Fantasy Gilded Lily

[sollie]

beatrice arden

princess of minerva

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  .V1LLAINISM._ !

  
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irritated

PALACE OF SORTITH, ILMÁN

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duty; heavier than a mountain. death; lighter than a feather.

Beatrice Arden had felt fear twice in her life: once when she lost her way in the woods as a child and spend a day and a night shivering and alone; and then again, the morning of the Winter Solstice, as the geild Palace of Sorith was being prepared for guests like it had never seen before. If she had to choose… She knew which of the two she would’ve preferred. The choice, however, was not hers.

Life spurred inside the warm palace as every maid, cook, and servant in the Palace worked to prepare the grand structure for its influx in visitors. Though the Grand Palace was thought to be the jewel of Minerva, a wonder of the world, its tall walls and high defenses acted to discourage any visitant from even daring the thought of entry. Foreigner or citizen of Minerva, few came in and few came out of the Palace on the mountain. The day it opened its doors to the royalty of the many realms was a historic one.

For days, the palace made preparations in each room of the large structure, fires burned, emitting heat and warmth throughout the halls of the Palace of Sorith, and the smells of cinnamon, patchouli, and honey wafted about from the kitchen. And all of it clattered about and stirred the heir to the Minervian throne from her peaceful slumber.

“Your highness, you cannot sleep a moment longer… lest you wish your mother to chide you awake.” A woman’s voice pierced Beatrice’s ears, but the dark harried woman groaned and rolled over. It was far too early for all the fuss. Even her early morning training didn’t commence until much later. Silence rolled over the dark room and for a fleeting moment, Beatrice thought her protests had been met with agreement. But the light that pervaded her eyes destroyed her fantasy of prolonged rest. Tearing the covers from her body, Beatrice offered a sharp look to the older woman that stood tying the long curtains back. She was likely the only person in the palace that did not cower to the harsh glare of the princess.

“My dear Beatrice, you’ll wrinkle your forehead if you continue making that expression. Now, up you go. There is a big day ahead. The Queen requests an audience before our guests arrive this evening.” Beatrice could have groaned again. Her mother knew precisely how she felt about this silly charade she was planning. It was all an act. To appease the lesser kingdoms by attempting to marry her daughter, soon to be the most powerful woman in all the realms, to some menial suitor. In all their acts of war, this was a pathetic excuse for an apology. If it was even that. Her mother greatly underestimated her if she thought there was any chance Beatrice Arden would be used as a pawn to prevent revolution.

After a moment of silent contemplation, Beatrice swung her legs off of the side of the bed. Her feet recoiled at the cold touch of the floor, but it only took a moment to adjust. No matter how much wood was burned, parts of the palace would stay ice cold. “My mother only wants to warn me of the consequences should I not behave, Mary.” Her sharp words were not directed at the other woman in the room, but her mother. Stretching her arms high above her head, she slumped. “Twenty-one years I have been taught to protect myself from those that I do not know. And yet… Twenty-one years later, she opens her arms to dozens of them; all in the guise of peace! HA!”

Mary approached with a tender look. The older woman had served as governess for Beatrice as well as her mother– she’d seen two heirs grow and flourish and transform into the powerful women they were. Reaching out, she placed a careful hand on Beatrice’s arm. “Queen Edolile only wishes the best for you. When your time comes to take the crown, you must have a strong partner at your side to support you.” Beatrice clicked her tongue in disagreement, shaking her head and shrugging Mary’s hand off, turning from the woman. “Leave me. Now.”

❅ ❅ ❅​

Though the Palace of Sorith had sent out a grand invitation to those of the highest ranking in each Kingdom, the process of entry was not one of welcome and glee. Minerva’s iron defenses were not only something of legend. The journey to Ilmán was long and arduous. It was unforgiving to those ill prepared and unapologetically took the lives of those unfit to travel the distance. Despite the assistance sent from the Palace, the day's journey to the capital city of Minerva would take a toll on all of those wishing to gain entry.

They would be welcomed into the Palace after their long journey, after being inspected meticulously, searched, and questioned if necessary, to a warm bed, a feast of kings, and gifts from the crown of jewels and furs. The King and Queen spared no expense for the comfort of their guests and the grander of the festivities. Wealth and overindulgence would represent the long awaited courting season of their only daughter, while the common persons faced a brutal winter. But the sprawling city of Ilmán would stay docile, for they feared the wrath under Edolile’s rule.

The festivities of the Winter Solstice would not just last one day, but many weeks, as the potential matches for the Princess vyed at the chance of a powerful throne and title– King of Minerva.

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© weldherwings.

 

[.V1LLAINISM._]

Arian Thakur

the prince of promise

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  sollie

  
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thoughts being thunk

The Sea of Swans

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Crowned by an overture bold and beyond.

It is said that a mother’s love can be most deadly, most fatal to the offspring. In the worst of times she is able to dive a blade under the flesh and in between the bone, twist the cold metal until the blood pours red and the air grows thin. And as his gaze falls upon her now, as he watches how her frail body crumbles to its knees, hard against the floors of an old abandoned temple, he falls a victim of maternity.

“Please… Please don’t go I beg of you”

A tender voice, softer than satin dampened by the tears of heartache, of love reaches for the ears that will not listen, a will that will not bend. A hand clutched to her chest, as if it physically pains her, the memory of a kinder past lying beneath quivering fingers as they clasp around a pendant. How cruel kings can be.

“Arian”

He looks away, unable to meet reality where it sits beneath the dancing flames. His thoughts race almost as fast as his heart.
Do you see what you’ve done? they hiss, you’ve made your mother cry.

“Please…”

The sting of tears burn into the corners of his eyes and his lips twitch as he whispers, gaze glued to the cobblestone floors. He whispers because he knows that he might break, cower under the pleading voice of his giver. He whispers because he too, is afraid. Afraid of what will become of him, but also, of what he will become.
He does not wish to be cruel, but he must. He must.

“It is my duty, mother. For Avilar”

He reprises. A phrase practised time and time again, forced from the throat of his father and his father’s father, now the protectors of ruin. Of their own Valhalla.

In silence they weep, close enough to touch but unable to meet one other, to unite past the borders of duty and obligation. He is certain that he has broken his mother’s heart, just as she has broken his. He feels rotten, but he cannot change the fate that has been sworn to him, and she, she cannot save that who does not wish to be saved. And so they weep.

To watch your mother become a shell is no simple thing, but to watch your son become the villain? It is hardly a consequence that can be beared.


❀𖧷❀


The salt of the open sea was a jarring reminder that Prince Arian, despite his common frivolity, was committing to something far grander than his being. The prince of promise they called him, destined to take back what was rightfully in his blood, avenge all of what Avilar had lost. Rekindle their power, fuel the flame that gasps in wait. Duty weighed heavy like a cross against his back, but his people, his home bore a pride so large in him that no sea was too barbaric to conquer, no kingdom, no person. Blood is temporary but power, power can last forever.

“- Are you not afraid?”

A voice, gentle and sweet, approached the deck from behind. Arian watched as the waves folded into one another, how they embraced, danced and sang in each other’s arms, his face contorted into an expression of thoughtful uncertainty. Was he making the right choice? Was it too late to turn back? He waged wars with himself internally, wrung his hands behind his back until his wrists grew sore, before being torn away and pulled back into reality.

A cheekish, half-smile draped itself over his lips and he spared his companion a brief glance before returning his gaze.

“Not nearly half as much as you are”

The royal poked at his young squire, Amir, a brother that never was.
The boy rolled his eyes and gave the prince a playful shove, feeling his worries dissolve under his commander’s teasing voice. His gaze turned toward the sea, mimicking Arian’s stance as all younger brothers do, and they watched the tides turn together, sunset splayed over the horizon.

“I’ve heard it’s mighty cold- the frost can blind you!”

“-That’s what we brought the furs for, Amir”

A welcomed silence washed over them, the only sound being the sails that flapped lazily against the cool breeze and the soft waves that recoiled and returned, a moment that Arian savoured. It was going to be mighty cold, the frost was going to blind him and he was far from excited by the fact. Of all the kingdoms, of all the paradises in the world it just had to be Minerva- perhaps the iciest, most bitter of all, and with a stoic princess to match.
He mused to himself, recounting the many horrified tales told by the old council, advisors grown far beyond his years, afraid of a tiny woman and her stormy temper.

“She can be cruel”

They’d warned him,

“And so can I”

He’d responded.

Ah the old fools, he was going to miss them for however long it took to complete -what was in his mind- nothing more than an inconvenient outing, an errand.


“Prince Arian?”

The squire spoke once more,

“Hm?”

“Do you ever wish that things could be different?”

The question made the pleasant smile fall from the prince’s face, and the boy watched warily, thinking he’d overstepped. Amir cursed to himself internally, the nervousness from before weaving back onto boyish features — gulping in wait.

Does he ever wish that things could be different?

Arian was told of a time before his home quivered under the rays of the cruel sun, when the buildings did not threaten to crumble, when the people did not have to barter, when glory still remained upon the horizon, like jewels glimmering beneath the sands.
Arian was told of a place that, before the Great War, lived in harmony with her neighbours, drinking from the same goblet of another, sharing hand in hand the beauty of difference. Of course he wished that things could be different, but more so, he wishes they could be the same as they once were, before greed turned the man cruel, before he would have to become cruel.

The death of a bond is no easy thing to return from, but the death of a nation is almost insurmountable.

“I suppose we all do, Amir”

He answered softly, tenderly

“We all do.”​

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[sollie]

beatrice arden

princess of minerva

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displeased

Palace of Sorith

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duty; heavier than a mountain. death; lighter than a feather.

The heavy door of Beatrice’s quarters swung shut behind Mary’s fleeting form, allowing the princess a moment of peace before her audience with the Queen. Moving from the door, she ran a hand through her hair, shaking her head in distaste for the weeks that would follow. The Winter Solstice brought a time of joy to the Ilmán and to its inhabitants but all Beatrice felt was annoyance. Approaching the ornate mirror that sat across from her bed, she stared at her reflection, running her fingers delicately through her dark locks. In a few moments, there would be a plethora of staff rushing in to dress her, plait her hair into intricate designs, and shove her into uncomfortable shoes. If it was up to her, which it most certainly was not, she would spend the day in her nightgown and robe, avoiding those that wished for her hand.

As if right on cue, a quick knock on the door alerted her to the arrival of her crowd. “Your highness?” Spoke the soft voice of Vivian, who worked as her tailor and dresser. Beatrice thought it was too much, but Edoilie insisted Vivian do the work herself, rather than hiring another to fit her into the hand crafted gowns. “Come in.” She called flatly, turning from the mirror to face Vivian and the women that entered with them. In tow, they carried a thick red dress, decorated with delicate lace and hand stitching. Wordlessly, she took a step forward, turning on her heel and retreating to her dressing area, where the soft-spoken women and her helpers followed.

They worked in tandem, silently pulling white undergarments onto Beatrice, cinching an unbearably tight corset, adjusting the cotton underdress before tugging on the main garment, which weighed heavily on Beatrice’s tight form. Despite her disdain for the events that were to follow in the evening and coming weeks, she could not deny the beauty of the dress. Her hands brushed the lace and jewels on the dress, admiring the craftsmanship in them.

“Your highness, is it fit to your liking?” Vivian asked, looking at her expectantly.

She wanted to scoff but held her tongue. The seamstress searched for validation and praise whenever she dressed her and it was tiresome to the princess. Vivian knew how talented she was but it was undermined by her pathetic need for adulation. Beatrice had half the mind to send her away and replace her, but her designs were so beautiful and her stitching so clean that it swayed her against ridding herself of the irritating woman.

“It’s fine, Vivian.”

“F-fine?” Stammered Vivian. “Could we improve anything? I am more than willing to–”

“If you’re looking for a compliment, you know very well you will not find it in me. Now stop groveling.”

Beatrice stepped down from the dressing pedestal, shifting her body to adjust to the weight of the dress. As it was the dead of winter, the fabrics used were much heavier. While the castle often felt warm enough, the addition of wool and cotton in clothing made it much more bearable. With dressing out of the way, there were a few more items to attend to. One of which involved her mother. The details of the soirée were relatively private, kept from Beatrice likely in fear their daughter would revolt and reject the whole idea of it. It wasn’t an incorrect sentiment. When Mary let it slip Edoilie wished for her to marry in the coming season, eight vases were smashed in the aftermath. Beatrice wasn’t known for her gentle and steady temperament.

“Is there anything else you need, Your Majesty?” Vivian practically whimpered out. Her back was facing the seamstress, but Beatrice rolled her eyes regardless, wishing only to have faced the woman to show her the distaste. “No. I do not need anything else, Vivian. You are dismissed.” She commanded flatly.

Vivian and the other women quickly made their leave. Beatrice remained, with only her escort to the throne room lingering for her. With so many new visitors and guests, the King and Queen adjusted security protocols tenfold. Meaning… Beatrice was being surveyed throughout the day, all times of day. Wordlessly, the princess exited her room, making no time for small talk with the guard, who followed a few paces behind her.

Despite the best efforts to warm the Palace, the biting cold of Ilmán still seeped into the stone. Beatrice long since forgot to acknowledge it, as she presumed her body acclimated to it, as all from Minerva did. In the cold, it was adaptation or death. The weak froze to death, perishing in the snowy and desolate environment, or they pushed past their mortal desire for warmth and comfort and became strong, just as Beatrice had.

The business of the Palace mildly annoyed the Princess, maids and cooks and guards and servants running about to ready the Palace for strangers to invade her home. She couldn’t imagine the kind of feeble, inadequate suitors Edoilie and Kenelm welcomed into Minerva. To think the most powerful kingdom in the world would offer a hand to the meager royalty of the 11 kingdoms of Eldtrose… It was a dishonor on the people and history of Minerva, in Beatrice’s opinion. As she rounded the corner to the corridor leading to the great dining hall and throne room, a most unpleasant visitor graced Beatrice’s company.

“Cousin!” The grating voice of Wyot Arden already threatened to split Beatrice’s mind with a headache. “What a lucky surprise running into you?” And where Wyot Arden was found, Oscar Arden wasn’t far behind. The two bumbling idiots took the shape of her Aunt’s sons, barely to make themself useful to the kingdom, and with honorary titles in the kingdom's council to make them feel special. Humoring the two boys didn’t seem like another thing to add to her plate. Instead of stopping, she continued on, with the two boys meeting her on either side of her being.

Gods, kill her now.

“The big evening is swiftly approaching! You must be excited?” Gushed Wyot as he threw his arm over Beatrice’s shoulders. The twins were the only two imbeciles in all of Minerva that would dare touch Beatrice so haphazardly.

“Thrilled.”

“You sound thrilled, dearest cousin! It is a most special occasion. Mother recounted the tale of her Winter Solstice. The dashing story of how she met father. You must ask her to tell you one day. It is a most riveting story.” Oscar was next to throw his arm around her, the three walking in tandem towards the throne room. Her mother warned her that the boys wished nothing more than to have a spot in the Winter Solstice festivities, for a chance at winning the crown and her hand. But the only thing Oscar and Wyot had a chance at being was targets for her archery lessons.

Shrugging them off, she stopped abruptly, leaving the two boys walking, though they reeled back to return to her side. “You know what boys? I believe Mary informed me that your mother wished to see the two of you in the gardens for a very important word with you about the Winter Solstice.” Beatrice said, clasping her hands together, a forced tight smile plastered on her face. That caught their attention. “You must hurry. I’m sure it was very important by the sounds of it…”

“You’re right, cousin. We must make haste brother!” Wyot cheered eagerly, giving Oscar a look of knowing that made Beatrice’s stomach curl. If only she could send the two buffoons on an endless voyage in the Sea of Swains. “We will meet again, dearest Beatrice!”

She scoffed under her breath, shaking her head and continuing on her journey. One unpleasant family interaction, one to go. “Do warn me if those two are to get within a thirty feet vicinity of me?” She told the guard, who nodded curtly. “And inform anyone else who is on watch of that request as well…”

Any more interruptions and she might have lost her head. Thankfully, the remainder of her journey to the throne room was unbothered, the only noise being made the click of her heel against the hard floors of the Palace.

“No, no, no! This isn’t right!” A shrill voice echoed through the large, and ornately decorated room. “I said to the left, you fool! The Queen will not repeat herself again!” Ah, the sweet, understanding voice of her mother. “Mother,” Edolile spun on her heel, the sour expression shifting to one of delight at the sight of her daughter.

“My, my… Beatrice! Vivian outdid herself with this. It looks incredible.” Edolile smoothed the sleeves of the garment out, adjusting the ruby that lay on Beatrice’s neck. “You look so lovely, my daughter… This Winter Solstice will be perfect for you…”

Breathing a heavy breath, she tried being patient. But patience wasn’t a virtue she lived by. “Why have you requested an audience with me? An audience, mother?”

“There are plans to be made, things to be relayed… And I must inform you of all those on the guest list, of course!”

❅ ❅ ❅​

Beatrice and Edolile had been in the sitting room, with Beatrice listening to her mother prattling on about the ‘lovely suitors that would be arriving soon’ for nearly two hours. She went on and on about dinners, dances, special outings, all which would interpret Beatrice’s training schedule with the Guard. Fittings for new dresses, public appearances, calling sessions. It sounded dreadful.

“And of course, Kerith of Couria. Son of the King of Couria, he and his brother, Aren both will arrive this evening. Couria is known for its emerald trade, so perhaps they will gift you with jewels from their Kingdom…”

“Mother, may I stop you? As much as I enjoy hearing you talk about these strangers I’ve yet to meet, I would much prefer to meet them myself.” She pushed herself up from the chaise lounge, straightening her dress out. Beatrice could not tell her mother that what she truly preferred was not meeting them at all. They sounded like terribly boring company and a waste of her time. But Edolile would remind her of the importance of the Winter Solstice time and time again and she wished not to receive that lecture. Again. “I believe I’ll retire to my room until the evening–”

Just as she made her move to escape, a young man quickly entered the room. “Your Highnesses!” He exclaimed, nearly breathless. “The guests have begun to arrive!”

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© weldherwings.