—aka, maybe family feuds should be kept in the family,
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EXT— A HOTEL ROOM.
VENICE, ITALY — MORNING (BREAKFAST HOUR).
CONT. SCENE II.
IT WAS A gory image for sure.
I could hear the verses of Romeo and Juliet being recited, overlapping those of Macbeth; I could see the blood that drips like the sound of a heartbeat from a golden, gilded crown, hung on a head that had slain a brother; I could see the parade of dead bodies, of betrayal and conniving, all in the name of one seat and the power that rested on it... His world, Kristoff's, felt more and more like a fairytale. Its corners barbed and its ending a question mark of happiness.
Fact and fiction tangled between the words, strung like heavy droplets of rubies, awaiting my neck.
If accepted.
The if is a ghost word.
It didn't feel real, but his gaze was earnest. This was his reality.
This was what I was in the middle of.
"But I don't fit in your story," I mused now. My good mood had since turned into rubble at my feet. Was it only a few minutes ago that I had felt wonderful? That I felt like I had won? Oh, how the mighty have fallen. "Not in the way that matters, if bloodline and aristocracy is something of an important factor. If your grandfather decides to dig..."
And decides to dig deeper. I couldn't remove the factor that I had more secrets left untouched. I had worn so many skins, so many faces and names that they blur. Each new one buries another, the world moving, the cycle repeating.
How powerful is the position that brother and sister crave?
Rich is one thing. Old money is quite another.
"No, you don't," he said in agreement. "You're a con artist, a thief, first and foremost. But my grandfather is old, and in his age grows a mischievous heart for conflict. Since we were born, we had been pitted not just against each other, but to everyone else. The competition became a little game. Foot soldiers and pawns, harabeo-ji had started craving the internal conflict Yuna and I threw at each other. If we spin this tale enough, at just the right angle, Antonina..."
