Oh wow an actual fic update!
Title: The Mystery of Love Is Greater (chapter two)
Fandom: Princess Tutu
Pairing: Mytho/Rue, Autor/Rue
Warnings: Creepiness, great piles of it.
Notes: Based (loosely) off Oscar Wilde's play Salome.
That night, as she lay in her expansive bed, wrapped in furs and the warmth
of the fire Duck had left blazing for her, Rue’s mind was filled with
dreams. Images of the prophet circled around her head, sometimes warped
by her own imagination, sometimes so clear she thought they might be
real.
She dreamt he came for her in the night, sitting silently on the end of her
bed, still wrapped up in that massive bearskin. She tried to reach out
and touch him, but as soon as her fingers closed around his, he
vanished, frail as smoke. In another dream, she was standing in the
south courtyard, surrounded by roses of the purest white. In the very
center, standing on top of the cistern, was Mytho, his hand closed
around a deep red rose.
“Where did that come from?” she asked, her voice nearly caught up in the sweet-scented wind.
He smiled.
“It is my life’s blood that dyed this rose for you, Princess,” he said, as
he held it out so that she could see the way it still dripped bits of
red onto its pale counterparts. A scream rose up in her throat, but the
breeze carried it away.
Rue awoke to the sounds of Duck tending the fire, the scraping of the hot
poker hitting her ears as if it were her own silenced scream. She
hesitated in rising, for a moment, contemplating if it would not be
better to go back to her dreams, in hopes of catching a glimpse of the
prophet, no matter how tainted. But the image of his stained skin
flashed across her mind once more, and she decided to rise, if only
because she could not stand such a vision again.
“Are you alright, princess?” her servant asked, brushing off her apron as
she moved to rise and help Rue dress. “I thought I heard you make a
noise just now.”
“It was nothing,” she said, turning away from her. Duck was the type of
person who said everything with absolute sincerity, so even if the
princess might allow her kindness rarely, she could not do so too often,
simply because she knew her weakness would not be taken advantage of.
“Oh. Um, well.” There was a brief pause. “What do you want to wear today? I
was thinking about that blue dress since it goes with your hair all nice
and well it’s a good winter color too I guess? At least that’s what
Pique--”
“White,” said the princess sharply, speaking as if she were not interrupting Duck at all. “I will wear white today.”
Flustered, the girl murmured something unintelligible, before busying herself with
laying out a white day dress for Rue to wear. For a moment, she
regretted being so snappish. Duck was the only person here who gave her
kind words and actions, and asked nothing in return. Even when she first
came to the castle gates, begging for work, all she asked is that she
would be fed a little, and given a place to sleep. It was that earnest
quality of hers that led Rue to accept her as her chambermaid, even when
the head of servants sought to turn the clumsy thing out.
Even so, she could not conceal her irritation, or her goosebumps, for long before the lack of a fresh chemise got to her.
“Hurry up!” she snapped. “I am quite cold.”
“I’m sorry, princess!” said the servant, holding up a clean chemise. “I was
having trouble finding the one you liked, with the roses on it.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered,” muttered the princess, a bit cowed by Duck’s
sincerity. She was forever doing her those small, meaningless
kindnesses, giving her those silly little smiles, as if they mattered.
When she was finally dressed and ready, she sent the girl away, and was left
alone to the idle work of a princess. Though it was not something she
would admit, even to this empty room, Rue was a bit sorry to see her
leave. But, of course, there was no reason for her to stay, nothing to
be done here, and an idle servant was a terrible one indeed.
Still, she felt quite reluctant to pick up her sewing, as she was very
terrible at it, and believed it ruined the soft and delicate hands for
which she was so admired. With nothing else to occupy it, her mind
turned again to the boy in the cistern, and the strange dreams which had
so plagued her the night before. As much as she wanted to only dismiss
them as nonsense, the uneasiness they instilled in her, even after
waking, was difficult to shake off.
Before the princess could become entrenched any deeper in these thoughts, a
curt knock came to her. Without looking up, she bade the visitor enter.
“It is your father,” came the familiar voice of Autor from the doorway.
Always mindful of his manners, he was careful not to cross the threshold
of her bedroom. “He bids you to see him.”
“You’ve seen him?” she asked incredulously. Father hardly allowed anyone but
herself and Drosselmeyer an audience with him, there was no way someone
like Autor would get to see him.
The young man seemed embarrassed.
“I have not seen him, no,” he admitted. “But Grandfather has asked me to relay this message to you.”
“Did he ask you, or a servant?” A smile was coming to her lips; the princess
did so love to mock him about his infatuation, to drive in the truth of
its impossibility to him. It made it easier for her, to keep him at
arm’s length. It reminded him that, powerless as she was against his
grandfather’s rule, she still retained her power over him.
“He asked me, Princess,” he said, his eyes narrowing at her familiar jab.
He held out his arm for her to take, but when she stood up, Rue strode
past him, not giving the young man a second look. Ever-persistent, he
followed along closely behind her.
“Might you have any idea what this is about?” she asked. It was very unusual
for Father to ask to see her, or anyone, really. He had been ill for a
very long time, and was always in such pain that he preferred to be shut
off from the world, and everyone in it. He only very rarely conferred
with Drosselmeyer on matters of state, and quite often he was so tired
he was willing to let the magistrate do as he pleased. To her, it seemed
as though the old man was abusing his position, but she would not dare
suggest that out loud, for it was most unfitting for a princess to have
an opinion on politics.
“Not at all,” Autor admitted. “Even Grandfather was very surprised about it.
He did tell me it might have to do with the warlords’ coming tonight.”
“Why would that have anything to do with me?”
He pushed up his glasses, his expression obscured.
“Isn’t it obvious? You’re expected to marry one of them. Surely you knew that much?”
“Of course I did,” she said quietly, making sure to look away from him. “But why should I be consulted on such matters?”
“What do you mean? Why shouldn’t you be?”
She smiled. Even after being here for over a year, he was still so naive.
“Thank you for taking me this far,” Rue said, abruptly stopping at the top of
the stairs leading to her father’s room. “I’ll handle the rest, if you
don’t mind. He won’t want you here.”
Autor nodded, bowing low before turning to leave. Hesitantly, she turned to
look at the ornate door of her father’s bedroom. The idea of entering
that place terrified her. In it was her father, a man once known for
placing the heads of his enemies on a pike, now withered and dying. But
there was no choice in the matter, so she steeled herself, and opened
the door.
Father’s room was completely dark, the only light filtering in from the cracks
between the boards on the windows. She had heard that the priests had
told him sunlight would worsen his condition, that only the blackness of
night could cure him.
Standing out in the shadows was her father’s white face, grown paler since she’d
last seen him. His lifted hand seemed like a raven’s claw as it
stretched towards her, but his red eyes still burned with the same
ferocity behind his coal-black beard.
“Kraehe.”
His voice rumbled and cracked, like two great stones moving against each
other. Once again, he had only called her by her title, her given name,
it seemed, all but forgotten.
“Yes, Father?” she said, hating the weakness in her voice, the way she
trembled as she approached the bed. He, too, hated it when she behaved
so frightened towards him, yet if she were any more bold it would be
seen as insolence.
“You are a princess, are you not?”
Of course, Father.”
His eyes narrowed, and she felt her chest suddenly tighten.
“Then why do you not behave like one?” he growled.
“Wh-what do you mean?”
“Don’t feign ignorance with me. I know how you’ve been conducting yourself
lately, wearing your hair around your shoulders, asking for kisses like a
coy barmaid.” He spat. “You disgust me.”
“Father, please, you misunderstand, it was only a joke, and--”
“So,” her father said, his voice black as the very fires of Hell, or so she imagines. “You admit to disobeying my orders.”
She stared at him helplessly, feeling smaller and smaller in that dark
room. He glared at her, as usual, interpreting her fear as disrespect.
“I-I’m sorry, Father,” Rue said, very quietly, hoping that perhaps enough
groveling, perhaps anything would make him stop staring at her with
those horrible eyes.
“You will not do it again, will you, Kraehe?”
Rue nodded furiously.
“I won’t,” she said around a lump in her throat. To her relief, he seemed
satisfied with that, waving his hand as he turned away.
“Leave me, then,” he said, tired. “I can only hope you will be more like a princess tonight.”
“Yes, Father,” said Rue, relieved to back out of the room and close the door.
She released a held breath, pushing down the terror that had built in
her throat.
--------------------
As the sun sank into the horizon, and a bitter wind moved over the forests
of the north, the princess returned to her bedroom, where her
bright-eyed servant was waiting for her, a soft gown of woven gold and
black in her hands. Rue let her white chemise fall to the floor, let her
hair be bound up in tight ringlets, her lips be smeared with red. When
she was finished, Duck said she was beautiful, but even she could sense
the uneasiness in her eyes.
She bid Duck leave her before she began the long procession down to the
dining hall, unwilling, for some reason, to let her kind servant see her
face as she walked down to what seemed like a grim trap. With each
brisk step, she felt a little more of whatever freedom she had slipping
away, replaced with the strangling duties of a princess.
The great hall was already packed to the brim, its bright walls echoing
with the raucous laughter of rough, ruddy-faced men, contrasting with
the pale, tired faces of their wives. Soon, Rue thought bitterly, she
would be among them. At the head of the long table was Drosselmeyer,
seated on an ornate, ebony-carved throne that should have held her
father, his icy, sickening grin near paralyzing her where she stood.
Autor sat at his side, and it was only the shy smile he offered that
compelled her to move forward.
He stood as she took her place next to him, his face falling as she again
refused his offered hand. There was already food on the table, a roast
pig, its severed, browned head stuffed full of pungent spices. Watching
the men around her tear into it, Rue suddenly did not feel very hungry.
“You look more lovely than ever tonight, Princess,” said Drosselmeyer, his
voice creaking like a worn building. She tried to manage a smile.
“Thank you, Chancellor,” she said graciously. “I do hope you will forgive my late arrival.”
“Oh, it is not late at all, my dear,” the old man said with a smile she did
not like. “In fact you’ve arrived just in time for the entertainment.”
“Entertainment?”
Drosselmeyer gestured grandly, in his typical fashion, and the great wooden doors
swung open, allowing a procession of guards to enter, clustered
together. In the center of their circle Rue could see a flash of pale
hair, and she felt the weight of dread drop like a stone into her
stomach.
The old Chancellor stood, the delighted air of a showman about him. The hall became silent.
“As you all may well know, this has not been a calm winter for us,” he
began. “Our cities have , been filled with unrest, anger, and even
sightings of that elusive and terrible beast, rebellion.”
There was a general murmur of agreement, although Rue doubted any of them had set foot in a city in the past six months.
“Our soldiers searched far and wise for the cause, the supposed prophet
whose fool notions religion have caused these uprisings. Quite
surprised, were we, to find he was no older than our own little
princess!”
As if on cue, the line of soldiers parted, revealing Mytho, his thin
wrists bound by heavy chains, clear-eyed and determined even in the face
of the jeers and taunts of the warlords. Rue felt suddenly ill. This
was not necessary.
“Amazing, that such a pretty face could incite such passion and conflict,” he
went on, strolling over to the prophet, who merely glared at him. “But
there is that old story about the face that launched a thousand ships.
And the people are not the only ones whose passions have been raised by
this face. Isn’t that right, Princess?”
All eyes turned to her, and Rue felt her face burn with shame. How foolish
was she, to think the events of that night would not leave the
courtyard.
“Oh my, I think we’ve embarrassed her. And yet the captain tells me you were quite eager to have him kiss you last night.”
There was laughter sounding from all around her, and yet all Rue could do was
try to smile good-naturedley at her tormentor. She caught Fakir’s eye,
watched his lips curl into a hateful sneer. Oh, he would pay for this
later.
“Well, now is your chance, little princess. Come and kiss him, this lovely prophet. Come taste the lips of a revolutionary!”
He spoke with a voice and face that left no room for refusal, and for the
first time, Rue felt that she was truly her father’s child. His
warrior’s blood boiled within her as she smiled sweetly and got up from
her seat, imagining with relish how great it would feel to take a sword
and plunge it into his aged breast.
The princess was assailed with hoots and jeers as she slowly, slowly
approached the prophet, soldiers silently parting for her as she broke
their ranks. She was pleased to see the fury written in the lines of
Fakir’s face, as impotent and useless as hers. The warlords grew silent
as she stopped in front of him. Perhaps they didn’t believe she’d do it,
she thought bitterly.
Mytho’s face was incomprehensible as ever, betraying only the tiniest hint of
fear as she took it into her hands. There was a spark of defiance in his
eyes, reminding her of the night before, of the fiery, beautiful
determination in them. In that moment, as her lips touched his, Rue
decided she would be defiant as well. She would enjoy this, even if it
was only a charade designed to humiliate them both.
He tasted as sweet as his voice, clear as mountain spring water. His lips
were soft and supple, trembling ever-so-slightly as her roving mouth
covered them. She felt her body heating up as she lost herself in his
gentle features, the world around them melting into the background. It
was a scarce few moments that seemed to last an eternity.
Mytho made a small sound against her mouth, and she released him, his spell
on her broken in an instant. She looked around, there was silence,
shock. She glared defiantly back at all of them, turned back to the
prophet. A touch of red dyed his lips where the paint on hers had
touched them, and suddenly, Rue felt very dirty.
Before she could even think, Fakir was next to him, an expression of utter
disgust on his face as led Mytho away. Before he vanished from the hall,
he looked back at her, just once, something gentle and tragic in his
doe’s eyes. As if he pitied her.
Fandom: Princess Tutu
Pairing: Mytho/Rue, Autor/Rue
Warnings: Creepiness, great piles of it.
Notes: Based (loosely) off Oscar Wilde's play Salome.
That night, as she lay in her expansive bed, wrapped in furs and the warmth
of the fire Duck had left blazing for her, Rue’s mind was filled with
dreams. Images of the prophet circled around her head, sometimes warped
by her own imagination, sometimes so clear she thought they might be
real.
She dreamt he came for her in the night, sitting silently on the end of her
bed, still wrapped up in that massive bearskin. She tried to reach out
and touch him, but as soon as her fingers closed around his, he
vanished, frail as smoke. In another dream, she was standing in the
south courtyard, surrounded by roses of the purest white. In the very
center, standing on top of the cistern, was Mytho, his hand closed
around a deep red rose.
“Where did that come from?” she asked, her voice nearly caught up in the sweet-scented wind.
He smiled.
“It is my life’s blood that dyed this rose for you, Princess,” he said, as
he held it out so that she could see the way it still dripped bits of
red onto its pale counterparts. A scream rose up in her throat, but the
breeze carried it away.
Rue awoke to the sounds of Duck tending the fire, the scraping of the hot
poker hitting her ears as if it were her own silenced scream. She
hesitated in rising, for a moment, contemplating if it would not be
better to go back to her dreams, in hopes of catching a glimpse of the
prophet, no matter how tainted. But the image of his stained skin
flashed across her mind once more, and she decided to rise, if only
because she could not stand such a vision again.
“Are you alright, princess?” her servant asked, brushing off her apron as
she moved to rise and help Rue dress. “I thought I heard you make a
noise just now.”
“It was nothing,” she said, turning away from her. Duck was the type of
person who said everything with absolute sincerity, so even if the
princess might allow her kindness rarely, she could not do so too often,
simply because she knew her weakness would not be taken advantage of.
“Oh. Um, well.” There was a brief pause. “What do you want to wear today? I
was thinking about that blue dress since it goes with your hair all nice
and well it’s a good winter color too I guess? At least that’s what
Pique--”
“White,” said the princess sharply, speaking as if she were not interrupting Duck at all. “I will wear white today.”
Flustered, the girl murmured something unintelligible, before busying herself with
laying out a white day dress for Rue to wear. For a moment, she
regretted being so snappish. Duck was the only person here who gave her
kind words and actions, and asked nothing in return. Even when she first
came to the castle gates, begging for work, all she asked is that she
would be fed a little, and given a place to sleep. It was that earnest
quality of hers that led Rue to accept her as her chambermaid, even when
the head of servants sought to turn the clumsy thing out.
Even so, she could not conceal her irritation, or her goosebumps, for long before the lack of a fresh chemise got to her.
“Hurry up!” she snapped. “I am quite cold.”
“I’m sorry, princess!” said the servant, holding up a clean chemise. “I was
having trouble finding the one you liked, with the roses on it.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered,” muttered the princess, a bit cowed by Duck’s
sincerity. She was forever doing her those small, meaningless
kindnesses, giving her those silly little smiles, as if they mattered.
When she was finally dressed and ready, she sent the girl away, and was left
alone to the idle work of a princess. Though it was not something she
would admit, even to this empty room, Rue was a bit sorry to see her
leave. But, of course, there was no reason for her to stay, nothing to
be done here, and an idle servant was a terrible one indeed.
Still, she felt quite reluctant to pick up her sewing, as she was very
terrible at it, and believed it ruined the soft and delicate hands for
which she was so admired. With nothing else to occupy it, her mind
turned again to the boy in the cistern, and the strange dreams which had
so plagued her the night before. As much as she wanted to only dismiss
them as nonsense, the uneasiness they instilled in her, even after
waking, was difficult to shake off.
Before the princess could become entrenched any deeper in these thoughts, a
curt knock came to her. Without looking up, she bade the visitor enter.
“It is your father,” came the familiar voice of Autor from the doorway.
Always mindful of his manners, he was careful not to cross the threshold
of her bedroom. “He bids you to see him.”
“You’ve seen him?” she asked incredulously. Father hardly allowed anyone but
herself and Drosselmeyer an audience with him, there was no way someone
like Autor would get to see him.
The young man seemed embarrassed.
“I have not seen him, no,” he admitted. “But Grandfather has asked me to relay this message to you.”
“Did he ask you, or a servant?” A smile was coming to her lips; the princess
did so love to mock him about his infatuation, to drive in the truth of
its impossibility to him. It made it easier for her, to keep him at
arm’s length. It reminded him that, powerless as she was against his
grandfather’s rule, she still retained her power over him.
“He asked me, Princess,” he said, his eyes narrowing at her familiar jab.
He held out his arm for her to take, but when she stood up, Rue strode
past him, not giving the young man a second look. Ever-persistent, he
followed along closely behind her.
“Might you have any idea what this is about?” she asked. It was very unusual
for Father to ask to see her, or anyone, really. He had been ill for a
very long time, and was always in such pain that he preferred to be shut
off from the world, and everyone in it. He only very rarely conferred
with Drosselmeyer on matters of state, and quite often he was so tired
he was willing to let the magistrate do as he pleased. To her, it seemed
as though the old man was abusing his position, but she would not dare
suggest that out loud, for it was most unfitting for a princess to have
an opinion on politics.
“Not at all,” Autor admitted. “Even Grandfather was very surprised about it.
He did tell me it might have to do with the warlords’ coming tonight.”
“Why would that have anything to do with me?”
He pushed up his glasses, his expression obscured.
“Isn’t it obvious? You’re expected to marry one of them. Surely you knew that much?”
“Of course I did,” she said quietly, making sure to look away from him. “But why should I be consulted on such matters?”
“What do you mean? Why shouldn’t you be?”
She smiled. Even after being here for over a year, he was still so naive.
“Thank you for taking me this far,” Rue said, abruptly stopping at the top of
the stairs leading to her father’s room. “I’ll handle the rest, if you
don’t mind. He won’t want you here.”
Autor nodded, bowing low before turning to leave. Hesitantly, she turned to
look at the ornate door of her father’s bedroom. The idea of entering
that place terrified her. In it was her father, a man once known for
placing the heads of his enemies on a pike, now withered and dying. But
there was no choice in the matter, so she steeled herself, and opened
the door.
Father’s room was completely dark, the only light filtering in from the cracks
between the boards on the windows. She had heard that the priests had
told him sunlight would worsen his condition, that only the blackness of
night could cure him.
Standing out in the shadows was her father’s white face, grown paler since she’d
last seen him. His lifted hand seemed like a raven’s claw as it
stretched towards her, but his red eyes still burned with the same
ferocity behind his coal-black beard.
“Kraehe.”
His voice rumbled and cracked, like two great stones moving against each
other. Once again, he had only called her by her title, her given name,
it seemed, all but forgotten.
“Yes, Father?” she said, hating the weakness in her voice, the way she
trembled as she approached the bed. He, too, hated it when she behaved
so frightened towards him, yet if she were any more bold it would be
seen as insolence.
“You are a princess, are you not?”
Of course, Father.”
His eyes narrowed, and she felt her chest suddenly tighten.
“Then why do you not behave like one?” he growled.
“Wh-what do you mean?”
“Don’t feign ignorance with me. I know how you’ve been conducting yourself
lately, wearing your hair around your shoulders, asking for kisses like a
coy barmaid.” He spat. “You disgust me.”
“Father, please, you misunderstand, it was only a joke, and--”
“So,” her father said, his voice black as the very fires of Hell, or so she imagines. “You admit to disobeying my orders.”
She stared at him helplessly, feeling smaller and smaller in that dark
room. He glared at her, as usual, interpreting her fear as disrespect.
“I-I’m sorry, Father,” Rue said, very quietly, hoping that perhaps enough
groveling, perhaps anything would make him stop staring at her with
those horrible eyes.
“You will not do it again, will you, Kraehe?”
Rue nodded furiously.
“I won’t,” she said around a lump in her throat. To her relief, he seemed
satisfied with that, waving his hand as he turned away.
“Leave me, then,” he said, tired. “I can only hope you will be more like a princess tonight.”
“Yes, Father,” said Rue, relieved to back out of the room and close the door.
She released a held breath, pushing down the terror that had built in
her throat.
--------------------
As the sun sank into the horizon, and a bitter wind moved over the forests
of the north, the princess returned to her bedroom, where her
bright-eyed servant was waiting for her, a soft gown of woven gold and
black in her hands. Rue let her white chemise fall to the floor, let her
hair be bound up in tight ringlets, her lips be smeared with red. When
she was finished, Duck said she was beautiful, but even she could sense
the uneasiness in her eyes.
She bid Duck leave her before she began the long procession down to the
dining hall, unwilling, for some reason, to let her kind servant see her
face as she walked down to what seemed like a grim trap. With each
brisk step, she felt a little more of whatever freedom she had slipping
away, replaced with the strangling duties of a princess.
The great hall was already packed to the brim, its bright walls echoing
with the raucous laughter of rough, ruddy-faced men, contrasting with
the pale, tired faces of their wives. Soon, Rue thought bitterly, she
would be among them. At the head of the long table was Drosselmeyer,
seated on an ornate, ebony-carved throne that should have held her
father, his icy, sickening grin near paralyzing her where she stood.
Autor sat at his side, and it was only the shy smile he offered that
compelled her to move forward.
He stood as she took her place next to him, his face falling as she again
refused his offered hand. There was already food on the table, a roast
pig, its severed, browned head stuffed full of pungent spices. Watching
the men around her tear into it, Rue suddenly did not feel very hungry.
“You look more lovely than ever tonight, Princess,” said Drosselmeyer, his
voice creaking like a worn building. She tried to manage a smile.
“Thank you, Chancellor,” she said graciously. “I do hope you will forgive my late arrival.”
“Oh, it is not late at all, my dear,” the old man said with a smile she did
not like. “In fact you’ve arrived just in time for the entertainment.”
“Entertainment?”
Drosselmeyer gestured grandly, in his typical fashion, and the great wooden doors
swung open, allowing a procession of guards to enter, clustered
together. In the center of their circle Rue could see a flash of pale
hair, and she felt the weight of dread drop like a stone into her
stomach.
The old Chancellor stood, the delighted air of a showman about him. The hall became silent.
“As you all may well know, this has not been a calm winter for us,” he
began. “Our cities have , been filled with unrest, anger, and even
sightings of that elusive and terrible beast, rebellion.”
There was a general murmur of agreement, although Rue doubted any of them had set foot in a city in the past six months.
“Our soldiers searched far and wise for the cause, the supposed prophet
whose fool notions religion have caused these uprisings. Quite
surprised, were we, to find he was no older than our own little
princess!”
As if on cue, the line of soldiers parted, revealing Mytho, his thin
wrists bound by heavy chains, clear-eyed and determined even in the face
of the jeers and taunts of the warlords. Rue felt suddenly ill. This
was not necessary.
“Amazing, that such a pretty face could incite such passion and conflict,” he
went on, strolling over to the prophet, who merely glared at him. “But
there is that old story about the face that launched a thousand ships.
And the people are not the only ones whose passions have been raised by
this face. Isn’t that right, Princess?”
All eyes turned to her, and Rue felt her face burn with shame. How foolish
was she, to think the events of that night would not leave the
courtyard.
“Oh my, I think we’ve embarrassed her. And yet the captain tells me you were quite eager to have him kiss you last night.”
There was laughter sounding from all around her, and yet all Rue could do was
try to smile good-naturedley at her tormentor. She caught Fakir’s eye,
watched his lips curl into a hateful sneer. Oh, he would pay for this
later.
“Well, now is your chance, little princess. Come and kiss him, this lovely prophet. Come taste the lips of a revolutionary!”
He spoke with a voice and face that left no room for refusal, and for the
first time, Rue felt that she was truly her father’s child. His
warrior’s blood boiled within her as she smiled sweetly and got up from
her seat, imagining with relish how great it would feel to take a sword
and plunge it into his aged breast.
The princess was assailed with hoots and jeers as she slowly, slowly
approached the prophet, soldiers silently parting for her as she broke
their ranks. She was pleased to see the fury written in the lines of
Fakir’s face, as impotent and useless as hers. The warlords grew silent
as she stopped in front of him. Perhaps they didn’t believe she’d do it,
she thought bitterly.
Mytho’s face was incomprehensible as ever, betraying only the tiniest hint of
fear as she took it into her hands. There was a spark of defiance in his
eyes, reminding her of the night before, of the fiery, beautiful
determination in them. In that moment, as her lips touched his, Rue
decided she would be defiant as well. She would enjoy this, even if it
was only a charade designed to humiliate them both.
He tasted as sweet as his voice, clear as mountain spring water. His lips
were soft and supple, trembling ever-so-slightly as her roving mouth
covered them. She felt her body heating up as she lost herself in his
gentle features, the world around them melting into the background. It
was a scarce few moments that seemed to last an eternity.
Mytho made a small sound against her mouth, and she released him, his spell
on her broken in an instant. She looked around, there was silence,
shock. She glared defiantly back at all of them, turned back to the
prophet. A touch of red dyed his lips where the paint on hers had
touched them, and suddenly, Rue felt very dirty.
Before she could even think, Fakir was next to him, an expression of utter
disgust on his face as led Mytho away. Before he vanished from the hall,
he looked back at her, just once, something gentle and tragic in his
doe’s eyes. As if he pitied her.