Reflection (WMMAP Fanfic)

One-shot

Bland was the moonlight that shone over the sand-colored pages. Even with its magnanimous light, words barely register in the writer's mind. Her eyes squint and her face nears a kiss, but words remain unclear to her blue jeweled eyes, unpolished and dimmed.

Smudges of black painted her palm and fingers, including the calluses that lay in-between. Wrists numbed from dancing in a chaotic rhythm to the choreographed essay - to seduce the reader into its web of persuasion.

When words can no longer be voiced, then they shall be engraved. The bowl of water had long dried so was her throat.

The accusing assumptions that scratched the surface of reality attempt to drown her, and cough up the false guilt of a crime unperformed. The last thing she wanted is to be drunk on their deceit to satisfy the parched truth.

So, she danced. Her wrists danced...

...under the same moon that witnessed her mother's enchanting movements, her father's first taste of love, and the death of a couple's passion as well as the birth of misfortune.

The golden locks she shared with her parents were both withered and frayed. Tangled as it was, but not their star-crossed fates. Even she, the product of their short-lived encounter, is not the means to happiness as it is the heart that must be bound, not ties of blood.

As to whose heart he is bound, it was surely not hers. The red string that wound around the dancer and the ruler floats freely into the palms of the daughter of his faux spring - Penelope Judith, the second woman he was tied to, after his mother.

Other than their blue-jeweled eyes, the daughter, Jennette Margarita, bore no resemblance to him yet it was this revelation that brought the connection between two hearts, tied closer by their common names unfit of a ruler's lineage.

Her tainted fingertips touched her chapped lips, staining them black. It was dry as the drought so she licked and bitter it was. However, a sour taste lingered as memories of the dissimilar father and daughter overwhelmed the bitterness of mere ink.

Her engraved innocence, will he spare it a chance?

...perhaps not.

"You poisoned her," he said as he burned the papers with magic.

In spite of the power of his flame, it failed to keep her burning hope alive, extinguished by the ash that trickled like snow. From a hot desert to an icy tundra, her throat still remained a drought, unable to voice her scream as she froze in his cold ignorance when she watched the papers disappear.

The performance may be unfinished yet it was ethereally witnessed; however, there was no speck of consideration nor appreciation by the man who bore the mortal name. Compared to the magnanimous moonlight, he was a selfish mortal who believed in himself, not the gods or celestials that have been thought to have roamed the past.

Then again, even she was a selfish mortal. They were all selfish mortals even if they bore the imperial names of immortality.

Athanasia. Anastacius. Blessed was their name and irony was their journey. One died and one will die before the bearer of the mortal name and his blade.

However, as blue-jeweled eyes were the only connection between the king and his faux spring's daughter, it was only the damning fate and name that tied the uncle and niece.

True semblance is between the tyrannic king and the neglected princess.

The golden locks that once reached the floor were cut short and ragged by a rusty knife. The result immediately surprised the prison wardens and roused the fear in their bones.

Before them was a complete reflection of their ruler's youth.

However, unlike the iron-stenched king, she was the untainted mantle of the first snow. Ignorant, innocent, and naive.

He was darkness that rose to the light, while she was light descended into darkness. They were two sides of a single coin.

Truly. It was a pity.
"Who would have thought you bore resemblance to me?"

Athanasia never heard his thoughts nor saw the changes in his expression. She kept her head low to grind her teeth and scratched the stone floor until her fingers bled.

The ashes on the floor stared pitifully at her, sympathizing with her vain efforts. She finally tasted the ink's bitter aftertaste followed by her salty drops of sweat. There was a monotonous clanging inside her head. Her clogged nose made it difficult to breathe. Her swirling vision went back and forth in black and white.

The room was humid and warm, but her body felt cold.

Her heart was raging, but her nature was gentle. In the end, her thoughts flew astray in the midst of her execution.

From the back of her mind, she remembered something. Rather, someone.

Her mother.

"...she was enchanting that night..."

It was also night that her mother danced for her father. They said she was vulgar so she might have worn revealing clothing. She wondered if the breeze was cold for her, too, but if the information was correct, her father's passionate gaze should warm her up.

That is if the information was correct.

She wondered, was it lust or love?

Her wrists throbbed in pain. Like her mother, she was a dancer in some way. However, it seems her father preferred a live performance than the product of an aftermath.

Ah, she was beginning to feel sleepy.

The towering figure in front of her was nothing more than a blob of white and yellow.

That towering figure should be, ah, right.

Father.

She was dizzy. She could barely form coherent thoughts.

Where was she again? Ah, yes.

Father. Father is often paired with mother.

However, she does not deserve to call him that way. It was not father, but His Majesty.

Her mother and His Majesty.

That is how things should be.

The moment she was born, the existence of a father was never in reach like the stars in the sky and her mother's star-crossed fate.

If only they never met.

"Who would have thought you bore resemblance to me?"
That was his question.

If only they never met.

"...I wish I hadn't..."
Her reply was voiceless so was her unsung viridity.