Show them the joy and the pain and the ending
The day after the attack, she is grateful to be left largely to her own devices. Her head aches fiercely most of the day, and all she really wants to do is sleep. When not sleeping however, it seems all she can do is worry about Francis. She asks after him several times, but receives no real news as to his health or whereabouts.
By the second day, she is feeling much recovered and ready to resume her activities. This is when she discovers that she is in fact confined to her room. At first she is somewhat dumbstruck, unable to believe that this is the case. But the moment she tries to open her door (which she does twice just to test their diligence and the third time simply out of spite), she is halted by the guard standing duty outside her door.
At first she is only irritated. What the hell is the meaning of this? But then the implications set in and she is consumed by worry. The what ifs and why fors plague her mind, causing her to pace the confines of her room (prison, even if it does happen to be elegantly appointed) for much of the afternoon.
By the third day, her worry is giving way to anger, and by the fourth, she has passed the threshold from anger into full blown fury. Each day her questions go unheeded and unanswered, leaving her entirely in the dark.
Regardless of what they might believe of her, what possible reason could they have for keeping isolated and clueless? What possible reason could Francis have to justify such treatment?
Certainly none that would satisfy her currently enraged state.
The fifth day dawns much like the previous four, except for the bubble of anger that tightens her throat and the intolerable restlessness that has taken hold of her spirit.
Jillee, the young maid who wakes her each morning, is clever enough to steer well clear of her in her current mood. Of course, the ill-tempered muttering and slamming of every door she comes in contact with could have something to do with that too. Heartfire only speaks to her to make a now-familiar demand for information. Of course she gets nothing of use, causing her temper to ratchet up yet another notch. She wants nothing more than to scream at her, to inform her of how utterly useless she is, but a small bit of still-human decency prevents her from doing so. Deep down, she knows it's not really her fault.
That's not quite enough to halt her furious glowering and muttered curses however.
Jillee beats a hasty retreat the moment her services are no longer needed, and Heartfire cannot say that she blames her. She knows that she is terrible company in her current state.
Besides, she would much rather be left alone to stew in her own displeasure. At this rate, she would sooner end up in some dank dungeon for murdering some hapless guard than for any one of her myriad other crimes.
Heartfire is lying flung face-down across her wide bed when the knock sounds faintly across the next room. If her face were not pressed into the down comforter on the bed, her glower likely would have burned holes straight through the walls separating her from the unwelcome intruder. Another useless servant is her first spiteful thought upon hearing that faint sound.
But the knock sounds again, followed by a low voice she recognizes all too easily. Jerking her head up, she hesitates for a brief moment, wondering if perhaps her ears are playing tricks on her. But deciding anything is better than more boredom and unrelenting anger, she leaps to her feet, tripping in the folds of her dove gray skirts in her haste. Once at the door, she flings it open, causing the thing to slam against the wall.
Francis, who is indeed standing in her door, flinches at the abrupt noise. Fury wars with relief as she drinks in his perfect golden (and perfectly uninjured) features. As far as she is concerned, there is no reason good enough to excuse her imprisonment, though if he had at least been injured, she might have tried to forgive him.
As it stands, the urge to punch him is rapidly outstripping the urge to hug him.
Jaw clenched, she stares at him with fiery blue eyes in obstinate silence, resisting the urge to do either. It would be nearly impossible to miss her stony anger, and Francis is far from dense. With a regretful sigh, he offers her an explanation which does little to sooth her.
In fact, it downright terrifies her. Fortunately white knuckled fists and furrowed eyebrows can just as easily be mistaken for anger as fear. ”What?” she demands breathlessly. ”He… what?”
The question itself is rhetorical. She understands perfectly well what he is saying. But disbelief wars with dread in a way that is impossible for her to articulate. Francis does not get a chance to respond, as two guards are already sweeping in to draw her away. Instead he smiles sadly, apologetically, before saying simply, ”I'm so sorry, my dear.”
And, astonishingly enough, she actually believes he means it. She only wishes it changed anything. Despite her anger with him, she finds the thought of losing him far more painful than she would have once believed possible.
--
In less time than she would have preferred, they have arrived at a small, sparsely furnished chamber. In one corner rests a rather forbidding chair that dwarfs the smaller wooden stool next to it. In the middle rests a single slightly reclined seat, clearly meant for her.
Swallowing, Heartfire surreptitiously wipes her damp palms on her dress, feverishly reminding herself that she hasn't actually done anything truly terrible. The guards however, seem less inclined to agree. One guard clasps her shoulder and pushes her forcefully down onto the chair, causing her to sit with an unexpected thump.
Leaning forward stiffly, she clenches her hands in her skirts as her cheeks burn with indignation. She does not spare even a glance for the guard as he secures her hands with a leather clasp, nor does she look at Francis, who has taken a seat on the small stool in the corner. Even out of the corner of her eye, she can see that he is clearly uncomfortable with the situation. This offers her some small measure of comfort, at least. If she is required to bear such indignities, he could damn well feel uncomfortable about it.
After several minutes of disquieting silence, the King finally enters the room, followed by a middle-aged man with narrow features and close-cropped steel gray hair. Heartfire studies the pair surreptitiously, head tilted forward to shutter her too expressive blue eyes from their sight. Anger and bitter resentment roil within her gut even as fear tangles inside her mind.
The silence stretches interminably, causing her already frayed nerves to frazzle further. She grips her secured hands together, waiting for whatever it is they intend to do to her. When the King abruptly begins speaking, Heartfire jumps, releasing a startled breath she hadn't known she was holding.
He explains in a flat tone that this man is an interrogator, a specialist in the art of obtaining the truth.With no further ado, the silver-haired man approaches, informing her rather brusquely that the liquid with the godawful stench he has shoved under her nose is in fact a mild neurotoxin designed to make her susceptible to hypnosis. With stiff, jerky movements, she reaches her tethered hands up to accept the small glass. She stares at it for a long moment, bile churning in the back of her throat. But when the man clears his throat, Heartfire tosses him a heartily disgusted look before downing the contents in a single gulp. Face screwed up into a pucker, she shoves the small glass back at the man before heaving a resigned sigh.
Apparently she would simply have to get used to these dungeon atmospheres. She didn’t think she would be leaving them any time soon.
--
For a few minutes, she would swear the poison is having no effect. The room remains small and uninviting, the King and Frances sit with stony and worried expressions on their respective faces, and the interrogator (damn, she must have missed his name. Maybe he never even said it) talks in a low, soothing voice while she remains stubbornly mute.
At first she doesn’t notice when the soft colors start to swirl about her, but when the room begins wavering, visions of her parents, of home, of her favorite tree surrounded by a sea of grass flashing before her, her only thought is Oh shit…
Distantly, she knows what is happening. She can understand the ramifications of what is about to occur, but in this soft, hazy world, it doesn’t seem to matter any more. So when the interrogator starts asking questions in that low, soothing voice, she cannot seem to help the answers that spill from her. She cannot even seem to get angry over the injustice of this whole spectacle.
”Very well,” the interrogator begins (she thinks she is going to call him George. George seems like a nice name for him), ”Let’s start with your name. What is your first and last name?”
”Heartfire Wickham,” she responds without even a second’s hesitation. Wait, why did she just do that?
”Good Miss Wickham. And how old are you?” he continues, establishing that the elixir is working.
”Nineteen,” is her immediate response. Wait. Stop. Don’t do that. Her thoughts are lost amidst the hazy, surreal dream-world she has found herself floating in. The man before her is Francis, handsome face smiling and happy. No. No. That’s not true.
But it seems she could deny Francis nothing.
”Why are you here, Miss Wickham.” Apparently George (Francis) is done wasting time.
”To compete in the Selection.”
”No, what brought you here?”
No, that can’t be Francis. Francis would never ask such things. Wait. Right, it’s George. Almost forgot about George. ”I don’t know. Ask Francis.” In her lost, dreamy state, she seems to have developed the unerring ability to take everything far too literally.
The frustration, while clear in George’s voice, flies right over her head. ”Very well, let’s trying something else. Where do your loyalties lie?”
”To Illea,” she says, utterly honest in her response. For it indeed is true - every motive for joining the Resistance had been inspired by her desire to save Illea and it’s people. Of course, it is also true it hadn’t been an entirely selfless act. She had also just wanted an adventure.
But George hadn’t asked about that.
”Hmm…” George starts, but he is interrupted when Heartfire sighs softly, a slow, loose smile curving her lips. ”And to Francis,” she continues, heedless of George’s attempt to continue.
Wait, what? Where the hell had that come from?
If she’d had the will to actually move her own head, she might have looked at Francis. If she had, she would have caught the look of surprise on his well-defined features, followed by small, fleeting smile of satisfaction. As it is, she seems only able to lounge against that slightly reclined chair in agonizing indifference.
”Interesting,” George says, pausing to consider the possible ramifications of her confession. ”Tell me Miss Wickham, why do you wish to marry our dear Prince?”
She didn’t. She hadn’t. She does want to though. She wants to so badly. But why? ”I… don’t know,” she says hesitantly, stuttering her way through the response. But it isn’t enough. Why doesn’t it feel like enough. I… like him. A lot.
Wait, that doesn’t sound right either. Could she love him? No. Certainly not. She doesn’t do love. Fortunately for her, the interrogator doesn’t pursue that line of questioning.
”Why do you think that you should be the one to marry Prince Francis? What makes you think that you would make a good Princess?”
Heartfire is helpless against the onslaught of questions. She can do little more than answer them as honestly as possible. ”We suit. We complement each other in ways I didn’t believe possible. I think… I think that I might even love him.” Wait, why had she said that? Why would she say that?
But she continues, because she can do nothing else. ”I wouldn’t. I would be a terrible Princess.”
”Why?” George aks, true curiosity layering his soft tones.
”I’m headstrong. And impulsive. I’d suck at diplomacy.” She has never before looked at herself in quite the way George is forcing her to. She really would make a terrible Princess. All of the things that had made her such a great rebel are exactly what would make her an awful ruler.
And in that moment, with that single, horrifying realization, her heart shatters. She could never have Francis if she couldn’t also be a good leader.
George is frowning, his arms folded across his narrow chest as he taps long fingers against his arm, considering her revelations. ”If you believe you would be such a terrible leader, why would you enter this competition?”
”I love Illea.” is her simple, heartfelt response. And it’s true, despite all of those flaws, or perhaps because of them, she has the incredible will and determination to do what is necessary, to follow her heart and turn the right thing to do into an accomplishment rather than a dream. This is her strength, her greatest asset in her quest for justice.
She might not be good leader material, but maybe - just maybe - she is exactly what Illea needs.
Unaware of her inner turmoil, her incredible revelations, the interrogator shrewdly continues, ”Enough to enter this contest under false pretenses?”
”Yes,” she says, unable to provide any answer but the truth.
”Enough to kill the King and Queen?”
Pause. ”No.”
And that is the truth as she knows it now. She might once have considered it a justifiable thing to do, but no longer is that the case. She cares for Francis far too much to ever do that to him.
George (no, not George, what is his name?) asks her several more questions, but the neurotoxin seems to be wearing off. As the room comes slowly, achingly, back into focus, Heartfire blinks surprisingly dry eyes. The swirls of color and vivid images are fading, bringing the cold harshness of reality back into sharp focus. As she realizes what she has done, dread curls in her belly as fear clutches at her chest.
She glances apprehensively at Francis, but finds his handsome face set in impassive lines.
She is given several minutes to recover before she is pulled from the chair and led back to her room by the two guards that had escorted her down. There her restraints are removed and she is left to wait in dreadful, silent anticipation.
Heartfire
i filled up my senses with thoughts from the ghosts