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Stafford Mansion
The Stafford Mansion was quiet and dark. Peaceful, even. The guest room hadn't been touched for 18 years, if the thin layer of dust over everything inside wasn't any indication. That was mostly because the Staffords didn't have guests over very often. The only reason that they would ever use the guest room would be because of their little 12-year old daughter, Estelle. Estelle loved to have friends over, but they never got to stay the night. It's not like they ever wanted to either
The Stafford Mansion was said to be haunted, and no willing soul ever stayed inside of that cold, dark place overnight. Not even the most daring would try. Even though everyone in the community agreed that it was stupid to be scared of an old wives tale of goblins and ghosts, nobody ever seemed willing to stay the night with the Staffords. And the Staffords accepted it.
Then something unexpected happened. With a crack like thunder and a flash of blinding pink light, there was suddenly a child, not older than nine standing in the guest room. The child was battered and bloody, bore clothes that looked like they were made in the deep forest, and had no means of communicating with any spoken word. They jumped when they saw the bed. Their eyes wild, they looked like they hadn't slept in a bed for years.
It took no time for them to crawl in and fall asleep immediately.
May 19, 1984, 6:16 AM
Stafford Mansion
The poor child woke to the opposite of last night. The Stafford Mansion was bustling and busy, many servants trying to get the house ready for the Stafford family when they awoke in precisely two hours. They had bled on the bed, but they didn't notice, and even if they did they probably wouldn't care much. The first thing that they did when they got up was look down.
Used to sleeping in trees, they were surprised to see a carpeted floor below. Stepping onto it, they were brought back to their own home, so far away. Memories of loud shouting and glass shattering against walls flooded their mind and gave them tunnel vision. Shuddering and gasping, they fell to the floor.
Trying to push away the panic, they stood and stumbled into the bathroom. When their feet hit the cold tile, it seemed to help just a bit Seeing the sink in front of them, they remembered what it did. Ignoring the reflection that they saw in the mirror, they turned on the faucet and washed their face. Dirt and blood clotted together fell into the sink, and at this time they realised that they were making a bit of a mess everywhere.
Why had they helped this kid? Was it because they felt pity for them? Was it because they understood their special language? Was it because of their soul of kindness? What had prompted them to help? As the shower in the bathroom turned on, resulting in a yelp of surprise, Estelle realised that it didn't matter why they had helped Megalo. They fell back onto their bed and smiled at the ceiling. They had done something kind and impulsive, yes, but they also found a kid that was like them. Perhaps they would turn out ot be a good friend. A friend that understood them well.
They got out of bed and started to root through old clothes for Megalo.
?We've narrowed it down to two options,? says my mother, beaming as though she's prepared some delightful treat for me, ?but we wanted you to have the final say.?
?Well, that's very considerate,? I say before I can stop myself. ?I don't get to choose whether I'm getting married, but at least I get to choose what to wear as I'm led to my death.?
?Don't be dramatic, Ziggy,? says my mother with a reprimanding frown. ?A wedding is not a death sentence. It's the happiest day of your life. Besides, you're going to be a princess. It's every girl's dream come true.?
I manage to swallow down my angry retort: every girl dreams of meeting her ideal man, falling in love, a romantic proposal, and twirling blissfully into happily ever after. All of this, mind you, over the span of a few months at the very least. Nobody fantasizes about being yanked out of school and told that your parents have arranged your marriage to a man you've never met and it's happening tomorrow and nobody is waiting for you to say yes. This is more like a nightmare.
My mother ushers me into the palace's magnificent fitting room. A tall, narrow woman in a crimson dress turns around as we enter. My mother sinks into a deep curtsy and I do the same.
?So this is my future daughter-in-law,? the queen says by way of greeting, regarding me as one might regard a piece of furniture in a shop when determining whether it would clash with the drapery. ?Well, she's not hideously ugly. And at least she can manage a passable curtsy.?
?Sigrid is a graduate of Ms. Freyja's Finishing School for Fine Young Ladies, your highness,? says my mother. That's a lie. I was supposed to graduate next year.
?Under the circumstances, she'll have to do,? says the queen. The circumstances being the political crisis involving King Kregory of Korvydia, the temperamental ruler of the kingdom across the sea, who recently proposed a marriage between his daughter and our prince as an act of political power-grabbing disguised as a gesture of friendship. An outright refusal might have sparked anger and an invasion, so our king announced that the prince was already engaged: to the daughter of a high-ranking nobleman, in fact. Which then put him in the difficult position of having to find such a bride and throw together a wedding as quickly as humanly possible, before Kregory (known to be somewhat unstable) did something drastic like kidnapping the prince for ransom until the king agreed to the proposal. And my father just happened to be the highest-ranking noble with a daughter of marriageable age. Lucky me.
?Oh, Ziggy, you're stunning,? she trills. ?It really flatters your figure. Just look at yourself.?
Option B is the most voluminous ballgown I've ever seen. Seriously, I could house an extended family of rodents in that skirt and no one would notice. It also weighs about a hundred pounds. The whole get-up is like something from a fairy-tale, complete with a genuine whale-bone corset which my mother laces up tightly. I've been compelled to wear a corset a few times when my parents hosted state balls at their manor, and believe me when I say it's torture. Imagine trying to make polite conversation while a boa constrictor is wrapped around your torso, crushing the breath out of you, and you've got the idea.
But honestly, I think I'll take the boa constrictor over having the whole audience stare at my undulating hips as I walk down the aisle. And there's something poetically satisfying about wearing a dress with a built-in prison. It seems? appropriate to the occasion.
?Option B,? I say decisively.
The next few hours are a blur. Someone weaves my hair into an elaborately braided updo, while someone else does my makeup, while someone else runs me through what I'm expected to do at each point of the ceremony. Before I know it, a giant bouquet of flowers is thrust into my hands and I'm walking down the aisle of a cathedral packed with guests from all over the kingdom. It all feels surreal.
Standing at the front beside the priest, decked in full traditional regalia with a sword belted to his waist, is my soon-to-be husband, Prince Odin Ivarsson IV. I know nothing about him except that he breeds and trains swans, which is the most pathetic hobby I've ever heard of.
I can feel everyone's eyes on me as I walk to the front and ascend the steps. The prince and I stand facing each other, and I get my first good look at him. It's disappointing. You would expect a prince to be handsome and muscular, like something chiseled from marble, but Odin is more like something chiseled out of?a wet noodle, perhaps? Thin, mouse-brown hair, narrow face, pasty complexion, eyes a watered-down shade of greenish-grey. To top it all off, he has some sort of weird eye-twitching tic. He can't seem to stop blinking.
I stare into his eyes, trying to convey my utter contempt for him and for this whole proceeding.
He stares right back, still blinking incessantly. Suddenly I realize there's a pattern. Four blinks. Two blinks. Pause. Then again: four blinks. Two blinks. Pause.
It's Morse code, which thankfully I learned in finishing school. He's saying hi.
I blink back: Hi.
His eyebrows shoot up in an expression of surprised delight. He starts blinking again, a new pattern, and I watch him carefully.
Do you actually want to get married?
Now it's my turn to be surprised. It's the first time anyone has asked me that, and I'm starting to rethink my first impression of the prince. I consider my answer for a few moments, then tell him the truth. A long blink, a short blink, then three emphatic long blinks. No.
The priest is droning on about the joys of matrimony, which in this case is a joke. Odin is sending me another message.
Me neither. Want to get out of here?
I study him for a minute, trying to determine if he's serious
A mischievous smile quirks his lips, and he starts blinking again.
?P-p-pirates!? blubbers the priest, shaking from head to toe.
I grab Odin's sword, yank it out of its scabbard, and place myself between Finnegan and the prince.
Finnegan stops and surveys my stance.
?Who taught you to wield a blade, princess??
?I went to finishing school,? I say through gritted teeth. ?And I'm not a princess. Yet.?
?They taught you fencing at finishing school??
?Yes. And I was top of my class.?
Without warning, his cutlass flashes out with two quick strokes, both of which I block easily.
He gives me an approving nod. ?Alright then.?
And we're fighting.
It's true that I've never fought anyone in a wedding dress before, especially not one of this magnitude. I can't get as close to him as I'd like, and I have to be careful not to step on my dress. But it's also probably true that Finnegan has never fought an opponent in a wedding dress either, and I soon realize that not being able to see my legs makes it difficult to predict my movements. He's bigger and stronger and clearly has more experience, but his technique is as sloppy as you'd expect from a pirate, and he also seems to have a hard time taking this fight completely seriously, probably due to the ridiculousness of my outfit. So we're about evenly matched.
I keep him on the defensive, making him back down the steps, until we're on the floor in front of the stage. The people in the front pew scramble to get out of our way.
Finnegan lands a low strike that's too quick for me to deflect, but the blade merely slashes through several layers of my dress, knocking him off balance and leaving me unharmed. I flash him a wicked grin and a flawless curtsy before he recovers himself and we're exchanging blows again.
?Not bad for a princess,? he acknowledges.
?I told you,? I say, lunging in for a punto reverso, ?I'm not a princess. Though I would be by now if you hadn't so rudely interrupted.? I sound annoyed, but in truth I'm having the time of my life. Fencing has always been my favourite subject.
Then, with an envelopement that would make Ms. Freyja proud, I send his cutlass flying out of his hands and clattering to the floor. Immediately my blade is at his throat. ?Yield for the crown's mercy,? I say imperiously.
A collective gasp goes up from the crowd. My mother screams
I stumble backward. I can't breathe. I'm sure I felt one of my ribs crack, and everything hurts.
But to my surprise, there's no blood. All I find is a splintered whalebone rib.
I make a mental note to never again make disparaging remarks about corsets.
?The same could be said,? I wheeze, my breath returning, ?of princesses.? I yank out the throwing star and fling it back at him, though it's a clumsy throw and he dodges it easily (alas, Ms. Freyja didn't teach us throwing stars). Then I lunge at him and we resume.
The smile is gone from his face now, and there is deadly intent in each stroke of his blade. We're both breathing heavily. It's all I can do to block his attacks, and with all my attention focused on not being cut to pieces, I fail to notice my foot landing on the hem of my dress until it's too late and I'm sprawling backwards onto the floor. I manage to deflect two of Finnegan's blows, but the third knocks my sword out of my hand. Before I can retrieve it, Finnegan's boot pins my arm to the floor. He presses the point of his sword against my throat and leans over me.
?You fight like a princess,? he sneers.
?Your breath stinks,? I say, annoyed that that's the best comeback I can think of.
Finnegan raises his sword high in the air. My mother screams again.
Then, high above us, the windows of the cathedral begin to shatter.
Startled, Finnegan looks around, and I take advantage of his momentary distraction to deliver a vicious kick to his groin which sends him recoiling with a howl of pain. I'm pretty sure I also flash the entire audience in the process, but thankfully their attention is diverted: hundreds and hundreds of ? I stare for a good five seconds before my mind confirms that I'm truly seeing what I'm seeing ? yes, hundreds of swans are flocking through the shattered windows of the cathedral. Very quickly the ceiling is concealed behind a churning mass of white wings, trumpeting fills the air, and pandemonium ensues.
?I can't decide if you're a perfect gentleman or an absolute madman,? I tell him.
?One can be both at once, wouldn't you say?? he replies with a grin.
Gunshots ring out, and out of the corner of my eye I see the pirates kneeling between the pews, shooting wildly at the birds above them. A few swans plummet to the ground, but many others swoop down at the pirates, vast wings outstretched to attack. The swans attached to the boat beat their wings for take-off, and I grip the gunnels tightly as the boat lurches into the air.
But it's much heavier than before, and the swans struggle to gain altitude.
Then a throwing star embeds itself in the hull of the boat, inches from my hand. To my horror, I see Finnegan O'Flanders advancing towards us with murder in his eyes and a plop of bird poop dripping from his hat, brandishing a sword in one hand and pistol in the other. A swan dives at him, but he raises the gun and shoots the bird out of the air without even looking.
?Odin!? I shout.
?We're too heavy!? he replies. Our eyes meet, and I suddenly realize he's about to do something heroic and dumb, like jump out of the boat.
?Wait!? I pull the throwing star out of the wood, reach up behind me, and slice through the laces that tie up my corset. I rip the blasted thing open and breathe the sweet air of freedom. Then I extricate myself from the dress as quickly as possible and heave the whole thing onto Finnegan's head just before he reaches us. As he's flailing around, trying to find his way out of the fabric, the boat, now adequately lightened, lifts into the air and toward the doors. Before I know it, the cacophony of trumpeting swans and screaming wedding-goers has faded away, and we're soaring over the city.
Odin is staring at me. I suddenly become conscious of the fact that I'm alone with a boy and dressed in nothing but a chemise that barely covers my knees, which is not a situation I've ever found myself in before. I glare at him.
?You just... wow." He shakes his head. "That was the most impressive thing I've ever seen.?
I turn away to hide my smile and change the subject. ?Where are we going??
?Home,? says Odin. ?The swans' home, I mean. A lake deep in the woods. We can lie low there for a while until this all blows over.?
I watch the city below us give way to forest and don't say what I'm thinking: hiding from the authorities, in the woods, with a prince who literally crashed his own wedding with an army of trained swans?well, that actually doesn't sound too bad.
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