Fendul 27, 762 KE IV

Avarel, Abarna

The world is made of glitter and glass.

It shimmers and shines, but when it's broken, it becomes sharp and painful. The world is usually broken, Moira thinks. Even in this pretty ballroom, everyone dressed up in silks and rich brocades, smiles on their faces... there's a glitch in the world, something hollow.

And yet, it keeps going, keeps moving. Moira wishes it would just stop.

Give her a moment to breathe.

She stands behind the curtain, its rich emerald damask embroidered with sea foam and white ships--tri-masted sloops, their sails torn but high, the symbol of the mighty Sea Kingdom of Abarna.

Moira stares and stares at those ships, matching the ones embroidered on her white velvet skirts in pale cream, and tries not to think about what it all means.

Her whole life, she's been groomed to stand here, groomed to bear this weight on her narrow shoulders. It's never felt heavier than it does right now.

She can't believe that three days ago, she was looking forward to this.

Now it feels... unreal. Like she's detached from her body, hot and cold at the same time, her heart pounding in her head rather than her chest. Her head feels almost weightless, stuffy. Moira's gloved hands rest atop her thick skirts, and she wonders how it is that she's managed not to snatch at them, not to bunch and crumple them.

Sweat slides down her back beneath her corset.

Like a finger...

No! She quickly forestalls the rush of images that try to rise, quickening her breathing.

She isn't quick enough to stop the heat from rising to her face. She's sure everyone can see that she's the color of a ripened tomato, and struggles not to lift her hands to cover her cheeks.

By Oes, she needs help. She needs someone to take a cleaning rag and rub it over her mind.

She can't get those eyes out of her head... the way he looked at her, the way he said her name, the way he touched her--

She needs to stop. Oh, she really needs to stop.

Melia, Great Goddess, help me! Moira sends up a silent prayer, begging for whatever the Goddess will give. She tries to calm her breathing, telling herself that if she can only make it through tonight, everything will work out.

"Are you ready, m'Lady?" A calm voice comes from her left, and Moira turns her head to see Senestan standing there, looking very uncomfortable in his formal green and white livery. The trident symbol of the House of Ward gleams silver over his left breast pocket.

"Yes," she says, her voice calm, betraying none of the turmoil within--just as she's been trained her entire life.

Senestan's green eyes flick to her, filled with the dry humor he often struggles to keep sealed behind his crooked lips. "It'll be alright, Miss," he murmurs, low enough that the Guards and the Royal Herald won't hear.

Moira takes in a calming breath, letting the words wash over her as if they're a gift from Gwin, sent by Melia Herself to offer aid in an answer to Moira's prayer.

She gives Senestan a small smile before schooling her features into calm composure again. He's right. It will be alright. No one will find out what she's done. She can easily come up with an excuse next year when one will be needed.

For now, she only needs to focus on what's directly in front of her, the next few hours. The party spread out in front of the curtain, gilded attendees laughing and dancing and clinking their champagne flutes together as if this is their accomplishment, and not Moira's. Or rather, Moira's father's, as the Duke of Ward gave his blood, sweat, and tears to get Moira where she is now.

Not that she ever asked him to. Not that she ever asked for this.

But Moira has never had much of a choice when it comes to what her father wants. She doesn't mind overmuch, really. She knows he wouldn't do anything to harm her, so if this is what he thinks is best, then...

Perhaps she'll even be happy someday. That's all Moira can hope for--all any woman born into the High Noble houses can hope for these days. Some people say that it used to be different, that in some kingdoms it still is--marriages are chosen, not arranged. Weddings are a symbol of love, not convenience.

Among the lower classes--and even the Lower Houses--she knows that some people still view it that way. For her, though, and for the Royals... it will never be. Love is just a fantasy, and one Moira isn't even sure she believes in.

That's the least of her worries, anyway. She doesn't need love, just a way to move forward with the rest of the world. She would very much like it if something could pierce this hollow feeling in her chest, but...

Perhaps it will come later.

For now, she needs to focus. Tonight, she'll meet her husband-to-be for the first time. Tonight, the whole of the Sea Kingdom will learn her name. Tonight she is Blessed by Melia and all the Great Goddess's Delegates, smiled upon by His Majesty the King.

She should be ecstatic.

Three days ago, she almost was.

Now there's a sea serpent coiled in her gut, her hands are shaking, and her mouth is dreadfully dry.

If they find out what she's done...

No. She needs to stop thinking about it.

Most importantly, she needs to stop thinking about him. He's gone. He told her he would be, and he was as good as his word.

She doesn't know why she suddenly wishes he'd spirited her off along with him. She has never once balked at this life chosen for her, never once wished for another path. Now, though...

She wonders if any man will ever be able to look at her the way he did. If her husband-to-be will be able to make her feel the way he did.

And these are traitorous thoughts, treasonous thoughts. Moira needs to stop. She needs to focus.

She needs to breathe.

"Off we go," Senestan says, a hand on her elbow to propel her forward, closer to the Royal Herald--a thin, weasley man who has been sniffing up mucus for the past twenty minutes, as if he's never heard of a handkerchief. "Smile, Princess."

Princess.

Moira knows most women covet the title, and the man she's been betrothed to. Most of the noble ladies of the Court whisper about her behind her back, eying her with jealousy. It's never bothered Moira.

But she's never really wanted to be the Princess, either. It's not as if anyone will care what she says even once she's Queen. It's her husband who will have all the power.

Moira is only here to bear his sons. She's never minded that before, either.

But now...

The Herald clears his throat, and Moira lets the sound fill her head to avoid the thoughts swirling around there. Focus.

Moira schools her features into submission, a small smile playing around her mouth--polite, always unfailingly polite and tactful and diplomatic.

The Herald sniffs one last time, the sound lodging in the back of Moira's throat grotesquely, then steps out from behind the damask curtain and bangs his staff three times on the ground. Each heavy, loud thud is like a hammer blow, sending Moira's heart into a frenzy.

She focuses on her breathing. In, and out.

In, and out.

Not like that! Her face heats again at the thought, the memory it brings.

"It's dreadfully hot," she comments to Senestan, if only to provide herself with an excuse for her flaming cheeks. By Oes, she has to stop thinking of him!

"I think they do that to make us uncomfortable on purpose," Sensetan agrees, leaning a little closer to whisper the words.

Moira's lips twitch, closer to a real smile, and she's grateful to her long time retainer.

"Allow me to introduce," the Herald bellows, his usually nasally voice now thick and full-bodied, spreading over the ballroom. The nobles hush, their faces turning toward the curtain. Toward Moira.

Her palms sweat within the confines of her silken gloves.

"This evening's Guest of Honor," the Herald continues, "Her Ladyship the Baroness of Wingate, first daughter of the Duke of Ward, Betrothed of Crown Prince Jaron Nessicar, Princess Morika Hilde Wyrvien!"

The titles settle like stones in Moira's gut, but she forces herself to smile and move past the curtain, daintily lifting her skirts, tilting her head so that a few chocolate curls fall over her bare shoulders becomingly. Her steps are graceful and sure, her shoulders back, spine straight.

Just as she's been taught her entire life.

Near the bottom of the staircase, her father watches with a self-satisfied, proud smile, his brown eyes on her as he applauds along with the rest of the ballroom.

Moira curtsies to the room, then carefully descends the staircase. She doesn't remember it ever taking so long before, to walk down these white marble stairs, to keep her chin high, her silk-encased fingers gliding over the balustrade. At the bottom, her ankles cry out in relief, her muscles quivering from the way she's been holding herself.

But it isn't over yet.

Moira takes her father's proffered arm, kisses his cheek, and smiles serenely at the crowd which parts for them as they walk along the emerald carpet stretching from the bottom of the staircase to the raised dais at the other end of the room.

King Endin, Queen Bryn, and Crown Prince Jaron are all seated on their marble thrones. The smaller throne to the right of the Queen is empty, since Princess Jenelle has been dreadfully ill this past year. Since it was sickness that killed the younger Prince, Byron, no one is taking any chances with the Princess's health.

Moira keeps her eyes on the edge of the dais as she moves forward. Her father leans close, his breath on her ear, and whispers, "Well done. Don't disappoint me."

She won't. Moira never disappoints her father.

Or she didn't, until recently.

But he won't find out about that. No one will ever find out about that.

"Of course not, Father," she murmurs, the words barely audible, her mouth barely moving. His grip on her tightens a bit to show that he's heard, even as he nods to his longtime friend and fellow Duke, Lord Kristian.

When they reach the dais, Moira curtsies while her father bows, both low.

"Rise," King Endin says, his tone formal. Black hair sweeps back off his stern, harshly planed face, held in place by a silver circlet embedded with mother of pearl and emerald.

Moira gracefully straightens, subtly using her father's arm for support, if only because her muscles won't stop quaking.

She can feel their eyes--the eyes of the nobles, of the servants, of the Royals. Most heavily, she feels the eyes of Prince Jaron, her husband-to-be. Her betrothed, whom she has already cheated on.

She wasn't ashamed until this moment.

Moira keeps her eyes on the floor, struggling not to flee the room. She isn't worthy of standing here. She isn't worthy of the honor the King pays her when he says, "Welcome to my House, Princess Morika."

But she curtsies again and responds as is the custom, her voice betraying none of the writhing, aching shame in her gut. "Thank you, Your Majesty."

"Let the festivities begin!" The King calls, his tone almost jovial. The party will last a month, Moira knows, this ball only its formal beginning. Troupes and Players have been brought in from all over the Continent and even now line Avarel's streets, bedecked with ribbon and lace in Abarna's green and white colors. Tomorrow the castle gates will be opened and those Troupes will walk through the halls, the main courtyards open to the common folk. There will be merchant stalls and games and carnivals and dances.

Moira feels sick. All of this, because of her, and she...

She quickly shakes off the thoughts. Focus.

The nobles applaud again in response to King Endin's words, and Father recedes into the crowd, his place taken by Prince Jaron, who has come down from his throne to stand before her. Moira feels him take her hand and kiss the back of it, his lips firm and featherlight.

Her cheeks flush again, and she hopes it will be passed off as nerves or girlish vapors as she lifts her eyes to the Crown Prince.

She curtsies again, and he bows, his expression one of polite, polished interest--a perfect mask, identical to her own. Like his father, Prince Jaron's hair is coal black--but where the King's eyes are obsidian, his son's are a light brown, like molasses sugar. They crinkle at the corners as he smiles down at Moira, but the expression doesn't reach their fathomless depths. A game, that's what this is.

Moira gives him a polite smile in return and tries to squash the serpent in her stomach. Focus. She needs to focus.

He'll never know. No one will ever know.

Prince Jaron tucks Moira's arm into his elbow and they face the nobles, who are all wearing smiles--some genuine, others saccharine, others obviously forced. The girls Moira once called friends huddle in a cluster near the musicians, their smiles razor sharp.

Moira feels very alone, suddenly, in this ballroom full of people.

Glass, she thinks again. The world is made of glass, and if she isn't careful, it will shatter, leaving only painful slices in her heart.

They'll never know, she tells herself again, even as her husband-to-be leads her into a waltz to the applause of the gathered nobles. She looks into his brown sugar eyes, glazed over with the usual expression of polite observation, and tells herself to smile genuinely. To make the best of this.

To try, if only for the sake of the future, to make a friend of the man she's already betrayed.

She'll never deserve him.

But she smiles anyway.