but to her, everyone is just a tad too early
doors open to a marvel clad in black and gold. swathed in an inky night sky of chiffon illuminated by silk meteor showers, her gown plunges low to reveal her décolletage. an embroidered dirk through a crimson heart decorates where the scoop of her bust meets her stomach, a crude sort of personal coat of arms. cocoa-hued tresses cascade about her face in an unkempt perfection, they move fluidly as she marches into the hall, fit for battle.
and how could one dare to argue that she is not?
she is picturesque, akin to that of a damsel in a renaissance painting albeit her gaze embodies that of Medusa’s as she casts her orbs of honey in the direction of her dear sister. she sports the crown prince on her arm as if he were nought but a leather purse and inna’s stomach turns full circle, eliciting an unhealthy dose of envy to traces her veins. a scowl soon threatens to breach her mask of apathy that she applies heavily like foundation on this particular occasion. how insipid and trivial inna finds these countless events they celebrate in honour for the pairing, as if they had already been crowned as king and queen.
inna contemplates the smile that stretches across her sister’s face, decides that she would rather glimpse a frown anchored by indignation at her expense in its place but before any plan could come to fruition, a necessary poison would need to be requisitioned. scanning the hall, she discovers the table that hosts the refreshments and more importantly, the wine. her heels clack across the marbled floor, chanting angrily as she strides towards the spread, the small train of her gown dusting the ground behind her. she inches towards it, sylphlike appendages reaching out to wrap themselves around a golden chalice, only to be intercepted by father.
sibilant and silent, he hisses in her ear as she brings the cup of fermented bliss to her lips in attempt to conceal a smirk. it tickles her, oh so much, to hear the contempt roll off of her father’s tongue. as if a traditional game only the two of them play, she awaits the rest of his hushed tirade to barrage her right ear as the potent liquids slips through her lips and down her throat.
“why must you insist on making a spectacle of yourself, an embarrassment to your sister, your future queen! if you mess this up for her, God so help me, you will never see the light of day. do i make myself clear?”
his words like tiny napalms, violent and incendiary, burn into inna’s conscious, and they ignite the fire that lies dormant within her. she takes umbrage at his threat, testament to her wrath in the shuddering crockery on the table and the suits of armour that seem to shiver against the wall. behind the ruby rimmed chalice, her smile dissipates and in its place chagrin assumes residence.
“my lord, your precious daughter isn’t queen yet… anything could change our prince’s heart.”
saccharine is the smile that she adorns but her lips emit poison as she utters her response. she watches her father bridle, his scarlet flush all too revealing, which inna perceives with glee. the suit of armour’s sword begins to shift upwards from it’s clasped hands but the two immerse themselves in a battle of bitterness, oblivious to the fact.
an artist’s impression of the silver world is that of a handsome maiden, with eyes as wide as a doe’s and a high nose, pressed to perfection by the skilled fingers of michelangelo himself. they speak of her attractiveness in the kaleidoscope opal and pink pearls they sketch against the curve of her alabaster neck, and down, down, down do they cascade between the curve of her breasts. they colour her lips a scarlet red, paint smeared onto canvass as thick as the blood that fills the capillaries of that of their red servants. so different is this red from the liquid steel that sings within her veins, that which they include to portray her strength that is immovable, eternal.
and they say, within the cavity of her chest suspends an organ,
rotting,
devastating,
stubbornly beating.
that is to say, here our crown prince exists, in the heart of all that gleams silver. he stands tall and proud, with his elegant fiancée dangling on his arm like an invaluable accessory. like actors on a vast stage, they nod in tandem at an important lord’s ramblings, with practised smiles curving towards the apples of their cheeks.
oh, but with every calmness accompanies a calamity, so here lady inna enters in a whirlwind of black, gold and wondrous disasters.
as is expected of all kwons, she is captivating even in her catastrophe, so one by one do her audience’s eyes shift to gaze upon her beauty.
( and as is expected of the prince and his curious nature, so does he tilt his head as careful eyes study her otherwise impenetrable façade. )
there is something odd about her, that one, as though she is brittle where the rest of her family are malleable, and if one were to press her into the kwon mould, she is sure to shatter. see, jaewon is nothing if not thorough, and in his study of the kwon family, he had found her to don rumours like smooth silk draping along the length of her alabaster skin. though he cares not for romances, he cannot deny that through a critic’s eye, tragedy adorns her quite beautifully.
but such is the temporary allure of beauty, that her audience soon tires of her and turns their gaze away and onto the next item on the programme. jaewon, instead, is sure to keep her within his peripheral vision, and as documented in his studies of the kwon family, he soon witnesses the hostile encounter between lady inna and her father. in the corner, like magic, a sculpture comes to life and threatens to swing its iron sword into her unsuspecting audience, as though in retaliation of their faithlessness.
oh, what a delightful show.
perhaps the time to meet his in-laws has come.
he promptly excuses himself from the pompous man, leaving his betrothed to fend for herself as he waltzes over to the rest of her family.
“good evening, lord kwon.” here, he slides his palm against the small of inna’s back, an act of comfort disguised as an apology for his intrusion. he fixates his gaze on the silver flecks of her irises, and a consoling smile nestles comfortably on his sculpted lips, “lady kwon.”
“i pray you find tonight’s festivities… suitable for your taste?” a pause, as though an unspoken dare. “if not, i’m sure i can be of some assistance. please, i insist; anything for family.”
oh, do be wary of the devil’s grin.
kianamaiart
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