In Dreams I Lie

Chapter Three: A Collection of Queens

Waiting is almost like drowning. The seconds stretch thicker and thicker clogging my throat and settling into my pores. It is a choke collar, a new form of execution, born and bread specifically for me. Though they are still, my fingers itch atop the table. If I was Sansori, the table top would be aflame. But I'm not. And Sansori has better control than I do.

I sneak a glance over to her. She fidgets, but she still sits tall in her chair. Her face is contorted to a huge, sunshine grin. She reaches for the jam in a wide sweeping movement, knocking the candle that rests beside her elbow down.

"Oops." She mutters under her breath. Mother moves to ring a servant, but Sansori waved her away. "Don't worry about it, Mama. It's my mess, I'll clean it up."

The flames spread quickly, but Sans doesn't give them much of a chance before she sweeps them into her open palm and extinguishes them.

"See?" She asks all of our worried faces. "Poof. Gone. I don't know why we bother with candles anyway. Arc's magic is much better than mine." She crams the half jammed biscuit into her mouth. After she's finished talking of course. As Mother would say, she's the model of decorum.

I take a moment before I respond. "Sans, you know I detest using magic. It is not one of my skills."

Sansori waves my comment aside, quite literally waving her hand around in the air.  "Oh psh. If you practiced with me, I know you'd be great."

Rage seethes inside me, the unfortunate buildup of a miserable, sleepless set of hours. My tone comes out harsher than I intend it to and my voice rises in volume several levels. "I have told you this at least a thousand of not millions of times that I will not use magic! What do I need to say to drive it home into your stupidly thick skull!"

I look down the table towards where my mother and father are dining. The sound of my screaming has raised their heads towards us. There are no windows in the dining hall; everything has taken on the sober, dark quality of evening. Candle light will do that to a room, especially one dressed in dark woods and red velvets. My parents are the same, overly serious and clothed to the nines. My magic, or the light half that is less dangerous, would make the room nicer. But I dare not use is. The last thing I desire is the gateway to reopen. Already I can feel the other side rising up within me, desperate to emerge. I gulp it down again and suck a deep breath of air. Anger only makes it worse. Oh, to have magic like Sansori's, so easy to manipulate and control. I rest my arms on the table and cover my eyes with my palms. The golden dress is miserable in terms of padding, thin fabric doing little to protect my elbows from bruising.

Seemingly oblivious to me, Sansori continues to prattle on. "Don't mind her," she says, addressing our parents. "Arcadiel's just grouchy about today." Her tone is sickly sweet. I know that she's probably just trying to tease me, but my mind is far past being reasonable.

"And why should I be anything but upset?"

It is Mother who answers me in the same, even keeled voice she uses every time I bring this subject into the conversation. "Arcadiel, this is a wonderful opportunity you and your sister. It follows centuries of custom. Your father went through i-"

"I don't give a damn! I don't fucking care how many people did it or how great you think it is to be forced into a rushed and ill prepared marriage!"

She rises and moves to comfort me, but I twitch out of her grasp. "Don't touch me!" Sansori has shrunk back in her chair and my Father is shooting me disapproving looks over his wineglass. They must know how angry I am by now. My demeanor, magic, and even my speech patterns change. They don't seem to care.

My father joins in the conversation. "Arcadiel. Every royal must go through with this. Look at your sister. I don't see her complaining. You can choose to look upon your engagement with positivity, or you can choose to follow the wrong path. Make your decisions wisely."

In anger my vision turns spotty, blending the scene together in my head with patches of light and pitch black sprinkled in. The more angry I feel, the more black pervades my view, the more I can feel it yearning to burst out of me. I can hear voices, but they are discombobulated, far away. They turn up in intensity, peppered with fear that part of me loves. Fear. What have I done?

I focus inward, toward the dark swirls and try fervently to keep it inside of me. I can't hurt anyone else; I will not let myself go that far again. I will not let myself go at all. For one terrifying second, I cannot find myself. But then I am me again, defeated and small. My hands are still placed on the table, nails dug into the wood. My hair had burst free from it's style dripping down my back as though it never existed. I cannot remember undoing it. I am standing as well, and like the hair, I cannot remember rising to my feet. My head spins; I am reeling. Through someone else's eyes, I can see the fear in my family's faces. Sansori looks like she might cry. I free my fingertips from the mahogany.

I want to explain, but my mouth will not open, my voice will not work. My feet are turning, turning and running through the doors and outside. My hands sting, and I know without looking at them that they are streaked with dark, sinisterly moving veins. My face is wet, but I do not think that I am crying.

I do not and cannot remember how far I ran or how I got where I am, only that I sit somewhere outside of the palace grounds. A hill of sorts, covered in long, dried golden grasses. From here you can see as far as the horizon will let you. In font of me zeppelins move back and forth, transferring goods and people. If only I could rise like one, rise away from here and away from myself. But I cannot. It feels as though I am anchored to the ground.