Astraea

In the Den of the Lion

It is impossible to suffer without making someone pay for it; every complaint already contains revenge.
~Friedrich Nietzsche

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The court of Marcellus was divinely lavish, if anything. Something which one could expect coming from someone who thought himself a god to take away the lives of the innocent.

Camilla was let in through a pair of double doors inlaid with gold. She made her way down familiar, vast hallways and past enormous family oil paintings which Marcellus' own family hadn't bothered taking down. Camilla liked to believe it was because they were expecting her back soon. It was more probable that the new royalty just liked to see the faces of the families from which they had torn away the throne.

Her jaw set tightly with new resolution, Camilla glanced at her reflection, fixing her hair self-consciously; she felt like a wreck, but she supposed that's what plotting your ultimate revenge did to a person. She adjusted the dagger hidden in her cloak after checking the two guards who had escorted her down the hall. They payed her no attention, only stared straight ahead, having taken up position on either side of the next pair of double doors leading into the throne room.

Camilla hoped she wouldn't have to use the dagger today. She had a much more elaborate scheme for destroying Marcellus little by little in mind. Sure, it was a bit heartless, but what was revenge if nothing but heartless? She met her own gaze in the mirror and was startled by how stark the hatred had been painted upon her face, after all this time. Her dark eyes flashed with fire, her cloak was askew upon her shoulders, and her braided halo had come undone, only adding to her crazed appearance.

She tried to school her facial expressions back to neutral again, before realizing that the angry expression on her face at the moment was her neutral face. With a huff, Camilla reminded herself she would have to fix that. After a few attempts at a smile, Camilla smoothed down her dress and spun sharply on her heel, nodding curtly to the guards, who automatically opened the throne room doors with such force that a wind swept up and blew Camilla's loose hair from her face. A servant ushered her inside and Camilla walked slowly to the throne--her throne--and the young man seated upon it.

With every step her heart beat faster. Suddenly, too soon, she was standing right before the king. Murmurs filled the throne room, though Camilla hardly registered the many courtiers which filled the vast space.

Marcellus was a young king, not much older than Camilla. She noticed, horrified, that he was attractive, in a regal way: a tall, strong, commanding figure with a royally chiseled face and calculating green eyes that reminded Camilla a little too much of his father for her liking. It was probably for the best though, seeing as he was all his own man as Camilla ran her eyes over him once more, a feeling of doubt building up in her mind like a pressure cooker. This was going to be . . . difficult. His dark hair rested lightly upon his forehead, and the royal crown lay encircled around his head in a way that seemed too perfect. However, Camilla attempted shut out all these distractions as she approached the throne, zeroing in on his eyes--the only thing which reminded her of Cassius when she studied this new king.

Marcellus had been present when her brother was hanged, even bringing the rope which had strangled the life from him. But he would not recognize Camilla. Astraea had made sure of that. As a last gift, the goddess had cloaked Camilla in a mysterious blessing, keeping anyone from knowing who she truly was or what she really desired.