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Misqueme

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misqueme: to displease; to offend.

Much to anyone in the palace’s shock, Melia heard everything that went on in the villa. The slamming of doors, guards shuffling feet as they got back to a job that displeased them so, voices echoing and bouncing off the empty halls, until they mingled and the words became nothing; on quiet nights especially, the ones where she – nor anyone else – couldn’t sleep, she would strain her ears and would hear the sound of books being put into place in the library, or the sweeping, airiness of maids who somehow never made a sound and yet managed to keep everything clean. Living here all her life, one would think she’d be tuned out to all of this, the natural noise that came with the package of being a princess; slamming and shuffling and echoing and sweeping was all recognized as a sign that things were as they should be.

Indeed, she was used to all these sounds, and though she listened to them as the day would stretch into night, never had she really needed any reason to pay attention. If a door slammed, like one had this night, it was because they were so heavy, there was nothing to worry about if they happened to be a little loud; except, the sounds of the night did not continue. Guards seemed to have been frozen, for none were moving, even the distant sounds of bookshelves being arranged was hard to hear. Absolutely everything stopped, even Melia herself. She laid in her bed, long fingers twitching every now and then, as if to remind her that she is very much alive ( reminding her to breathe, to flex her toes and get blood pumping once more. )

Before she can crawl out of bed and check to see what is the matter, sharp words jump through the walls, and she hears them much as she would any other going on in the vila. Much to her own chagrin, Melia heard everything that goes on in these walls; even what she did not wish to hear.

A voice shrill ( she recognizes it as her step mothers, the woman who she calls mother, the one who would rather see Melia hung by her neck than ever acknowledge her as Sorean’s heir. ) continues on, and she realizes that there must be some sort of argument, some sort of yelling match between her mother and someone else – perhaps a maid, she always loved to yell at them and drive them out of the palace for no particular reason.

The return was much lower than any maid could have ever responded with, though still just as soft spoken. Who would speak with her mother so gently, but those of lower class? A guard, maybe. Curiosity begged her to find out, and she finally pulls herself out of the comforters, taking drowsy, clumsy steps towards the door. Every movement was cautious, as if she would make such a clamor that whatever argument was ensuing would cease solely to check on the princess. When she pulls on the door, it creaks and sends shivers up her spine, right into her wings; this was bad, something would happen, she should turn round now.

But, the princess slips into the hallway, without questioning, and her feet pad softly, silently, up to the corner that lead into the main hall. In the low light, it was easy to see the outline of her mother’s bustle skirt, to see the door still swinging from where one of them had tried to throw it shut, but further down the hall was only shadows and a silhouette, the one who took cautious steps away from Yumea as she began to yell once more.

“You would let a half breed take the throne, and for what, Sorean? Do you despise me that much, to take away our son’s throne and give it to her?” A clear pause rushes to fill the air, pressing into Melia’s ears and making them ring; she’d known that Yumea and Sorean had never been fond of each other, and this was not the first argument she’d ever heard from them, but to argue over the throne itself -- this was her fault, wasn’t it?

Grip on the wooden paneling falters with her shock, and Melia can barely stop her fall with her forearms. There is no Alvis to catch her before she is truly in danger, no Kallian there to pick her up from the floor, only a small crash against the floor. It wasn’t exactly a loud noise, but her mother and father turned to her all the same.

As if nothing had been said beforehand, Sorean’s gaze turned cold and said sharply, “First Consort, please escort the Princess back to her chambers. We can continue this once she is in bed.” Titles, titles, always one so obsessed with what is proper, never with what was right ( and perhaps he’d regret asking, if he cared more for morality and less for formality. ) Somehow, Yumea managed to pull Melia up, off the ground, and wrapped her filed nails around Melia’s wrist. It all blurred as she stumbled to keep up with her mother -- the woman moved as if she wanted nothing to do with Melia, nothing to do with the situation. Melia was afraid that if she blinked, she might miss the entire journey down the hall.

Her bedroom door had been left open, and it swung as Yumea dragged Melia by. She does not pause for breath, nor does she allow Melia a moment’s rest; the door was shut -- quietly, as to not wake any other children who might wish to play the spy -- and Yumea took her hand that was once around Melia’s wrist and grabbed the girl’s face instead. Those same nails that cut into her forearm now cut at her face, one slice right in the middle of one of her freckles, another venturing far too close to her eye for her liking.

“What, pray tell,” Yumea has the emptiness of a machine and the countenance of a queen when she speaks; if she could, Melia would inch away, perhaps go and hide under covers; but her mother’s grip is too strong, and there are bruises forming on her face, “did you hear?”

Melia stammers and stutters, fearful to look her in the eye, “Nothing, I heard nothing.” Words are automatic, a lie so see through it might as well have been the glass panes that lined the outside of the palace. Yumea’s nostrils flare, her eyes widen, and her grip on Melia loosens sharply. Low light conceals her movement, but it does not take much to piece together what comes next.

Words sting just as much as a welt across her face, pale skin turning some disgusting mixture of black and blue, “Do not lie to me, homs filth.” And it was all she said, before she turned away once more.

And, like normal, the door slammed, and Melia listened to her mother’s footsteps echo away.

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