JOIN THE CLUB =3
Summary: Adah Edric, a banished princess, returns home once her brother assumes throne. After being made up on the journey home, she arrives at the castle.
Once I’m out, it’s a frenzy. It’s only early evening and the sun is still out, but every light outside the palace is lit up, casting a florescent glow on the large stone building. I want to pause as I first see it, to remember the last time I did, but there’s no time for that. I’m made to hurry inside so that I may be put in position without notice of the hundreds of important guests. I’m rushed through the halls and rooms and before I can grasp the situation, there I am at the top of the ballroom staircase, every eye on me as planned.
Without thinking, I smile, not because I want to, but because years of etiquette lessons have told me it’s the right thing to do. I wave, not briskly or lazily, but smoothly and methodically, as a princess should. I descend the staircase into the mass of partially awestruck, partially excitedly chattering people. By the looks of their faces, it’s easy to tell that though this party was on short notice and they had to rearrange their busy schedules, it was well worth it to see if the banished princess really has returned.
It seems everyone wants to see my face; everyone wants to shake my hand, to hear my words of greeting. Most congratulate me on my return; most mean it. But beyond the smiles and laughter, some people can’t help but radiate an aura of contempt. How dare I return, out of the blue, and be welcomed so easily, so freely, after all I did? Be so loved? I wish I could tell them I’m not - loved, that is. I’m money. I’m influence. I’m a celebrity, so I must be adored, though hated, and I must be praised, though insult is hidden just out of reach of their tongues. They don’t love me; they love what I stand for. And no one can take my place, so they tolerate me.
For the first half hour of the celebration, people congregate in the ballroom, teeming around me. Then we are moved, family by family, based on wealth and social standing, into the dining hall, which hosts two long tables, one on each side of the large room, and any number of smaller tables between, where people are free to move about. Normally I’d be first, but seeing as the feast is for me, I enter last and am the first to take food. Once I start on a bowl of wild rice soup, the rest are allowed to join in.
Before I’ve taken three spoonfuls, a cumbersome man with a golden bowtie finds me and insists on dancing to the music playing in the background. The scent of the soup, and every dish beside it, is tantalizing, and since the only thing I’ve eaten today save for the nuts and berries is a rushed breakfast, my stomach moans for it. But geniality has to be my first priority, and I reluctantly agree.
“It’s a pleasure to see you back in the palace, princess,” the man says. “It’s been too long.”
“I agree,” I say, faking familiarity. “It’s a pleasure to be back.”
While before the faces came and went before they could really register and I needn’t have remembered any of them, I feel I should know who this man is - not just because of the situation, but because his brown curls and burnt skin honestly looks familiar. I just can’t place him.
There a little static in my ear, and then Vanadis comes through clearly. Midel Pewter.
How did he know who I was with? I wonder if he hid a tiny camera in my dress, and I resist the urge to search the lace.
Once I hear the name, though, I know it’s right. I remember his name from my memorization of illustrious leaders. The pictures and information I put to memory are from a few years back, from before I was sent away, and are now obviously outdated. He has a sprinkle of gray hair now, and his skin is less taut. But his chin is still prominent, and easy to recall.
“Still working as the head overseer at the training grounds?” The question cards all come to mind, and that one is the most appropriate - not only does it break the ice, it also shows I remember him.
He smiles. “Not anymore,” he says, pride evident. “I’ve been promoted to weapons management for the Combat Zone.”
I’ll start my training at the grounds, and I can’t say I’m disappointed I won’t be seeing him every day. I’ve heard a few too many stories about the dictatorship of the grounds, mostly about the overseer. I wonder who’ll be taking his place.
“Congratulations.” I smile sincerely, as I had practiced many times before. The muscles in my face feel too forced for the motion, though, telling me I need to regain the practice. Some things are still natural after two years away, but some have become rusty. I hope I look okay.
For the rest of the song, we make idle chitchat. Then, someone cuts in. Vanadis tells me the name. I don’t care, but I pretend to. For what seems like hours, this repeats - dancing, cutting in, hearing their name and sometimes a bit of information, dancing again. I am pleasant with each one as they praise my return, share a story, are sorry for my loss. It takes a moment to realize what they mean by that, then I understand - my father. The old king. I’m not sure how I feel of his passing - sad, or otherwise.
Finally, Vanadis says, You need to get back here now.
Not very regretfully, I tell the man I’m dancing with I must leave, and weave my way through the crowd. I enter a door under the staircase, which leads to a room with an elevator that takes me up a level, unseen. From there, I am led to a balcony that looks over the dining hall, and the lights are dimmed. The room hushes, and a spotlight is put on me.
Vanadis speaks, and I convey the message as my own.
“Thank you all for coming here tonight.” A microphone on the balcony ledge spurs on dozens of speakers, which emanate my voice in sweeping echoes. “It’s amazing to be back in my wonderful country. I’m so grateful for the warm welcome I’ve received. Your support has made my return not only possible, but a joy for me and my family.”
Whoever wrote the script has obviously never met me, so it’s a very good thing neither has most of the populous; at least, not the me that’s not staged. Because I’m not thankful. I’m not grateful. It’s not a joy. There are a number of things I could call it, but they would all most likely start a riot.
Instead of saying them, I wipe away a tear that’s not there and back away from the microphone, as though overtaken with emotion. Applause thunders through the hall, and I know I have done my job well.
I am a magnificent liar.
Okay, I still have the Hunger Games feel, I think - any ideas on why, exactly, and how to fix that? Even drastic suggestions to help. I think that starting with the next chapter, that vibe is at least going to lessen, thanks to the direction I'm taking this. Other than that, I'm looking for the same things as in the previous chapters. And if you like, press like. 
However, if it makes you feel better, I like it! 
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