User:Fish/Danae in Medieval Fantasy
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{{#if:|}}| [[Image:{{{icon}}}|30px|center|Icon]] | Note: This page descends from a branching story called Dreams Incorporated. Follow the link to start at the beginning. |
Maids of Honor (Medieval Fantasy)
Danaë makes her selection, hesitantly, under India's watchful eye. As soon as she presses her fingertip on the screen she feels a wave crash over her, an almost physical sensation, and her consciousness dissolves away. Her mind erodes in great swaths as the Dreams computer drops her conscious sensation to a mere trickle. Her mind receded into a mere fog, a scattering of droplets without focus.
It may have been many minutes later — or in the accelerated Dream-time it may only have been nanoseconds — when Danaë feels her mind returning, refilling, as a flood of awareness cascades into her. She is peripherally aware, at first, of the sweet rotting scent of hay and the dry, pervading scent of rust, of a dampness in the air, and the distant rumble of falling water. Somewhere nearby, a horse nickers. Then, in a sudden wave, the world seems to flow smoothly into place.
She is standing near a low structure made of oaken post-and-lintel construction, with tall, wide doors. Just inside the structure — which must be a stable, she decides — the floor comes strewn with hay, and large, dark shapes of horses can be seen within. Outside the stable is a large, elegant carriage made of polished black wood and fitted with brass hardware. A coat of arms with a dragon rampant adorns the carriage door, and a handsome young groom tends one of the two horses, brushing its coat thoroughly. The weather is decidedly English: chilly, humid, and overcast. A low fog huddles around the stables, obscuring everything beyond a hundred yards. Beyond the stable itself is a high stone wall, which vanishes into the fog as a castle-shaped silhouette. Behind Danaë the fog creeps into an evenly spaced cluster of trees, a forest or possibly an orchard.
Danaë herself is wearing a heavy violet shawl of a velvety material, something obviously designed more for warmth and fashion than for outdoor durability, over a flowing ankle-length gown. She inspects herself briefly, wondering who she might be. Whoever she is, Danaë has fine kid gloves on both hands, up to the elbow, an expensive jeweled bracelet on each wrist, and — she runs her gloved fingertips across her middle — yes, a tight-fitting corset.
The groom approaches her. He is a handsome-looking youth, in a fresh but crude way, a rough-hewn lad with tousled hair. In his demeanor and in his voice there is a healthy respect and fear. “The carriage is ready to take you to the wedding, my Lady,” he says falteringly. “Shall I inform the Captain of the Guard?”
Your Lady? Danaë muses to herself. So I’m in the nobility, maybe even royalty. The word wedding was not lost on her, either: this was, after all, a Romance story, and weddings figured prominently in many of them.
“Uh, yes, please do,” she tells the groom uncertainly. “We mustn’t be late.”
“Right away, my Lady,” the groom stammers, and starts toward the castle-shaped silhouette in the fog. As he leaves, he attempts to unobtrusively make himself more presentable by brushing away the hay that clings to his smock.
The groom vanishes into the mist and, moments later, a new figure emerges. It is a woman, exquisitely dressed in a silky gown of red brocade. Her hair is pulled back into a wave of ringlets that fall down one shoulder, and like Danaë, she wears a heavy shawl to ward off the chill.
“Danaë?” the newcomer asks. “Is that you? Damn, you look good.”
“Yes,” Danaë replies. “I think I’m a princess or something. Are you India?”
The woman nods. She looks entirely unlike her friend India, but the woman has a certain carriage and composure that reminds Danaë hauntingly of her. It is something about the very direct, bold way that India makes eye contact, the way she speaks in a loud voice and states her mind. Although India is now a lustrous black instead of a glowing auburn, and her complexion now milky pale, it is unquestionably still she.
“Princess, eh?” India asks, looking over Danaë’s dress. “Turn around, let me see you.”
Danaë does so. “Have you seen the others?”
India shakes her head. “Not yet. They’re getting ready to leave for the wedding, so I’m told.”
“You heard about that?” Danaë says, smiling shyly. “Angus really picked an excellent Romance, didn’t he? I’m going to get to marry him!”
India’s new face turns quickly from admiration into disapproval. “That’s not what I heard. Look, don’t get your hopes up here, but you’re not the princess in this story.”
“I’m not?” Danaë asks. This time she does reach up for the nonexistent purple lock in her hair.
“No,” India says flatly, “you aren’t. And from what I can tell, you’re not the one who’s going to marry the Prince of Fiorham, either.”
Danaë felt the color drain from her face. “Ashleigh? She’s in here, too. You think it’s her?”
India scowls. “Probably. She must have been there with Angus as he picked out three Dreams to suggest to us. She might have arranged to make herself be the lucky bride who marries the handsome prince.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Wait and see,” India suggests with a grin, and gestures at Danaë. “If the bride can’t make it to the wedding, maybe the groom will marry the maid of honor.”
“Somehow I don’t see that happening,” a male voice drawls. The two women turn to see the Prince: tall, imposing, dusky skin, and eyes to get lost in. He isn’t so broad-shouldered as the hard-working groom, but he radiates a comfortable, healthy power that comes from eating well and exercising properly. His richly made tunic of cobalt blue is adorned with the figure of a golden dragon.
“No, I don’t think I’d want to marry either one of you two girls,” the Prince says, slightly emphasizing the word slightly. “So don’t get your hopes up about this Romance. I have a feeling that it isn’t going to end well for you.”
“Angus?” Danaë asks, ashen-faced.
Prince Ashleigh shakes his head. “No, I’m not Angus. He’s still up in the castle, getting his wedding dress on.”