The Mistborn and the Masked Brigade *mistborn fanfic*

Chapter 8--Rebellion of the Most Particular Sort

"Sometimes, people only seem determined upon one course because they have been offered no other options." --Brandon Sanderson, Well of Ascension  

The Lord Mistborn's warnings fell on deaf ears. 

Well, not completely deaf.  Apondrea did consider her father's cautionary statements, she understood why he didn't want her to get involved.  She did consider just coming clean as they both leapt down from the palace roof.  Several times as they removed their cloaks and entered the palace. 

They walked into the main hall together, this is where they would go their separate ways.  Her father would head to the business side of the palace, where all the important things were done.  She would be sent back upstairs to her room or some other ridiculous foyer to sew or idly chat with her sisters.  

"Do I have to go back papa?  Do I have to?"   She remembered tugging at her father's hand as she'd said this. The princess had been no more than eight and had only recently learned of her abilities. 

"Why don't you want to go upstairs, Peanut?"

"Mama doesn't understand." She'd said. "She wants me to sit still and won't let me wear my mistcloak to supper."

Her father bent down and put a hand on her shoulder. "You must grow up to be a fine lady as well as a fine mistborn.  I may be able to teach you to shove coins up your nose and to cross your eyes correctly."

Apondrea giggled as her father gave an example of the later.

"But," The Lord Mistborn continued. "Your mother is going to train you in the skills that you'll really need to live in this world of ours.  What she tells you is far more important than whatever I could teach you in that shed out in the garden."

"But it's so boring!" She whined. "I don't want to learn how to sew or talk.  I want to learn how to fly!"

Her father's face softened.  He drew her in for a hug.  She still remembered the safety and warmth of it. "One day, this will all make sense.  I promise you.  But for now, you must be a big girl and go upstairs."

Apondrea had clung onto her father, savoring every bit of his rare affection.  He'd had to pry her off him, but after what he'd said, she went upstairs without question.

All these years later, Apondrea still didn't understand. The years of etiquette lessons and sewing were all well and good, but Apondrea still valued her skills with metal more.  Being a mistborn was much more important than being a highborn lady, there were plenty of the latter already.  Her seven other sisters for example.  

Apondrea paused at the base of the stairs.  She turned. "Father?"

But he hadn't even paused to say goodbye, he was already halfway down the corridor that led to his office, muttering to himself as usual.  She thought about running after him, finishing her question.....but she didn't.  It would only disturb him.

Apondrea climbed the stairs, preparing to return to the world of bothersome gowns and ridiculous manners.

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Once the princess had changed back into suitable clothes, a servant told her that "Her Majesty" was waiting for her in the upstairs parlor.  No doubt for another lesson in whatever court manners she'd forgotten at last night's supper.  Every morning  her mother went over the mistakes Apondrea had made the night before. The queen had been even harsher since she'd become a full lady of the court.