1711, Aethiel Palace, Kestramore City
Eleanora awoke with a start, her head spinning from too little sleep and too much wine. She stared up blearily in bewilderment at her surroundings, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. She found herself in her bedroom, still wearing the dark green dress, her hair still braided, though somewhat dishevelled.
She did not know how she had gotten there, but she knew that her presence was needed elsewhere. Today, the Prince would finally choose his bride, and Nicholas had wanted to see her before she went to the Choosing Ceremony.
As quickly as she could, she washed her face, brushed out the tangles in her hair and tied it back in a loose chignon at the nape of her neck, put on a simple gown of leaf green muslin with pearl buttons along its cuffs, and slipped out of her bedroom.
The day felt dreary and grey. The sky had a heavy blanket of clouds draped across its pale blue surface, casting the ground into a gloomy shade of grey. A murder of crows was perched on the leafless branches, their sharp, black eyes staring unblinkingly at her. Once in a while, they would caw out a haunting cry, causing her to shudder violently. Even the air smelled of death today, the stench thick and suffocating like smoke.
A cold gust of wind blew through her hair, and Eleanora hurried over to the edge of the garden, where Nicholas waited for her. To get there, she would have to walk past the courtyard, where many people were gathered, discussing about who amongst the six ladies would marry the prince choose.
It was a matter of great importance, after all. Today, the kingdom's future queen would be chosen, and everyone was itching to know who it will be. It will not be a single person who rises to power, no. When a consort is chosen, her entire house would be elevated, and for the remainder of her reign, her family will be virtually untouchable.
None of that mattered to Eleanora, though. She knew that she would not be chosen. Even if she was, she had nothing to offer up to the royal family, so she doubted that these aristocrats would bother to care about her. After all, who cared about some peasant girl from an obscure village?
So she walked past them, her head lowered and her fingers curled around her reticule. As she approached the edge of the courtyard, however, her footsteps came to a halt.
From a distance, she could hear the sound of people quarrelling, shouting and screaming at the top of their lungs. There was nobody in this section of the courtyard, so whoever it was, it had to be someone within the palace walls.
Eleanora shook her head dismissively. She had enough problems of her own; she did not have time to worry about the problems of others.
But then, she heard the unmistakable crack of glass, spreading ever so slightly, reminiscent of a frozen lake in the dead of winter.
And then, it shattered.
The glass window exploded, sending shards of glass in every direction, and they glinted in the pale sunlight like an early shower of snow, bouncing off the cobblestones like tiny diamonds. Eleanora stood still, bewildered by the sight, and most certainly, nothing could have prepared her for what was about to happen next.
A large black mass fell from above, splattering onto the ground like a spoonful of pudding, where it lay flat and unmoving. For a moment, Eleanora thought that the mass moved, jiggling ever so slightly, the way orange pudding would. No, not orange. Perhaps cherry, since the mass grew redder and redder with each passing second.
The mass had splattered everywhere, even onto Eleanora's cheek. Absentmindedly, she reached out a hand to wipe off the sticky red liquid, and as she did, she noticed a chunk of raw meat splattered on the side of her face. It was soft and squishy, and when she squeezed it, the red liquid slowly leaked and stained her fingers.
It smelled of blood. Blood. Blood everywhere. It was like somebody flipped a switch inside of her. Instantly, the 'mass' started to take a new form, one that she was unable to comprehend before.
It had arms and legs, all bent in unnatural angles, as if they had been brutally popped out of their sockets. There were tangled locks of dark brown hair strewn all over the flagstones, partially concealing the soft, splattered head of Lavinia Olivier. Her brain matter had flown in all directions, like little pieces of cake soaked in saffron syrup, red and squishy.
It was a human. A once living, breathing human. She could not stop staring at the scene unfolding in front of her, horrified by the fact that Lavinia had died in front of her very eyes. A part of her wondered why the body did not move, whether that meant that it was already dead or not. It simply lay there, covered in red splatters and chunks of flesh. It did not move at all, nor made any sound.
A sob escaped from Eleanora's throat without her even realising it, and a surge of pain filled her chest. Her head throbbed as she stared at the scene of the carnage, and for several moments, she could not breathe. She tried to control her emotions, but the more she tried, the worse things got. With great difficulty, she tried to drag in a deep breath, and she held it, willing herself to calm down. But it did not work.
Eleanora's knees trembled as she collapsed to the ground, her lungs burning from the lack of air. Her vision blurred and swam, and her thoughts whirled and buzzed around her head. And then, everything went black.
Eleanora was late. That was unlike her. Nicholas paced around nervously, glancing over his shoulder every now and then. In his hand, he held a small, intricately carved wooden box. Nestled within was the sapphire ring handcrafted by Master Pierce, the greatest jeweller in the kingdom.
Today, he would finally propose. He would get down on one knee and ask her to spend the rest of her life with him. He would sweep her off of her feet, and he would kiss her until she forgot all her sorrows, and all her fears. He would say those three words for the first time, and hopefully, she would say the same words to him.
Nicholas's dark blue eyes flickered towards his pocket watch for what seemed the umpteenth time, his heart thumping wildly in his chest as his nerves began to fray at the edges. He sighed heavily, trying to quell his anxiety, but his efforts were pointless.
Where was she? Did she get lost on the way here? Or perhaps, could she still be asleep in her bed? Nicholas could not tell.
In the end, he decided that he would go searching for her. He rose to his feet, brushing imaginary specks from the sleeves of his jacket, smoothed down his cravat, adjusted the lapels of his coat, and walked towards the courtyard.
There was no one in sight, which he found rather odd, considering that today was the height of the Choosing Ceremony, and today, this nation's queen would be chosen. He had expected a festival of sorts, but there was none. Only silence reigned.
And then, he saw her, sprawled on the ground, her face as pale as a sheet.
"Eleanora?" he said in horror, stepping closer. "Eleanora, are you alright?" His voice cracked, and he bit hard into his tongue to prevent himself from crying out as another sob bubbled up from his chest. With shaking hands he reached down to touch her cheek, only to recoil in shock. She was ice cold and clammy to the touch.
Nicholas pulled her close to him, pressing his cheek to hers, trying desperately to warm her chilled body. "Please wake up," he whispered weakly, his lips brushing against hers repeatedly. His eyes darted around wildly, trying to find anyone who could help him. It was at that moment that he saw Lavinia's mangled corpse.
He subconsciously pulled Eleanora closer to him as he gazed upon the grotesque display. It seemed almost surreal, something out of a nightmare - yet it was undeniable, because this was no dream. This was real. As he wiped away the beads of cold sweat on Eleanora's forehead, he realised that she had likely fainted from shock after seeing the horrific sight.
Even Nicholas found himself stunned, too shocked to move for a long while. It was only when he saw his cousin, Julian, did he snap back to reality.
"Julian," he stammered, his mouth as dry as sand. "Call for the physician. There's a dead body."
As a crowd began to form amidst the commotion, Nicholas managed to grab onto a royal physician and forced him to treat Eleanora, who had remained eerily still despite the tumultuous crowd.
The physician knelt beside Eleanora and pushed back the sleeve of her dress, exposing her wrist. As he began to feel her pulse, a frown formed on his forehead.
"Will she be alright?" Nicholas asked quietly, barely able to contain the panic in his voice.
"She will survive," he replied, looking up briefly to meet Nicholas's gaze. "She likely fainted out of shock after seeing the corpse, which explains why her heartbeat is so weak."
Nicholas's heart sank, and he reached for her wrist, feeling the faint flutter of her heartbeats. He opened his mouth to ask the physician, but before he could, the shrill voice of Dinah Finley filled his ears.
This was the first time Nicholas ever saw Eleanora's mother, and although he knew little about Dinah Finley, there was something about her cold, dead blue eyes that unnerved him. Her brows had been shaved off and drawn on a bit too high on her forehead, and it made her look as if she was constantly happy, even when she was crying.
"Oh, my poor Nora!" she wailed, kneeling beside her daughter. "Is she alright, sir? What about her baby? What about the baby?"
Nicholas froze. "What baby?" he asked, confused.
Dinah turned to face Nicholas, her eyes rimmed with red. "I suppose no one told you, Your Grace. Your cousin, the Crown Prince, had soiled my daughter before the ceremony even began, and now, he abandons her and frolics with the likes of Catarina de Fontaine."
"No, I know nothing of such things," replied Nicholas firmly. "But if you think it wise to accuse my cousin-"
"Do you mean to defend your own kin, Your Grace?" Dinah interrupted. "You only know what they want you to know, what they want you to believe. How do you garner the courage to speak, when you do not even know half of the truth? And now, because of your family, my daughter will suffer. My grandchild will grow up without a father."
As she spoke those words, her eyes snapped towards Julian, her gaze full of loathing. It was as if she wanted to kill him right where he stood, with that look alone.
"Your Highness, you must take responsibility!" she insisted heatedly. "You are the only man to ever touch her, so it must be your child!"
Nicholas silently glanced towards his cousin, hoping, praying that Julian would say something to defend himself, to refute Dinah's accusations, but he never did. The Crown Prince simply stood there, his face pale, a bewildered look in his eyes, his arms hung limply by his sides.
His silence alone was enough to paint him in a negative light. Nicholas felt his heart sink.
"Your Highness, you must marry Eleanora! You have soiled my daughter, impregnated her, and you intend to remain silent? Where is the justice in this world?" Dinah continued on, and Nicholas closed his eyes tightly.
Each word was like fire to his ears, each accusation was like a knife twisting through his stomach. Each word pierced his heart like a dagger, and he clenched his fists so tight that his fingernails dug into the flesh of his palms, coating his fingers with crimson drops.
He glanced at Eleanora's unconscious form in his embrace. She looked so frail, so fragile, as if she might disappear any minute. He did not want to let go of her, but he knew he had to. If he held on too tight he feared she might slip from his grasp, like water slipping between his fingers, and he knew he would shatter once again.
Nicholas took a deep breath, forcing himself to stand taller, his posture straightening and his jaw tightening. He glanced at the physician. "Please arrange for Miss Finley to be brought back to her chambers. I must leave her in your care now, as it is time for me to take my leave."
Reluctantly, Nicholas released her hand from his hold, allowing it to fall limply to the ground. He bent forward to place a lingering kiss upon her forehead, but stopped abruptly, his breath caught in his throat. Once he had let go of her, he could never touch her again. Never hug her again. Never touch her hair again. Never kiss her again, or even smile at her, for that matter. Even though it was not yet announced, Nicholas knew who the Prince would choose as his consort. He would choose Eleanora, no, he had to choose her.
He quickly slipped past the crowds, not daring to turn around lest he be tempted to do just that, his eyes burning with tears that were threatening to slip down his cheeks. Inhaling sharply, he tried to calm his ragged breaths, the pain searing at the edge of his lungs as if he had been punched over and over again.
Once upon a time, Nicholas would find it ridiculous to cry over a woman, but now, here he was, doing just that. He had grown soft. He had grown to love her. From the very beginning, his heart had always belonged to her, but she was never destined for him to begin with.