Based on actual Alteran events.
I've always been a bit disappointed I never got to develop Evelyn Arwedhel further as a character, reveal some twisties etc., so I decided to write a short story of her captivity at Val Royeaux whilst she waited for her wedding day to arrive. If you have not read her story, the link can be found in my signature, and the diaries are somewhere below the original post. But, the TL;DR is that she was forced into an arranged marriage, and was waiting in limbo for her husband-to-be to return for the wedding at his home, Val Royeaux. Anyway, on with the story!
She could not see the water from her balcony, mercifully, though the steady, eternal rhythm of the waves beating on the rocks was always there. Instead, her chambers looked out over a vast garden, lined with splendidly carved arches and pillars of gleaming alabaster, and great mosaics of a hundred different hues. The flowerbeds were strewn with plants and herbs of every variety, colour and shape-- alive with the chirping of cicadas, and in the bushes small pink birds chattered gaily to one another by the light of the setting sun. Earlier, she had watched a fool with a twisted face entertain a group of serving girls by the statue of a bare-breasted goddess (most likely Shalherana or Theodra, she noted automatically), performing cartwheels and handstands on his stunted little legs or else throwing rueberries into the air and attempting to catch them in his mouth. Every so often, the little creature had succeeded in snatching a berry from the air, and a cacophony of giddy squeals, giggling and applause had risen up from his company. Twisting grape vines and hanging lilac; apple blossom and laburnum; oranges, lemons, limes; peach, pear and plum-- all laden with fruit and vibrant and enticing. In the centre of the paradise, a great gushing fountain watched over it all with an elegant grandeur that Evelyn scarcely believed could have been made by elven hands. Would that I could have come to this place freely...
In the end, it was a servant that broke her reverie. One of the girls she had seen with the fool before, but she forgot which. She had made no effort to remember their names.
“Princess--?” she had begun.
“No-” Evelyn said sharply before she could continue, surprised at the ice in her own voice. Rising from her perch at the edge of the balcony, she turned to survey this new ambassador of her husband-to-be, looking through her with eyes of stone. The girl quailed.
“I... am not your princess.”
“I- My lady, forgive me, I only meant that... you soon will be, I thought--”
“Then you thought wrong,” she snapped.
“...My apologies, my lady,” came the dutiful reply, and the girl lowered her gaze. She could not have been much older than Evelyn herself, with bright, inquisitive eyes and a dainty nose. A pretty thing, she reflected listlessly.
“Well?” Her tone was icy still, cold and demanding. “What news have you brought me?”
“I- There is no news, princ- My lady!” Stammered the girl, stumbling over her own tongue to correct herself. Evelyn’s expression softened slightly, but her reply was uttered stiffly.
“A man who proclaims himself a ruler is no prince. And the woman to wed him--” her insides tightened “--no princess.”
The last of the light was fading outside now, but her chamber remained lit by the soft twinkle of oil lanterns that shimmered and danced across the marble walls. Like fireflies. The infamous Leo Decroix had enjoyed his luxuries, it seemed, and Val Royeaux was certainly not short of those. After an what must have been an uncomfortable silence for the poor girl, her little messenger bird piped up again, if a little nervously.
“My lady... Truly it is past time you were abed, you are visiting the Cathedral upon the morrow...” This time there was a moment’s hesitation; the girl was only following her instructions after all, what reason had she to mistreat her so? Evelyn berated herself silently. Then why, she asked herself, why was she so enraged by those bright doe eyes, all silver and sparkling, eyes that had never done her wrong?
“...My lady--?”
“--I do not wish to sleep.”
Sleeping or waking, it made no difference anymore. At Imlasdris her dreams had been haunted by the tall shadowy figure of her uncle, the stone walls of a tomb she took to be her own and the ceaseless cawing of haggard white ravens. But now, instead, only the faceless vision of her future prince lurked behind her eyelids, as if it had been painted there in bloody ink that was running down her cheeks-- Tears? Evelyn blinked, and felt the telltale warmth of the droplet on her face, brushing it away angrily with a borrowed silken handkerchief.
“M-my lady?!” the child had stammered, alarmed by the tears of her princess. “My lady, are you--?”
“...Go,” came the snarl from the young bride’s lips, her expression twisted into a caricature of resent and rage. Drawing long shuddering breaths, she glared at the girl before her, so free and innocent and happy, and for the first time in her life, Evelyn Arwedhel felt hatred. “I said... ‘GO’!” she screamed, sending the last of the little pink birds shrieking from their nests in the lilac, their frail wings beating frantically. And so, too, did the little messenger bird flee her mistress’ wrath, picking up her skirts and turning to run from the room. It was only when the girl’s footsteps had disappeared down the many flights of steps that led from her chambers, that Evelyn fell to her knees and wept, still clutching her handkerchief.
I've always been a bit disappointed I never got to develop Evelyn Arwedhel further as a character, reveal some twisties etc., so I decided to write a short story of her captivity at Val Royeaux whilst she waited for her wedding day to arrive. If you have not read her story, the link can be found in my signature, and the diaries are somewhere below the original post. But, the TL;DR is that she was forced into an arranged marriage, and was waiting in limbo for her husband-to-be to return for the wedding at his home, Val Royeaux. Anyway, on with the story!
~ ~ ~
The evening air was warm, and heavy with the scent of sweet-rue. She might have found the fragrant blooms pleasant back at Harathendel, but here the odour was sweet and sickly. Exhaling to rid herself of its cloying aroma, Evelyn looked up at the for what must have been the thousandth time that day, her weary eyes travelling the length of the horizon - the sky there bruised with purple welts brought on by dusk. The girl looked down again. Her hands were folded neatly across her lap, yet even that could not stop them trembling. It is as if, she thought, as if I am stranded in the middle of the sea-- and I have no oars to row, nor a sail to carry me home. She could not see the water from her balcony, mercifully, though the steady, eternal rhythm of the waves beating on the rocks was always there. Instead, her chambers looked out over a vast garden, lined with splendidly carved arches and pillars of gleaming alabaster, and great mosaics of a hundred different hues. The flowerbeds were strewn with plants and herbs of every variety, colour and shape-- alive with the chirping of cicadas, and in the bushes small pink birds chattered gaily to one another by the light of the setting sun. Earlier, she had watched a fool with a twisted face entertain a group of serving girls by the statue of a bare-breasted goddess (most likely Shalherana or Theodra, she noted automatically), performing cartwheels and handstands on his stunted little legs or else throwing rueberries into the air and attempting to catch them in his mouth. Every so often, the little creature had succeeded in snatching a berry from the air, and a cacophony of giddy squeals, giggling and applause had risen up from his company. Twisting grape vines and hanging lilac; apple blossom and laburnum; oranges, lemons, limes; peach, pear and plum-- all laden with fruit and vibrant and enticing. In the centre of the paradise, a great gushing fountain watched over it all with an elegant grandeur that Evelyn scarcely believed could have been made by elven hands. Would that I could have come to this place freely...
In the end, it was a servant that broke her reverie. One of the girls she had seen with the fool before, but she forgot which. She had made no effort to remember their names.
“Princess--?” she had begun.
“No-” Evelyn said sharply before she could continue, surprised at the ice in her own voice. Rising from her perch at the edge of the balcony, she turned to survey this new ambassador of her husband-to-be, looking through her with eyes of stone. The girl quailed.
“I... am not your princess.”
“I- My lady, forgive me, I only meant that... you soon will be, I thought--”
“Then you thought wrong,” she snapped.
“...My apologies, my lady,” came the dutiful reply, and the girl lowered her gaze. She could not have been much older than Evelyn herself, with bright, inquisitive eyes and a dainty nose. A pretty thing, she reflected listlessly.
“Well?” Her tone was icy still, cold and demanding. “What news have you brought me?”
“I- There is no news, princ- My lady!” Stammered the girl, stumbling over her own tongue to correct herself. Evelyn’s expression softened slightly, but her reply was uttered stiffly.
“A man who proclaims himself a ruler is no prince. And the woman to wed him--” her insides tightened “--no princess.”
The last of the light was fading outside now, but her chamber remained lit by the soft twinkle of oil lanterns that shimmered and danced across the marble walls. Like fireflies. The infamous Leo Decroix had enjoyed his luxuries, it seemed, and Val Royeaux was certainly not short of those. After an what must have been an uncomfortable silence for the poor girl, her little messenger bird piped up again, if a little nervously.
“My lady... Truly it is past time you were abed, you are visiting the Cathedral upon the morrow...” This time there was a moment’s hesitation; the girl was only following her instructions after all, what reason had she to mistreat her so? Evelyn berated herself silently. Then why, she asked herself, why was she so enraged by those bright doe eyes, all silver and sparkling, eyes that had never done her wrong?
“...My lady--?”
“--I do not wish to sleep.”
Sleeping or waking, it made no difference anymore. At Imlasdris her dreams had been haunted by the tall shadowy figure of her uncle, the stone walls of a tomb she took to be her own and the ceaseless cawing of haggard white ravens. But now, instead, only the faceless vision of her future prince lurked behind her eyelids, as if it had been painted there in bloody ink that was running down her cheeks-- Tears? Evelyn blinked, and felt the telltale warmth of the droplet on her face, brushing it away angrily with a borrowed silken handkerchief.
“M-my lady?!” the child had stammered, alarmed by the tears of her princess. “My lady, are you--?”
“...Go,” came the snarl from the young bride’s lips, her expression twisted into a caricature of resent and rage. Drawing long shuddering breaths, she glared at the girl before her, so free and innocent and happy, and for the first time in her life, Evelyn Arwedhel felt hatred. “I said... ‘GO’!” she screamed, sending the last of the little pink birds shrieking from their nests in the lilac, their frail wings beating frantically. And so, too, did the little messenger bird flee her mistress’ wrath, picking up her skirts and turning to run from the room. It was only when the girl’s footsteps had disappeared down the many flights of steps that led from her chambers, that Evelyn fell to her knees and wept, still clutching her handkerchief.
But I want more!