Ah, oneshots. I never tire of writing them. Haven't done much with The Twelve Dancing Princesses, so I decided to write one for them. Enjoy and review!
She watches him quietly from her bed, gazing through the gauzy white screen that separates him from them. Her jaw is clenched and her head is high, eyes coal black. She's proud, everyone knows it, and everyone says so. But they don't know everything. They see her straight back and tilted chin, or they hear her biting remarks, and they look away. They don't look her in the eyes, not ever. If they did, they might see something different. But she doesn't need them, she doesn't care.
Now she is puzzled, watching him as a different specimen, something strange. She doesn't know what to make of him. She can't see him very well, can just barely make out his features, so different from...them, the princes of the night. His jaw is strong, but not hard. His hands are big, rough likely, from hard, honest work. She knows he was a soldier once, a brave man, if perhaps a bit broken from the battles he'd fought.
The screen billows in the cool wind that floods in through the open window, moving aside for just a moment, so she can see his face better. He glances towards her, smiles slightly. There are wrinkles at the corners of his mouth. His eyes are brown, soft. Not the cold, emotionless blue that she's grown accustomed to.
She wonders, for a fleeting moment, if he knows how to dance. But surely not. Not as well as her prince that she danced with each night, with his light, smooth steps. He was beautiful, too—far more beautiful than this simple soldier. Her prince had fair, smooth skin, eyes like pure sapphires, hair as dark as the night. And the way he looked at her—she shook away the shiver that seemed to slide involuntarily down her spine. He adored her. He was nothing to fear.
He'd walked with her through the trees that grew gems on them, sparkling and glinting in the dim moonlight. They were colorful, like the prisms her tutors had shown her those years ago, shooting out rainbows at any hint of light. He'd rowed her across the lake, that dark lake that shone like an onyx. It reflected the moonlight, faintly, or floated with mist that shown with an eerie light. It was beautiful. Strange maybe, but beautiful still.
But then, after the lake, when he danced with her, everything strange or frightening had become worthwhile. When he danced with her, she felt alive. In his arms, she floated, whirled, and turned, like a leaf drifting in the current down a river, or flying on the back of some wild wind. It felt like a dream, a wondrous, lovely dream, but real, more real than anything she'd ever felt.
She's loved dancing forever, ever since she was a child. Before they were confined to the palace, by a worried and overprotective father, before they were locked inside for hours and hours, she'd danced beneath the huge trees in the forest. She'd run out, early in the morning, when the first rays of the sun were just barely filtering through the green canopy. There, beneath the towering leaves and branches, she'd dance. Feet stepping lightly and quickly, her skirt twirling out around her, arms waving, hair flying. She loved it. That was how she felt, when she danced with her night prince.
But then there were the slippers. She slips her hand beneath the silken sheets of her bed, takes out the last ruined pair. They were worn through, hardly more than threads now, ragged and torn. They were bloodstained, too. Her feet never used to bleed from the dancing, but lately something had changed. The dancing was faster, harder, wilder. The quick steps cut her, scraped her, sliced her, until she felt like she was walking on glass.
She couldn't rest ever, not even when she started bleeding. Her prince wouldn't let her, not even when she left a trail of blood wherever they went, not when hot tears started slipping down her cheeks. He'd wiped them away, though, with his white hand. She'd been surprised by how cold it felt, like ice to her bare skin.
She looks at him again, the soldier. The screen had gone back into its place, and he fixes his bedroll behind it. His hands work quickly, finishing the job in no time. For a moment, she wonders if his hands are warmer than her prince's.
It doesn't matter, though, she'll never feel them. He is a simpleton, a commoner, as plain as they come. She wouldn't want him to touch her, a princess. He might soil her perfection. And he certainly won't find their curse, she'd be sure of that.
She reaches into her pocket, filled with white lace, to finger the small packet of powder. He wouldn't wake up tonight, if he ever did. The one before him hadn't. He'd slept all night and through the next day and several others. Then, just yesterday morning, he'd been found to be dead, cold and lifeless. She hadn't known, she didn't think—but it wasn't her fault, she had to keep their secret safe. The dancing, it was the one thing that made her feel alive. If they took that away, she'd be dead again, just like the man who'd died.
She'd felt the blood on her hands, though, when they'd attended his burial. She'd stood and watched him be put in the ground. Her sisters had looked at her, not saying anything directly, but she could hear their whispers, feel their eyes on her. The cold wind had seemed to whisper at her, too, Murderer. She'd spoken to her prince about it; he'd been the one to give her the powder. She flied out against him, nearly screaming. He only smiled darkly and brushed his lips to her hand, leading her to dance.
She wonders now if he'll die, too, and she'll be responsible for the end of another life. Maybe if she didn't give him as much, only put half of the powder in—but then he could wake up, he could follow them, he could stop their dancing. She couldn't be confined inside again, not allowed into the fresh air, not allowed to dance. Stuck inside, with the stares of people who didn't understand, with the screams in her head, lashing out against her father, against the walls that trapped her, against the world.
He'd marry one of them, if he found the curse. Maybe—maybe he'd pick her. Maybe he'd take her out into the world, into the sunshine, into the forest. Maybe she could dance again, under the trees at morning, maybe he'd dance with her. Maybe he'd understand. Her lip almost trembles, thinking of it.
He is a simpleton! she reminds herself, a commoner! Even so...he might not show her jeweled trees, or an onyx lake, but if he loved her...
"Adria."
She glances up. Carissa stands next to her, her voice hinting of a reprimand, or at least a reminder. She glances towards the window, indicating the darkening sky. The first stars are already glittering on the horizon. It is time.
She nods, sucking in a shaky breath of cool air. She slides off of the bed and walks to her nightstand. A pitcher of water is there, cool for drinking. She pours it into a glass that was there as well, and quickly takes the powder from her pocket and dumps it in, making sure her back is covering any view of it. It mixes through the water easily, swirling a bit in white tendrils, before returning to simple, clear look of normal water.
She walks quickly to the screen, pushing it out of her way. She steps through as it lazily falls back to its position, catching the air as it drops. The man glances up at her quickly, questions in his eyes. "Hello," he says, raising his eyebrows at her slightly. He smiles, though, kindly. His eyes seems to light up, his whole face, really. He has a slight accent, the type that is common on the borders, with a slight lilt on the last syllable.
She purses her lips. She doesn't want him to die. She glances through the screen. Her sisters are watching her, carefully. They'll blame her for his death, no doubt, but they'll never forgive her if he found them. She squares her jaw, straightens her back.
"A drink, before you sleep," she says, holding it out to him, with all grace and refinery—coldness really, but that is how she was. Proud, strong.
He stands up and takes it from her, looking in her eyes, intently. "I'll drink it if you smile more," he says gravely, though the corners of his mouth crinkle.
She balks, nearly, completely losing her poised demeanor. She hadn't expected—no one had ever—she doesn't know what to think. She bites her lip. "I—I—I'd rather not, sire," she speakes quickly, stutteringly, and steps through the screen again, racing to her own bed and hopping onto it. It bounces beneath her, before she sinks into it, staring upward at the ceiling.
When he smiled at her—it was a hundred times better than her night prince, or the jeweled trees, or the onyx lake. He looked into her eyes. He is...bright—he seems like the sun in comparison to her world down there, or her dark mind. She feels that he would dance with her, in the morning, beneath the emerald trees.
But she'd given him the drink. He'd said he'd drink if she smiled. She hadn't, but—still. He'd probably still drink it. She'll probably watch him die, just like the last, and know she could have stopped it. She can only hope that not smiling would maybe, just maybe, make him thing that something was wrong with it. If not...well, she'll still have her dancing, her dancing, her jeweled trees and onyx lake, and her prince of the night.