Catelyn Winona
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Cinderella Doesn't Believe in Fairytales (pt 6)
🕑 Added 2022-11-04 18:04:53 +0000 UTCSummary: Cinderella finds her friend...and his real identity.
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“You kept your promise,” Cinderella says. She leans her head back to look into the dark canopy of the oak tree. The moon shines through the gaps in the leaves. The magic her friend carries with him slides through the branch. “I’m here.”
“You’re here,” her friend says. A wash or warmth drifts over Cinderella’s face, coaxing her eyes shut. “Don’t look at the magic.”
“It doesn’t hurt me,” Cinderella says. She closes her eyes anyway and smiles. “The dresses are beautiful.”
“I knew you’d pick the green,” her friend says. There’s a long pause. Finally, he says, “Thank you. For coming.”
How odd the words sound! Cinderella is never thanked. It makes her feel full, somehow. Confident. She wants to share the feeling with her friend. “Thank you for keeping your promise.”
There’s no verbal reaction from her friend, but she can tell he’s happy. The moonlight is warmer and the leaves rustle though there’s no breeze. “My pleasure.”
“My stepfamily is here,” Cinderella says after a moment. She smiles and stretches her arms out in front of her. “They look beautiful.”
“No, they don’t,” her friend says. She imagines he’d be curling his lip if he had one. His aura slinks around the tree. “One of them is wearing purple. Doesn’t she know better?”
“It’s lilac.”
“She’ll soon find out if that saves her from the Queen.”
If Cinderella were kind, she’d be concerned by that ominous promise. But Cinderella is selfish because she says, “You saw her?”
“…yes,” her friend says. The courtyard warms another few degrees. “I, er, haven’t told you everything about me.”
Cinderella raises her eyebrows and bites her tongue. She wants to say, we haven’t even exchanged names. Instead she says, “Like how you’re a human?”
“What?” His energy lashes. “Who told you that?”
“Nobody,” Cinderella says. What she can see of the magic through her barely open eyes is darker, responding to his emotions. Cinderella isn’t afraid even when it weighs on her lungs. She huffs a laugh. “I don’t think a tree could pick out dresses.”
Something odd happens then. Cinderella’s eyes are barely open like when first waking up. She can see the glimmer of magic through her eyelashes and the gentle light of the moon on the castle walls. Something seems to step out of the light like smoke solidifying. Her friend’s presence disappears all at once and, startled, Cinderella opens her eyes.
Not a boy, Cinderella’s first thought is.
The man standing in front of her belongs in the sun. She doesn’t know why she thinks that. His hair is as dark as the night sky above and his green eyes shine like stars. He’s beautifully structured, face drawn in broad lines and shoulders squared against her scrutiny. The coat he’s wearing is almost completely black. There are dark swirls of velvet across the lapels that look violet in the moonlight and his dress pants match.
Cinderella watches the way his hands twitch and then still. Rainbows of magic curl out from his back like wings and then fade into thin air as if they never were.
“I,” her friend says, “am not a tree.”
Cinderella surprises herself by laughing. There’s something so him in his first words to her. A little offended, a little embarrassed, a little too commanding. She smiles at her friend. “No, you are not.”
“You…aren’t mad?” Like she’s studying him, he studies her. His eyes flash from her expression to the easy way she’s holding her hands in her lap and he frowns. “Why?”
“Because we’re friends,” Cinderella says simply. She’s always known that they haven’t told each other everything. The important thing is that they know each other. “Friends learn new things about each other all the time.”
He stares at her. He is less easy to read than he was as a tree. There’s no warm energy dancing around her to interpret, no suspiciously timed breeze. He steps forward and then collapses onto the bench next to her like a puppet without strings. The line of his body against her arm is strikingly hot and he is very careful not to jostle her on the narrow bench. He throws a hand over his eyes. “You’re too kind.”
He says the word kind like a curse. Cinderella who is so tired of being kind, of being patient, likes the way he says it. She doesn’t like being accused of it.
“I am not,” she says tartly. It’s hard to look at him seated next to each other like this, but she does her best. She twists, her knees pressing against his, and sits at her full height so she can scowl directly into his face. “Take that back.”
Her friend peeks through his fingers. His lips twitch at the indignation on her face. “I didn’t say anything untrue.”
The almost-smile soothes the sting of her offense. Cinderella has to work hard to keep scowling. “Yes, you did. If I was kind I would be trying to pay you back for bringing me to the Capital and putting me up for a week and giving me a dress. But I’m not, see? I’m only taking.”
“That’s okay,” he says. He drops his hand and grins at her, leaning forward so that their noses are only inches apart. There’s a mean edge in the corners of his mouth that reminds her of winter. “So am I.”
A thrill runs down Cinderella’s spine. They’re so close and there’s a warm darkness in his words that flusters her. What does he mean? She’s the one wearing a dress she could only dream of in a place she couldn’t have dreamt. He hasn’t taken a thing from her, has he? Rather than ask, Cinderella nods firmly. “Good. Then it’s settled. We’re both taking and not paying the other back.”
“Good,” her friend echoes. He’s still close but he’s her friend again, that mysterious quality absent from his voice. He asks, “Have you been enjoying the ball?”
“Oh, yes,” Cinderella says. She’s relieved to be back on familiar ground. “Let me tell you everything.”
And she does. She tells him about Helga and how kind she was (“I’ll be sure to reward her efforts.”) and the coachman who told her the names of the nobles (“There’s no one better to ask for information.”). Her friend’s smile seems a little tight when she describes the dances and her partners (“I know of them. You enjoyed the dancing? That’s all that matters.”), but he also asks her about her favorite song to dance to and if she’s tried any of the food yet.
“I haven’t,” she says. She eyes him. They’ve been talking for half an hour and, as usual, he hasn’t said a word about himself. Usually she’d let that pass, but didn’t she want to change? Didn’t that voice inside of her tell her to ask? “You were in the ballroom if you saw my stepsisters. Did you try anything?”
“Not yet,” he says. He clears his throat and stands, offering her his hand. “Maybe we can try some champagne together?”
Somehow taking his offered hand is daunting. They’ve been sitting shoulder to shoulder, but that wasn’t a deliberate touch. She can still feel his warmth as she wrestles with her sudden embarrassment. Cinderella tries to keep her fingers from trembling when she takes his hand. “…yes.”
If he notices her hesitation, he doesn’t mention it. He gently helps her stand and then tucks her hand into the crook of his arm. “We can come back here later if you’d like.”
Cinderella looks over her shoulder as he leads her back inside. The oak in the middle of the flowers is beautiful and comforting. “I would like that. Later.”
“Later,” he says.
They walk down the deserted hall, side by side. Cinderella’s spent a lifetime keeping her footsteps light so as not to wake her stepfamily. She listens to the sound of his confident stride, ducking her head to hide her flush. His arm is strong under her fingers. Even through his jacket she can feel his warmth chase the chill away. She rubs her fingertips against the velvet details on the fabric. She struggles with herself. Ask. Don’t ask. Finally she says, “This is violet.”
His footsteps don’t falter and he doesn’t tense, but she can feel his aura flutter under her touch. “It is.”
“Violet is purple.”
“Is it?”
The ballroom is coming up. Cinderella stops before the light seeping through the entry falls on her. “Maybe you should go in first.”
He stops with her and catches her hand before she can let go of his arm. He doesn’t look at her, staring straight ahead. He swallows and asks lightly, “You don’t want champagne?”
“I do.” Cinderella can’t ask.
“Then we have to go in. That’s where the champagne is.”
“I know, but…” She can’t ask, but she can say, “Everyone will be looking for the Prince. He’s very late.”
Her friend’s jaw works and slowly, so slowly, his head turns to meet her gaze. “He has reason to be late,” he says. He had to meet someone very important.”
The way he looks at her tells her who he thinks is important.
There’s that thrill again, like there are butterflies in her stomach. Cinderella fights against a smile and loses. “I’m very important?”
The tension leaks from his aura little by little. “You are.” His eyes search hers. “You aren’t mad again.”
He’s the Prince. Cinderella doesn’t think she’s really processing the information. All she can see is her friend frowning at her, perplexed. She wants to smooth the wrinkle from between his eyes, but refrains. She’s not sure if it’s because the gesture would be too intimate for her or if it’s because it’d be improper to touch the Prince like that.
Oh, she thinks faintly. He’s the Prince.
“I don’t think I am,” she says. She looks back to the door to the ballroom. The music sounds sweet again, complimented by the clinking of glasses and silvery laughter. “I just…they’ll be looking for you. I don’t want to…” She trails off, embarrassed, and looks at the ground.
He takes it the wrong way. His mood darkens his eyes from a summer green to the deepest parts of the forest. “You don’t want to be seen with me.”
“No!” Cinderella jerks, eyes flying up to his. Her desperation to correct him makes her honest. “No, but Stepmother is here and she’ll—well, if she sees you, she’ll see me and I know she’ll see you.”
His aura brightens so quickly that Cinderella has to blink against the flare of magic. The Prince beams down at her. “I can take care of that. I did promise you, didn’t I? Your stepfamily won’t recognize you.”
She resists his lead when he goes to enter the ballroom. “Yes, but I don’t see how! You’re the Prince! The Prince! They’ll announce you and everyone will turn and I’ll be right there—”
The Prince snaps his fingers. The warmth from the meadow descends on Cinderella all at once, rolling over her like the sun does when it rises above the horizon. The Prince grins, rainbows swimming in his eyes. “There. Now only me will recognize you.” He laughs. “Why I didn’t have Helga do that from the beginning…well. I know better now.”
Cinderella blinks magic out of her eyes. “You can do magic?”
“I’ve been talking to you through a tree for years,” the Prince says. He’s not laughing at her. He sounds affectionate. “I get by.” He gestures to the entryway. “Are you ready?”
Cinderella takes a tentative step forward. The warmth follows her. “Are you sure they won’t recognize me?”
“Positive.”
“Then…yes,” Cinderella says. This time when he gently nudges her, she follows. “Alright.”
The Prince takes her through the doorway to the ballroom. At first nobody notices. The room is as she left it, grand and arching and filled with color. Then the volume of the voices and music seems to lower.
“Presenting,” the Master of Ceremonies calls. He’s all the way across the room near where Cinderella first entered, but his eyes are on them. His voice booms across the dancefloor with such clarity it sounds as if he’s right next to them. “Presenting the Prince and the Baron’s Daughter!”
As one, every noble stops dancing, turns, and bows.
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I'm anticipating three more parts to this story! Would you guys prefer I post it all next week and then move onto other prompts/one shots? Tumblr would still get weekly updates, but I'd like to share other work with you!
