The Daughter Of Illéa

Chapter 39

The maids that usually sputter about in my room, yapping like an untamed Hyena, weren't there. More like I wasn't there.

The lights creeped in from the balcony, shooting beams of light in my direction.

"Patsy, I'm fine..." I mutter to myself.
"Patsy?" The second call reassures my loneliness.

My eye lids roll open to reveal the suite that I was taken into the night before: the royal King and Queens suite, and I'm completely by myself.

I push back the golden comforter, and I stray back the pale blue drapes, and I step out from under the canopied bed where probably all of the baby making took place, which got me out of their bed much quicker.

Laying down last night, I couldn't get that much of an over look of the room, so I take the moment in.

The walls have intricate designs, and many pictures plastered against the fabricated perimeter.
I remember when Genevieve had done one of her obsessive reports on Gus, it had labeled that one of his hobbies consumed of photography. Must've been a family thing.
I wander over to the vanity, and I spot a pile of picture Hero must've been looking at this morning.
One was a picture Gus. He was in an old sports uniform with a boy on his back. It was unmistakable that his happiness had been over a victor, the way his ears were blood red and the smile was unremovable:

"That was Augustus when he was nine. He was fascinated with the world of soccer. That was his friend, Leo, on his back. He was killed in a rebel attack, and Augustus never played again." I jump, and turn to see an elderly maid making the bed.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snoop-"
"Don't worry dear, you was curious and I don't mind."

I place the picture down, and pic up another.
Princess Aria when she looked to be around her early women seeking years, with her brown frizzy hair causally pulled up.

There was another picture that was newly took. It was baby Alexandrea, in an adorable white head band with an over dramatic sized pink flower pasted onto it.

The way they capture every moment in favoring pixels is inspiring, but also sad when you realize it's mostly because they can't retain and absorb all of those minor but amazing moments in life. I wouldn't have understood back in Clermont, but I understand now. The non-stop work, and ethic. It seems hard to be a royal, but sure as hell worth it.

"Now, Miss, I'd suggest you go down stairs with the others. The just left moments before you woke."

"Yes, miss, but in my nightgown?"

She laughs, "It's Christmas dear, do what you please. If you wish for a day dress, so be it, but most take their breaks." I smile weakly, and make my way out of the royal suite.

"Wait, dear! At least take a robe. It might be cold."

I take the white furry robe she hands me, and I embrace it's soft fluff around my figure.
"Thank you, miss."

And with that, I pull on the robe, and walk barefoot around the palace and to the others. The plush carpet welcomes my cold pale feet with sincerity as I start my journey.

I never realized how scary it could, wandering around the palace by yourself, especially considering last nights situation.
I just gripped my remaining white beaded necklace, and braced myself for the morning to come.

The cold forced itself threw the windows, and dance around the air, causing goosebumps to rise.
I can not only see, but sense the snow dropping around the palace or Angeles in general. It's a white christmas.
Gorgeous, Vague, and Rare. It's like a feeling you get on your first date when your positive you feel something, but not sure what. The white christmas symbolizes a young persons new grown unknown feelings. The white christmas symbolizes me.