Coldware (Part 1: Software) -- Chapter Eleven

I watched my Lady dance from my place against the wall, lined up between a gangly end table and a menacingly thick marble pillar. While the lanky, wooded table did its job of holding up a richly-made fabric and matching ornamental vase, and the pillar performed its duty of partially holding up the ceiling and the ninety-two floors that were built directly above it, I did little to nothing of what I was supposed to do.

The Queen of our vast land was a beautiful creature indeed, what with her pale blue silken dress, her plethora of jewelry that seemed to have no collective theme, and her kind gestures and elegant movements. Her body seemed to have been cursed with perfectionism, as her soul never allowed the vessel of flesh in which it rested to look anything but gorgeous and refined. I sigh without really thinking about it, a soft smile tugging at the corners of my lips as I watch her toss her dark hair back, laughing genuinely at something the King's nephew had said.

And then I squint, my eyebrows furrowing as I glare at the miniature twit who dared to inch closer to my Lady. There was a blessed time when both Queen and Assistant to the King hated each other with a silent passion that rivaled the hushed rage between the Captain of the Guard and the Head Advisor of the Royal Court. Damn, those two hated each other...

But now, and only recently, the two of them--more specifically, the abnormally short nephew to the King--had become quite smitten with the other. My Lady saw only friendship; Lord Colin seemed to be focused solely on what was readily at eye-level with his petite form: her breasts.

Heaven save my Lady, they did have a certain amount of... jiggle, I suppose, to them whenever she danced or swayed or walked or sashayed or... anything, really. But to stare at them like that, with those wide, unknowing eyes--the 'man' is so short, and so unattractive in a Court full of handsome nobles and divine ladies, that he'd never so much as kissed a lady, let alone taken her to bed--with that foolish blush upon his cheeks was unseemly and, quite frankly, blood-curdling.

Footsteps to my left sound, closer than the usual patter of heels on marble floors, so I glance to the side subtlety. "Evora," I mumble, somewhat relieved, somewhat disappointed. I find myself releasing a relaxed breath now that I know this intruder to my thoughts is just the inventor and scientist that my Lady recently hired, and anxiously depressed for pretty much the same reason.

"Ms. Ayers, so lovely to see you this evening!" The ridiculous, tailcoat-wearing woman gushes, titling her head to the side and she spreads her arms, obviously seeking a hug but receiving a cold glare. Her happiness hardly falters. "I must say, you look quite dashing in your uniform! But why so stiff and anti-casual? This is a party, after all!"

"I am an Elite, Ms. Traditoryn." I sigh tiredly, rubbing at my temple. This woman... why must she be so very... frivolous?

She nods. "And a bodyguard to the Queen. However, there isn't a threat to be seen; not a whisper of treason! Could you spare but a few moments and grace me with your elegant presence?"

"Dance." I simplify things for her, exhausted by her flowery embellishments and bubbling joy. It was revolting. "You want me to dance."

"Why, yes," she smiles expectantly--hesitantly--her eyelids drooping slightly as her smile falters and she looks down, her hand ascending to scratch at the back of her neck. Her blush deepens. Heavens above, she's embarrassed herself. Or... no, wait, I believe it was me; I've waited too long to respond. Ah, well. Best she learns I hate her guts sooner than later.

Clearing my throat, I push myself from the wall, huffing. "I do not dance,"

"But you dance with our Queen every now and again, and your do it so smashingly! I've got two left feet, myself, so even if you aren't very poised, I'm sure we could--"

"...with the likes of you," I finish with a sort of cruel finality, turning my back from her. As I pass a waiter carrying a silver tray, I scoop up a glass of wine, lifting it as if to examine the contents. Through the reflection, I watch her.

Her face is contorted slightly, her arms wrapped about her waist, her posture stiff and bent. At first I think she is furious with me, and feel a certain satisfaction. Maybe now she'll leave me be and stop with her endless flirting and eternally-torturous kindness. Then I see the tears run down her face as she bites down on her lower lip as it trembles, her breathing ragged as she fights back the crying fit that is sure to come.

My stomach twists painfully, because I know the feeling, and I pity her. Perhaps I should apologize... surely a single dance couldn't possible harm things? She might even be more bearable if I suffered through a waltz or two...

"Maira!" My Lady calls, and my heart sinks as I see her smiling face, her arms wide as she rushes to me. "Dance with me? Just once!" And though my Lady keeps her distance from me in public, with the eyes of all nobles from many places upon us, there is still a loving care in the words.

And there is still a pair of eyes drilling saddened holes into the back of my head until the inventor turns on her heels and practically sprints from the ball, gripping something in her fist desperately.

I watch her leave, melancholy. "Did you get into a fight?" My Lady asks, immediately noticing that my attention was divided from her. "I didn't know you were friends."

Was that jealousy in my Lady's voice? I smile. "That is because we are not, my Lady... I fear I've offended her by being too rude."

"Mm," my Lady attempts sympathy, but the dark satisfaction seeps through, making me shiver. I tell myself it is attraction and excitement, but the shudder shakes my spine, forcing my eyes closed for a few moments.

I lose track of the dance, snapping myself from the lulling trance I'd fallen into as the song ends and the musicians start up a more somber tune. The King's nephew weasels his way into my Lady's arms once more for yet another waltz, and I wander away from the center of the dance hall, unintentionally finding the eastern exit where the inventor had fled.

If I thought the dance passed by in a blurry haze, then the fuzziness with which I find myself from the dance hall to the Guest Room hallways was like opening your eyes while submerged in sewer water, Heavens forbid.

And then I realize where I am at, but it's almost too late. My hand is on the hyperbrass handle, the cold metal curving smoothly in my sweaty palm, the dim candles giving the marble floors and eerie haze that chills me to the core. I hear her sobs inside the room, see the light from beneath her door flicker, imagine the way she might sprawl across her bed in distress as I do occasionally when times are tougher than usual.

I nearly vomit. I did this to her.

The door isn't latched, so I risk pushing it open ever-so-slightly so that I might peek at her. Blond hair falling into my face, my lips quivering as I touch a hand to the door frame and another by my face on the oaken surface of the door, and stare at the inventor in a way that might get you arrested for either being a Peeping Tom or for attempted murder. I couldn't tell which, as I could not see my own expression, but could only guess by the way my eyes bulged and my stomach twisted agonizingly.

She isn't on the bed; she's on the floor. She isn't face-down in pillows--as I originally thought, given how muffled her sobs were--but biting down on her sleeve viciously. She most certainly isn't wallowing in self-pity and hurt exclusively; she's brought a needle up to her chin and pressed it into her flesh on the right side just below her jaw.

The smell hits me instantly, and recognition slams into me all the quicker.

Dea's Tears.

I almost shove the doors open as my eyes study her injection site; the veins are faint, so she must have only recently started using the drug. She might not be addicted yet...

But I don't open the door, or scream for her to stop, or ask her to dance, or tell her how sorry I am, or give her a hug as my heart and my mind and even my soul tell me. I simply watch.

Then I carefully close the door, hearing her soft whispered words to herself. "She hates you. She hates you. Just stop embarrassing yourself; you'll never be good enough for her. She loves the Queen. She hates you." The ramblings are devastatingly guilt-wracking, but I wash the remorse from my consciousness.

I walk away.

*****

My eyes flutter open slowly as I become aware of my surroundings, wary of the sound of chirping birds and the gentle sound of wind making its way through the leaves of trees and the underbrush that coats the ground of forests, fields, and other natural areas. There is a distinct fresh smell, my skin itchy with chiggers and tickled by strands of grass.

Arms prickling with a suspicious concentration of warmth, I crack open an eye, lifting my head weakly. All at once I slam it back down again, a rush of agony coursing through my bones at the movement. I lay still, gasping for air through the immense pain, tears pooling around my lashes as I wait for it to pass. Damn it to Hell, that stung...

I open my eyes, not recalling shutting them tightly closed again, taking in the rays of sun through heavy grey clouds as a sunrise tried its best to make itself beautiful in the morning gloom, dew and raindrops alike dusting the valley surrounded by cliffs. Tall fir trees dot the valley scarcely, a thick concentration of them building up as the land kissed the cliff sides, even thicker as the top of the cliffs edged away from rock and clay to healthy sandy soil and small pebbles.

"Evora," I croak, getting a sickly feeling in my stomach as I remember my dreams. Painful memories of my Lady, and of the ominous signs I should have paid more attention to at the time. Then the guilt of turning away Evora so harshly at that ball all those years ago. The shame had never left me, although I tried to bury it in my love for my Lady and the tediousness of my work. What a strange, pointless thing to get caught up in, and yet it was snagged up in my brain to this day still the same.

I wait for too long to call for her again, fear gripping my heart with an unreasonable ferocity. Maybe it's ten minutes, but my gut is telling me I blanked out for nearly an hour, lost in my thoughts and the pain of what-ifs. "Evora!!"

I wait a few seconds, and then call out to her again. And again. And again. At least seven times within two minutes. Then another seven. And another.

Nothing.

My throat is raw now, my screams louder, agonized regret filling my stomach cruelly as I allow the thought into my mind at last: what if she didn't survive the fall?

Come to think of it, how could anyone have survived a fall at that height? We were several thousand feet up in the air when she shoved us out of the Investigator. I struggled to recall what she had been screaming to the biter as we descended. My mind was so foggy and delusional at the time, it was hard to remember the small bits and pieces that should have been the most strikingly prominent in my memory--

The biter. "Kid!" I shriek, forcing myself up into a sitting position despite the pain that hits me in lengthy, horrific waves. "Kid, can you hear me?!"

No answer.

"Oh my god... of all the things to happen..." I groan, and in a burst of adrenaline, I manage to get myself up onto my feet. I am extremely wobbly and hurting intensely, but at least I'm up on my feet. Looking around this glade of tall grasses and swaying wildflowers, I sigh loudly, turning in an extremely slow circle for any signs of the inventor or the biter. "Biter!!"

In the distance, I think I see an odd patch of grass missing, perhaps in the rough shape of a fallen person crumpled to the ground. One step, two steps, and then...

Blackness. Again. The last thing I see is the wet, sandy ground, lush with grasses and weeds, rushing up to greet me.

Damn it.