Like Clockwork

I err / Opia

The castle is everything she's ever dreamed about. Both the good and the bad. The real and the made up (made up? Who made it up?) Someplace splendid, away from her mother. Her towering, judging figure. Somewhere haunted. Every corridor lurks a fiendsome foe, reaching out for her–The shadows in the corners of the ballroom make her anxious. Draw her closer towards the center, where her sister pushes and runs over maidens to get closer, as if she feared the shadows too.

She does not remember the carriage ride. Nor even stepping into one, nor smelling the horses, nor looking out the window at the horizon. Where was the sea? How does she know she is not near the ocean?

She looks at her gloved hand. Aren't gloves strange things? Why should she cover her hand, something so far from erotic. From interesting. What is erotic? Why does it feel like something she shouldn't think about? Shouldn't know? Like a swear word or that Father Christmas wasn't real.

What's Christmas? What's Christening?

When her eyes drop from her white gloves, she moves her chin upwards towards the dead center of the ballroom and sees the most beautiful, horrible pair of blue eyes looking back at her.

-

He can usually get away with not dancing with the faceless girls flocking him, at least for the first part of the ball (and especially for the second and third nights, when he insists he will only dance with Ashwallower). But sometimes he simply blinks and finds himself in step with a stranger, already waltzing. Already counting down the seconds to midnight. It was more common in the early days of his awakening. Or his rebellion he prefers to call it (because it makes him feel more like he's in control. Like he has any power over his fate. Or over anything that mattered.) It was more common because the story knew he would try to run away. Fight back. Bite back.

His eyes cannot help but wander... Naturally, in the olden days, he would search for Ashwallower–Even before he was conscious of her arrival. Her existence. His body knew he was waiting for something better, something to validate his being.

Is he even real when Ashwallower is not involved? Not thinking about him or desiring him? No better than a child's doll being pressed up against another, ceramic faces touching in a crude mockery of a kiss.

Just wait. Just wait and it will all be worth it.

He's sick of waiting.

His eyes meet brown and he stops in his tracks. Frozen. A gross corruption of how he has acted every time Ashwallower has walked into the ballroom and into his line of sight.

There's something wrong with her. Off. Other. Ugly. His brain can't stop fixating on how absolutely not like the others she is. How she sticks out like a weed in a garden of violets. They're violent, these thoughts. The story's pushing forth more and more effort into making him repulsed, more than usual. More than the other young girl who walks in beside her.

He's used to the story wanting to turn his attention away from things, and usually he goes along with it–It gets him through the day quicker. Gets him to a more interesting part faster. But he looks out at this person. This woman who committed the grave sin of being not beautiful. Not like Ashwallower. Not the heroine of the story. He looks at the Ugly Stepsister (the right one, he just knows) and his heart seizes.

His brain immediately tries to make comparisons. The story coming up with plausible experiences for him to relate this feeling to–Watching his father look at a gilded, jewel encrusted pocket watch. Seeing a spoiled cousin gifted a horse for his birthday. Being denied sweets before dinner. Having glass separate him from running free outside, trapping him with tutoring and work.

His hand trembles, her face contorts into an emotion he's never seen before–He's been seeing so many of those lately. Emotions outside the simple, the ones easily explained to a child. It fascinates him. Why isn't she smiling at him? Everyone does, or else they are staring with reverence. Yearning. Obedience.

Even in the worlds where the story gives him memories of battle and war–Never has anyone looked at him like that before. He never wants it to end. This passion. This look that's only for him.

It's fear.

---

Wow, it's been a while.

I had part of this chapter written in like December 2023, before losing steam. Honestly I only finished it because I managed to run a copy of Disney's Princess Fashion Boutique and got SLAMMED with nostalgia. I listened to the soundtrack while typing up the rest of it. I just wish I was able to find the Spanish version I grew up with (the voice acting is much better), but this will do for now.

SUMMER IS HERE. I took a week after work was out to recover and now I'm feeling the creative juices again. Wattpad gets the update first because apparently my AO3 account was suspended? :/ I also deleted this from Quotev because a minor was blatantly reading it and I have 0 patience. If you're going to go against my wishes, don't brag about it in the comments.

Thinking of having a hub where I post all my writing stuff...Like my personal website or maybe a blogger/blogspot? I have a writing tumblr, but meh. I don't get a lot of interaction on it.