Guinevere Eyres of Everfall knows two things for certain: first, she is betrothed to marry Prince Peregrine Thornley of Loil; second, she loves to dance.
Her marriage to Peregrine is unavoidable and imminent. Having only recently turned eighteen, the negotiations between both sovereign sets of parents have begun to determine the terms and conditions of this union that is meant to be mutually beneficial. Since the moment that she was born, Gwen has known that this day was coming. She was raised with Peregrine and finds him agreeable enough, if easy to look at. Flamboyant and fun, she does know how to laugh in his company and she suspects that come the day, she will learn to love him. If not for himself, for the future children and heirs that she will bear him.
True as this all is, none of it comes to mind tonight. Tonight, Gwen's heart thuds in her chest. It's not fear; it's exhilaration. Dancing has always made her feel this way. Limitless, like her feet can't touch the floor and like nothing in the world can stop her. She feels like she can fly when she is dancing. If not flying, she is certainly floating. There's an ease in her step this way. When dancing, she looks beautiful.
Already, Gwen is a sight to see. Her hair is black as a raven's wing, loose curls tumbling over the skin of her back. There is a blueness to her eyes that is intimate and filled with an unreserved passion, but still cold nonetheless. A blue so wintry that they almost become gray. Looking into the expanse of her eyes is almost comparable to looking into a palace of ice on a winter day. Such is only distracted by the rim of cobalt around the rim and the circle of yellow around the center. There is an entire world in her paleness of her eyes. Her skin is pale, too, too pale. A glance at her skin contains the truth that she is a girl having spent too much of her life contained inside. Her parents always felt it was safer within the walls of the castle and no one ever dared disagree with her father, lest they be on the receiving end of his wrath. Offending him would mean a most certain and painful death.
Still, this makes her no less beautiful. There is still a height in her hollowed cheeks that makes her look regal in a warranted sense of the word. Gwen is a natural beauty, and she holds herself like she knows it. She need do little more to her face than pinch her cheeks for color and add a bit of red paint across her lips. Her lips that she both loves and hates—the top shaped like an extravagant bow and the bottom heavier than the top, distractingly so. There's a plumpness to her lips that she doesn't consciously capitalize on. Instead, she just sinks her teeth into the lower as she contemplates any number of issues in which she is asked to give her opinion on.
Inherently, there is a sort of seriousness to Gwen. There is a square to her shoulders and there is a sort of weight that settles there in the formation of pride. Her identity is tumultuous, impossible to pinpoint on just one stage. There's a sort of cultured air to her—something that makes people search her out, studying her reaction. She was raised to be looked at and assumes this to be true. Yet, there is an unpracticed youthfulness to her; a sort of innocence there.
That innocence takes form in her dancing. She loves to dance. In this way, she looks her most beautiful. She laughs frequently and stands light on her toes. Her heels click across the floor and she switches her partner frequently. Prince Peregrine rarely graces Gwen with his presence and Gwen dare not miss even a moment of merriment. Even if she is betrothed, most every man in the kingdom still vies for her attention, desperate to be noticed by the princess, the sole heir of King Rowan and Queen Rosanne.
Princess Guinevere.
She is a beauty. Everyone in the kingdom—the world, even—knows it. The swish of her skirts around her ankles as she dances makes her look like she is gliding across the floor. She contains a grace that causes her parents to always look on proudly. Proud, not only of their daughter, but of themselves. Eighteen years old and her concerns remain materialistic. Never once have they forced her to something against her will. They succumbed to her every whim, their only daughter. She has them wrapped around her finger, but she doesn't take advantage. A kindness, they called this, as they shielded her from the horrors of the world. For now, they relish in that she may maintain her kind, sweet heart.
So tonight, she dances. She dances without knowledge of the plotting and whispering that circles her. Her hand cups that of a Duke, or maybe a Lord. Someone who is definitely not Prince Peregrine, but who has a title respectable enough to be seen in proximity to her. Her parents watch on adoringly, reassured of all of the money they've spent on private tutors to teach her to master the art of dancing; the only subject Gwen ever really paid attention in.
"You are a delight, Princess," the man says to her at the end of the song.
He'd been a fine dancer, but without the cloud of the song surrounding her, Gwen sees him as he is. Nonplussed, her lips purse and she cocks her head to the side. Her chest rises and falls, a light flush working over her cheeks with the exertion. She turns her head to the side to not give him a view, lest he get the impression that he were the one making her act in such a way.
Still, she was raised in the court. She knows her manners. Curtsying, she dips her head low. "An honor," she allows, her eyes stuck on the clunkiness of his shoes. The heel on them, intent on giving the impression that he is a man of greater height than she is. Gratified with her observation, Gwen cannot help herself. "It is most advantageous that you are able to move so lightly on your feet with heels so great as those. You must have most ample practice. Perhaps you might recommend both your tutor and cobbler?"
The man blushes an angry red, but says nothing. To say something would be idiotic. Both he and Gwen know it. He excuses himself and takes his leave swiftly. Gwen wastes no time in finding a new partner.
Gwen's mother wishes that she would marry. Queen Rosanne herself had been only sixteen when she married the crowned prince. It had been a union to unit their kingdoms, a union that has remained loyal to this day. Now, Rosanne's sister sits on the throne, her eldest son to inherit the crown upon her eventual death.
Queen Rosanne loves her husband in the way that you grow to love someone over time who has no truly awful dispositions. She loves him for the security that he offers her, and she loves him because he is the not the worst person she has ever encountered. King Rowan has a kind-heart. From birth, Queen Rosanne had been raised to know that, as the second born, she had little hope other than marrying for advantage. Her marriage had been a political pact. She's never fooled herself to believe otherwise. Gwen, her only child, had been her only true love in this life. Because of this, she knows she must not rush her daughter's marriage. She bought her two years that she herself did not have in her own life. Two years which Gwen spent delightfully dancing. But now, her husband grows impatient. King Rowan sees no need in delaying the obvious.
"What did she say?" He asks his wife, sweat dripping down his brow due to the heat of the room.
"I'm no closer than you, my dear." She answers, the picture of perfect patience. Nineteen years of marriage have allowed her to grow used to his nature. Demanding and assertive, he is not used to not having all the answers. Such a headstrong behavior is contrasted by his gentle spirit, the side of him that he does not let the greater world see, lest it be perceived as a sort of weakness. Weaknesses have no space at the side of the king.
"She must marry soon."
"She must do no such thing," his wife reminds him, standing still on the podium as she watches over the dancing below. Already, her daughter has found another partner on the floor. Proudly, she watches as Gwen glides across the floor. "Gwen is but a girl. She is betrothed. The promise has been made."
"They think us weak."
"Loil thinks no such thing," Queen Rosanne challenges lightly. She is the only person to have ever so boldly challenged the King and walked away unscathed. Rumor is that Rosanne is the only person that Rowan is truly afraid of. "I only wish that she should be able to marry for love."
"Love." King Rowan shakes his head. "She loves nothing more than the frills of her dress and her dancing shoes."
"Is that a crime? Is it a crime to want love?"
"It is fruitless to want things that you cannot have."
"She cannot have love with Peregrine, then?"
"You aim to trap me." The King muses, looking at his Queen with an amusement burning in his eyes. The Queen loathes how he can be so playful in a moment like this.
But near twenty years has made her the master of his board. She knows not to play into his anger. "I do no such thing, my dear." Queen Rosanne answers, equally placating. Her eyes scan over the rest of the room. There's a feeling in her gut that she doesn't know how to explain. An orderly woman, she has always known when something was out of place. That very same feeling strikes her now as she watches over her daughter, even if she can't explain it.
From her position, Queen Rosanne studies the guards. She trusts them. This means something—Queen Rosanne does not trust easily. Each guard underwent rigorous training to stand in the position where they are today. Recruited at sixteen, the guardsmen forswear family and spend two years training and refining both their physical and mental strength before they are put on the official rotation should they pass their trials. It is here that they will serve for twelve years before they may step away from active service. Only the best of the best are allowed to the Royal Guard.
Those here tonight stand rigid and tall, rightfully proud of their positions here. Their singular job is to protect the royal family at all costs. For eighteen years, the job was famously easy. There was nay more than a stir and one, drunken break-in to the castle to report.
The nineteenth has created a stir.
But Queen Rosanne cannot identify the element that is out of place, so she leans back into her throne. She watches languidly as her daughter traipses and laughs across the dance floor. She watches the guards as they watch her. She watches the vein bulge on her husband's forehead as he realizes that tonight is but another game to their daughter. Secretly—and, this is something she would never admit aloud—she is glad that Gwen refuses to take Prince Peregrine as her husband. She is promised to Prince Peregrine. Rosanne agrees there is no need to rush the inevitable. It would do her husband, King Rowan, some good to not be gratified so immediately. Say what anyone will about the Princess Gwen, but no one can force her into something that she does not want to do. Queen Rosanne is proud of that accomplishment, at least. At the very, very least, she had raised a headstrong girl. A headstrong girl who loves to dance.
None of this matters to Princess Gwen as she continues to twirl across the floor. Her skirts swish around her ankles, billowing with every perfectly timed step. Gwen is used to having the nicest gown at the ball, and tonight is no exception. The gown is lavender, the sleeves and skirts billowing with individual flowers stitched on, blooming from the smooth material. It was scandalous—not so much that her father's eyes bulged, but enough so that he rolled his eyes at the sight of her. The corset was sheer, those same flowers blooming across her chest and over the ruffles of her sleeves.
Twirled right into the guards, Gwen allows for a momentary breathless laugh. "Some wine?" she requests, of no on in particular. In this way, Gwen is spoiled. She is used to asking for things and receiving them with no more question. It makes sense to her when one guard breaks his rank and moves in the direction of the refreshments to accommodate her request.
"You dance so lovely," the guard beside her says, his eyes remaining straight and true. He refuses to look at her, but Gwen knows that he had been talking to her.
"Thank you." Gwen is not so rude as to ignore the guard, but she makes no effort to learn his name. She makes no effort to inquire whether he, too, would like to be dancing on the floor beside her. Perhaps it had never dawned to Gwen that each guard is an individual person with passions and hobbies, much like her own. Instead, she stands beside him, catching her breath as her chest heaves up and down. The guard beside her remains alert.
The clock strikes midnight and her parents take their leave. Their departure is announced to the crowd. Attention is redirected away from the line of guards surrounding the ballroom. No one, not even Gwen, notices as the guards shift their positions and are relieved of their duty by the night watch. Gwen certainly doesn't notice when it is someone new that hands her her beverage.
The party continues. Gwen herself does not grow tired at an hour early as this one. Dancing is addictive to her. Alluring. She couldn't dream of sleeping when there is such fun to be had. For this reason, Gwen is always known as the last one to leave the ball. The last one on the floor, she dances until the very last musician has packed away their instrument, leaving only its echoes across the grand hall. The remnants of the night that has been had.
When the new guard returns with her wine, Gwen takes it with a quiet thanks. She brings the glass to her lips, parting them for the burgundy liquid to drip down her throat. An acquired taste, her mother had warned her since she was a girl. Frequently she would slide the glass over, a glint in her eye as she would watch a young Gwen tip it back. Each time, she was blindly optimistic that she would favor a drink so beloved by her mother. Only recently had she learned to have such an appreciation. "Another dance, Princess?" the guard who handed her the wine asks, watching as she drains it.
"Of course." Her cheeks flush a light peach as she places the glass down. "We will always dance again."
Then Gwen does something careless, something she takes special precautions not to do so freely. She smiles at him. Her smile is world-stopping. There have been rumors that such a smile have brought men to their knees, hearts simultaneously breaking and mending themselves in an endless cycle. It's a flirtatious smile that makes her look both youthful and wise. Kind and sweet, just like her mother when she had been young. Had Gwen not been the princess, one might even call the smile coquettish, though no one would dare imply the princess to be anything less than pure and true.
She doesn't linger to see the effect that she has on the guards. Instead, she moves back towards the floor, looking for her next partner, eagerly awaiting the next song.
n. this is so something completely and impossibly new for me. i love it. i hope you do too? (pls remember i have a full time job so updates are when updates are) let me know what you think. tell me about your day. love you, mean it.