Still Stone - two. (part two.)

PART ONE

“What are you doing?!” Every word is enunciated clearly, sharply, anger fueling a soft, high tone. There, behind Azalee and before Selam and Mirtus, stands a thin woman, long hair tied behind her face in a braid. Her eyes are long and large, but squinted in anger, look sharp and surprised. Her tan face holds thin lips that curve upwards with no Cupid’s bow, and high cheekbones jar out of her long face, making her appear automatically more hostile than she may have otherwise.

Azalee realizes, as she takes her in, how clearly she can see her, and only then remembers Selam’s earlier comments about dawn appearing soon. Eyes glance up at a sky that has turned light blue, surprised she had not noticed the lightening of the sky earlier.

Her eyes move back to the woman who has just appeared — it must be a morning for apologies, for Azalee seems to be glowing with them. She bows, gently, and smiles upwards at her.

“I am sorry — do I know you?”

“You’re late!” The other seems to dismiss her comments, sputtering at her bowing in confusion. “Wh—why are you out here with the guards? What is that you’re wearing?” Distaste eats at her every comment. “You’re late!”

“I am late for…?”

Her face seems to explode red at the four words. Fingers clench and her body goes rigid, mouth twisted as if to keep her anger from spilling through the seems of her body. “Hello? For your job!”

“Job? — Job!” At this, Azalee smiles, sliding her scrolls back into their pouch and pulling her curls away from her damp skin. “You must be the interim handmaiden!”

“And you’re late, your first day.” A single bony finger looms towards Azalee. “Don’t make Matka regret this.” Black eyes turn on Mirtus and Selam, and her expression hardens further. “Don’t you two have a door to watch?”

Selam’s face has gone somewhat pale, but Mirtus gives her the cocky smirk that seems to settle on his visage naturally. “Always a pleasure to see you too.”

His words are returned with a glare — for a moment, she opens her mouth, as if contemplating saying something, before she shakes it off and turns to Azalee.

“Are you coming or not? The longer the wait, the less food you’ll be getting.”

“Right! Of course! Coming!” Anticipation automatically and immediately swells in Azalee’s chest — she turns to Selam and Mirtus with a beam brimming of excitement and curiosity of her new life. Both of the men seem to automatically smile at her boundless joy and energy — as the morning sun begins to shine over the protective walls of the castle, she is haloed in the morning light, and her tangled, tantalizing curls glow gold and shine with her smile.

“Well met. I hope to meet you again soon.”

“You can count on it, Azalee.” Mirtus nods, and Selam smiles sheepishly, leaning against his partner.

“Thanks fer the coat the other day!” he calls as she bows, and then turns towards the impatient handmaiden.

“Lead the way!” she declares. “By the by, I do not believe we have been properly acquainted yet. I am Azalee of — ”

“Hurry up. You’re already late.” The warmth of Azalee seems to be immediately deterred and pushed away by the bitter winter of the other woman — black eyes search the ground as she forges forward, and though Azalee feels the sting of the cold in her heart, she does not allow her smile to falter as she follows the other.

They leave the main courtyard, stepping beneath an underpass and through a door that leads to a long, thin corridor. Everything is black marble. Small lamps hang lit from the walls, casting a glowing pool of light beneath them and downwards. Azalee can just make out the end of the hallway, where a hunk of marble angled upwards lives. Groves are carved perfectly in it, lining a path large enough for a footstep, and at the sight of it, Azalee pauses, eyes widening. Her smile deepens, and a light feeling begins bubbling beneath her skin. Large eyes widen as they step towards it. Only several footfalls later, they are at the object of Azalee’s admiration; though the other woman instantly forges forward, Azalee has taken time to inspect it further, and does not even edge a toe yet onto it.

This hesitation does not go unnoticed, nor uncommented on. “We’re late,” Azalee is reminded. “What’s the holdup? Never seen a staircase before, or something?”

Staircase. She rolls the word around in her mind like a ball of clay before easing onto the first step, smiling. It is like a ladder — a horizontal ladder that seems to hold more weight and be easier to climb.

“As a matter of fact,” Azalee responds, throwing up a curious and excitable beam, “I have not.”

The interim handmaiden’s face flushes red as she turns, immediately retreating up the staircase and killing the short-lived conversation. Azalee stares at each stair carefully as she steps up it, listening to the quiet clips of their feet against the marble. It seems to sing and whistle with their weight, just like her wooden ladder used to sigh and puff. But this time… it is stone! Why is it that stone enchants her so? Why does she want to forget how late she is and lay on this staircase, allowing her fingers to roam over every unique stress mark and crevice beneath her?

Eventually, her eyes drift to the tall and silent woman leading her through the castle, and Azalee takes in her features further. She suits this place — just like Matka before her. Both bitter and violent in their own ways. Matka is the bearer of storms, whereas this woman appears to be drenched and wrapped in a coat of winter. She drips ice and snow, of a coldness Azalee has never before known. Her nose curls upwards and her fingers seem to stretch and overextend every moment, giving even her straightest stature a sort of natural curve. Azalee’s fingers press together, rubbing as if to find some warmth from the cold curve of the mountain above her, before she’s noticed — the eyes that find her narrow and ready for any confrontation that should come her way.

“What do you want?” The words stumble out quickly, stinging in frigidity. It’s almost fascinating to Azalee to see a personality similar to this. While Matka is obviously merely unhappy about the situation she has found herself in, this woman appears to be unhappy about existing.

“I did not catch your name back there.”

Black eyes flicker away as they turn another staircase. For a moment, Azalee is unsure she’ll receive an answer. Then, suddenly, with a breath like a sigh and crunch of snow, “It’s Maeryn.”

“Maeryn!” Brown eyes glow, and Azalee’s curls bounce as she fights to keep up with the faster Maeryn. Their faces are framed, glowing in the low light. “What a beautiful name! Are you of Damachien?”

For a moment, the controlled fury in Maeryn’s face seems to fade — she merely stares at Azalee with an intensity and a darkness that is unfathomable to the woman beneath her. Maeryn suddenly stops — Azalee realizes only when she stops, as well, that they are before two stone doors larger than Azalee has ever seen.

“Stop.” Something in the tone of Maeryn’s voice — whether it is the hoarseness or the lack of cold — causes Azalee to hold her gaze and not let it go. She seems almost entranced, looking at this woman like this.

“Stop what?”

“I’m not going to be your friend. None of us are. You need to just stop.”

Though there is no hostility in Maeryn’s voice, Azalee feels a pang in her chest — something strong enough to make her smile falter for even the shortest of moments. Eyebrows furl and her head tilts, making the wisps of her curls just slightly crest her right shoulder.

“I do n—”

“Wedon’t want you here. None of us. Not everyone will be this straightforward with you, but I don’t care. You made a mistake.” Maeryn’s thin arms fold over her chest.

There is another pause.

“But non—” Azalee begins.

“You chose a life any of us would give up.” It’s appearing to her that Maeryn is waiting for the exact time she begins speaking to shut her down.

Before Maeryn can pause for long enough again, Azalee jumps in, “Then why have you not yet given it up?”

Maeryn’s dark eyes move towards her. “Matka told you, didn’t she? We can’t leave. We’d never find our way back. We’d be lost in the void, or whatever.” There’s a hesitation, punctuated by blinking. “And even if we could, it isn’t as easy as you’d believe. We can’t just leave. We would need to find work we are proficient in. And we’re here, in the middle of this mountain range.”

Azalee’s smile seems to surprise her — as Azalee’s eyes shut and radiance beams from her figure, Maeryn falls silent.

She is smiling, now, because she understands. All these miles away from her home town… and yet, for the first time she has arrived in Damachien, she has found something in commonwith someone.

“The same reason you cannot leave is the reason that I am here.” She straightens her head, stands a bit taller as her eyes open and assess Maeryn. “I am well aware that I do not know your people and you do not know me. If you choose, collectively or individually, to not be my friend, that is your own decision. But I need to survive — and that, the same reason that you have not left, is the reason that I will stay.” Azalee can already see questions brewing in Maeryn’s eyes, so immediately she asserts, “Now, as you have already enunciated, we are late,” as she gestures to the door.

Maeryn appears to hesitate for a moment, almost apologetic — then, apparently shaking off the dispute of moments ago, she pulls on the doors, allowing them to swing outwardly.

Azalee notices only as she turns towards the door how intricately and beautifully it is designed. An image etched in gold on a marble door… But she does not have enough time to process or burn the picture into her head as the door is flung open.

This room, as all the others that Azalee has graced, is made of stone — marble black with white stress marks. A large window is cut into the wall running parallel, through which sunlight streams. Most of the adornments are gold — gold plating beneath the window, a gold vanity near the window, gold bookshelves lining the wall to the left of her. A gold chandelier hangs from the wall, and there are gold chests against the ground. The room stretches on to the left for further than her eye can witness, beams of light occasionally slicing through far off rooms, only illuminating gold and far away walls.

It is, however, to the right that catches Azalee’s attention. A shimmering gold canopy covers a long bed, and a morning breeze makes it sway. It is sheer enough that, even without it being drawn back, Azalee can see what it is.

Immediately, she falls to her knees, her right knee bent beneath her as her left remains poised to move. Her head bends downwards in respect, but her eyes never move from her target.

For there, lying on the linen, is her Royal Majesty, the Queen of Damachien.