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Word Count: 1734
V
When Calida was thirteen years old, she broke a boy's nose. She remembered the crunch when her fist collided with the older boy's face, the spurt of blood, the cries and the gasps. The throb in her knuckles lasted for days, and they had been bruised. Yet, despite the screams of horror, the boy kneeling before her, clutching his face stained red, she did nothing but grin. There was something about the way he seemed smaller than her that gave her a thrill.
She had done it for Thea.
The boy had stolen Thea's diary, and read the pages out loud before tearing them out. Thea's delicate penmanship blurred on the paper as it soaked in dirty street water. Then, the paper was stained red with his blood.
All her life, Calida had given everything to protect Thea, even when the consequences were painful. Thea was a butterfly, and branches were trying to snag her wings, to keep her from flying. It was Calida's job to break those branches.
Yet in the end, all she had done meant nothing when Lucien pushed her into the fire.
What chilled Calida wasn't seeing her sister die. She had not seen Thea's body as it fell into the hungry flames, as they licked at her flesh and burned her. What truely terrified her was Thea moments before, face impassive and blank, not a hint of fear. She had not even screamed as she died. Calida only hoped that meant she was already gone by the time he threw her in.
Calida herself recalled the excruciating pain as she fell into the fire. She had passed out after but a few moments, but those few moments were agony as she had never known. The coolness of death felt like wind against her skin and soft feathers to rest on, and she embraced it.
Yet the air had begun to turn uncomfortably hot, and for a moment, she believed what the old man sweeping the market said was true. The light she saw was not white as they all say, but yellow, red, and orange, angry colors that reflected upon her sorrows and furies. She stumbled, falling onto hard, smooth ground. It was cold against her fingers as she clawed at it, attempting to keep herself away from the glow. Clinging and scratching until her nails broke and her fingers bled, but still, it drew nearer.
She rose, gasping for air into the blinding light.
Lucien stood before her, leaned over her body.
On instinct, her fist clenched and collided with his face. She had aimed for his nose, but he jerked away, and she hit his cheek instead. A throb ran up her arm, stinging her knuckles. He grabbed her wrist, pinning it besides her.
"Easy there, Your Majesty." Lucien released her wrist cautiously.
Heat flooded Calida's face, and she rubbed her knuckles. Lucien, the boy who tricked and killed her sister. Lucien, the boy that killed her, was standing right in front of her.
Realization hit her. "We are both dead." Her voice was cracked and hoarse, and her throat burned. If she was dead, she did not want to be thirsty for eternity.
Shaking his head, Lucien breathed a light laugh. "Actually, Your Majesty, we are both home."
Calida looked around her, expecting the dusty brown wood walls of her home, the two small beds of her and Thea's shared room, the thick brown curtains that hung over the lone window of their room. Yet already she knew it was not her room. The mattress she laid on was too soft, not itchy and poking like the one at home. It was too bright to be home, as there was a large tree outside that blocked most of the sunlight from their window. And the room smelled of a sweet rose perfume that clogged Calida's breathing every time she inhaled, not the musty, old wood smell of her home.
The walls were a shade of pale yellow, golden curtains hung over the three large windows. The room was very likely the size of her house, with a desk, wardrobes, a closet, drawers, and shelves upon shelves of books. Two dark wood doors sat on opposite sides of the room, adorned with golden doorknobs. It was so rich, so vastly different from what she grew up with, that it was rediculous for Lucien to even say that it was her home. Her home was the small, lackluster house on the outskirts of the small, lackluster town.
"Where have you brought me?" She demanded, clenching her fists around the bedsheets, wishing that it was his neck between her fingers. She longed to see the same emptiness in his eyes that had been in Thea's before he killed her.
The calmness in his voice irked her as he said, "Home, Your Majesty." His face was impassive, but it was different from Thea's. There was a light in his eyes that contrasted from the nothingness in hers.
"My name," she spoke through clenched teeth, "is Calida."
"It would be improper of me to call one of high standing-points by their first name."
"I am no Queen."She recalled their conversation moments before they had died, when she had said that she would take Thea's place. It could only have been a practical joke, however, as no one would ever dream of finding a queen in her town.
Calida looked around the room, and calculated how long it would take for her to reach the door, or the nearest window. Lucien seemed more fit than her, but his respect for her as 'his Majesty' could prove to be an advantage.
Before she could hesitate, Calida bolted out of bed and for the door. She only made it a few steps, however, before a hand grasped her arm and yanked her back. She yelped from the slight ache that drew up to her shoulder, and the heat of the hand holding her.
Suddenly, the doors she had been running for flew open, and two armed men stormed in.
"What's going on?" A deep voice called out.
Lucien quickly pulled her behind his back, visibly stiffening. His face was half turned away from her, but she could see that his expression had turned stone cold. She tugged her arm away, the heat growing painful, but he did not release her from his hold.
"Leave." When no sound of movement came, he uttered louder, "Now!"
The two men scrambled out if the room, and only then, with their backs turned, did Calida dare to step out of hiding behind him. The door swung shut, but not before she caught a glimpse of blond hair.
Lucien's blond hair.
With a shade of hair as impossible as Lucien's, it could not have been a coincidence that two other men had it. Perhaps they were his family. There could be no other explanation.
Lucien placed a finger to her lips before she could speak, whispering, "Quiet please, Your Highness."
From outside the door, the voices of the two men could be overheard.
"Lucien's got a girl in there." Chuckles. "Her hair was brown."
"Oh, looks like he's gone rogue. Seems he's grown tired of Isobel."
"Think he'll share?"
Calida's cheeks grew hot, and Lucien growled at their comments. Once the laughs grew quiet, Calida found her voice.
"Take me home."
"I cannot." Lucien kept his back to her, his eyes trained on the door. "Majesty, there are too many things you do not know right now, and I-"
"Don't call me 'Majesty', I am not a queen." She repeated, "My name is Calida."
Lucien gritted his teeth before turning around to face her. "Calida." He said her name like it tasted foul on his mouth, and he glowered at her. The respectfulness from him had disappeared. "I know." Calida raised an eyebrow at him, prompting him to continue. "I know you are not the queen. It's obvious from your hair, your eyes, your cluelessness."
Confusion took over her anger. "Then why am I-"
"But they do not." He continued, interrupting her, "They do not know you are not their queen. The two men that just entered? They don't know." He sighed, running a hand through his hair, and suddenly, he looked older, sadder. "And we need to keep it that way."
So many questions, but from the look on Lucien's face, Calida knew she would be getting no answers. Her heart was racing and her head was spinning and it was all happening far too fast. Thoughts were scrambling through her head, and she tried desperately to grasp one and understand.
Thea was a tranQuil girl. She didn't deserve it.
Thea is dead. Gone.
Kidnapped. She shoUld be dead.
She is not homE.
Dead.
She burned in a fire. Pain.
LuciEn killed them.
Gone. Death.
Pain. Burn. Gone. Death.
Pain. BurN.
Lucien wants her to be a QUEEN.
For years, she had been a speck of dirt, a fly, and she had grown used to it. The humiliation, the pain, she was not someone who was raised to the top. Yet Lucien stood before her, telling her she was to be a queen, a ruler of wherever he had taken her, a ruler to whomever he had taken her to.
"I-I cannot!" She stepped away from Lucien, towards the door. Panic. It was a dangerous thing, one that clouded one's senses until they only acted and did not think. She knew from experience what panic could do. But she had to get home. Her real home. She had to get back to her parents and tell them what happened to Thea. She had to get home and be with them. She had to take care of Salvia.
She had to go.
Following her gaze, Lucien held up a hand. "Your Majesty, do not."
But panic? Panic told her to move, move fast, and leave. It was the hand that pushed her forward, the hand that gave her speed so that Lucien did not catch her in time.
She swung the doors open and stumbled two steps out just as Lucien's hand clasped around her arm tightly.
And she hung off the edge of the world.
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