To My Duke, Dearest| j. kirschtein

xix. Great Ball

Sickly perfumes and the heavy odour of old-furniture permeated the air around you. The scents wafted along the inner linings of the women's lounge and settled there like a tangible tension that was crackling and ready to suddenly catch light around you. Secretly, you prayed that it did, you prayed that the entire room combusted like the faulty factories on the East coast of the industrial district back in Marley, that was infamous for its many malfunctions and worker deaths. That was all you wished for, a quick and swooping death to save you from this horrible, vicious nothingness that had you sat stock-still.

Bodies were statues. Every nose pointed down within a book or fixated high with dignified air. The grandfather clock's irritating ticking was the only reminder that the occupants of this room were still alive. The only reminder that there were beating hearts pumping within those well-polished carcasses because as of now, every single person was a hollow, gaping doll, waiting for non-existent conversation to fill the void of bitter awkwardness and pluck you all out of your misery.

Yet despite this, you all stayed silent, secretive and doubtful of one another's trust, doubtful of who would be next to face Pixis. What was there left to say?

Lady Ymir had been eliminated.

The diamond cut fact was something that you all were struggling digest. Though she was disliked by the majority, she brought an element of difference that had never touched any of you before. Like a new fertiliser to rejuvenate wilting crops. But this brilliant difference had been her undoing, because she was the weed that supposedly plagued the true beautiful flowers. A weed that needed to be uprooted before it tainted and corrupted the frailties of the weaker willed roses, a weed that needed to be stamped out as punishment for deviance.

And though none of the women here would openly admit it, there was a sense of mourning. Instead of roses, today you were delicate soft snow lilies and carnations, holding a procession of bereavement for the fellow candidate you had lost. Confining you all here together felt like quarantine, as though the palace was trying to contain the taint. The taint that rubbed the socialites up the wrong way, the taint that had been misinterpreted. Furthermore, your eyes must have misguided you because there was something close to the pinching twist of guilt within the expression of Lady Hitch. Could it be remorse?

Across the room, the wailing echoes of Lady Historia did not cease as she burrowed her head into handkerchief. Undeniably, it was the haunting cry of grief that circled the room like a devilish viper, injected its wicked bite into each of you the harder she cried. No word could be ailment to the horror in her eyes, the comfort enough to stuff the cavity of distress within her chest as she clutched her corset as though she was in physical pain. In your natural human sympathy, you wished you had befriended her sooner, so that any comfort you wanted to provide her with seemed genuine.

Clicking her tongue in the diplomatic armchair she had now frightfully reserved as hers, Lady Mikasa folded her arms over her middle, her draping red silks trailing along with her.

"Lady Historia, do not weep. We did not come her to make friends, we came to battle for a man like backwards apes in a primal, long forgotten tribe." She shunned, flicking her black fringe out of her eye.

Surprisingly, her words drew a snort from Lady Annette that she quickly masked, covering it over with a cough. The Azumabito's gaze turned upon the blonde in that moment, her left brow riding up her forehead whilst her other stayed straight. Leaning back, she sighed.

"Why do you hide your laughter? Is your body not simply just acknowledging the truth of my words?" Mused Lady Mikasa, her own lips curving in the semblance of a smile.

Lady Annette stopped her false choking, that was beginning to make her unnaturally pale cheeks flush, and properly focused on the maiden opposite her. She also mirrored the raven's posture as she leant back, a contemplative look crossing her features as she decided her next words carefully. It was one of the many reasons you secretly liked her company. She helped you remember that this was all still a game and that truces were only temporary.