&&. announcing her royal highness, ( manon margaret alys powys ), the ( 26 ) year old ( princess ) of ( wales ). she is often confused with ( victoria pedretti ). some say that she is ( apathetic and cruel ), but she is actually ( resilient and tenacious )
[ i am physically incapable of writing a short bio so apologies for that !! but here is manon, she’s a menace to society who absolutely does not want to be here and is about to make it everyone’s problem ! tw for implied violence, drug use, OD below the cut ]
There is nothing particularly remarkable about her past, nothing deeply traumatic or otherwise impactful that might explain why Manon Margaret Alys Powys is the way that she is. She knows this because she’s had to sit through many therapists and psychiatrists attempting to divine some sort of revelation, all asking the very same questions and expecting a different outcome. Of course, there is the obvious explanation - privilege and wealth and status all gifted by the circumstances of her birth as the youngest Princess of Wales. But that answer never quite satisfies, not when her two elder siblings turned out mostly fine. No, there was always something a bit off about her.
Manon didn’t particularly care.
As a child, Manon had taken to manipulation the way other children took to reading or maths. Does not play well with others - was how a few primary school teachers phrased it. Later braver souls would use words like ‘complete disregard for peers’, ‘inclination towards cruelty’, and likely far worse out of earshot. In another child, this would be cause for great concern. Perhaps it was her position and title, or maybe her parents were so attached to their ignorance. Their littlest princess with those sapphire eyes and darling face, an almost uncanny ability to produce both tears and smiles on a whim served her far longer than expected, even as they managed to uncover the rest of her manipulations.
But really, Manon was bored. Achingly, mind-numbingly, maddeningly bored. The kind of boredom that crawls inside your skin and then screams out for release, every lingering moment of banality a thudding ache inside her skull. And so she became driven by this search for stimulation, for a thrill, for whatever might catch her fleeting attention and hold on for longer than a passing obsession. Because without somewhere to focus that energy, the princess had a tendency towards destruction. A broken vase or glass, something pushed over for the sheer satisfaction of a crash and the accompanying outcry. She’d always had a talent for breaking things, something that became more refined as she grew older.
Boredom and destruction manifested in apathy, her erratic restlessness seemingly stifled by that castle in Wales. And why wouldn’t it be? She wasn’t, as she might argue, particularly necessary. They already had Arwyn and Gwen, an heir and a spare, each of her siblings the clear favorite of one of their parents. Her father was by all measures devoted to his family, stern but never cruel in a way Manon couldn't quite figure out. Mother proved even more confusing, more like a character in some fairytale - beautiful and regal - than someone real who might understand her. This is not at all to say that her parents did not care for her, in fact they cared very deeply. But Manon, in that particular way of hers, understood that no amount of manipulation would allow her to ever surpass her siblings, so it was a waste to try. Because for all her childhood cruelty and manipulation, Manon had tried to care. She’d spent years trailing after Gwen and Arwyn attempting to be whatever it was that they might want from a little sister, although it never quite snagged her fickle attention for long.
Her grandmother always proved an exception to this, perhaps they were similar, or maybe Manon just adored being someone’s favorite, but her grandmother has always been the one who knew her the best, even after she left. Which she decided at a young age would be the best thing for her. Like many girls of her wealth and status, Manon had been stuck in ballet since a young age. She even managed to have a significant natural talent for it, and even more shockingly, did not tire of it after a few months. Most importantly, it was a way out.
Manon, through sheer obsessive will and her natural talent (not to mention the added benefit of her title and wealth), managed to secure a position in the Paris Opera Ballet School at age 12. With her grandmother’s help she convinced her parents to let her go, and the world opened up before her. She was good enough to keep her position in the school, but not the very best or even one of them - a fact which grated on her with each passing year. Still, she was alone, given the space away from her family to exist as the only one who mattered in her own life, and that was crucial.
Despite this space and freedom, Manon was still herself - obsessive and self centered, and that cruel streak she could ignore for only so long. So there were…incidents. Nothing that could ever be tied to her, of course, but she had been passing by when the best dancer in her level so tragically tripped down the stairs, breaking her foot. Manon’s convincing tears over finding her hurt and the subsequent weeks of playing devoted and generous friend kept any serious suspicion away. But then wasn’t it so strange that the only girl who got food poisoning that day was doing the solo Manon had been passed over for, relegated to understudy? Her position and perhaps reputation kept any allegations at bay, but they never quite trusted her after this. By the time she’d reached the highest level in the school, her obsession had utterly faded and she turned down the oh so coveted offer to join the company as a dancer on trial.
She spent the next few years soaking up as much of the relative freedom Paris offered as she could, giving in to any passing whim that might turn obsession, flitting through various ballrooms and seedy bars. The school had served to refine her cruelty, helped to hone that restless and often fickle apathy into an obsession with control all whilst providing the discipline she’d lacked in Wales. It was a heady combination, particularly when one had charm and beauty and wealth to open doors. But without an outlet, Manon fell back into the habit of breaking things simply because she could. Not vases and trinkets this time, but whatever sort of challenge she could sink her teeth into - be it a heart or something more.
It was almost a cliche. A wayward prince on his self induced exile - running from his past, or his family, or his responsibilities. She caught his eye across some smoky salon and something about him snagged her still fleeting attention. Maybe it was the way he looked at her, or how he seemed to slip in and out of melancholy the way others did the latest fashions, something about the way he felt things so deeply that she wanted to figure out. He’d sought out a glittering distraction, an escape from whatever it was that haunted him. Manon was fine with that. She was good at that, playing the unattainable dream girl. It would last a season, before she got bored or duty dragged him home. But it didn’t. His arrogance a match for her spite, he did not flinch at the touch of cruelty she let shine through the pretty veneer. Here’s where they both made a mistake - Manon got attached. Hans assumed she would change.
Because for a fleeting moment, there was a chance. She became accustomed to his presence at her side, depended on it. His absurd habit of rising with the sun, coaxing her out of bed far sooner than she’d like to be dragged to some cafe he’d found. Maybe that was the best thing - here, in this pocket of the world, they were simply Hans and Manon. His tendency to haunt bookstores and cafes, not a wayward prince but a brooding academic. And she’d lived in this house and this neighborhood for nearly a decade now, her cruelty never extending to those shopkeepers and neighbors who always found her charming - only he bothered to call her princess anymore. Her obsessive, selfish nature focused on him, but not as something to break, no - as someone worthy of her devotion.
The illusion shattered and this time it was not entirely her fault. He wanted to let the rest of the world in, his romantic notions about marriage threatening this thing that was just theirs, the thing she would call love. Manon knew that it would not survive under scrutiny, not with the expectations and influence inherent to their names and positions. She’d thought they were happy, away from the prying eyes of family and the responsibilities of title. But he slipped the heirloom ring on her finger like a shackle, and spoke of showing her off at the wedding of the very brother who’d exiled him. She took his ring when she left that night, the weight settling on a chain around her neck. It wasn’t until her flight landed in New York that Manon realized he was still in possession of the heart she’d never before considered.
She’d always been so good at breaking things. It was only a matter of time before she broke his heart, but she’d never considered the possibility that a part of her might break as well.
New York proved even better than Paris, or maybe she’d just lost the bit of her that still held affection for these things. Her title garnered even less reverence here, a bit of novelty those around her found deeply amusing, just as they did her cruelty and fluid recklessness. Manon gave into the apathy, that search for a thrill that might ensnare her flighty attention into a worthwhile obsession. Drugs had always been a facet of her world, something she indulged in occasionally as her obsessive need for control never let her have more than two drinks. She was sometimes reckless, but very often lucky. Bad things did not happen to people like her, no, they happened to others and often at her bidding. And when she left the part of her that might care on his bedside, all that remained was the glittering, gossamer delusion where youth, beauty, wealth, and influence meant invincibility, or even near divinity with the accompanying immortality.
Until Manon was alone and shivering in an NYPD precinct, having found her current fling on the bathroom floor far too late and unable to recall where the lovely model had gotten the drugs. She had enough sense to demand they contact the embassy, and was on a private flight home within six hours. Another part of her broken and left behind in New York, this illusion of safety, or perhaps she would just become even more apathetic and cruel. It didn’t matter, really, not when she’d fucked up any chance of freedom. A month or two in Wales, to be sure that she was fine (read: not addicted to anything), and then they would figure out what to do with their wayward princess.
Manon had been away so long she felt like a stranger, holidays and various trips fading from memory as the staff and her parents figured out how to coexist with whatever she’d become. She didn’t know, or rather didn’t care to define it. A warning, a wraith, some feral creature pacing the length of a gilded cage with unnerving grace and rage. Manon wasn’t sure if they even noticed, or cared, beyond her grandmother - to whom she offered enough of the truth, as she always had.
Manon at last spoke the truth about how she’d come alive in Paris, how she might have loved, might have let herself need another person for once and then broken it simply because she’d gotten too attached, and would rather carve out her own heart than allow anyone else the power to hurt her. How she might be lost, chasing something she wasn’t sure existed, and how it only ever felt like anyone really cared about her when she was a threat. The Queen Mother stroked her youngest granddaughter’s hair as she quietly confessed, unable to summon tears without a real purpose. They sat in comfortable silence for a long while, the elder woman knowing there was nothing she could say that would change anything, and that her grandchild had merely needed someone to listen, without prejudice, as she always had to her favorite Manon.
The Queen Mother decided to convince her son to send his youngest to Spain, to be with her sister. There she might have a bit more freedom than in Wales, feel a bit less lost. The matriarch of the Powys line had always seen so much of herself in her granddaughters, perhaps they would finally find it in each other.
