Deep within the marble-floored depths of Bellehelen's seat of power, past the impeccably dressed footmen and its majestic mahogany doors, sat the kingdom's two most cherished and precious treasures.
Ahem, correction. Princesses Menalie and Paris sat not, but in fact were running, in a rather un-princesslike manner at that, their muddy skirts pulled up and chests heaving as they loudly blamed the other for their tardiness.
"It's all your fault Menalie! I'm not taking any responsibility when Father sees us like this . . ." Paris trailed off.
Menalie laughed, "Good try, Paris, but luck escapes you. I distinctly remember that it was you who begged me to pick up that stray kitten. Now see what you've done! We're nearly twenty minutes late for Father's summons."
Paris gazed up at her sister, praying that for once, being the younger sister would work in her favor. "Nell . . . ," she drew out. "I think that the two years of wisdom that you have over me should have warned you about the consequences . . . and furthermore, I, as your less knowledgeable sister – "
Menalie stopped and looked at her sister with a thoughtful glance, as she pretended to consider her sister's plea. After a bit of mock consideration she replied, "You're getting pretty good at this," she smirked mischievously, "but not good enough." and ran ahead.
"Wait for me, Nell!" Paris hurried after her sister yelling, "It's not my fault – I was acting on my duty as a human being to help all helpless creatures!"
"It didn't look all that helpless to me," Menalie yelled over her shoulder, "judging by the span of 'Kitty's' belly."
"Nell . . . !"
As they ran closer to the throne room, the portraits lining the regal halls of their ancestors seemed to frown disapprovingly on the two troublemakers as they made their muddy way to the throne room, but neither princess seemed to notice. Both girls were too concerned with what awaited them in the room before them.
"You go in first," 7-year-old Paris whispered breathlessly as she eyed the throne room's intimidating entrance.
"Coward," Menalie whispered back, rather unsteadily. Nevertheless, Menalie stepped forward, determined not to bare her own nervousness in front of her younger sister. Holding in her breath, she pushed open the door and braced herself for her father's displeasure.
King Henri, at the moment, was too preoccupied with the two young men in front of him to take notice of his two bedraggled daughters wincing pitifully at the door. The two young men were messengers from Svarta, the powerful military kingdom to the north of Bellehelen. They brought with them a letter marked with the Svartan royal crest, with which King Henri was presently engaged, as well as two young boys.
The boys had heard the door open and were now looking curiously at Paris and Menalie. Both were extremely well dressed and presumably from the Svartan palace itself, making the girls blush at their own disheveled state.
At that moment, King Henri lifted his crowned head from the letter and laid his penetrating gaze on his shame-faced daughters, who squirmed in discomfort.
Attempting hide his amusement by creasing his brow, King Henri gruffly asked, "And where have the pair of you been scrounging about? A hole in the ground, by the looks of it. Or have you been lurking around the stables again?"
Menalie and Paris hung their heads in mortification and looked intently at the throne room floor.
Unable to mask his amusement any longer, Henri laughed heartily and opened his arms to his girls, who ran into them enthusiastically, happy to be forgiven. The filth on the girls' now unrecognizable dresses thoroughly stained Henri's royal robes – in full, unsightly view of the Svartan messengers, who stared in unabashed shock at the king's break of decorum.
Finished landing kisses on each of his daughters' cherry cheeks, and rather oblivious to the messengers' stare, Henri began to introduce the young Svartans to his daughters, "I'd like you girls to meet these two boys. They're to be your new friends, as you'll be seeing them very often as of now."
Bashfulness forgotten, Menalie and Paris now openly scrutinized their new playmates. The one on the right was taller, and presumably older, than the other one, who was now smiling shyly at Paris.
"This is Darien, Svartan crown prince," Henri indicated the taller boy, who bowed politely, "and the one on the left, with the same marvelous blond hair your mother had, is Hector – your cousin. Both will be staying with us as squires."
"Why can't they be squires in Svarta?" Paris whispered to Menalie.
"Everybody goes away to become a squire," Menalie whispered back, a bit more subtly than her younger sister, "It's 'cause nobody wants to be seen mucking around in mud and running errands for snooty knights in front of people they know."
Both girls burst out laughing at the sight of those two young nobles in mud. King Henri and the four Svartans turned to stare intently at them.
"What's all this fuss about?" King Henri asked. "Well, run along now, girls. Take Hector and Prince Darien with you," Henri said, breaking up their giggling.
"And let's try not fall into anymore holes, shall we?" he yelled after them.
As the large door placed the throne room out of sight, both Menalie and Paris gave a big sigh of relief. When the taller boy let out a small cough, both girls swiveled around to face their new playmates.
"Um, hey, uh, well…we, that is, Hector and I don't know the way to um, our rooms," Darien, the taller boy, said smiling tentatively. Standing awkwardly next to him, Hector pulled at his forelock and blushed furiously.
"Um, I know your father introduced us right now, but I'm Darien and this is Hector," the taller boy said.
"P-p-pleased to make your acquaintance, miladies," Hector stammered.
The years of etiquette came rushing back to Menalie's memory, and she quickly did a small curtsy and placed a hand out. "Hi, I'm Menalie, and that's my sister, Paris." Paris promptly stuck out her hand for Hector, looking him up and down with a trace of innocent wariness. "Just call us by our names, Hector," Menalie said warmly.
Darien smiled self-consciously and took Menalie's offered hand, and Hector followed suit. Hector let out a deep breath and attempted to rush through his practiced greeting, "HeyParisIlikeyourdressIt'svery pre – "
"Hmph!" Paris pulled her hand from Hector's and turned on her heel abruptly, her cheeks turning red. Insulted by Hector's apparent jest at the state of her dress, she huffed away to her own chambers.
"I – I – What did I do wrong?" Hector puzzled anxiously as he watched her storm furiously away from him.
Darien simply shrugged and Menalie rolled her eyes wearily. "Don't worry about it Hector. I'll sort it out with her soon enough. Now, to your rooms! I expect that you'll want to wash up for dinner . . .It's in a little less than thirty minutes."
The two boys choked on their reply as they struggled to run after Menalie, who raced in the direction of their quarters, her laugh echoing merrily through the marble halls.
Excitement permeated the palace halls as nobles and servants alike whispered excitedly. Bellehelen's annual spring ball was always one of the most anticipated balls of the year, and this year, no expense was to be spared. The king and queen of Svarta were to be in attendance this year, and Bellehelen was determined to entertain them in style.
Red banners flew from the turrets flashing Bellehelen's royal crest, and the palace gardens bloomed in all its splendor. Adults and children alike wore their best dresses and suits to commemorate the arrival of spring as well as to honor Bellehelen's goddess of nature, Lythuwel. Servants stood erect as they lined the walls of the immense banquet hall, waiting for any slight cue to come to assistance.
To begin this event, the present king of Bellehelen always began with a speech. This year it would be no different.
As King Henri stood from his seat at the head of the banquet table, he cleared his throat to begin the celebration of new life, "Ladies and gentlemen, lords and ladies, during this Bellehelen's Annual Spring Ball, we commemorate 300 years of peace and prosperity in our land, with help from our gracious neighbors, the Svartan royalty."
Henri bowed his head slightly in the direction of Darien's parents, sharing a secret smile with them even as he subtly turned their attention to their young prince and Menalie. The children, Henri noted amusedly, were certainly acting their age . . . Darien whispered something into Menalie's ear as she giggled, oblivious to the disapproving stares from the stiff-necked nobles around them. Hector and Paris, on the other hand, were busy playing another prank on Lord Prancy, who was plagued by constant trembles and heavy sweating. Paris was discreetly slipping something into the lord's pocket as Hector fought to keep his face straight.
"Come with me – outside, into the gardens," Darien whispered to Menalie, slipping his hand into hers. His eyes glowed with innocent fervor as he smiled into Menalie's blue eyes.
She smiled down at her plate, dimples deepening into her flushed cheeks. "Alright," she whispered back. She sneaked a glance at her father, who was still giving his speech and slipped out of her chair with Darien.
Paris, noticing this, unobtrusively followed them, a little annoyed that she hadn't been invited to join the two. Determined not to be left behind, Paris rose from her seat as she distractedly quelled the slight twinge of jealousy that blossomed inside her. She had noticed that Menalie was the sole focus of Darien's attention tonight, and he of hers. Pretending not to feel slighted at the lack of attention she was getting, Paris turned all of her attention on naive Hector, who merely returned her charm with the expected puppy-like adoration he had developed for her over the years. Hector, of course, followed Paris as she stomped away after Menalie and Darien.
Henri finished his speech and sat down to enjoy his wine. After dinner, the ballroom doors would be opened and the dancing would continue until at least four in the morning. Sporting tall, glimmering mirrors and majestic windows looking out over the gardens and the crystal fountains below, Bellehelen's royal ballroom was one of the nation's greatest prides and joys – as well as the envy of all visiting royalty. The palace's company of musicians wasn't bad either . . . Henri was looking forward to Master Olivetti's unveiling his new composition.
It was at that moment that, King Henri noticed that the four children were gone from the table. But he merely pointed it out to King Demetrius and Queen Helena of Svarta and the three of them exchanged meaningful glances as they laughed quietly together.
"Over here," Darien led Menalie into the shelter of a weeping willow. Through the leaves, the spring equinox sky bestowed the children with a dazzling glow of stars to consecrate the corresponding bright feelings glowing in their hearts. Much had changed in the last three years . . . Darien, the same age as Menalie, was on the brink of his seventeenth year, and could sense that he was also on the edge of some new, enlightening discovery as he stood before this bright-eyed angel he called Menalie. Not yet knowing what he was about to discover, he found himself leaning into the angel's lips for an answer.
Unbeknownst to them, one lone figure stood not a few feet from them, her face contorted with pain and anger. It was the same figure that had slipped out of the banquet hall to follow the couple, hoping with childlike innocence to catch them unawares. It was the same figure that had been, for over a year, harboring tender feelings in the secret of her heart for the tall dark-haired boy standing now with her sister. She turned and fled from the sight before her, passing Hector, who had not yet come across the scene.
The oblivious lovers remained entranced in each other's spell. Darien, feeling that something more was expected of him by the feelings that tugged at his heart, took off a chain that hung from his neck and presented it to Menalie.
"Nell . . . listen, I want to give you something. My father gave it to me before I left Svarta to come here," Darien paused and waited for Menalie's reaction.
Her eyes wide, Menalie touched the ring reverently, the lion crest symbolizing the might of the Svartan empire glinted a silvery glow in the moonlight. "Is it really mine?"
"Yes, I want you to keep it forever," Darien smiled. "Remember me with it, Nell."
Menalie gazed into his eyes and promised him.
"Could I put it on for you?" he asked.
"Yeah," she said, suddenly shy.
Darien leaned in to place the necklace over her head, savoring her warmth and the softness of her hair. "You're beautiful," he breathed. "Remember me forever."
She murmured her reply and touched her lips to his once more.
Darien pulled away and stopped almost painfully, "Menalie, I – I won't be seeing you very much anymore. I'll be turning seventeen only weeks from now, and . . ."
Menalie, with an ache, finished Darien's sentence, "You'll have to register into the Svartan army . . ."
"Yes," Darien ended quietly.
Hector rushed after Paris, finally catching up to her in front of the sculpture of the goddess Lythuwel. The lights adorning her flickered and went dark around Paris and Hector. Paris was weeping, her chest heaved as she felt the sting of heartbreak and betrayal for the first time. Hector was afraid. He had never seen his usually happy-go-lucky playmate shed a tear, much less the torrent that seemed to be coursing from her reddened eyes.
Nevertheless, he approached Paris and put a hand on her shoulder. "Paris . . . don't cry – "
Paris, with all the hurt and anger of a wounded beast, threw the hand on her shoulder back to its owner as if it were a vile thing. Her face contorted as she screamed, "Get away from here! Go away!" Seeing the look of wounded shock on Hector's face, Paris continued with renewed vehemence, "I hate you! Do you hear? I hate you! There's nothing you can do to help me! You're dirt! You - you bothersome idiot!"
Blindly, Hector turned and ran away toward his chambers, with Paris' voice echoing in his ears. Finally, he found himself at the end of some foreign corridor as dark and damp as the extinguished light of his heart. He slid down to the cold marble floor that was warm in comparison to the iciness that spread in his heart. There, in the safety of darkness, he let himself touch the tears on his face. Bitterness seized him, and in that darkness, he vowed vengeance on whatever had transformed sweet Paris so . . .
A/N: Being the obsessive-compulsive perfectionist that I am, I have forced Artz to help me edit once again (just slight changes), and have written up a list of things that I would like reviewers to offer honest criticism about:
1. Pace of the story: Too fast or too slow? More details? More action?
2. Clichés that you just can't stand?
3. Overly dramatic? Not enough set-up to make the events and the characters' reaction to these events realistic?
4. Last of all . . . my favorite! Grammar and spelling! Please just quote any mispellings or grammar mistakes here in your review.
Fire away! I love flames . . . I collect them and use them to set villages on fire.