A booming round of applause rung out and echoed across the massive room as a figure made their way with a prestigious calm and grace to the red velvet seat. It was positioned above all the rest - emphasising it's importance - and had a wonderfully perfect view of the main stage, which was still veiled by a thick and heavy red curtain. Grand marble pillars lined the room along with rows and rows of red seats spread around the stage in a U-shape. There was so much red. Red and gold. The proud and royal colours of the kingdom. The ceiling was decorated with spirals painted in glittering gold, ruby jewels and breathtaking scenes of soldiers and cavalry clashing from famous battles engraved into the smooth white marble. Famous, because this battle their kingdom has won. Won after weeks of trudging through mountains of snow, with cruel winds moaning and howling, chilling soldiers to the bone. Men collapsing after skin turning black from frostbite, limp bodies freezing over, claimed by the snow and forgotten by most. Crimson blood left splattered across the white, cold wastes.
Songs were still being sung in it's memory; cheery ones, gloomy ones and whatever in between. And would continue to be sung for years and years to come.
A tall, scrawny young man scurried onto the stage. He wore one of the most ridiculous outfits one could ever imagine. It looked like his thighs and shoulders were nothing but two massive circular balls. The hat he wore looked heavy considering how tall it stood on his head. One could be surprised that the skinny man didn't just topple over like a domino. He fumbled with unfurling the rolled up parchment he clutched in his bony, pale hands. He cleared his throat. "We are here in our wonderful theatre to welcome the woman of the hour - Queen Helene, the Lioness of Ernelle, first of her name!" he chirped. His voice sounded as if it was stolen from someone completely different. It was loud and clear. Melodious. Confidence lined every word. He must have done this over a hundred times.
Queen Helene stood up, slender hands folded in front of her, nodding her head slightly in response. She could stare down at all these eyes now boring into her like a wolf prowling after sheep. Many women in the crowd wore dresses the size of damn chandeliers, obliviously irritating whoever was unfortunate enough to sit beside them with parts of their dress right up against them.
But her eyes were focused on the stage. Impatient. Awaiting for something to finally happen. All of these introductions were more tedious than listening to a flock of hens - oh, apologies! Noble women - crowing about men and their bratty children while crocheting.
"And now, what you have all been waiting for!" at last, the crowd's attention shifted once more to the man standing up on stage. "Talented men and women from wide around have gathered to entertain you tonight!"
The crowd broke into another round of applause, and the curtain started to unveil the massive stage.
...
And an entertainment it shall be indeed. A glorious one. Everyone will be blown away.
Once the curtain's have been unfurled, her eyes squinted at the blinding light, ears rattling at the loud applause. Her heart was hammering inside her ribs as if it was feeling trapped. She was feeling trapped too.
The horribly tight corset felt suffocating, squeezing her insides. Though she no longer felt nauseous from it. Not after having to suffer through what seemed like millions and millions of endless lessons from Madame Oiseau. Her face was painted into a paper sheet white, eyes lined with kohl and lips painted into a bold cherry red. Her makeup felt sticky and itchy. The longer she wore it, the more she felt the need to claw her own face off just to at least earn that small feeling of liberation. But all performers were required to wear it. It would have been considered a disgrace if one failed to.
"Duva, you damn wench, hurry into position." she immediately snapped out of her short daze, head abruptly jolting to the side to see a fellow female performer hiss through clenched teeth at her. Christine Flemming. She never liked her anyway. And so, she did, along with the other performers. There was a pungent smell of sweet perfume lingering in the air. It was unknown where the source was even located.
The music started to ascend like a bird into the sky, and Duva straightened her back, a deep breath filling her lungs. Their dance begun. The light chiffon fabric of the dancer's outfits flowed like a gentle stream of water along with their movements, always dancing to the speed and power of the music playing. The music remained soft, until it started to once again ascend, increasing in speed.
The melancholy lament of the violin, piano and cello filled her ears. Her heart. Her soul. She felt weightless, like a ribbon being carried by the whispering wind.
Duva found herself staring at the Queen. She could barely make out Helene's features, as she was quite a distance away. But she could easily catch a glimpse of that light brown hair of hers, coloured like rusty gold.
The odour of sweat was starting to overpower the scent of that sweet perfume. She drew in quick breaths, heart jumping as the music suddenly shot up into a wonderful and lively crescendo. Do not fail now, do not fail now...
Duva felt her muscles suddenly freeze, and she stopped moving. She thought she heard something whistle past her, a quick and tiny but noticeable gust of air against her cheek.
A high-pitched, shrill scream erupted from somewhere higher up in the room. Duva's head snapped up and noticed Queen Helene clutching her chest. Soon, the music died down into nothing, and the music was instead replaced with a choir of horrified screams from all over the room.
"THE QUEEN HAS BEEN SHOT! THERE IS AN ASSASSIN AMONG US!"
The crowd started to stampede their way out of their seats, screams never failing to die down. Not once. People poured their way out of the theatre, fleeing for their lives. But the deed has already been done. These people's lives were not in danger.
Duva glanced behind her and blinked when she noticed a dark figure quickly disappear behind stage in the blink of an eye. Compared to how loud the room was before, it was now eerily quiet. The young performer stood there, legs feeling like brittle sticks that could snap at any slight movement. Her ears were still ringing, still recovering from the screams.
She felt no curiosity, no wish to find out who that dark figure behind the curtain was. For she knew.
She could not help but make her lips curl into a snake's smile. Images were flashing in her mind of Queen Helene's limp body bleeding onto that pretty little red carpet, blood disappearing and soaking into it's thickness. One tyrant down - one could only wonder who would be next in line to replace her.
It was now time to pay someone a little visit...
Songs were still being sung in it's memory; cheery ones, gloomy ones and whatever in between. And would continue to be sung for years and years to come.
A tall, scrawny young man scurried onto the stage. He wore one of the most ridiculous outfits one could ever imagine. It looked like his thighs and shoulders were nothing but two massive circular balls. The hat he wore looked heavy considering how tall it stood on his head. One could be surprised that the skinny man didn't just topple over like a domino. He fumbled with unfurling the rolled up parchment he clutched in his bony, pale hands. He cleared his throat. "We are here in our wonderful theatre to welcome the woman of the hour - Queen Helene, the Lioness of Ernelle, first of her name!" he chirped. His voice sounded as if it was stolen from someone completely different. It was loud and clear. Melodious. Confidence lined every word. He must have done this over a hundred times.
Queen Helene stood up, slender hands folded in front of her, nodding her head slightly in response. She could stare down at all these eyes now boring into her like a wolf prowling after sheep. Many women in the crowd wore dresses the size of damn chandeliers, obliviously irritating whoever was unfortunate enough to sit beside them with parts of their dress right up against them.
But her eyes were focused on the stage. Impatient. Awaiting for something to finally happen. All of these introductions were more tedious than listening to a flock of hens - oh, apologies! Noble women - crowing about men and their bratty children while crocheting.
"And now, what you have all been waiting for!" at last, the crowd's attention shifted once more to the man standing up on stage. "Talented men and women from wide around have gathered to entertain you tonight!"
The crowd broke into another round of applause, and the curtain started to unveil the massive stage.
...
And an entertainment it shall be indeed. A glorious one. Everyone will be blown away.
Once the curtain's have been unfurled, her eyes squinted at the blinding light, ears rattling at the loud applause. Her heart was hammering inside her ribs as if it was feeling trapped. She was feeling trapped too.
The horribly tight corset felt suffocating, squeezing her insides. Though she no longer felt nauseous from it. Not after having to suffer through what seemed like millions and millions of endless lessons from Madame Oiseau. Her face was painted into a paper sheet white, eyes lined with kohl and lips painted into a bold cherry red. Her makeup felt sticky and itchy. The longer she wore it, the more she felt the need to claw her own face off just to at least earn that small feeling of liberation. But all performers were required to wear it. It would have been considered a disgrace if one failed to.
"Duva, you damn wench, hurry into position." she immediately snapped out of her short daze, head abruptly jolting to the side to see a fellow female performer hiss through clenched teeth at her. Christine Flemming. She never liked her anyway. And so, she did, along with the other performers. There was a pungent smell of sweet perfume lingering in the air. It was unknown where the source was even located.
The music started to ascend like a bird into the sky, and Duva straightened her back, a deep breath filling her lungs. Their dance begun. The light chiffon fabric of the dancer's outfits flowed like a gentle stream of water along with their movements, always dancing to the speed and power of the music playing. The music remained soft, until it started to once again ascend, increasing in speed.
The melancholy lament of the violin, piano and cello filled her ears. Her heart. Her soul. She felt weightless, like a ribbon being carried by the whispering wind.
Duva found herself staring at the Queen. She could barely make out Helene's features, as she was quite a distance away. But she could easily catch a glimpse of that light brown hair of hers, coloured like rusty gold.
The odour of sweat was starting to overpower the scent of that sweet perfume. She drew in quick breaths, heart jumping as the music suddenly shot up into a wonderful and lively crescendo. Do not fail now, do not fail now...
Duva felt her muscles suddenly freeze, and she stopped moving. She thought she heard something whistle past her, a quick and tiny but noticeable gust of air against her cheek.
A high-pitched, shrill scream erupted from somewhere higher up in the room. Duva's head snapped up and noticed Queen Helene clutching her chest. Soon, the music died down into nothing, and the music was instead replaced with a choir of horrified screams from all over the room.
"THE QUEEN HAS BEEN SHOT! THERE IS AN ASSASSIN AMONG US!"
The crowd started to stampede their way out of their seats, screams never failing to die down. Not once. People poured their way out of the theatre, fleeing for their lives. But the deed has already been done. These people's lives were not in danger.
Duva glanced behind her and blinked when she noticed a dark figure quickly disappear behind stage in the blink of an eye. Compared to how loud the room was before, it was now eerily quiet. The young performer stood there, legs feeling like brittle sticks that could snap at any slight movement. Her ears were still ringing, still recovering from the screams.
She felt no curiosity, no wish to find out who that dark figure behind the curtain was. For she knew.
She could not help but make her lips curl into a snake's smile. Images were flashing in her mind of Queen Helene's limp body bleeding onto that pretty little red carpet, blood disappearing and soaking into it's thickness. One tyrant down - one could only wonder who would be next in line to replace her.
It was now time to pay someone a little visit...