Disclaimer: Gail Carson Levine is the genius, not I. Ella and Char are her wonderful creations, not mine.
A/N: My first Ella fic – I always wondered how balanced, calm, sweet-tempered Char would react when he first read Ella's letter. This is the result of that little mind tangent. Hope you like – review and tell me what you think.
~ * ~
It was odd, Char reflected, that even the pounding of a horse's hooves couldn't drown out the beating of his own heart.
The horse – a beautiful chestnut-colored mare – rolled her eyes back at him and whuffed disapprovingly, and he realized that he was holding the reins so tightly that his knuckles were white. He took a deep, steadying breath and forced his fingers, one by one, to relax. It was hard.
This was ridiculous. He was heir to the throne of Kyrria. He had faced down ogres by the score without batting an eye. And he was on the verge of a nervous collapse because of a letter. A letter!
Just the thought sent a terrified jolt up his back. It was coming today. It had to be. It had most likely reached her by the middle of last week, and if she had replied with any degree of promptness, it would arrive with today's post. And while normally the idea of Ella being prompt couldn't be taken for granted, it was hardly the kind of letter you'd put off answering because you were feeling a bit lazy.
As he rounded a bend in the path, the trees before him opened up to reveal the Ayorthaian palace, its stone and marble walls glowing rose and gold in the sunset. He slowed the mare to a trot as he approached the stables, a well-kept cluster of buildings at the edge of the castle grounds.
A dark-haired and bearded man appeared at Char's elbow seemingly from nowhere, the suddenness of it making him start. He would never get used to the way these people sneaked up on him without a greeting. "Hello, Orello," he said to the groom, who responded with a courteous nod.
"Has - has the post arrived yet?" he asked, his heart drumming loudly in his chest, feeling like a prisoner waiting for his sentence to fall.
Orello shrugged, reflected a moment, then shook his head fractionally.
Char's shoulders slumped. "Oh." He dismounted, and couldn't stop himself from letting a few choice words escape under his breath as he handed Orello the reins.
Orello cocked an eyebrow and gave him a questioning look, a hint of an amused smile playing about his lips. Char couldn't suppress a weary, sheepish grin.
"It's nothing," he said, and groaned inwardly. Cecilia sounded more convincing when she played sick.
Orello just looked at him.
Char heaved a sigh and ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "I'm not fooling anyone, am I? Yes, I am expecting a letter, and yes, it is important…" Why, oh why did he always find himself talking endlessly to these Ayorthaians? Silence made speech seem awfully foolish. He needed to shut his mouth before he said anything he would regret. He looked at Orello guardedly. "And that's all I'm going to say."
Orello nodded understandingly. As he started to turn away with the horse, he grunted, "Woman?"
Char felt his mouth drop open. "Beg pardon?" he managed.
Orello turned back. "Forgive me, but it is rather obvious. Don't look so tragic, boy. I've seen that look on many a man's face, and always for the same reason. Women have a way of getting under your skin. I don't know who this girl is, but going out on a limb here" – his lips twitched – "I'd say that you don't have too much to worry about, your Majesty."
And with a polite nod, Orello led the horse away, leaving a very shocked young prince of Kyrria staring after him.
Did he really just…?
"Prince Echarmonte?"
Char blinked. "Y-yes - ?" he said vaguely, his eyes still on Orello's retreating back.
"Prince Echarmonte, by your leave: a letter for your Grace."
Orello vanished from Char's mind; in fact, he forgot that Orello even existed. All that existed to him at that moment was a square envelope stamped with the seal of Sir Peter of Frell in red wax, and the young servant girl who held it out to him.
She looked at him expectantly. He took a deep, shuddering breath, tried to say something to the girl, failed, and reached out with shaking fingers for the small envelope that contained his life and future happiness within it – or lack thereof.
Don't think that. She'll say yes. She'll say yes.
"Thank you," he managed to say, and nodded that the lass was dismissed. She curtsied and scampered off.
It's here.
He stood there motionless for another moment, the letter clutched in his hand, then sprinted for the castle, his long legs taking the stairs up to the main doors as fast as they could go. Once inside, he flew past open-mouthed denizens of the castle, taking the sweeping grand staircase three at a time (oh, what beautiful stair-rails it had), sped down more corridors, up another set of stairs, and threw open the door to his personal chamber.
It was a small room, with a four-poster bed in one corner, a bookshelf along the wall, a writing desk, and a chair by the fireplace. Char slammed the door, threw his cloak onto the bed, and dropped into the chair to read his letter at last.
He tore it open with feverish fingers – and paused.
He hadn't noticed it in his initial excitement, but the address was not in Ella's hand. Why on earth – might it have been the cook, Mandy? It made no sense. Who else would be writing to him? He pulled the letter out more slowly, his heart pounding almost painfully with a sudden, terrible feeling of dread.
My dear Prince Charmont,
Your latest correspondence with my stepsister was recieved
by my mother, Dame Olga, and myself. Ella and the cook, Mandy, were not here to
except it.
Ella is absent because she has eloped –
The letter fluttered to the floor from Char's suddenly lifeless fingers. He sat rigidly in the chair, staring at nothing.
Eloped – eloped – eloped –
The word echoed through his mind over and over.
No – no.
It wasn't true.
It couldn't be true.
She was joking. That was it. This was just one of Ella's fun little jests, and in the next paragraph she would take back the pen and tell him that she loved him with all her heart and yes, she wanted to marry him more than anything in the world.
He picked up the letter with numb fingers and continued to read.
Ella is absent because she has eloped, taking our cook with her. She left a
note which I have enclosed for your perusal.
You have been much decieved in her. It was her custom
to read your letters aloud to us and crow over them, thinking it a feather in
her cap to be writing to royalty, such as yourself.
For awhile, she had ambitions to be queen, but she dispared
of it and took another offer. She would go into one of her dreadful rages if
she knew the contents of your letter. I do not think she liked living on our
generosity, and longed to be able to lord it over us with greater splendor than
we could hope for, although we fancy that our stile is very fine.
Your letter arrived four days after her departure. I know because Demby had a ball that night, and Ella was greatly missed.
Her beaux turned to me for consolation, and I gave them the same advice I have
for you: Think no more of the minks, because she has already forgotten you.
I am sorry to dismay you, but I hope you will be consoled by the fond wishes of
this admirer.
Your angel of comfort,
Hattie
"No," he whispered. "You're lying, Hattie. She wouldn't – she didn't." He almost choked on his own rage. Char rarely became truly angry, but when he did, he frightened even himself. He wanted to kill her. If Hattie had shown her rabbit face in his room at that moment, he would have strangled her. He leaped to his feet with a shout of raw fury. "How dare you, you frightful excuse for a human being? Ella wouldn't – she wouldn't – you beast – you hid the letter from her, you must have!"
He flung the envelope to the floor; where it lay quietly, mockingly. He glared at it, and it gloated at him, daring him to read the slip of paper that had fallen out as he cast it to the floor.
Char felt himself turn pale. He didn't want to read it. As long as that last piece of paper remained unread, it was all Hattie's fault – treacherous Hattie, who had thought to trick him into hating Ella because of pure, malicious jealousy.
If he read it, he would know. Hattie didn't have the brains to pull off a convincing imitation of Ella's script and wit. It would seal his fate, one way or another.
He collapsed back in the chair, breathing heavily, his head in his hands. Don't read it, Char. Keep Ella's memory untainted. It's all an elaborate lie. Don't let yourself be fooled by a hateful, petty monster like Hattie.
He had to know. Silently, he reached out and picked up the note.
These are the first words I ever penned as a married lady. You know him, but I
shall not write his name, only that he is very old and very rich and lives far
from Frell. And he is fool enough to make me his
bride. Someday, and that day may not be long in coming, I shall be sole
mistress of a vast estate. I shall not write again, but look for me. When my
husband dies, I shall visit Frell. Should you spy a
carriage that surpasses all others, peer inside. You will find me within,
smiling at my jewels and laughing at the world-
Ella
He felt sickened, as though he had received a blow to the stomach. It was true, then. It was true. He couldn't comprehend it. Ella – lovely, light-hearted, clever, reckless Ella – his whole memory of her was a lie. Married? To an old rich man? The thought made him want to vomit. He read it over and over through a nauseating haze of despair, looking for some sign that Ella hadn't really written it. But it was so completely hers – the shape of the letters, the words… he could almost see her writing it, nibbling on the quill as she wrote with ink-spattered fingers, her black hair in tousled disarray from sliding down a stair rail…
With a tortured cry he leaped to his feet, hurled the letter into the fire and slammed his fist into the wall. His knuckles throbbed and bled, but he didn't care.
Ella, laughing with abandon as she flew into his arm and they twirled around…
"Minx!" he bellowed, and with one sweep of his arm he sent a whole row of books crashing to the floor.
He felt her hands on his as she demonstrated the correct way to hold a trout fork, saw the look of shocked concern on her face when she saw the rope burn on his palm… watched her twirl around with glass slippers gleaming on her feet, and smile…
"NO!" More books crashed to the floor. Not enough. He picked up the chair next to his writing desk and threw it against the wall. It splintered.
"The young lady must not dance alone." Apparently she very rarely did. "Her beaux turned to me for consolation." How could he have been so stupid? She had probably read his letters to her many suitors so they could all have a laugh…
"WHY?" he shouted. He felt icy. "Why, Ella?"
He spied the box of her letters he kept by his bed and seized it recklessly.
Ella taming the ogres – his terror that she could have been killed –
"I'll show you how much you mean to me," he snarled, and threw the topmost letter into the fire.
"Today I am too old to marry, a hundred at least. I have spent the last eighty years and more listening to a lady detail the pedigree of every dinner guest tonight."
You weren't too old or too young or too short or too hungry to marry that old nobleman.
Another letter in flames. He watched her words go up in smoke with fierce satisfaction.
Char lost track of time. When the last letter had shriveled into ash, he slumped back into the chair with an anguished moan. He buried his face in his hands and uttered a string of curses and tried not to think about what he had just done.
He had burned all her letters. The only lasting thing he had of her. They were all lies, but that couldn't change the way he felt. He loved her. Or at least, he loved who he had thought she was, and that was too precious to lose. He wanted them back. He wanted them back!
He choked back a sob. I will never see her again. And if I do, it won't be the Ella I thought I knew. She is gone. Forget her.
One night, when he was six years old, Char had run sobbing to his parents' room and blurted out a tearful description of a nightmare. They had comforted him and then the king had told him something he never forgot: that he must hide his emotions because a leader showed neither weakness nor fear. "The people have enough to cry about without you crying, too," he had told his young, wide-eyed son. "They need you to be strong for them, no matter how much fear or heartbreak you may be experiencing."
From that day to this one, Char had never shed a tear. But now angry tears streaked his face and his body shook with wrenching sobs.
He had never dreamed of this kind of heartbreak.
~ * ~
Far away, a dark-haired girl dressed in rags scrubbed at the floor as tears washed the soot from her cheeks.
~ * ~
Much later, Char sat up. He wiped the last of the tears from his cheeks, stood, and walked expressionlessly over to the mirror.
A freckle-faced young man stared back at him. He looked haggard, his tanned face drawn and pale and his tawny curls a rumpled mess. His face was hard, his hazel eyes bleak.
"I will never marry," he said.