Chapter 40: 40
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A few hours later, as Soren helps me get ready for the masquerade, I can't help but think about it. About that tiny, faint little spark I felt, a foreign body in my system- a corruption, and about the eternal flame, my mission and what I might find at the masquerade.
I let myself think momentarily on the events that have come to pass.
At first I am disgusted with myself. Disgusted I let him toy with me again- let him, and did nothing about it to stop him. In fact, part of me, a vile, disgusting part of me, wanted to let him have his way with me.
I chalk it down to the fact he must have glamoured me unwittingly. Surely, there is no way I would ever feel like that about a vampire, right? What's more, if the council ever learned what Soren implied to do to me...
But the more I think on it, as I draw on my clothes for the Masquerade, the more I find myself burdened with a heavy uncertainty. A cold bead of sweat trickles down the side of my cheek, a nervous worry brewing in my throat like a fire in the stomach pit of a dragon.
What if a part of me did like him? What does that mean for me?
I thought all this time that it was me who had the Prince wrapped around my finger, that I would hate him with every fibre of my being for the monster he is, for how many of my people he has killed. At first I hadn't given myself the chance to think anything else. With that view it would be so much easier to find the flame- to kill, if needed.
But, I find, as Soren zips up the back of my dress- the dress he gave me, and offers me a graceful hand, I find his touch does not repel me. That I do not hate him. And then I start to wonder if Ithuriel had been right after all.
Of course, Ithuriel is always right.
***
I wait where Soren told me to wait: in one of the many large ballrooms strictly used for dancing, by the arch of the eastern entrance- the one that leads back into the throne room.
The whole room is aglow with lanterns and chandeliers, swinging to and fro with the bustle of breaths and dancing feet. It is a room full of both life and death, where ballgowns sway in bodies that do not breath, and frightened heartbeats are masked under the dauntless exhilaration of simply being... alive.
Music thrums in the air like a death toll as the room sighs and sways with the bodies of the fantastically deadly creatures that inhabit its walls, where it is impossible to avoid the glitter of sharp teeth, and where despite its size, the room feels as small as ever.
I watch, perhaps a little boredly, as pale bodies swing by me, as some red eyes dare to linger on my dress, on my red and white wolf mask, at the curling horns of my hair that are adorned with bright ruby roses. Then they take one look at the finery of my dress, one smell of whose scent adorns my skin, and look sharply away, fear tainting the otherwise expressionless confines of their pale, skeletal faces. Fear. I smile to myself. Soren's power to induce such an emotion is a truly miraculous thing.
Other's- those who are less refined in their mannerisms and more easily swayed to insult rather than ignorance, glare at me, whispering under their breath words that are too low for my ears. Some, from the creatures not trained to speak as low or as secretively as the vampires by a millennia of scheming, mutter under their breath as they pass me:
"How dare she steal the Prince away, she clearly drugged him"
"Look, it's Soren's slut,"
"Whore,"
I grimace deeply. Thus are the new rumours that sway down the corridors: the whisperings that pass through my hallway late into the night, that rest uneasily on my ears in the throws of blood filled dream.
Soren's whore. This is what I have become to the many that roam the palace. My meagre status to the vampires whose jealous wanton of the Prince's dastardly affection occasionally leads them to hurl such insults after me as I walk. And to the elves and nymphs and all manner of Faey folk who also wish for the Prince as their mate, these are the words that plays on their faces and dance with the resentment in their eyes.
Of course, I know why they think it. One look at me is enough to deduce it:
I had the Prince 'falling for me' on the day of my arrival to the palace. The mating ceremony is supposed to take weeks, and yet the Prince already seems to have an interest in one particular creature.
Me.
With a sigh, I go back to watching the crowd. There is no use dwelling on the misfortunes of my life now. My eyes trace a pretty young nymph, whose chlorophyll green skin is decked in jewels and finery, approaches a young male vampire.
She curtsies low to the ground, her ballroom gown splaying outwards like ripples of water as she looks shyly up through her mask at the man, who offers her a hand. Wrinkling my nose, I look the other way.
Fool. I doubt she sees the hungry look in his eye, the way his eyes sparkle a little too brightly when she puts her hand in his, an open invitation, and in honesty, I don't want to see it either. I recall the words Soren had spoken to me with disgust about the vampires of his court and silently I hope she is neither glamoured or taken to bed before the night is up.
If there is one thing I can commend Soren for- a miniscule thing albeit, it is that despite his loathsome toying with me, he has not gone further than that. Soren, ridiculous as it seems, knows the limit of my boundaries, and I can respect him for that. Even if he does push right up to them.
A sudden voice sounds quietly to my side, making me jump:
"Lady Serena, was it?"
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A few hours later, as Soren helps me get ready for the masquerade, I can't help but think about it. About that tiny, faint little spark I felt, a foreign body in my system- a corruption, and about the eternal flame, my mission and what I might find at the masquerade.
I let myself think momentarily on the events that have come to pass.
At first I am disgusted with myself. Disgusted I let him toy with me again- let him, and did nothing about it to stop him. In fact, part of me, a vile, disgusting part of me, wanted to let him have his way with me.
I chalk it down to the fact he must have glamoured me unwittingly. Surely, there is no way I would ever feel like that about a vampire, right? What's more, if the council ever learned what Soren implied to do to me...
But the more I think on it, as I draw on my clothes for the Masquerade, the more I find myself burdened with a heavy uncertainty. A cold bead of sweat trickles down the side of my cheek, a nervous worry brewing in my throat like a fire in the stomach pit of a dragon.
What if a part of me did like him? What does that mean for me?
I thought all this time that it was me who had the Prince wrapped around my finger, that I would hate him with every fibre of my being for the monster he is, for how many of my people he has killed. At first I hadn't given myself the chance to think anything else. With that view it would be so much easier to find the flame- to kill, if needed.
But, I find, as Soren zips up the back of my dress- the dress he gave me, and offers me a graceful hand, I find his touch does not repel me. That I do not hate him. And then I start to wonder if Ithuriel had been right after all.
Of course, Ithuriel is always right.
***
I wait where Soren told me to wait: in one of the many large ballrooms strictly used for dancing, by the arch of the eastern entrance- the one that leads back into the throne room.
The whole room is aglow with lanterns and chandeliers, swinging to and fro with the bustle of breaths and dancing feet. It is a room full of both life and death, where ballgowns sway in bodies that do not breath, and frightened heartbeats are masked under the dauntless exhilaration of simply being... alive.
Music thrums in the air like a death toll as the room sighs and sways with the bodies of the fantastically deadly creatures that inhabit its walls, where it is impossible to avoid the glitter of sharp teeth, and where despite its size, the room feels as small as ever.
I watch, perhaps a little boredly, as pale bodies swing by me, as some red eyes dare to linger on my dress, on my red and white wolf mask, at the curling horns of my hair that are adorned with bright ruby roses. Then they take one look at the finery of my dress, one smell of whose scent adorns my skin, and look sharply away, fear tainting the otherwise expressionless confines of their pale, skeletal faces. Fear. I smile to myself. Soren's power to induce such an emotion is a truly miraculous thing.
Other's- those who are less refined in their mannerisms and more easily swayed to insult rather than ignorance, glare at me, whispering under their breath words that are too low for my ears. Some, from the creatures not trained to speak as low or as secretively as the vampires by a millennia of scheming, mutter under their breath as they pass me:
"How dare she steal the Prince away, she clearly drugged him"
"Look, it's Soren's slut,"
"Whore,"
I grimace deeply. Thus are the new rumours that sway down the corridors: the whisperings that pass through my hallway late into the night, that rest uneasily on my ears in the throws of blood filled dream.
Soren's whore. This is what I have become to the many that roam the palace. My meagre status to the vampires whose jealous wanton of the Prince's dastardly affection occasionally leads them to hurl such insults after me as I walk. And to the elves and nymphs and all manner of Faey folk who also wish for the Prince as their mate, these are the words that plays on their faces and dance with the resentment in their eyes.
Of course, I know why they think it. One look at me is enough to deduce it:
I had the Prince 'falling for me' on the day of my arrival to the palace. The mating ceremony is supposed to take weeks, and yet the Prince already seems to have an interest in one particular creature.
Me.
With a sigh, I go back to watching the crowd. There is no use dwelling on the misfortunes of my life now. My eyes trace a pretty young nymph, whose chlorophyll green skin is decked in jewels and finery, approaches a young male vampire.
She curtsies low to the ground, her ballroom gown splaying outwards like ripples of water as she looks shyly up through her mask at the man, who offers her a hand. Wrinkling my nose, I look the other way.
Fool. I doubt she sees the hungry look in his eye, the way his eyes sparkle a little too brightly when she puts her hand in his, an open invitation, and in honesty, I don't want to see it either. I recall the words Soren had spoken to me with disgust about the vampires of his court and silently I hope she is neither glamoured or taken to bed before the night is up.
If there is one thing I can commend Soren for- a miniscule thing albeit, it is that despite his loathsome toying with me, he has not gone further than that. Soren, ridiculous as it seems, knows the limit of my boundaries, and I can respect him for that. Even if he does push right up to them.
A sudden voice sounds quietly to my side, making me jump:
"Lady Serena, was it?"
A few hours later, as Soren helps me get ready for the masquerade, I can't help but think about it. About that tiny, faint little spark I felt, a foreign body in my system- a corruption, and about the eternal flame, my mission and what I might find at the masquerade.I let myself think momentarily on the events that have come to pass.At first I am disgusted with myself. Disgusted I let him toy with me again- let him, and did nothing about it to stop him. In fact, part of me, a vile, disgusting part of me, wanted to let him have his way with me.I chalk it down to the fact he must have glamoured me unwittingly. Surely, there is no way I would ever feel like that about a vampire, right? What's more, if the council ever learned what Soren implied to do to me...But the more I think on it, as I draw on my clothes for the Masquerade, the more I find myself burdened with a heavy uncertainty. A cold bead of sweat trickles down the side of my cheek, a nervous worry brewing in my throat like a fire in the stomach pit of a dragon.What if a part of me did like him? What does that mean for me?I thought all this time that it was me who had the Prince wrapped around my finger, that I would hate him with every fibre of my being for the monster he is, for how many of my people he has killed. At first I hadn't given myself the chance to think anything else. With that view it would be so much easier to find the flame- to kill, if needed.But, I find, as Soren zips up the back of my dress- the dress he gave me, and offers me a graceful hand, I find his touch does not repel me. That I do not hate him. And then I start to wonder if Ithuriel had been right after all.Of course, Ithuriel is always right.***I wait where Soren told me to wait: in one of the many large ballrooms strictly used for dancing, by the arch of the eastern entrance- the one that leads back into the throne room.The whole room is aglow with lanterns and chandeliers, swinging to and fro with the bustle of breaths and dancing feet. It is a room full of both life and death, where ballgowns sway in bodies that do not breath, and frightened heartbeats are masked under the dauntless exhilaration of simply being... alive.Music thrums in the air like a death toll as the room sighs and sways with the bodies of the fantastically deadly creatures that inhabit its walls, where it is impossible to avoid the glitter of sharp teeth, and where despite its size, the room feels as small as ever.I watch, perhaps a little boredly, as pale bodies swing by me, as some red eyes dare to linger on my dress, on my red and white wolf mask, at the curling horns of my hair that are adorned with bright ruby roses. Then they take one look at the finery of my dress, one smell of whose scent adorns my skin, and look sharply away, fear tainting the otherwise expressionless confines of their pale, skeletal faces. Fear. I smile to myself. Soren's power to induce such an emotion is a truly miraculous thing.Other's- those who are less refined in their mannerisms and more easily swayed to insult rather than ignorance, glare at me, whispering under their breath words that are too low for my ears. Some, from the creatures not trained to speak as low or as secretively as the vampires by a millennia of scheming, mutter under their breath as they pass me:"How dare she steal the Prince away, she clearly drugged him""Look, it's Soren's slut,""Whore,"I grimace deeply. Thus are the new rumours that sway down the corridors: the whisperings that pass through my hallway late into the night, that rest uneasily on my ears in the throws of blood filled dream.Soren's whore. This is what I have become to the many that roam the palace. My meagre status to the vampires whose jealous wanton of the Prince's dastardly affection occasionally leads them to hurl such insults after me as I walk. And to the elves and nymphs and all manner of Faey folk who also wish for the Prince as their mate, these are the words that plays on their faces and dance with the resentment in their eyes.Of course, I know why they think it. One look at me is enough to deduce it:I had the Prince 'falling for me' on the day of my arrival to the palace. The mating ceremony is supposed to take weeks, and yet the Prince already seems to have an interest in one particular creature.Me.With a sigh, I go back to watching the crowd. There is no use dwelling on the misfortunes of my life now. My eyes trace a pretty young nymph, whose chlorophyll green skin is decked in jewels and finery, approaches a young male vampire.She curtsies low to the ground, her ballroom gown splaying outwards like ripples of water as she looks shyly up through her mask at the man, who offers her a hand. Wrinkling my nose, I look the other way.Fool. I doubt she sees the hungry look in his eye, the way his eyes sparkle a little too brightly when she puts her hand in his, an open invitation, and in honesty, I don't want to see it either. I recall the words Soren had spoken to me with disgust about the vampires of his court and silently I hope she is neither glamoured or taken to bed before the night is up.If there is one thing I can commend Soren for- a miniscule thing albeit, it is that despite his loathsome toying with me, he has not gone further than that. Soren, ridiculous as it seems, knows the limit of my boundaries, and I can respect him for that. Even if he does push right up to them.A sudden voice sounds quietly to my side, making me jump:"Lady Serena, was it?"
