Darkness

“Time of death, 3:41am,” I mutter, and the waiting nurse scribbles it down on the record.

“She's not—she can't be—can't you do something?” the woman begs, clutching her daughter's hand so tightly that if it wasn't already pale, it would be white.

“Ma'am, we've don't everything we can do,” I say with composure, watching the crash cart roll away out of the corner of my eye. “I'm sorry.”

I am sorry, but that doesn't mean anything to her, or to her husband, or to their family. Walking out of the room and leaning against the wall, I tip my head back to rest on something solid. I really shouldn't have gone to that party last night when I knew I had the late shift today. My head is swimming with exhaustion, now that the adrenaline has finally quit. I clock out in 8 minutes, but I can't seem to make myself move from this position.

The nurses shepherd the parents away; I can hear the shuffling of feet and stifled sobs. Accusing looks glance off my white armor, but I don't open my eyes. I can't open them. It's all too heavy. It's all too dark.

Inspiration: A section of my friend's novel.

Ginia

Ginia knew what she would wake up to every morning. She never doubted for a moment that tousled black hair, too black to throw any light, would be peeking above the sheets. And when she carefully slid from the bed and walked to the other side, the rest of his face would be at rest, the only time he was truly honest.

What she did not know was if a carefully crafted explanation would fall from his lips a few hours later and if by that evening she would be pacing the room, too torn to sleep. She didn't want to think she was just like every other girl, and after a year (this Wednesday) she didn't think she was anymore. But even if she wasn't like them, she still didn't think she was to him what he was to her.

She doubted that she was the only woman he gave a glance to, and she doubted that he kept his suggestive comments for her alone. If a woman came up to Ginia and asked if she knew where he had been that weekend, for instance, she wouldn't be surprised to learn he was in the company of another woman. She did think she understood him, though, and by the look in his eye, he knew she did. She also knew that he loved her, but whether that was a common habit of his or not, she couldn't say. If something happened to her, he was there to hold her while she cried and fight off whoever had done it. His hands would shake when he kissed her sometimes, betraying his smooth talking.

Ginia knew he loved her, but she didn't know if that would keep him from leaving.

--

He woke up early and rolled over, looking at Ginia for a moment before he got up. He loved her, and that's why he had to go now, before he had to face her. He was terrified at what he was becoming; he'd fought off the instinct to run for nine months (and twelve days). He knew he would come running if ever she asked him back, if ever she decided to forgive him – and he knew she would. Forgive him, that is. He didn't know if she'd ask for him back.

He was going across the world, too far away to be called back. No one here knew where he was going. He wasn't taking any chances. Unable to face the future with her, every bone in his body aching for another adventure, he closed the door behind him. The part of his mind that was happy to be free was whining about how he'd not had any fun in the past year (and two days) with just Ginia to come back to, and no other women in the meantime. He listened to it as he walked away, thinking about where he could go, now that he was free.

Inspiration: Errant thoughts of House in combination with a character from my stories. He's one of my favorites, and while this may not have happened, I can also see it happening as well.

Daggers and Peas

Once upon a time, there was a Princess named Elissa, though she preferred to be called 'El' or 'Lissa', with the former being the most appreciated of the two.

(This of course meant that nearly everyone called her Lissa. But, because this story is about El herself, I shall comply with her wishes and call her El and nothing else, until the very end, when her name changes anyway.)

When El was sixteen, she kissed her mother and father on the cheek and set out on an adventure. Her parents were not, as you might think, distressed by her leaving. Even her mother, who was prone to fits of tears whenever her roses did not bloom on schedule, barely shed a tear. In truth, they were relieved; El was a troublesome child, and she had a younger brother who was far more suited to inherit the crown. His name was Becket, but that doesn't matter, because he doesn't come back into the story.

El was happy to leave her parents and brother, who were far too simple and sad for her tastes. She had never left the castle before and was a bit apprehensive about traveling alone, but she soon found that peasant girls traveled alone all the time in the peaceful kingdom of Lemnor, and she was thus not at all out of place. Still, because she knew very little about being a peasant, she made friends with a farm girl named Dilly who, like Becket, does not appear in the story past this point.

After a few weeks of farm life, where she learned enough about being a peasant to get by, El left the farm to find an adventure. The day she set out upon was a lovely day in the middle of April, one of those days that is just cool enough to make a long walk comfortable and just sunny enough to void the necessity of a sweater.

(Or any other sort of long-sleeved garment that might restrict the adventurous qualities of a young sixteen year old princess determined to find an adventure.)

She met many interesting people on her travels that I won't waste time describing, because they, like Becket and Dilly, do not enter into the story again. She also had several adventures which I will also not waste time describing because, though you may have thought otherwise, this story is not about El's adventures. It is, in fact, about what happens to El when she is not looking for an adventure. And that something is about to happen, so pay attention.

One of the first and most repeated lessons El learned on her escapades across Lemnor was that the weather was not always so solicitous toward princesses on adventures. In fact, oftentimes, it was downright uncharitable. This was how the princess found herself soaked to the skin and in a foul mood one late night, a locked gate away from any hope of dryness and warmth and a country away from anyone she knew.

El pounded on the gate, as any reasonably thinking princess would do, and waited for someone to brave the downpour to let her in to the castle. It was several minutes before a heavily cloaked man unlatched the gate and beckoned her in. El thanked the man and squished into the castle.

(Her shoes were, by this point, extremely wet and very close to being useless as anything more than tough sponges; this is why she squished instead of walked.)

The man who let her in was named Nicolas, and his name is important because he is one of the key characters in this story. When El told him who she was, he immediately took her sopping cloak and told her to wait there and dry herself by the fire while he talked to the Queen.

(Though this story is about El, she does nothing interesting during this next part, so we shall follow Nicolas instead, because he does something very interesting indeed.)

He scurried to the Queen's chambers and told her about the princess who had seemed to appear out of nowhere, then asked what should be done.

The Queen thought very hard, then asked Nicolas to do something so strange that I believe I should go backwards a little bit to explain why the Queen would ask Nicolas to do such a thing, before I tell you what she asked him to do.

The Queen (whose name is Mae, but that doesn't really matter) had a son who was also sixteen, and they had just returned from traveling themselves. They had searched the whole known world for a True Princess who would marry the Prince, but to no avail. After meeting every single princess that existed, the Queen and the Prince both agreed that they were all too wifty and delicate to be True Princesses.

(After all, princesses would, one day, become queens, and a scatterbrained queen is no good thing to have on the throne.)

On their way back from visiting the last princess, the Queen and Prince were so downcast that they began to do what many people do when they have lost much hope. They began to make fun of their predicament and suggest outlandish tests to discern a True Princess from a regular princess. One jest that the Prince had made stuck in the Queen's mind, and it was that test that she asked Nicolas to prepare for Princess El.

She ordered that a mattress, stuffed with goose-down and fluffed to perfection, be moved into the guest chamber. Underneath the mattress should be placed a simple dagger, one flat enough that it could not be felt through the bed. Then, after the princess was inside, he was to lock the door. Nicolas was confused, but he did as he was told, and after the room had been prepared, he showed the shivering princess into it and told her that she would meet the Queen and the Prince in the morning.

El thanked him, then undressed and clambered into the bed, expecting to fall asleep immediately on such a comfortable mattress. The hours crept by, however, and El hardly closed her eyes. There was something wrong, and she couldn't figure out what. Finally, she gave up trying to sleep and lit the lantern, taking a look around the room. Finding nothing out of place, she began searching around the bed for anything suspicious.

As you might imagine, she found the dagger. And, also as you might imagine, she was alarmed. She knew that not all kingdoms operated like Lemnor, but she was fairly certain that it was not common practice to store weapons of assassination underneath the beds of guests. When she had finished panicking, she decided to do what any sensible princess would do and escape before the plot could be completed.

She gathered her things as silently as possible and stuck the dagger in her belt, in case she needed it, then tried her doorknob, which was, as we know, locked. She also tried all the windows, but they were locked as well.

(El was definitely worried now, as I'm sure you would be in her situation. The fact that she had a dagger made her feel a little bit better, but not very.)

She decided that the only thing to do was to wait, so wait she did. She sat in the chair by the fire, dagger in hand, until a maid knocked on her door and told her that breakfast was in ten minutes. This knock startled her so in her jumpy state that she nearly put her own eye out, but thankfully for her, she did not.

(You see, the royal doctor was out of town on family business, and the next closest thing was the castle cook, who was very skilled at killing things, but not so at keeping them alive.)

She dressed hastily and concealed the dagger in her dress, then waited for Nicolas to arrive and escort her to breakfast. El arrived at the table fully expecting to be poisoned, but even before the food was brought out, the Queen asked her how she slept. El saw this as an opportunity to lay their plan bare and show them that she was not as simple as they thought her to be, so she did exactly that, drawing the dagger from her dress as proof, in case either of them tried to deny it.

The Prince began to laugh, and the Queen soon joined him. El did not laugh, for understandable reasons. After the Prince regained his composure, he explained exactly what his mother had done and why, which did wonders to set El's heart at ease. Neither of them seemed like the sort of people who wanted to kill defenseless princesses, so she had very little trouble forgiving them for scaring her.

(The Prince's name, by the way, was Ducat, but it's a little late for introductions now, as the story is almost over.)

Ducat then asked her to marry him, as she was the only True Princess he knew, and definitely the only princess worth marrying. El, who had seen her fair share of princes in her adventures, said that he seemed to be a unique sort of prince himself and agreed to marry him, on the condition that he would never call her Elissa or Lissa. He agreed, and promptly began calling her Iss. At first, El was annoyed, but then she grew fond of the nickname, and was henceforth known only as Iss, and everyone forgot that she had ever been called El at all.

They both lived happily ever after.

Inspiration: An extremely random idea that occured to me after editing a lovely story. What if the Princess and the Pea actually evolved from a much more practical story where it was not a pea under the mattress, but a dagger? Wouldn't that make a little bit more sense? I would think it more useful that a princess could sense a death threat, rather than a vegetable.

Cinderella

Her father hugged her and lifted her above his head, laughing all the while.

“My little daughter,” he shouted over her protests, “married to the prince! Aha!”

“Papa, put me down,” she said sternly, though her lip twitched in amusement at his overjoyed expression.

Her tall, broad father acquiesced, setting his much more petite daughter firmly on the ground with a chuckle.

“And a nice dress you have, I see. How exactly did you manage this? And to think I was going to give you a lashing for being out all night...!”

“I can certainly trust you not to read a letter,” she laughed, kissing him on the cheek and walking past him into the cottage.

The cottage was small and homey, everything she'd known growing up, though a grander life was just a long walk away.

“What letter?” her father asked, admiring the dress from behind. He didn't know much about dressmaking, but the cloth was shining with an unnatural glitter, and a golden ribbon was looped about the waist.

“It came weeks ago, Papa,” she laughed, taking a rag and scrubbing the edge of a pot. “Honestly, don't you clean up after yourself? This pot is disgusting.”

“The letter, Heloise,” her father prompted, skimming over the slight to his cleanliness.

“The invitation to the royal ball, remember?” she continued. “The prince was to choose a wife, and ta da! I was chosen.”

“Well, that's easy enough to believe, with how beautiful you are,” her father conceded. “But why didn't you tell me? I would have gone with you!”

“Oh, Papa,” she sighed, putting the rag back in the bucket, heedless of the dirt accumulating on the fine dress. “You wouldn't have known the first thing to do.”

“And you did?” he said grumpily, offended at her lack of faith in him.

“But I'm the lady,” she said seriously, though with a joking smile. “That makes it alright.”

She put her hands on her hips and smiled at him with the same condescending smile she'd inherited from her mother. The air was suddenly thick between them, and Harold twisted his hands, looking to the pot she'd just wiped the grime from.

“So, what are you going to do now?” he asked awkwardly.

“Move in to the palace, of course,” she said, laughing brightly. “But don't worry, Papa. I'll come visit.”

“Promise me,” he said, putting on a brave smile and holding both her hands firmly. “Promise me you won't forget your old Papa.”

“Never, Papa,” she said reassuringly, kissing both cheeks, then headed for the door.

“Wait, Heloise! Must you leave so soon?”

“They're waiting for me,” she explained. “I have to go.”

“When will you come visit?” he asked, stepping forward and taking her hand in both of his.

“Very soon,” she promised. “Right after Dal and I return from our trip. We're going to the mountains!”

“How long will you be gone?” he asked worriedly.

“No more than a month,” she said offhandedly, patting his hands and extricating her own. “I'll be back before you know it.”

Harold wasn't sure what else to say, so he nodded. Heloise didn't seem to notice his sadness as she smiled happily at him and waved goodbye, closing the door behind her. The royal carriage was waiting outside the door, and as soon as she climbed into it, she burst into tears.

Inspiration: It started out as a compulsory marriage sort of scene, inspired by my imaginings of an alternate ending for The Bachelor, but then it had a mind of its own.

Volio

Volio inked in a note on the page, then squinted at it. His mind was far away; he wasn't even sure what note that was, or why he'd put it there. The black ovals and lines blurred in his vision, and all he could see were the soft amber curls of Anjelée, the fresh young daughter of his Litian contemporary, Sir Fralier. He put his quill down, remembering the previous summer—

“A glass of wine, Monsieur?”

“Thank you,” he said, taking the goblet from her hand and looking up to see who it was that had interrupted his reverie.

A smiling angel stood in front of him, bronze hair loose in a calculated style around her shoulders. Her brown eyes were warm and friendly as she smiled at him again and stepped away. He watched her walk toward the group of others in the garden, catching her eye as she glanced over her shoulder. She blushed.

“I see my daughter wasted no time in finding the most suitable man here,” Sir Fralier said, holding back a laugh. “She's eager to be off and married, that one. I can't convince her to keep her old father company any longer.”

“I'm surprised she isn't married already,” Volio replied, still watching her as she offered wine to her father's other guests. He could hear her airy soprano voice over all the others, ringing to his ears.

“If you keep looking at her like that I'm going to have to ban you from my house,” the man said, laughing as if it were a jest, though there was a darker undercurrent to his words.

Volio tore his eyes off the woman with difficulty, looking instead to his glass of wine.

“Will you miss her when she's gone?” he asked, for want of anything else to say.

“I should say so,” Fralier replied. “She's my youngest and my favorite, as everyone knows. My latest Symphony was inspired by her: The Angel's Lament. Her name is Anjelée, you see. It's a play on words.”

“I see,” Volio said, letting the name roll around in his head. Anjelée. Anjelée.

The talk had then moved on to other subjects, such as Volio's third musicale, which he was having trouble with. Soon after the garden party, he found the musicale's lingering romantic number much easier to write. Anjelée was nine years his junior, and Volio tried to remind himself that there were younger, more appealing suitors than he in Linsit – and more eligible suitors as well. She was the cousin of the queen on her mother's side, and though her father was but a lowly musician, (knighted because of an almost accidental deed of heroism) he was determined she would marry well and bring honor to the family. As a lowly Yerc musician himself, he was in no position to gain her father's approval in anything but music.

“Are you still glum about that girl?” Lorice asked him, sitting down in the windowseat next to his desk.

“Woman,” Volio corrected, chagrined that she would constantly tease him about the age difference between them.

“Barely,” Lorice said, smiling teasingly.

When Volio didn't return the smile she put her chin on the desk, catching his downturned eyes.

“Aren't you going to do something about it? You've been moping for months. Surely it's not as hopeless as you say. After all, in Linsit the laws are different than they are in Yerc. She can marry whomever she pleases after she turns nineteen, regardless of her father's wishes.”

“But she loves her father, and would never deny him,” Volio said woefully.

“You don't know that,” Lorice said. “You've only seen her once, and she's never mentioned her father in her letters.”

“That doesn't mean anything.”

“That's what I'm trying to tell you!” Lorice cried.

Volio spent a moment trying to figure out how she had finagled him into a corner. He eventually gave up and stared at his paper, trying to make sense of the tangled plot he himself had invented.

“Volio, please listen to reason,” Lorice pleaded. “I'm tired of seeing you like this. If you don't ask her, you'll never know. You can either take a chance, or spend your whole life writing her letters from the safety of your own home. Please go.”

“I can't just arrive at their house unannounced,” Volio argued, aware of the fact that she was slowly edging him into taking the biggest risk of his life.

She grinned and pulled a letter out of her dress pocket with a flourish.

“This arrived from Sir Fralier two days ago. His symphony, The Angel's Lament is to be performed in the court of King Eldar a month from today, and he wants you to be there. I've already sent a reply saying you would be delighted to come.”

“Just because Sir Fralier is going to be there doesn't mean Anjelée will.”

“You say her name with such preference,” Lorice said with a giddy smile. She was enjoying her younger brother's bout with love perhaps too much. “You didn't let me finish. Anjelée will be the soloist.”

Volio laughed and stood upright, drawing Lorice with him.

“My sister, you are a devious fiend,” he said, invigorated by the thought of seeing Anjelée once more. “What would you have me do? Snatch her off the stage midway through her solo, I'll wager.”

“Never, never,” Lorice said, pretending to be offended by such a ridiculous accusation. Her eyes were bright with merriment. “With your polite and enthusiastic acceptance, I also sent a request to arrive early and be housed near Sir Fralier, so you could ask him for help with your opera.”

Volio rubbed noses with her and patted her cheek, smiling broadly.

“What would I do without you?”

“What a frightening thought!” she laughed, pinching his cheek and twirling away. “I'll pack your bags. You'll need to leave tomorrow.”

Volio looked back at the mussed pages, then dipped his quill in ink once more and got to work, humming the soprano solo from The Angel's Lament.

Inspiration: A comment made on the relationship between Wagner and Liszt