigration officer’s desk and while it had been a few years ago, she imagined that he had kind eyes - honey colored, and sand colored hair like her own. What if he was spoiled and demanding? Would she even want to win his affection if he was cruel and vicious? She refuses to judge him until she meets him, preferring to think about him another way. Her worn (but clean!) hands travel up her body, from her knees, to her scarred torso, to her tiny breasts, and then to her muscular, tanned arms.
Her touch sends goosebumps trailing along her skin, and she briefly wonders of the Heir would be a good lover - Lagertha is no virgin. Some are attracted to a woman to can kick ass; she’d had many partners in Kattegat, when she was a teenager. Not so many in Illea, but they have… different standards here. Her near nakedness had done a number on the serving man! Lagertha shivers as she imagines the youthful face in the sketch as an adult - and all other aspects of him grown too. It’s been too long since she’s had time for a lover. Another chill causes (and not the good kind) causes her to notice that the water has gone cold. Ah, well. So much for reveries and fantasies. She laughs out loud: oh for god’s sake, she’s living one right now! No need to let her mind wander too far. “Even if he finds me unsuitable,” she murmurs to herself as she stands up, “at least I will know what I am fighting for.” She’s seen the inequality first hand. These are the trenches.
There’s a terrycloth, royal blue plush robe (again, one of the softest things she’s ever felt against her skin) hanging on the folding wall’s edge, so she bundles herself into it and sets about getting ready for the day. Leaving wet footprints behind her, Lagertha heads to the armoire that holds her meager belongings and throws the wooden doors open. Ugh. What to wear, what to wear? It was easy as a soldier. One wears a uniform. But here? She’s about to reach for the nicer, clean shirt when there’s a knock on the door, and her head snaps over to it. A guy’s head - bald, small nose, and glasses - pokes in and says to her, “Miss Lagertha Lothbrok?” Lagertha nods sharply. “Yes?” But he doesn’t answer, he just pushes open the door and a whole slew of servants come rushing in.
They have all sorts of boxes and spools of fabric, hats and shoes, and all sorts of things she’s only ever seen laid out before Count Odo’s wife. The people that come in, however, aren’t the same faces as before - she can’t see the rosy-cheeked Maeve amongst the back-and-forth of people. They’re dressed similarly though, as if they were - Oh. Ohhhhh. Lagertha looks down at the robe she’s wearing, and then to the armoire and her comparatively shabby belongings. Even her ‘nice’ clothes, do not look as well made as these servant’s uniforms. True, her leather pants are clean and nicer than the usual working man’s pants, and some might even consider them sexy, if they don’t mind seeing women without skirts. But perhaps… perhaps that wasn’t acceptable here. The commotion in the room slowly comes to a halt as they finish setting up, and all eyes turn to her. The man who knocked steps forward and makes a short, curt bow. “Ah, Miss Lothbrok. I am Pierre, and we are ready for you, if you please.”
He gestures with a sweep of his arm towards the chair that is now front and center, and the four women that are standing very properly behind it. Posed, almost. “Ready for… what? If you don’t mind me asking?” she inquires with only slight trepidation. Pierre guffaws and reaches for her hand. “For your makeover, of course, my dear! You must look your best for the Prince, no?” He pulls her into the chair and the women move into position. One sits at her feet and starts to examine her nails, another does the same with her left hand, a third whisks over to the beautiful fabric that is laying on the bed and stares at the blond woman, thinking, while the fourth has a tape measurer and starts wrapping it around various body parts.
Pierre bends down to examine her hair and tsks to himself. Lagertha, however, does have a few boundaries, and her hair is one of them. Her eyes flash a sharp blue-gray and she whispers fiercely, “No. Don’t even think about it.” He is more than a little taken aback, and tries to reason with her. My dear, this… style.. Simply isn’t acceptable. It isn’t in fashion.” She rolls her eyes. “I don’t care. It is me. I would not be me without it, and besides, how else will they know who the barbarian is without it?” She chuckles darkly. “Cut the ragged ends off, and I will make it better. Fancier. But there will be braids.” Piere throws his hands up in the air, clearly aware of when he has lost a battle. “As you wish.”
Slowly but surely, Pierre and his team of women clean Lagertha up - shaping her eyebrows and taming her nails. It is both uncomfortable and oddly pleasing. She isn’t used to this sort of attention, and has never pretended to play up her ‘beauty.’ But at the same time, being pampered… well it isn’t so bad, now is it? They take accurate measurements, she picks out a beautiful dark cerulean blue fabric that matches her eyes, and they seem to create a fashionable dress right in front of her eyes. In a spur of the moment request, she asks for another shirt, more form-fitting than the typical man’s, but soft and loose enough for movement. As if the sides were taken in like a corset, but yielded to her movement, like a willow tree. And a high neckline, to satisfy the current fashion. The seamstress seems to get the idea, and Lagertha picks out a bright, bloody red that she knows will offset her hair and skin tone.
They paint her face a little - she will not let them do more than dust some color on her eyelids, rouge her cheeks, and line her eyes with kohl. And when they are done, she tackles her hair with them as an audience. Lagertha settles herself in front of a mirror and tackles her hair section by section, knowing full well exactly what she wants to do; a thick, poofier one at the top of her head runs from one side to the other, while smaller, tighter braids start above her ears. They spiral backwards and seem to come full circle, in an elegant coil atop her head, a sort of golden crown if you will. It is striking, revealing her long neck and strong shoulders. Four sets of hands pin the braids where needed, and in the end all five of them - Pierre, his team, and Lagertha - all look very pleased with themselves. Lagertha looks up at them from her chair, as if to ask - Well?
“Ladies, I believe our work is finished here,” Pierre says with a small smile, and motions for them to begin cleaning up. As they do, he bows once again to Lagertha and takes her now-manicured hand to his lips in a polite kiss. “We wish you all the best, my dear.” And then he takes his leave, leaving the room with a surprisingly empty feeling, with Lagertha looking at a very different version of herself in the mirror. Oh, what would her fellow guards think to see her now?
All of a sudden there is another knock at the door and she bids them to come in. A servant comes in, bearing a folded piece of paper on a silver tray. When Lagertha reads it, she mutters a soft “Oh… Oh god.” She looks to the servant for answers, but he has none and remains stone-faced. She has to decide right now? Lagertha wracks her brain and finally decides on the stables. Play to her strengths, and play to her differences. She doesn’t imagine that the other ladies are likely to want to hang out around horses and hay. She gives her decision to the servant, along with some foodstuffs: water, wine, fruit, and cheese. The servant departs to deliver her message, and as soon as he does, familiar faces return. Maeve, Ami, and the man that practically saw her naked (she finds out that his name is Gerald) come in to see if she needs any help.
Rather guilt-laden, Lagertha asks Gerald to shine her riding boots, and for Maeve to make sure she looks alright. Not that there is much to choose from, or even any jewelry to adorn her ears or neck. But the help and company are appreciated. Ami, she sends down to the kitchen to make sure the food is up to par. After much debate, Lagertha finally settles on her new red shirt, and her black leather pants. The fitting of it all gives the illusion of some curves, and when there is nothing left to fiddle with or adjust, she waits for a guard to bring her down to the stables. Maeve whispers encouragement to her as she leaves. “Good luck, miss! We’re rootin’ for ya!” It makes her heart happy, and puts more confidence in her step.
Ahhh… now this is familiar. Lagertha visibly relaxes when she reaches the stables. Ami is waiting there with a bottle of water, a bottle of wine, and a small bag of food. Lagertha smiles and thanks her, then calls out for Blackie. Her stallion sticks his head out of a stall and whinnies at her, as if to ask - ‘Dude, where have you been?’ That is where Francis finds her, stroking the black horse’s nose and whispering to him affectionately. He coughs, and Lagertha looks up. Well damn. He is easily recognizable, with a mop of slicked back, sandy hair and sun-kissed complexion. He wears nice, but not too-nice clothes. A vertically striped vest over his shirt. The stable had probably clued him in that he should change. Silence stretches between them as they look at each other. Yes, Lagertha thinks - he does have kind eyes. And that jawline isn’t too bad either. At the same time, she wishes she could know what he is thinking - silence can be good or bad and she’d rather find out sooner rather than later.
“Your Grace, I presume?” Lagertha breaks the quietness (save for the sounds of horses in the background) with a question and a soft smile. She dips down into a shallow, slightly awkward curtsy, and then curses herself for not just simply bowing. That seems to break the Heir from his thoughts, and he bows to her. Yet his face is still puzzled, as if she was the last thing he is expecting. “Forgive me. I wasn’t - You are Miss Lothbrok, yes?” His light brown eyes search the immediate area, stepping back as if some other young lady were going to jump out at him. Lagertha reaches up to scratch Blackie’s forehead, trying to be nonchalant about the whole thing. This was the reaction she was used to. “Yes, I am Lagertha… let me guess, I’m not quite what you’re expecting, am I?”
He blanches, running a hand through his hair. “Is it that obvious?” She shrugs, and lets him continue. “No, you’re not typical. I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman in pants. Ever.”They both laugh at this, and so Lagertha plunges forward. “Good. Then we will have much to talk about. Would Your Grace like to go for a ride? Or we can just hide here with the hay and horses. I have food and wine, too.” The Heir takes a moment to decide, and then looks for a stableboy, and when he finds one, tells him to ready his horse. While they’re waiting, Lagertha introduces him to Blackie, explaining that the stallion is not her own, but that they have grown fond of each other. She once again seems to amaze the Heir when she refuses a stableboy’s help, and leads her own horse outside. He, in turn, introduces her to his chestnut gelding, Charlemagne. Named after one of his most famous ancestors, who was a great King.
Once everything is secured to the Heir’s saddle (he insisted, and she let him… because even though she was pretending to not be overwhelmed and flying by the seat of her pants, you still don’t say no to a Prince), they mount and head off for a tour of the grounds, and Lagertha’s request. They ride side by side, keeping a respectable distance between them, even though she can feel his curious eyes on her every now and then. The initial part of their ride is filled with small talk; how is she finding the Palace, was everything to her satisfaction? He doesn’t seem to understand that this whole thing goes above and beyond any other experience she’s had. Eager to get the conversation away from her, she plays the foreigner card and asks about Illea and his family. He dutifully tells her about the Palace and the grounds and some of the history behind it all, as they move from the buildlings into the open gardens, and past a lake, until Lagertha asks him one more question. “And where is Your Grace’s favorite place?” He motions with one hand, “Please. Call me Francis.” She smiles - a wide, genuine smile, and seems to savor everything in that moment. “Come, I’ll show you,” he says, and turns Charlemagne down a path and towards a bunch of shrubbery.
They pass single file into a hedge maze, and Francis (ahead of her, leading the way) begins talking again. “I used to love to run into here when I was a child. I knew every turn, and would try my hardest to lose my Governess. She eventually learned the maze too, and I was out of luck. But it is still a fun place to hide, even as an adult.” Lagertha ha’s in the back of her throat. “I bet it’s hard to get some privacy as the Heir.” He groans, audibly betraying his feelings about that area of his life. “You have no idea. Would you believe I’ve had no say in any of this? I serve the good of Illea, and of course I’m not trying to be selfish, but for god’ sake, at least let me choose which applicants I want to meet.”
Oh. Oh. Well that explains a lot. And that’s when Lagertha’s true nature comes out, for she is unable to stop herself. “Would you have chosen me, do you think?” A look of guilt flashes across his face, and she knows the answer without even saying it. They enter into a large circle, filled with several tall trees and a bubbling fountain depicting some a soldier brandishing a sword. Ha! How fitting. Francis dismounts and comes over to offer her a hand, all without explanation. She doesn’t press him, giving him the opportunity to tell her himself. As he reaches up or the water and wine, he finds the courage to tell her the truth, and she finds it admirable enough. “Honestly? Probably not. I am glad you’re here, though. You are… different. Intriguing.” He turns around and finds her watching him, almost unreadable. But those eyes of hers... “I don’t know any woman who carries herself like you do, let alone any who ride like a man. I’d like to know more about you.” Lagertha heads towards a maple tree with just enough room underneath it for them to sit, does so, and then pats the ground beside her.
While Francis takes out the food (how many hours has it been since she ate breakfast? It seems like an eternity, and she hasn’t realize how hungry she is!), Lagertha leans back, tapping the toes of her boots together. “There isn’t much to tell. I am from a small town called Kattegat, in Sweden. I was orphaned at a young age and a retired Naval Master at Arms took me in. He taught me to fight and sail and when he died, I left and came to Illea. Kattegat is very different from here, of course. They don’t seem to know what to do with me here. I think they forget that I am a woman first and a soldier, second." Nothing like a little blunt reminder. He seems to listening attentively, so she goes on after taking a bite of an apple. “I was hired by a mercenary company in port, who was then hired as guards for Count Odo. And now I am here, with you, and my whole world seems to be upside down again.” She turns to look at him, and their eyes connect. “In a good way.” She grabs a piece of cheese and takes a healthy bite out of it, maintaining eye contact. Yeah, she's a woman with a healthy appetite. Her gaze is challenging - teasing, almost. “Ok. Now it’s your turn.”
Francis sighs and lays down, crossing his hands behind his head. Lagertha flips over to her belly, propping herself up on her elbows - not caring about her nice shirt and grass stains or dirt. “Well. My life is nowhere near as exciting as yours. I haven't fought, and never sailed the open seas. I've stayed here, my whole life. Isn't that depressing? I have everything I’ve ever wanted, never done a day’s work in my life except for when I sit with Father for meetings - which is happening more and more lately. I am the Heir to a Kingdom which I know very little about, and it is -” A bell drown out the rest of his statement, ringing out their summons to return to the Palace. Their date is all but over.
“Damn,” he mutters under his breath. “How did that go by so quickly?” She shakes her head and replies. “I have no idea, I suppose time flies, yes?” The exact idiom escapes her, but he gets the idea. They pack up, remount, and head out of the maze. She finds herself wishing that it wasn't over, and wondering if he was thinking the same. Ugh. What stupid, silly girl thoughts. Best to think about leaving an... exciting last impression. When they have both exited the maze, she can see a trio coming towards across the great lawn behind the Palace. A proper escort. Well that's no fun. Her face lights up with an idea, and she hopes Francis is receptive to it. Honestly, if he isn't, she might as well voluntarily leave. “Race you back to the stables?” If Francis does see the trio, he pretends not to, and leaps at the suggestion. “You’re on.” They grin wickedly at each other and firmly urge their horses into a canter - then gallop - and speed right past their escort.
Laughing, they crouch over their horses’s necks and maintain pace with each other, arriving at the stables at the same time. Servants scurry to take their horses’ reins and breathless, Francis dismounts so he can come over to and and offers her his hand, helping her off Blackie once more. They pause there for a moment while he looks at her, his eyes flicking to her shirt, her roman-esque nose, her eyes, and then her hair. “You’ve got something -” he says, and then reaches up to pull a leaf out of the back of her braids. She giggles, stupidly. Like a schoolgirl. And then immediately regrets it. “It was lovely to meet you, Lagertha. You are very easy to talk to. And a surprising woman,” he says, brushing the side of her face (by accident? On purpose? Who knows!) as he tosses the leaf away. “I hope you have a great rest of the day.”
“It was lovely to meet you too, Francis,” she says, with a twinkle of mischief in her eyes. As she turns to leave, Lagertha throws back to him, “Don’t worry, from what I can tell, the rest of the girls are far more traditional. Try to stay awake for those dates.” He laughs, and it sounds genuine, but she can’t tell as she isn’t looking at him, sauntering back into the stable, and towards the Palace.
The rest of the day is slow; Lagertha takes a nap when she returns to her rooms and changes into the dress she brought with her - it doesn’t seem quite right to put on the fancy one yet. She tries to engage some of the other Selected, but they either look down their noses at her disdainfully, or reply with cold, monosyllabic answers. Eventually, she stops trying. Celine, the only one she truly knows, ignores her outright. Right. Well, Lagertha knows when she isn't wanted, and she's determined not to let it phase her. So she wanders the halls until someone tells her she isn’t supposed to be there and points her back in the ‘right’ direction. Pretended ignorance is fun, and by the end of the day, she has a partial map of the public areas of the Palace. Just in case they were needed.
Dinner is delicious, but a mostly lonely affair, as the girls giggle about their respective dates - even as they speak, one is missing, off on the last date. Lagertha listens, mostly, and chimes in occasionally. But their conversation is not directed at her. As the porcelain plates and crystal glasses are whisked away, a liveried palace official comes into the room and announces in a very clear voice, “Ladies, I hope you have enjoyed your dinner. It is now time for the Prince to make the first of his decisions. This way, if you please.”
Cerva was exhausted and yet didn’t remember her eyes closing last night. The plush bed and comforter enveloped her, cradling her into a dream world that brought her back home. Mother and father were there, as was Alayna and the stable owner. What happened, however, she cannot recall when her eyes open to the sound of an opening door and voices. ”Get up, get up!” One woman shouts above all the others. With a groan, Cerva covers her face with the blankets only to have them ripped off her, her body exposed to the chill of the morning. ”What’s going on?” Her eyes will themselves to open and to see the group of women surrounding her.< i>”You’re going to meet your betrothed today so I suggest you get out of bed this instant! We have a lot of work to do!” Stifling a yawn the girl sits up in bed and rests her feet on the cool marble floor. ”I’m sorry, who are you?” Her long, brown locks fall around her face as she tilts her head curiously. I’m Elizabeth. I’m your head housemaid.” Her voice softens before she pulls Cerva out of the bed to begin working. During their conversation another maid rolled in the tables of morning pastries and breakfast.
”Eat up quickly then the fun can begin,” Elizabeth smiles before turning to speak with the other housemaids while Cerva hungrily eats. When she looks over her shoulder she sees Cerva with a mouth full of food with crumbs and jelly around her mouth. ”Oh, heaven’s child! You need some manners if you’re going to be with our Prince!” She rushes over to clean up Cerva, lecturing her and primping her.< b>”I’m just really hungry. I’ve never seen so much food in my life!” Elizabeth tilts her head and quirks a small grin.< i>”That doesn’t mean you have to eat everything in sight. A lady never does that.” With a disgruntled sigh Cerva dismisses herself from breakfast and informs them that she’s ready for what is to come. ”Oh, good!” With an enthusiastic clap Elizabeth gathers all of the handmaids together to begin the work ahead.
A warm bath is prepared in which Cerva delicately and shyly steps into. It wraps around her as she submerges her lithe body. A smile tugs at the corners of her mouth as she thinks back to her last bath. Sadly, it has been long enough that she has nearly forgotten. Quick splashes on her face at the river were enough to suffice her bosses in whichever job she performed. Cleanliness was never truly enforced, at least not for one of her social class.< b>”This feels wonderful,” she hears herself whisper as her legs stretch out in the bear claw tub. Elizabeth glances toward her but says nothing, merely nodding as she makes further preparations. Another hand maid, Giselle, quietly scrubs Cerva and douses her hair with a bucket of water to rinse out the soap. The time is spent day dreaming, reminiscing, of the picture she had once seen of the prince. He had blonde locks and his eyes were a golden honey. He was cute then, but she has never seen him before – not in person at least – and at that age she wasn’t interested in boys. No matter how famous and rich a boy was he still had cooties.
By the time the water has chilled Cerva’s mind is returning to the present and to the sound of Giselle’s sweet voice. ”My lady, your bath is done. We need to finish,” she bows her head and takes a step away from the tub. In her hands is a towel that is immediately wrapped around Cerva when she rises slowly to her feet while trying to cover her parts.< i>”We have the same things, dear, if not more,” Elizabeth’s voice is rougher but still kind and with a touch of humor. ”Now come. We have to do something with your hair and clothes.” Sitting in a chair Cerva grits her teeth as they begin pulling and brushing. ”What beautiful hair you have and yet it seems like you never take care of it.”< b>”There was no need to when I was working the jobs I had. Nothing about my life has ever been like a beauty pageant,” her reply comes out sharper than she intended. ”I’m sorry.” Elizabeth merely sighs and continues fussing. She tries the different Edwardian styles like a woman’s pompadour and something with a much flatter top to accommodate a hat, but everything comes undone with the twist of her nimble fingers. ”You are a pretty girl. We don’t have to go crazy with your hair. We want something to compliment you, not take away from your face.” After a few whispers of her maids Elizabeth resumes working.
Cerva’s eyes close for the time being the second she sees a hot iron being brought close to her. The heat reaches out like fingers to trace the soft skin of her cheek as they curl pieces of her hair in the front. The bulk of her hair is plaited loosely with elegant wisps uncontained. It’s simple but fair and somehow beautiful. After years of wearing her hair down or in a ponytail it’s difficult to see anything else when her eyes finally open.
”Now, you have a, uh, lovely tan, but the darker the skin the more you’ve been outside working. Pale is what’s popular. It shows you’ve hardly worked and are therefore a higher class.” Elizabeth chides and before Cerva can reply, the head maid shouts, ”Get me lemon juice!” That should help, the girl hears the maidens whisper and they begin applying makeup. There isn’t much on hand, but it’s more than Cerva has ever applied. They use creams and lotions, powder and rouge. Her cheeks pick up a pleasant tint which is then complimented by sultry red lips. Her eyes they leave untouched, admiring how open and bright they are. ”Dresses! Hurry now, we’re running out of time!” The girl sighs, feeling as though she has been primped for days. The minutes are eternity. The excitement is slipping away. ”Don’t slump!” Elizabeth scoffs before smacking Cerva’s back. ”We need you to stand straight to fit you into your gown.” Obliging without objection she rises to her feet from the luxurious chair and watches as the team continues to whirl around her, fussing and nitpicking at every detail.
Only when the dress and shoes have been put on do they step back in admiration and silence. ”Look, my lady,” Giselle whispers prior to tilting her head in the direction of a mirror. Gulping past the lump in her throat Cerva hesitantly inches toward the glass to stare at herself in awe. Her nutmeg locks have been tamed and braided with sweet curls spiraling down. Her face is bright and flawless, even more so when she smiles. The dress reaches down to her toes and hugs her youthful curves until falling straight from her hips. A rich hue of turquoise somehow brings out her own rich, honey eyes. The slightest bit of cleavage shows but is otherwise conservative down to sleeves which stop just before the elbows. There is floral embroidery in the bosom before a line of it trails down to her left hip then further down to the bottom of the gown. ”Thank you,” she whispers before turning to face them all. The group merely nods before the tailor steps forward with a note. With encouragement from Elizabeth Cerva begins to read quietly to herself until her surprise cannot be contained.< b>”A date!” There is a clap of excitement until a breath catches in her throat. ”I have to think of it. Oh, gosh.” She begins to slip back down into the chair until Giselle catches her.< i>”Think hard, my lady, because there are others who are trying to win his heart. Be yourself. Be memorable.” But Cerva shakes her head, uncertain. ”I’m a dirty daughter of a pauper. I am nothing special so why would anyone want me as I truly am? What does royalty even do?” She has always pictured them being stingy and refusing to step outside in fear of having a speck of dirt stain their white pants. Her face almost buries into her hands, but she remembers her makeup and instead looks up at the ceiling, exasperated.
Knock, knock, knock.
The rapping at the door brings a rush of butterflies to Cerva’s stomach. She bites her lip anxiously and waits for a cue from Elizabeth before allowing them to open the grand door into her bedroom. There stands a butler watching her with scrutinizing eyes and with a voice much smoother than she anticipated. ”My lady, the Prince awaits you at the base of the stairs.” She nods, her curls bouncing gently, before she finds herself being ushered out and down the halls. Only now is she able to truly see and take note of the eloquent surroundings. Everything is so ornate, so perfect, that she fears ever to touch anything. Even carpets are imported and made of the finest quality. Her mouth opens to ask but she decides against it as they reach the grand staircase.
There, staring up at her, is the prince, Francis.
Cerva’s heart flutters. Her eyes close to gain her composure before she gracefully reaches for the railing and begins her descent down the curved stairs. A smile forms from within as she finally steps in front of him, in front of her possible betrothed. ”Um, hello,” as habit tries to set in she reaches for a strand of hair to play with but catches herself and pauses with her hand awkwardly in the air. A sheepish chuckle follows before folding her hands across her stomach. ”I’m Cerva, your majesty.” Isn’t that what she is supposed to address him as? She isn’t sure as she tilts her head respectively before meeting his eyes. ”A pleasure to meet you, Cerva. I’m Francis,” he reaches for her hand and places a most delicate kiss. ”I hope everything has been comfortable and fitting for you?” His eyes rove across her but his attention returns quickly to her gaze. ”Oh, absolutely.” This is proving to be stingy so far. There are knots in her stomach, but she is too afraid to speak or to act. Perhaps a tea party is more to his standard? When she is prepared to offer a relaxing and tranquil idea Francis interjects.< i>”Oh, good. They left.” Before Cerva can ask who he adds,< i>”I have to always be so proper when William is around. He’s the first to tell my father of any mishaps I let slip.” When he smiles now it seems warmer, more sincere. It melts her but she tries hard not to betray her sudden feelings. ”So, any ideas?” Inhaling slowly, thoughtfully, Cerva nods. ”Where are your stables?”
The horses are tacked up and they are mounted as quickly as they can muster. What begins as a placid jaunt around the courtyard escalates to so much more. There is a gleam in their eyes as they nudge their horses forward more and more. There is adventure in him and a sense of fun that Cerva never thought possible. ”Who would’ve thought you knew how to ride,” a burst of light-hearted laughter resonates through her and as Francis prepares to respond she quickly says, ”Let’s see if you can do more than walking.” With a heavy nudge she urges her mare into a canter which is closely followed by the Prince. They dodge hedges and fountains, following paths and jumping small, decorative walls. Occasionally, there is a shout from a prison guard to slow down or to remind them that they cannot leave the castle grounds. And so they swerve and change their course toward the old polo field. The ocean spray kisses her cheeks as they gallop in the trimmed, green field. Their laughter explodes and splinters the air around them. Jokes and challenges are tossed back and forth until they rein in their mounts and edge close to one another. What beautiful hairstyle had been done to Cerva is now windblown. Francis is out of breath but with a broad smile stretching wide across his face. ”Where did you learn to ride like that?” As a means to elude the question she replies, ”I could ask you the same.” Their horses are lathered in sweat, their breaths heaving until the couple begins to walk them, cooling them gradually.
Time is ticking, Cerva reminds herself.
This can’t last forever.
Servants arrive to the polo field to retrieve the horses once the couple have dismounted. ”I don’t know how expansive your grounds are or what all you have here. I want to do so much more but I really don’t have a clue what. Francis looks at her with an eyebrow raised, his mouth curved in a crooked grin. ”You’re not too great with trying to woo me, are you?” Without looking at him Cerva’s heart drops as low as her eyes. Defeat stabs into her and holds her breath for a long moment until she finally brings herself to meet his gaze. A lighthearted chuckle is shared between them as she pins back a curl behind her ear. ”I thought you were serious at first,” her chin is lifted by his hand and she doesn’t resist. ”You certainly aren’t like most girls around here. Where did you grow up?” I grew up in poverty, she doesn’t say. Her fingers fold into each other as she tries to elude the question. Her attention sweeps across the castle grounds quickly, roving for something to grab her interest that she could divert to.
”A library… Do you have one?” Deterred by the question Francis stares inquisitively into her eyes. ”The… library?” Cerva nods enthusiastically and he simply shrugs before guiding her to the two-story study. Their footsteps echo down the halls until they slip into the library. The shelves of books unravel in front of her and engulf her from every angle. ”I’ve never seen so many,” she is in too much awe to feel Francis brush his shoulder against hers, admiring the way she soaks everything in. ”So why here, Cerva? Most girls want to share a dinner or a romantic evening, and yet you choose a library.” Feeling sheepish she turns to look at him then ushers him toward two lavish chairs. ”I want to truly get to know you. I don’t want to see how you can wine and dine me. I don’t want you to puff out your chest and show off (although I was highly impressed with your riding skills). I want to know more of you than just the outside.” A pause breaks between them as their eyes meet. ”I want to know who you are, not what you are.” Her heart is pounding against her chest as she notices his cheeks flush. ”That’s a first…” At first she almost thinks he will abandon this moment, but instead he shifts to get comfortable. ”We only have a few minutes left of the two hours.” The girl bobs her head knowingly. ”What is your favorite thing in the castle… And be honest.” Her eyes narrow, but she is smiling warmly at him. Hmmm… I think I might have to say the kitchen.” When his reply is met with laughter he can’t help but join in. ”I like to eat. Sometimes I have the Head Chef teach me some recipes.” Surprised by this, Cerva settles herself and takes in a breath. ”I’m shocked. Why would you want to learn how to cook when you have people that do it for you?” It’s more or less rhetorical and so she moves on as the sunlight shines through the window and paints everything a shade of scarlet. ”Do you have any passions?” This makes Francis truly hesitate. The brass buttons of his Irish guard-styled attire catches the dwindling rays of light. The red material compliments his honey hair. ”I have an answer, but I know it isn’t what you want to hear. I want to lead this kingdom well, to be a great King making history.””Yeah, that’s sort of a predictable response.” Her voice is softened as evening approaches and when there is a knocking on the grand library door.
Francis immediately rises to his feet and straightens himself before extending an arm for Cerva to hook hers through. His left arm is bent behind the small of his back. “Two hours have now ended, my Prince and my lady. It is time for you to retire for the night.” Francis bows his head and walks slowly with Cerva moving in sync. Her dark locks roll elegantly down her shoulders as her dress fans out behind her. ”I had a lovely evening with you, Cerva.””As did I, my Prince.” Their smiles are electrifying as butterflies bloom in their stomachs. As William bows and reaches for Cerva’s arm Francis takes a step back, obliging that their evening has come to an end. Before they are separated, however, Francis leans forward and whispers, ”Drawing.” Cerva glances back at him in confusion and is met with his charming grin. ”My passion is drawing.” And with a final bow William leads Cerva away to her bedroom chamber.
“My lady, it won’t be until the next couple days until you hear anything. Please, make yourself comfortable. You have servants here to help you and take care of you, if need be.” She nods and thanks him sweetly before disappearing into her bedroom here Giselle and Elizabeth are waiting. After a much-needed bath Cerva slips into sleepwear and into bed. It’s suddenly lonely and quiet but she lulls herself to sleep through memories of the evening with her Prince.
She is not a morning person, nor has she ever been. When the servants arrive to awaken her bright and early the next morning, they find not a potential princess, but a bleary-eyed, frazzle-haired mess. How they thought they could turn that into princess material, she has no clue. But, nevertheless, it seems they will try. She is offered a dressing robe, which she takes while suppressing a massive yawn, before being steered into the outer chambers that have been assigned to her.
The smell hits her the moment she enters the large room, causing her mouth to water as she sniffs the air appreciatively. She loves breakfast, and this particular breakfast smells divine. She does not need an invitation to find the side-board nestled into the elegant little dining nook filled with heaps of mouthwatering foods. There is far more food crammed onto that one small table than she could possibly hope to eat in a week, but hell if she wouldn’t try.
In a trice, she has found a plate and began piling food onto it, barely paying attention to the earnest servant (Jillee, she thinks) trying to explain to her what their plan for morning preparations is. Apparently a bath is to follow breakfast, but she’s not quite sure. It’s hard to pay attention with the eggs and ham and french toast calling her name. In no time at all, she has stuffed herself to bursting with delicious food.
She could definitely get used to this.
But almost before she has the opportunity to settle back with a replete sigh, she is swept up by the group of servants and hustled into the wash room. She stops abruptly, causing some hapless servant to run smack into her and eliciting profuse apologies. She is not paying any attention to the poor woman however. Instead her mouth is gaping open in amazement as she stares at the decadent tub that fills the room. She has never before seen such a brilliant (and ostentatious, she might add) set-up for bathing. She could lie flat out in that tub and not touch any of its sides! To top it off, the massive thing is sunken into the floor and already filled with steaming, fragrant water.
It takes little convincing to get her out of her night clothes and into that beautiful masterpiece of a tub. She doesn’t even care that at least three people are seeing her naked. What the hell does she have to hide anyway?
They leave her alone for a short time to complete her bathing and allow her to relax in the hot water. As far as she is concerned, however, they did not leave her alone for nearly long enough. In short order, they have dragged her from the miniature pool (all but kicking and screaming), dried her off, and offered her a dressing gown. She has barely gotten the thing tied before she is urged into the adjoining room. A room positively overflowing with women and fabric and bits of ribbon and lace.
A pleased grin curves her lips as a small kernel of delight blossoms in her chest. Now this would be fun.
--
As it turns out, her definition of fun and theirs is entirely different. Rather than getting to oooh and ahhh over luxurious fabrics and pretty scraps of lace, she is instead poked and prodded and thoroughly measured. By the time a consensus has been reached and a gown begun, she is wholly sick of the entire process. She wonders, briefly, how anyone could stand to do this day in and day out.
In the whole mess of measuring and preparation, they almost forget to give her the note about her date with the heir tonight. Apparently, she would be one of the first to meet him. This doesn’t bother her nearly as much as it does her team of tailors and beauticians. The information sends them into a flurry of activity and frantic hand waving.
She would have rolled her eyes if she hadn’t been promptly hefted from her seat and trussed up like a Christmas goose. In short order, they have her in her undergarments and are beginning on her hair and face. Her hair is expertly tamed and curled before being pinned into a loose up-do that clears her face of her normally wild locks and allows them to fall gracefully down her back. Her make-up is applied lightly, accentuating her already fine features and high cheek-bones.
She is somewhat loathe to admit they had actually done a very good job.
And when the dress is finally finished and she is placed carefully into it, she cannot help the small smile the tugs at the corners of her lips. They had taken her few suggestions into account and had otherwise done a very good job capturing her style and personality in that one simple dress. The dress is white with a fitted bodice and loose, flowing skirt. The material shimmers faintly in the bright afternoon light. Over the dress she wears a tailored jacket trimmed with gold edging, accentuating her slim figure while enhancing a bosom that was usually as slim as the rest of her. With her vibrant red hair, the dress has a stunning effect. Certainly she had never before believed she could look this good.
And damned if she wouldn’t impress the prince, even if her ultimate goal isn’t to marry him.
--
In no time at all, it is time for their date to begin. Despite her best intentions, Heartfire can feel a flutter of nerves low in her stomach. She struggles to keep the scowl off her face at the realization. How could she possibly be nervous? She doesn’t actually have any expectations of this meeting!
Apparently, her subconscious needs reminding.
As she descends the stairs, she reminds herself to smile. She tries for a moment, but as soon as she sees the prince, the smile slips from her lips as her brows reach for her hairline.
He is definitely not what she was expecting. Indeed, he is far too handsome for her peace of mind. Weren’t royals supposed to be all weird and inbred?
And the fact that she actually thinks he is handsome does not bode well for her at all.
He is smiling at her as she reaches the bottom step, a dimple in his cheek and amber eyes crinkled at the corners in the most charming fashion. She forces herself to return his smile as he takes her hand to bow over it and brush the air above it with a kiss, but the curve of her lips feels stiff and wooden in comparison.
Crap. She had better get herself together here.
”Lady Heartfire, if I’m not mistaken?” he asks in a voice as smooth and charming as the rest of him. For a moment, she can barely even manage a nod.
Clearing her throat, she attempts to speak without squeaking. ”Prince Francis.” Those two words are all she can manage at that moment. His grin widens at that, amusement bringing a sparkle to his warm eyes. Heartfire stiffens, preparing to be completely offended.
”Ah, a woman of few words I see. How refreshing.” Heartfire blinks at him for a moment, thrown completely off guard by the comment, before a sudden laugh escapes her lips. She brings one hand up (the one not claimed by him) to stifle her laughter as she simultaneously tries to choke it back. This only results in her nearly swallowing her tongue and inducing a fit of coughing.
Francis, for his part, is very helpful and gentlemanly through the whole ordeal, gently patting her back and offering her a handkerchief, even if he is chuckling while he does it. Heartfire snatches the crisp piece of cloth from his hands, pressing it her face while she catches her breath. ”Good lord, don’t do that!” she exclaims when her breathing is finally under control and coughing fully suppressed.
”Excuse me?” he asks, eyebrows arching in surprise. She throws him a mollifying glance before replying with a rather amused ”If you wanted to kill me, there are simpler and more effective ways to do it.”
The comment incites more laughter from the sandy-haired prince before he offers her his arm. ”You are a treat, my dear,” he says with an amused smile. ”Shall we find somewhere a little less public?”
Heartfire takes his arm with alacrity, smile back upon her lips. At the very least, she would not be bored with him.
--
From the grand staircase, he takes her through a number of smaller chambers, leading her to the back of the palace. There he leads her to another staircase, this one smaller and more obscure. ”Where are we going?” she asks, curiosity piqued.
He only offers her a broad grin and a (totally not adorable) wink before simply saying ”You’ll see.”
From that point on, there is simply no turning back. She is completely enchanted.
--
After several sets of stairs, they arrive at a small door. Opening it, Francis leads her through to a tower and another set of stairs curving around the outer edge. After several more minutes of stair-climbing, they are let out into one of the several turrets adorning the palace. A wide grin stretches her lips as she gazes out one of the four windows offering a beautiful and unhindered view of Illea’s capital.
She is barely paying attention to the prince as she releases his arm and steps forward to stare out the window at the landscape stretched out before her. ”It’s beautiful,” she whispers, awe filling her soft voice.
”Yes, it is,” Francis says simply. She glances only briefly at him, distant smile curving her lips as she turns to gaze back out at the lovely view before her. It takes her several long minutes to realize he had not been staring at the view when he had said that.
Brows lowering, she turns to stare at him contemplatively. He is still looking at her, a faint echo of his former smile still on his face as he studies her just as closely as she does him. After a moment that seems to last an eternity, she finally asks ”Why am I here?” This causes one brow to rise and a slightly confused ”What do you mean?”
She pauses, taking a deep breath as she searches his eyes for some clue. ”I mean, why me? There were hundreds… no, probably thousands, of other girls. So why pick me?”
His face clears as understanding dawns, but rather than offering any sort of explanation, he merely smiles a small, secretive smile before shrugging one shoulder and saying ”Why not?”
For a moment, she is sorely tempted to box his ears. Certainly he could not miss the scowl that darkens her features at that non-committal response. But with a swiftness and ease that astounds her, he has distracted her from her disgruntlement by taking her arm and showing her the city. With an obvious depth of love, he points out and explains several of the more interesting areas of his home to her.
They spend the next hour simply talking, laughing and smiling as they share in each other’s likes and dislikes as well as past glories and foibles. Before she knows it, their two hours are up and he is escorting her back down the stairs. She is somewhat surprised to find herself disappointed that their time together has come to an end.
She had never even expected to like the prince, much less enjoy spending time with him. For a moment, she is entirely discombobulated by this realization. What the hell is happening?
The thought frightens her a little, so in that moment, she firmly decides not to dwell on it any longer. Whatever happens here, she supposes she’ll just have to roll with the punches. She’s pretty good at that anyway.
When they have once again reached the grand staircase, he pauses, turning to look at her with a slight smile resting upon his lips. She returns it with one of her own, brilliant blue eyes fixing upon his amber ones as he softly whispers her name. ”Heartfire… It suits you, you know.”
She laughs at that, glancing down at her hand that had somehow ended up entwined with his. ”Please don’t tell my parents that,” she says, humor lacing her tone as she lifts her head to meet his gaze again. ”I will never live it down.”
He grins in return, lifting his free hand to brush a finger gently across her cheek. ”Your secret is safe with me,” he says in confidence, an amused twinkle in his eye. Her stares into her blue gaze for another long moment. And, for a moment, she thinks he might kiss her. For a moment, she almost wishes he would.
But then he draws back and she releases a breath she didn’t know she was holding. ”Until tomorrow, my dear,” he says finally, disentangling his fingers from hers as he turns to go.
In a rather pleasantly stunned haze, she returns to her room.
--
The night gives her time to reflect upon what had happened the previous evening, and she spends most of the following day alternating between disgruntled and confused. Unlike the previous day, today is almost boring in comparison. He goes on dates with the other girls, and, for a while, she has absolutely no idea what might be happening. At least until she happens to run into another of the Selected while strolling through a massive gallery of portraits.
A girl is there, staring dreamily out the window as Heartfire rounds the corner. She takes in her pale pink dress and dark brown hair with a practiced sort of bland interest. Were she not dying of curiosity, she might have simply kept walking. But when the opportunity presents itself, she simply cannot resist finding out anything she can.
Stepping up to the window next to the girl, she looks her over curiously before introducing herself. ”Hi,” she says simply. ”I’m Heartfire.”
The girl jumps, apparently not realizing she had been approached. A wide, hazel-eyed gaze finds hers, mouth rounded in surprise. ”Oh!” she says, clasping her hand dramatically over her heart. ”You startled me!” Heartfire barely resists rolling her eyes. Hello, Captain Obvious. ”I’m Alyssa,” she finally adds.
”Nice to meet you Alyssa,” Heartfire replies, offering her a small smile. ”Have you met the prince yet?”
The brightening of her features and glistening eyes tell Heartfire everything she needs to know before she even says a word. ”Oh yes!” she gushes, hands fluttering aimlessly as she turns to face Heartfire. ”He is simply amazing! Have you met him?”
Heartfire does not even get the chance to respond before Alyssa is continuing, ebulliently espousing Francis’ qualities with a fervor that dumbfounds Heartfire. Holy crap, if she’d known she was going to start such a clamor with one simple question, she would have steered clear! As it is, she is forced to stand and listen to the chipper girl go on and on for the next ten minutes before she is finally able to somewhat politely extricate herself from that hot mess. From that point on, she stays well clear of any of the other Selected. At least until the time comes for them to gather for the elimination.
To be perfectly honest, she hadn’t truly considered the elimination until now. She knew it was coming, but she never really truly thought about what it might mean to be eliminated. Now that the thought is in her head however, she can’t seem to shake it.
It shouldn’t bother her, but for some reason it does. Enough so that she only picks at her dinner before sitting in fidgety silence until someone comes to tell her it is time. And when she arrives at the room, she is uncustomarily nervous and distracted as they await the announcement of Prince Francis’ decision.
Heartfire
i filled up my senses with thoughts from the ghosts
![[Image: kirke.png]](http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y125/102938475611/kirke.png)
![[Image: kag]](https://78.media.tumblr.com/2e8039018ce4dff6112c167ec23e886a/tumblr_p72zjit7wC1s5a0qvo1_100.png)
