#may make an adaine painting on this moment | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

unrequitedmime · 5 years

Quote

The Princess of the Mercan Mountains already walks like a Queen. She enters the sitting room like a sweeping storm of clicking heels and raised chins and a thousand layers of red silk. She does not glance at even one of us as she takes her seat on a chaise lounge, her young guard silently positioning himself behind her. Her hair falls down her back like shimmering oil, dead straight strands the colour of black ink. It does well to make her skin glow, and her dark eyes pierce. I cannot decide if she is more striking or intimidating. She is beautiful. I will say that much. Father looks her up and down, something close to appreciation shining in his blue eyes. I fight the urge to elbow him in the face or be sick. Before I can do either, Asher clears his throat. A subtle sound, but loud enough to drag Father's attention away from the young woman poised so elegantly. When Father catches the disapproving look in my brother's striking green eyes, his face flushes red and he glances down to his shining boots. Asher and I share a glance over our Father's head; one of shared hatred for the man that created us. Silence settles again, as it does every time we wait for the next guest. I fight the urge to fidget. I am not in the mood to hear Sara's scolding after this meeting. She stands at my back, stoic and silent as a death angel. I don't dare glance back at my General. She will scold me for that, too. Instead I study the occupants of the grand room we sit in. Leaning casually on the wall opposite me are the Addington brothers. I marvel at their differences and similarities. They look as if a mad scientist has mixed and matched different features to three versions of the same person. The eldest brother, Luca, is a storm all on his own. Of dangerous nights and quiet brooding and ripples of caution that seem to poke beneath his skin. His short cropped hair, like his brothers, is black. Yet his hair is so short shaven that it appears a dark brown. His dark brown eyes, the colour of mud, jump from person to person in the room, likely weighing strengths and weaknesses. The second eldest, the middle brother, is not another page in the family book but seems to be in another book completely. His black hair is curly and messy, as if he tugs at it when he concentrates. His eyes are a striking dark blue, unlike his older brother's. This young man, Renzo, does not have the same harsh expression as Luca. Instead, his face is softer, more beautiful, gentle. He has the face of a dreamer, a scholar, someone that belongs to words on pages and flowers in stories. He is the charmer. Rumour has it that he is the favoured son; the one paraded in the Addington parties and socialite events to show off the beauty of his family's fortune. My eyes fall upon the youngest brother next, and despite myself, my heart softens. Luca is easily 20 years old, Renzo perhaps only a year younger, but the youngest brother, Finnan, cannot be older than thirteen. His hair is softer, less unruly curls and more soft waves that flop in front of his face. His skin is pale unlike his brothers', and his eyes are the same dark shades as Luca's. I wonder why they felt the need to bring a mere child on this trip. Finnan looks to be falling asleep on his feet. I glance back at Luca, and I find his piercing gaze already locked onto mine. Where Renzo seems to be gentle laughter and clinking wine glasses, Luca is the sharpness of a jagged blade and the growls of a trained winter wolf. I wink. And then the doors open again, and I glance up at the newcomer. Rather, newcomers. Tia and her Aunty have arrived. --------------------------------------------------------- I have heard the stories of Queen Tia. A spoilt young woman, her beauty shining like the ocean and her slyness as soft as the gentle rock of water. The stories say she killed her parents for the throne she stepped up to a few months ago. Her younger sister, Adain, does not join them today. They say the youngest daughter of the late Tidal King and Queen has left to the Coastlands in her grief, to study the powers of Elementals. I do not believe that. I have met Adain, once, a few years ago. Despite her young age at the time, she was kind and intelligent. Quick witted and morally righted. I remember having the fleeting thought that she would be better suited to the throne. I know I was not the only person with those whispered words dancing in my mind. I do not believe that Adain chose to leave her childhood home to study in the harsh Coastlands. I believe she was exiled. Tia would drown me if she knew I was even thinking that. I watch the woman settle herself down on a chair in front of the Addington brothers for a few moments longer before looking away, down to my ink stained hands. Mother almost killed me this morning when she saw the pink etched deep into my skin. Flowerberry Pink. It will take weeks for this to wash out. She loves my art, my painting, my studio. But she knows that a Lord does not win arguments with splashes of messy colour on his hands. I say I can win them despite that. It takes only a few more moments for the doors to open again. I almost breathe a sigh of relief when I catch sight of the people in the doorway. The Royal family has arrived. Finally, the festivities can begin. ------------------------------------------------ Ora smiles at me as I step into my room. She steps back from my bed and stretches her hands out towards it in a brilliant 'Ta-Da' gesture. I glance down at the clothes laid down in my bed, and I confuse myself in the pieces of blue and gold fabric. I clear my throat and try my best to sound enchanted. "Ora," I nod, "This looks great." I almost wince at my tone. Ora drops her hands and huffs a sigh, shaking her head at me. I have never been one to understand Royal fashion. It seems even in my own Engagement weeks, I have no eye for royalty. Ora almost dances her way into my bathroom, and I hear the clinking of vials as she leaves me alone to dress. A few minutes later, she floats back into the room and settles me down at my table. I read here most days, but she has set up a strange assortment of glittering cases this evening. I almost blanch away from her hand when I realise it is makeup. "No thank you," I croak, voice tight. She only narrows her doe eyes at me, pale skin pinching in frustration and exasperation. Just from the frown in her eyebrows I know what she does not have the words to say. Not her orders. My mother's. "Surely only a little bit, then?" I ask, not liking the crack in my voice. She almost giggles. She would, if she could. Sometimes I still wonder what her voice would sound like if she could speak to me. I wonder what my name would sound like on her tongue; if the syllables of my name would sound as soft and sweet as I imagine. I cannot help but feel the familiar burn of hatred in my gut. Hatred for my mother, for the rules, for what they did to Ora before I could stop it. Ora recognises the look in my eyes and taps my forehead insistently until I blink myself out of the rage. In her soft brown eyes is both her sorrow for the past and her love for me. Ora may be my maid by title, but she has never been anything less than an older sister. She does not like when I waste my time grieving the sound of her voice. It is gone. There is no point wasting thoughts on things that cannot come back. As she applies the makeup, I fight the urge to hum to myself. An old habit that I cannot seem to shake from my childhood. Mother likes to try her best to slap the tunes from me. Future King's do not hum. Especially King's of Lorath. The most powerful nation cannot survive if it is led by a heart that softens for music, Mother says. Lorath has only lasted this long because it's leaders have been fearless. Ruthless. I gulp. I do not know if I have it in me to be ruthless. ------------------------------------------------------------- Loretta's instructions were clear enough. Do not move, do not speak, do not react. I am a statue, she said. Nothing but a symbol of power for the Royal family to use. A symbol of protection. I know this, I have had it drilled it into me for weeks. I will be stared at, and I will be sneered at, and I will be treated like an object. I am a weapon. I repeat the words in my head to keep from throwing myself off the Royal podium and running away from everything I have learnt. The ballroom is filling with people so quickly I cannot keep track. Before me is a sea of glittering jewels and flowing gowns and beautiful women and powerful people. And yet the Prince's throne remains empty. The Queen glances back at me; a barely susceptible move of her shin towards her left shoulder. I catch it, though, and I step forward to her with sweating palms. Despite these weeks of training on the palace grounds, the thought of the Queen looking at me for too long makes me so terrified I could throw up. I live every single day walking the edge of a knife, wondering if I will wake up in the morning with her dagger at my throat. I kneel by her side. "Yes, my Queen?" Despite my nerves eating away at my insides, my voice does not shake. "Where is Alexander?" Her voice is sharp and regal. Her voice is almost as beautiful as she is. Before I can respond, the ballroom doors sweep open one more time, and there he is. The Queen catches sight of him the same time I do, her golden eyes narrowing at her only son as he strides through the crowd. Prince Alexander is not like most Princes. Instead of marching his way to his powerful throne beside his powerful mother, he takes his time swimming through the sea of people. He stops a few times to kiss hands, squeeze shoulders, and smile his Alexander smile at the younger Royals that have travelled long ways to see him. He will be a great King. I step back into my place as he finally mounts the steps up to the velvet dais. He catches sight of me, golden eyes dancing down my dress and back up to my face. While the Queen's golden depths shimmer with the threat of her ferocity, the Prince's shining gaze is nothing but spirited. 'Nice dress,' He mouths to me with a grin. I look away, refusing to take part in his kindness, but my lips twitch despite themselves. I have ignored Alexander's attempts at friendship for weeks now, no matter how often he has tried to make me laugh. I don't like to think that he is finally getting through to me. I go back to studying the crowd, the guards, the servers slipping between elite bodies like ghosts. My eyes catch on a head of unruly black curls, almost glistening under the light of the chandeliers. The man, facing almost completely away from me, turns his head to the side to smile at his companion. My breath, for some strange reason, is suddenly knocked from my chest. He excuses himself and spins in his spot, turning to the front of the ballroom to approach someone new. I study his youthful face as he walks, eyes trailing over the high cheekbones and the light pink lips and the strikingly blue eyes. He is tall and slim; the body of a lean scholar. Renzo Addington. Loretta made me memorise every member of the Queen's Circle; a collection of closely trusted Royals and Lords. The most elite in the world. Renzo Addington is one of three sons, all belonging to Lord and Lady Addington. The Addington's are the most elite family in Lorath without Royal blood. They hold power over almost half the towns and villages of Lorath, and own dozens of estates all over the nation. They reside in a grand manor half a day from the Royal Palace; Countryside Castle, they call it. Their family gains their enormous fortune from the farms of gold they have harvest. The Addington's are responsible for almost all of Lorath's wealth. They specialise in currency. Renzo Addington is only 19 years old, as I am, yet he shines with maturity. His smile is ancient, knowledgeable, secret. The way he moves is regal, as smooth as flowing water. He is the second eldest, yet it is known that he is the face of the Addington's. He is the charm and the wit. He lives and loves for the people. He is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. "Where have you been?" The Queen's voice slices through my thoughts as she scolds her son, "You have made a fool out of me and yourself." Prince Alexander kisses his mother's hand delicately, and she lets him. He takes his own seat beside her. I stand between the thrones, in the shadows behind. "I spilt water on myself, and it took Ora an extra five minutes to fix the makeup you insisted I wear." The Queen watches her son with a soft expression, in case there are eyes watching, but the words that are spat from her smiling lips are deadly, "Royal's must not have one flaw in their appearance. Flaws in appearance leave room to suggest flaws in character, Alexander." "I did not need makeup, Mother." They spit each other's names like poison. "You have ugly bags under your eyes. King's do not look tired." I glance away. It is true that dark circles have bloomed to life beneath his eyes over the past few weeks. He does not sleep much; I have learnt that much from the nights of guarding him. I am not permitted to sleep until Alexander does, and because Alexander is plagued by insomnia most nights, I am sure I have bags under my eyes, too. Loretta covered them with makeup. The Queen clicks her tongue at her son once and suddenly stands with a smile. In moments, the room falls silent. --------------------------------------------------- It seems to me that the Queen of Lorath does not age. I remember visiting her as a young girl; when my parent's would deem it appropriate to take me on their trips to the Lorath Palace. The last time I saw this woman in the flesh was eight years ago. If I were not too tired to focus clearly, I would say that she appears younger now. Her chestnut hair falls down her back in brilliantly orchestrated waves, her cheekbones high, her smile beautiful, and her golden eyes sharp and shining. Her dress, a beautiful gown of golden gems, reflects upon so many surfaces that there seems to be a halo of light surrounding her. I have no doubt the gold on her dress is real. "Welcome," Her voice does not strain as she calls out to the hundreds of people in her ballroom, "To the Royal Palace of Lorath. It is a privilege to host such wonderful guests tonight, and my son, Prince Alexander, is honoured to have so many elite's attend the festivities and formalities of his Engagement Weeks." I glance at the Prince. He smiles into the crowd, a face of sunlight and glimmering kindness. He seems to have an energy about him that his mother lacks. It takes me a moment to realise what he embodies. Genuinity. He calls out, voice smooth but full of emotion, "It is an honour to have so many people travel far and wide to witness my trial and engagement to an Heir. I hope to spend time with each and every one of my guests over the upcoming weeks, to truly show my gratitude." I don't miss the way the Queen glances down at him at these words. That is not part of her plan. "Before we begin the festivities of the night, I have a few announcements to make," Queen Seraphine smiles out at the crowd, face gentle, "First I must acknowledge the presence and attendance of special guests that have travelled to my Kingdom for my son." Must acknowledge. My Kingdom. Words placed as carefully as daggers to throats. A reminder that despite our Royal blood or title, she has the power in these lands. "First I would like to acknowledge the Addington brothers, visiting as representatives for their parents." She spots them in the crowd the same time I do; the three brothers standing side by side in union and strength. "Lord Lucas, Lord Renzo, and Lord Finnan." Only Renzo and Finnan smile up at her. Luca bows his head slightly. I almost smile at the small act of resistance. "Next I would like to thank Queen Tia of the Tidelands for gracing us with her presence," Tia curtsies gracefully in her light blue dress of silk. It glimmers as she moves- like rolling water over her limbs. "I am honoured to welcome back Lord Ronan to my palace, my son's oldest friend," She smiles softly at a tall young man with reddish-brown hair and a light spray of freckles over his pale face. He grins back at at her, placing a hand over his heart. There is pink ink all over his thin fingers. Alexander grins at Lord Ronan, too, his face shining with love. Lord Ronan is Prince Alexander's best friend. "May we have a moment to thank my nephew and niece for attending tonight for the first time in eight years. My late sister's beautiful twins, Asher and Grace, as well as their father, Ronan Herald." I follow her gaze to the family of three. Asher, tall and broad, smiles kindly up at his Auntie, as does their ruggedly handsome father. Grace does not curtsy, as she is expected to. She simply stares, her brilliantly green eyes shining against her olive gown. "Lord Sebastian Rosales visits us tonight, in place of his late mother, Ruth Rosales," I do not see the man she talks about, but I have heard of Sebastian Rosales. Young and intelligent, with a brilliant mind for battle. "And finally, may we welcome Princess Valeria, who has travelled from the Mercan Mountains to see us." It is my turn to curtsy. I do not. I only bow my head at the Queen. She is Queen of Lorath, but Lorath is not my nation. I owe her nothing. ---------------------------------------------------- I watch Princess Valeria incline her head to the Queen, barely glancing down before meeting the woman's golden gaze again. I look up to the dais to find the Queen's face regal and frozen in a smile, but in her eyes I see the rage. I cannot fight my grin, and I tap my fingers against my thigh to hold back the laughter bubbling in my chest. I have known the Queen all my life, and I have never liked the woman. She is cruel, and she is stern, and she is hungry for power. Everything to her is a chess game. But I guess that is what the Royal Court is for everyone. Valeria, for some strange reason, meets my gaze from across the ballroom. She wears the same dress as earlier; an expanding gown of what seems to be a thousand layers of bursting ruby red. Her tan skin glows in the light, her lips full, her lashes long. Her gaze is as dark and serious as her chocolate eyes. I wonder how someone who lives in the brittle Winters of the Mercan Mountains can shine with such a natural bronze tan. She looks away. A pair of hands catch at my fingers, and I flinch as a girl materialises from the crowd. She doesn't look at me as she wrenches my hand up to her face. I open my mouth to swear, to pull away, and then she looks at me. My mouth dries up, and I freeze. Those... those are some mighty nice eyes. "You tap your fingers a lot. Did you know that, Lord Ronan?" She purrs, a slight lilt to her words as she studies my fingers with that big green gaze. It takes me a few moments to remember how to speak, how to form coherent thoughts about something that isn't her beauty. "I was a brilliant musician in another life," Despite my hammering blood, my voice comes out light and lively, "I'm sure of it." It takes her a few moments for her to meet my gaze again. And when she does, I realise who she is. Grace Herald-Gueneeve. The Queen's niece. Alex's cousin. I have met her once, when we were mere children. I have not seen her since, no matter how many times I have stayed at the palace. I'm sure she hasn't been here since she was nine, since her mother decided to move to the countryside rather than reside in the heart of the nation beside her own sister. I had no idea she'd grow up to be so stunning. "A nervous habit is not a good look for a powerful Lord," She almost whispers her words, somehow encasing us in a cocoon of just me and those wonderful eyes of hers. "Neither is ink stained fingers." I glance down to where her skin touches mine, her delicate fingers holding my pink ones. "Not only am I a wonderful musician, Your Highness, but I am a wonderful artist. The best, actually." Something like amusement shines in her green gaze, and I feel my heart startle. Laugh, I silently beg her, I want to know if the sound of it is as beautiful as you are. But alas, the Queen's voice echoes across the ballroom yet again, and the distant Princess glances up at her auntie on the dais. I almost curse before looking up myself. "Finally, I would like to share some grand news. Prince Alexander has grown into a strong and intelligent man of honour." Alex doesn't blush at his mother's words. He'd have to believe them first. "He has decided to follow in his father's pursuit." Something in the Queen's face shutters at the mention of the late King, perhaps grief, perhaps something else, "He has taken a Divine." A few gasps are heard around the ballroom. Some of simple shock, some amazement, and some disgust. Grace's grip on my fingers tighten, her face hard as she stares at her auntie and cousin. Alexander warned me of this. Warned me of his mother's enforcement of the cruel family tradition. She forced Alexander to keep a Divine; an oracle woman of power and magical abilities. They have been used as Royal guardians for centuries, but the tradition has waned down over the past few decades in all Kingdoms but Lorath. The practise of keeping one is seen as inhumane, an unnecessary slavery. The Queen never saw it as such. She sees it as a show of her power, of her families invulnerability. The Royal family of Lorath is not only strong, but invincible. A young woman suddenly seems to unfold herself from the shadows, stepping forward between the two thrones until she is by the Queen's side. Alexander rises beside the stranger too, shoulder to shoulder. At Alexander's subtle touch the woman, almost cowering, seems to remember her place and stand tall. Her dress is made of silk so black that it snatches light from the air and wraps it up into its smooth fabric. The material is not skin tight, but it clings to her curves and emphasises the lean shape of her body. The neck of the gown dips so low that her torso can be seen between her breasts; a triangle of delicate skin. Her hair is a nice light brown, and it dances across her shoulders and down her back like an oozing snake. She looks to be about my age, 20, perhaps a year or two younger. There is a fire in her light blue gaze; a challenge in her icy eyes. Despite her position in the palace, a slave, at first glance she seems bolder than most people I have come across. I like her immediately. She raises her chin as the Queen introduces her, "The Prince's Divine." That is it. No name, no story. She is only the Divine. Only an object. A weapon. The ballroom bursts into applause.

unrequited

0 notes