Author's Note:
All aspects of the story are fictional.
Edited by Expoh, AnnabelleFalls13, Michael Scott, and Zald.
****
Princess Ellesmere Kalgradis was seated next to Lord Prannod Niemon. Ellesmere would have preferred another seat. She imagined Lord Prannod would prefer that they share the same seat, even if they weren't married yet.
The ballroom was lit too brightly and plastered over with wrinkled paper streamers. Groups of noblemen and women meandered around the dance floor like flocks of birds, migrating in search of rumors rather than warm weather. A few couples braved the center of the hall, bobbing and weaving in time to the music. Ellesmere gave them credit - they danced as well as they could - but the bland violin droning over the space seemed determined to make their best efforts as uninspiring as a puddle of mud.
The babble of conversation wafted in the air like a fog - mostly rumors, with bits of facts floating here and there. The voices carried with the feigned, perfuse happiness of people that knew the occasion was supposed to be happy, but felt more annoyed by the unwritten requirement for attendance than any sort of real pleasure. The quiet rule of that hierarchy was enforced by the guards lining the edge of the room, dotted here and there with fully-armored knights.
Ellesmere stared at it all without seeing, letting her eyes unfocus, refocus, unfocus, producing a kaleidoscope of lights and lies. She sat and stared, lost in a cynical mental landscape. Perhaps, were she in a better mood, she might rally and try to appreciate the effort of the tired violinist, or allow for the fact that the decorators had been in a great haste. But she was not in a good mood, so bitterness filtered everything in a shade of brooding grey.
The social chains binding all the people to this room were of like composition to the invisible shackles locking her to the fat man seated to her left. She imagined they must have made quite a comedy. On one side, the princess, composed and elegant in her eye-matched green dress. She'd spent two hours on her hair - two hours! - and at least fifteen minutes deciding what necklace to wear. Not to mention the makeup.
Of course, she'd heard all about Lord Niemon - insofar as hearsay could be trusted - but she wanted to make a good impression nonetheless. She wanted to enter into their sudden relationship whilst thinking the best of him, in good will and open mind.
She shouldn't have bothered.
Niemon was significantly less concerned about pomp and circumstance. His brown mop of hair was unstyled and frizzed, as if he'd just rolled from his mattress. He'd asked for and received a white bib, which was now as stained by bits of fat and streaks of sauce as the tips of his fingers. He wasn't much for conversation, but, in his defense, his mouth was very busy chewing, and it looked set to continue that activity for the foreseeable future. His jowls bobbed along with his lips in a pantomime of speech, only with more flapping, fleshy sounds, and fewer words.
Ellesmere sighed. This creature was to be her husband.
He was rich and powerful, the only qualifications that mattered for the husband of an empress. He also happened to be more than a little disgusting.
Ellesmere tried to console herself. Perhaps time and effort could smooth his...edges. Maybe he'd never had a woman around to tell him when he was acting like a slovenly pig. She'd debated informing him of such several times, but, then again, they weren't married just yet.
She looked at her father. He was seated to her immediate right, with her stepmother after him. They were both focused on their meals. She considered any number of scathing comments to mutter in his direction, ranging from the choice of husband to the overpaid band of disjointed instrumentalists that were playing something that might have earned the designation
music
several centuries ago. The decor might be a good topic - yes, it came right to the top of her head.
Why, father, am I relegated to the small dance hall, when your jousting competition was treated to the full ballroom and a feast twice as rich?
The emperor caught her gaze. His eyes were as hard and uncompromising as the sharp cut of his beard. His face was set with the lines that told Ellesmere she would be silent and endure. His thinned lips added the addendum that any peep from her would be met with a month stuck in her chambers with neither a single book nor her drawing implements to entertain herself.
She almost made a comment right there, if only to spite him. Instead she was silent, and she endured. He turned his head away, and she turned hers.
Empress
, she told herself.
One day, empress
. She gave Lord Niemon another appraising look. He noticed her attention, and gave her a big, open-mouthed grin, displaying the mash of food that was mid-mastication. She did her best to smile back. She wasn't sure if her best was very good, given the circumstances, but he was content enough to return to his meal.
And I shall keep the castle larder well-padlocked.
"My princesh," Lord Niemon said. "Enjoying the feast? You've hardly toushed your food." A bit of spittle shot out of his mouth as he chewed his food and spoke at the same time. Ellesmere's eyes followed the projectile's arc to a plate of sliced venison. She mentally ruled it out from any possibility of future consumption.
She glanced at her own plate; a few lines of gravy and scattered peas were all that remained. She'd had quite a bit more than she usually did in an attempt to help Niemon blend in somewhat. It was a futile effort. "Not at all," she said. "I'm a light eater."
"But you musht try thish fish," he said. He speared a section of flaky white meat and prodded it at her face. She drew back as much as she politely dared, trying to ignore the oily smell. She hated fish. "Thish ish from the Crystal Shea, in the norf." He finally swallowed the bulk of his mouthful. "That's past my own holdings, in -"
"The largest fresh body of water in the world," she said.
Think food.
"Their vineyards produce an ice wine to which I'm partial. They harvest a great deal of timber, but I wasn't aware of a significant fishing industry."
"I'm impressed. You're quite well-versed." He grinned, happily displaying all the bits of gristle caught between his teeth. "You must have researched me. Did you plan to flatter your way into my heart?"
"I happen to make a hobby of geography and the economics thereof," Ellesmere said.
"Yes, well." He waved a hand dismissively. "The fishing there is small-scale, but profitable enough to justify itself. The capila - that's this bugger -" He waved the fork excitedly. "- has a very strong scent, and flavor."
"So I've detected."
"A bit niche," he said, "but favored by myself and others. Your father ordered it for me, especially." He jabbed at a second plate holding another brand of fish with a darker, pink meat. "And that there, a leaping trout from the southern rivers. The name escapes me at the moment...top - no, tipa? T-something."
