For What is Bought in Blood

No Choice, No Change

"Oh, honey," my mother coos at me from her gilded chair next to the extended mirror. "Is it not lovely?"

I would object. The massive hoop skirt and yards upon yards of fabric drowns me within them, my reflection more tulle than human. The neckline rests above my breasts and supports seemingly all the weight, and I feel as if the dress is designed to drag me to the ground. The entirety of my arms are covered in lace flowers. I feel ridiculous, and I know if father were around, he would think so as well.

A modiste fitting would not usually include any male company. I somehow know that despite such a precedent, my father would have wanted to see the dresses too. He would twirl me to ensure I could still dance, wrestle me to ensure I could still fight, and read every thought on my face so he could reject them before I even said a word, saving me from mother's wrath. He would probably be laughing himself sick over this gargantuan mess.

The woman responsible for crafting this exquisite deathtrap clicks her tongue. She circles me, scanning the dress and finally my face. She moves to stand by the Queen, who continues to ogle over the dress. "This dress is more from your time, Your Majesty. Maybe we... try something new?" The rosy faced woman peers down to her, who still eyes the dress greedily. The blue in her eyes is predatory as her gaze darts upward to Colette. The modiste does not retreat from that gaze and for the second time today, I feel like retreating into myself.

To my surprise, mother allows Colette to show her other designs she has made. I find myself staring blankly at my reflection in each gown, resigned to silence as they parade me around the room. Some of the dresses I like more than others but never feel inclined to voice my thoughts. The choice is not mine, after all. The Queen will choose. I am but a prized stag on a royal hunt.

This entire wedding is entirely about my mother despite it being me walking down the aisle. I have not been consulted about flowers or meals or musicians, and I don't expect to be. It will be the social event that people are vying to get an invite to. Mother is assuredly making advantageous seating charts and choosing only the politically powerful to attend. Not even my father's old council will be invited, despite the huge impact they had on me throughout my life. Hollie will likely be assigned somewhere that prevents us from seeing each other. Of all those unlikely to be invited, not having Hollie will only intensify the gloom already forming within me.

Colette and my mother look at me expectedly upon adorning the eighth gown, and I respond without even glancing in the mirror, "Whatever you wish, mother." I put a smile on my face as they discuss the final fitting a few days from now before being ushered behind the changing screen by Colette. My blue dress hung on the wall seems like a reprieve compared to the exhibits of power and wealth I have been subjected to. Buttoning the back to the best of my ability, the familiar fragrance of leather greets my nose. Only this morning it was Terran buttoning this dress, Terran righting the sleeves, Terran placing shoes on my feet beneath the skirt. Maybe I had been too harsh with him in the garden. Of everyone in the palace, he and Hollie do know me best.

He still does not truly know me, though. I cannot deny that his extended observations of me gives his claim some merit. I refuse to imagine all he's seen of me, all he's heard just down the hallway, all he's reported to my mother. Before he grew fond of me, what was given freely to her?

Maybe the truth is that I am the one who is in the dark. I haven't asked about his past. I know nothing about him, not even his family name. He does know me. At least he knows me a lot better than I know him.

The door to my mother's greeting room bangs open and I freeze behind the partition. I can still hear Colette gathering her things from around the room and I know the folding and moving of fabric will not muffle any noises, so instead I lean forward, eager to remain hidden and forgotten if possible.

"My Queen," the grating voice of Ervan floats through. "We've caught her. She is being held in the throne room, awaiting your judgement. That bitch was hiding in..."

"Alula." My mother demands and I am back in her line of sight without hesitation. She remains seated as Ervan appears very prideful from the doorway. I offer them both a cordial nod, even as Ervan scans my entire body with admonition.

"Be dismissed, child. But do not go far. In fact," she waves in one of the guards now hesitantly peaking his head into the doorway. He stumbles forward, shocked to be summoned to the Queen. He bows at the waist, the Guard sword at his waist protruding backwards from his belt. I almost snickered at how easily it would be to disarm him.

"Take the Princess to her chambers and remain posted. I shall retrieve her soon." The guard nods, once again bowing before turning to me in wait. I rush out in a blur of dusk, eager to be rid of my mother's company. Months ago, I might have insisted to remain and hear what they discuss. I let myself be the title- Princess. Not advisor nor counselor, just a representation of generations of royalty to come. A figurehead without brains of my own.

***

Terran is not waiting in my room when we arrive. The small balloon of hope keeping me afloat bursts as I even check the bathing room to no avail. The room was tidied while I was away. The bed is neatly made, my nightgown whisked away to be laundered, and fresh oils litter the side of the large tub. Whoever is assigned to me while Hollie is away is much too diligent and thorough. Hollie always skips days between cleans because she is all too aware of my need to control my surroundings, and she never cleans while I am away because she refuses to do it without my help. We almost never got it all done in one go, always stopping to discuss court drama or for me to read a new book aloud to her.

Shit. Right. Any other brainwashed royal offspring would have written in their diary about this entire courting fiasco.

I settle in at my desk and date my journal for a few days back and paint a horribly lovey picture.

Mother has decided that I will wed soon. While I had hoped for a longer grieving period, she does know best. She is throwing multiple large gatherings in my honor so I may find the perfect husband. I have always dreamed of being a wife and mother, and it seems its time!

Gods, this character I'm writing is insufferable. The entire tone of this diary is cheerful in a way that makes me sick. I flip the page, date it the very next day, and continue onward.

Tonight was the first ball! I met some very lovely suitors. Lord Neisman is VERY handsome and well spoken, and I enjoyed our dance greatly. He lives by the sea. The sea! I bet his home is beautiful.

There were also men that were mean or unagreeable. I decided to stand up for myself and it was difficult, but mother's absence did embolden me. I only reduced the number by a few, and I hope to dance with many handsome men again tomorrow. The excitement is turning my stomach!

I feel like I could be sick. I am thankful for my ability to see behind the jewels and compliments, but life would be a lot simpler if I truly felt these ways. Would I have enjoyed myself that night if I hadn't already decided that most of the men were terrible before even meeting them?

I'm engaged! I am so thrilled to be betrothed to Lord Xenon. He declared himself on the garden steps before my mother and gave the most romantic speech. Other men began declaring themselves, but the courage shown by Lord Xenon immediately stole my heart. Mother saw it too because she accepted his proposal right then! We will wed in exactly one week from today. I cannot wait to pick out my wedding gown!

Could his speech be taken as romantic, even with my current mindset? The entire monologue was about protecting me from the organization I am already deeply seeded in. Was he brave for proposing in that moment instead of betraying me? I haven't quite figured that out yet.

A knock on my door sounds and I rush towards it, an apology already on my tongue for Terran. Instead, the short, grey figure of Ervan stains my doorway. I quickly take a few steps backwards to place distance between us.

"I am to escort you. You need to put on something darker first," confusion must read plainly on my face because he only smirks before adding, "You're going to the execution of the woman who tried to kill the Queen."