hair of snow ( tag: rian! )

[ollie]

zenda hated being bedridden. she hated being stuck in her room, the only escape being the vase next to her bed. the cool feeling of the pond water around her slender fingers and soaking under her fingernails was heavenly, and occasionally the fish that luca and her doctors and ladies-in-waiting would raise up to nibble on her fingertips, hungrily searching for the food that she had once given them. now they lived off the algae and the occasional leftovers of her meals. such bland meals; she’d had to get a servant to sneak the typical spices she ate in her traditional meals. it absolutely drove her crazy. she watched a doctor seemingly impassively as he moved about like a busy insect, working on her as a worker bee works on her queen. she watched him as he put down her tray, placing the dry bread and dull soup on her bedside table carefully, as not to spill the soup. she grimaced. “where do you get your recipes?” she asked airily, turning her head to look at the doctor. he was a gawky thing, looking as if he was frozen in adolescence and standing on the threshold of adulthood. not to be poetic—zenda hated poetry to her very gut, more than she hated boring people.

“nowhere important. all that is important is it will help you get better.” the man said calmly. she glared at him, slipping her fingers into the water. “i really wish you didn’t do that. if it didn’t calm you so much i would have the damn thing dumped out. the fish could be carrying diseases, and you could cut yourself and die that way…” he rambled, shaking his head and finally leaving her room. she relaxed instantly, muscles releasing along her slender, naturally tanned arms. her colorless hair fell like strands of silk over her slight shoulders, splaying around her head as a halo would a depiction of a goddess. honey brown eyes flicked around her ornately decorated room, at the paintings from various religious centers she had stationed around the world, as well as a crown made to look like a halo created for her by followers in an eastern village. she smiled, slender lips pulling gently away from her teeth, freckled cheeks crinkling with the expression.

zenda sat up, fingers running over the paint that had been put on her shortly cut fingernails. no one could understand zenda’s disease—it seemed to come and go, violently appearing before disappearing abruptly and as silently as a thief in the night, taking away pain and blood. she was dressed lavishly, though there was no one to see; a white dress that looked more like a robe, too short to wear as anything but sleepwear as it did not even reach her knees. it billowed around her, at one moment hugging her frame and the next obscuring it as she left her bed, moving to the window in the drifting way she loved. she’d been put in a bedroom with a window facing the beautiful mountain ridges, and she studied them quietly, fingertips pressing gingerly against the window’s frosted glass. it was cold outside, as the sun was just rising, and she leaned in to watch it. no one ever noticed her, and that was the point—if anyone saw the princess, who was unmistakable with white hair and a comparatively swarthy complexion. her hair reached almost the end of her back, and she loved it that way—impossibly straight and white, pure as snow. she’d made sure they still trimmed it, even though she was ill, because it was definitely her favorite feature.

“you should not be up, miss,” the soft voice of her maid came from the doorway, and zenda turned with a spin of her skirt around her thighs. she smiled, the somewhat doughy woman eying the window before putting down the pillows she was carrying in to go to the window. they stood there and looked out, and with a sigh her maid, esmerelda, took her comparatively bony hand in her warm, soft one, patting the back of her hand reassuringly. “i suppose you understand what the gods are telling you about your illness?” she asked, not turning when zenda went back to her bed, sitting. she closed the window, nodding contently at it, studying the material now to busy herself.

“actually, yes. i’ll find him. the one i’ve been sent to discover. i will, and i will save him… whether spiritually, mentally, physically… maybe all, i’m not certain yet. it’s all very foggy but i know the illness comes and goes to keep me long enough. maybe i’ll never get better if he never comes.” she said cryptically, frowning before her expression was wiped clean. “maybe it’s a woman. i do not really know… i just believe that is the truth. i never really know. i just am always… right.”

esmerelda snorted, turning to look at the young woman before shrugging and moving to her bed. she piled on the pillows, gingerly moving her so she was leaning against the stack of pillows. zenda watched her, smiling and reaching up to squeeze her hand. “i will live. i do know that.” she said firmly, closing her eyes as her maid began brushing her hair. she’d always loved it—never stopped pampering it, if only to run it through her chubby hands. “i want to sleep, please,” zenda said quietly, eyes opening to look up at her maid, closing again when the woman left and the door was closed. she waited, listening, before opening her eyes and swinging her legs over the side of the bed. with practiced skill, she moved the dresser in front of her window away from it, readjusting the armchair they’d brought in for her in front of the window, bringing a pillow and the blanket to it. she sat, balancing her somewhat elegant feet on the edge of the luxurious chair. she pulled the blanket over her knees, placing the pillow behind her arched back, quietly and almost secretively (who she was keeping the secret from, she did not know) pulling the heavy curtains apart to watch the horizon. regina had always been her favorite stop, and if this was her last home, she was glad to stay.

[Mimi]

Rian drummed his fingers against the crisp page neatly pressed against the mahogany desk, wax seal boring the royal Silian crow and scroll broken. The candlelight flickered as Rian leaned his forehead against his open palm and sighed. Little visible puffs curled from his mouth and dissipated into the air; it was frigid in these early Reginien morns. The sun had barely peaked over the mountains, and his room was still shrouded in a thick darkness albeit lighter than it had been an hour or two ago. He glanced around, able now to make out a few silhouettes here and there - the bundle of black roses in its vase before the curtained windows, the edge of the oaken headboard and the canopy above it, the bed neat from disuse.

Another sigh, and he leaned over the open letter and gingerly pressed the edges down where the creases had caused them to rise back up. Most of it had been lecturing, really, and threats on his person were he to fail in respects to this political marriage. It wasn't uncommon, and Rian had become fairly jaded by now of his father's vehement attitude. They were cleverly disguised threats, of course, but threats nonetheless dressed in pretty words and verbose too; the letter spanned the entire length of the front page and would have threatened to spill onto the back too had his father's handwriting been any larger. Rian rarely bothered himself with these kind..."reminders," and so it would have been with this one; he'd been ready to set it aflame when his eye caught the postscript, and he'd been sitting there in silent contemplation every since.

it has also come to my attention that the female relation to the gypsy premier has fallen ill and is staying at the castle.

He hated cryptic messages, and it was...amusing, to say the least, that his father seemed to have no trouble with writing unequivocally when it came to intimidating his son, but when it came to actually giving Rian some substance, some orders, well! An arcane word or two was the best for which he could hope. Wouldn't have been easier on them both for him to say what he meant rather than what he wanted Rian to surmise? Or was he afraid the letter would be intercepted? Regardless, Rian found the implications very menial. He'd turned it over in his mind, inspecting the situation from every which way and trying to interpret the words differently, but if he knew what his father was thinking, and he often did, then there could have been no other reason for him to mention that seemingly trivial fact at the end of his letter.

The gypsies had been a thorn in his father's side for quite some time, and if he could, he would have liked to do away with them all. They were strictly allied with the Reginiens, and their numbers overwhelmed even him. Thus, if there was an opportunity to kill two birds with one stone - disarm both the Reginien threat and that of the gypsies, then...

Rian scoffed in irritated disgust and ran a hand through his hair as he picked up the letter and thrust it into the candle flame, watching with a gloomy scowl as the edges browned, blacked, and then turned inwards. The parchment burned brightly, and he let it go when the entirety was nearly consumed. Within a few seconds, only shriveled bits remained, and he continued watching as it smoldered. Only when the embers finally died out did he rise from his chair, already dressed in a dark green doublet and fitting black breeches.

He'd heard. He'd heard of the girl deemed goddess amongst her people, and he would have been lying had he said he wasn't the least bit curious to see this supposed "goddess". However, if his father was expecting him, in any way, to seduce her as was the impression he'd given, then well, he was going to be sorely disappointed, but a political alliance? Rian was capable of that, but the duress of anything beyond that -- no.

He studied himself in the mirror for a moment, turning his face to the side with a grimace. His insomnia was starting to show; the bags under his eyes seemed darker, and fatigued lines seemed to have appeared overnight. Swallowing painfully, he sighed and gently opened the door from his room.

Peaking outside, he was immediately greeted by the guard with a surprised "Your Highness!" and a quick bow. Rian waved dismissively, and the man straightened again with a nervous half smile.

"Send for one of the servants to announce my arrival; I shall be paying a visit to the gypsy's sister."

Without waiting for the guard's reply, Rian retreated back into the room. By now, light was streaming in through the curtains but did nothing to lift the perpetual apathy. With quick strides, Rian arrived at the vase and promptly plucked out the black roses. They were still fresh, seeing as he'd only bought them the day before after his rather unfortunate encounter with the Lady Odette. His nose scrunched in distaste, and he quickly batted the memory away as a servant meekly nudged the door open.

Rian thrust the bouquet towards him. "Take these to the Lady Zenda and make known my desire for an audience with her. I shall be arriving shortly."

With a quick bow, the man silently did as he was told and retreated, roses in hand. Rian watched him leave. Black roses - they were the most prided out of all Silian flora and indeed were seen as a symbol for the country alongside the infamous crow. It was almost disconcerting not seeing them in the royal gardens; hopefully this gypsy - Zenda, if he'd heard correctly - wasn't allergic as well.

After a good thirty minutes, during which Rian did what he could to appear less diseased, he finally re-emerged from his room with the intention of keeping his visit brief and to the point. Indeed, any longer, and he surely wouldn't be able to suppress the coughs.

The walk to her chambers was short enough, and on the way, he happened across the same servant who noiselessly motioned towards the open door with an affirmative nod when asked if he'd delivered the flowers. Stepping forward, Rian ran a hand through his hair before going to the threshold, in full view now, and rapping his knuckles gently against the oak.

He blinked. Well, he could see now why the gypsies believed she was a goddess.

"I trust you received the flowers?"

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[ollie]

black roses, of course, have always been an icon of the silian court. the prize of the country—which is beginning to be a muddled idea ‘the silian country,’ since it is always growing, an ever moving and changing mass. they have a certain appeal to the glass-eyed poets of the day and age; they seem to love them, but zenda has very little interest in their color. so she takes them silently from the servant, only thanking him with a quick glance upwards and smile that looks like a secret, before looking back at the bouquet. she knows exactly where they are coming from, and as she hums a soft lullaby she’d grown up with, she peels the petals off of one bushy rose, as if she is undressing it and readying it to go to a ball. like she had as a girl, taking the time since the prince will probably be taking his own sweet time, she finds a white thread and needle, beginning to string the petals along the thread, carefully piercing them and pushing them up the thread, to a large knot.

she hears the knocks, but doesn’t turn just yet, finishing the string with quiet devotion. it is covered in black petals; lovely, really, and the thread is almost as pale as her hair—it will blend in easily, as she intends it to. she turns only now, eyes of honey studying him in the weariness of the morning. “yes. i’ve always wanted a silian rose. i was never allowed to enter your country, though, so i suppose this will do,” she says softly, almost sweetly, and she turns away from him still, towards a mirror propped up near the window she had been looking out of. she reaches up, carefully tying the thread to the root of a strand of hair, beginning to braid the hair around it to include the thread of rose petals in the braid. “they’re lovely.” she says, glancing at the bouquet on her lap, working at the braid with a sort of instinct. “did you bring them with you to court, or were they sent to you after they discovered you would be staying a bit longer? in a court lacking roses altogether, no less.” her words seem a mixture of sympathetic and plucking, searching for the heartstrings she so knows how to play; like a trained violinist.

finishing her braid, she winds it around her head, tucking the end under the beginning and pinning it all in place. it will likely kill her maid if she knew she was doing it; the petals are already staining the hair they’ve touched, just like the silian disease (luca’s favorite phrase), and the woman is almost neurotic about keeping the girl’s hair as white as snow. poetic, yet again, and just as unintentional. just something she’d always heard about her hair—which is why she hates poetry so much.

now, she turns, looking at him in the doorway. “come in, will you? i look like a horrible hostess, and i can’t have that, as i am supposed to be so iconic and all.” she stands, spindly legs stretching, the dress of her skirt spinning around her hips before resting from the simple turn out of her chair. she turns it towards her bed, taking a seat among the lush blankets and crossing her legs. “do sit, i hear you haven’t been so well; allergies and all that, or maybe something like what i have. whatever it is.” she says, toes curling and uncurling. a single band around her second toe on her right foot gleams in the light, for only a moment, and she smiles at him almost girlishly, seeming so much younger in that second. not a religious icon, not a “goddess,” not even a gypsy—just a pretty girl with a pretty smile, in all white. but there is always so much more to the gypsies, much less zenda. there are so many layers to her, that the true her is a muddled person that is both hidden and in perfect view.

“i assume your father or someone like that has told you i am here for treatment? i heard one of my doctors went to take care of you, which he was overjoyed about. they hate taking care of me.” she smiles sweetly, but there is a sharpness to her words, a knowingness that she never seems to lack, no matter who it is she is regarding. she doesn’t share her hatred for silians with her brother, but of course she is as wary of them as any other person. the silians have always hated gypsies; the single race that outnumbers them, and considerably so. zenda, being luca’s sister, has always been in the spotlight; raised with better manners than him, though. gypsies are just as mixed a race as the silians; gypsies travel, mix with minorities and majorities, but if you’re born to a gypsy, you always return. in the case of luca and zenda, they had been given to the gypsies from a royal mother, who had refused to name herself. it’d been rumored they were born to a silian queen, a helion queen, a helion princess—the list goes on, but all that is for certain is that luca and zenda were born of the same parents.

[Mimi]

He stood a moment, watching her movements with a calculating gaze as she forbore answering him to finish up her little circlet of petals. Petals from the roses he'd sent, actually, and he noted the fact with a mental quirk. Hm, not your typical woman's reaction to receiving a bouquet of roses, now was it? Then again, gypsies were never entirely "normal" by the standard definition of the word, and his father had hated that in them, but Rian had always secretly wondered if his hate stemmed not from the political dangers of unconformity but from some unreciprocated lust or romantic tryst gone wrong. It wasn't improbable; after all, gypsies had been banned from his country years prior to the war, and they were known for their torrid affairs. Who knew how many nobles of any court came partly from gypsy blood? Considering the woman, though frail-seeming she was, before him, he supposed the general clamor over this group of vagrants wasn't completely unfounded.

His eyes devoured her figure, her appearance, not in a romantic or any lewd way but in the way he'd been taught as a young prince striving to put names to the many faces of his extensive family and those of the likewise extensive Silian peerage. Strange hair, and "Zenda" - an uncommon name too.

“yes. i’ve always wanted a silian rose. i was never allowed to enter your country, though, so i suppose this will do. they're lovely."

Rian smiled thinly in response. "What a unique way of showing your appreciation. You look just as lovely in them; one would hardly be able to tell you were ill."

True, she looked completely healthy compared to him. Lovely? Well, as lovely as one could get, he supposed, quarantined in a tiny room with a flock of maids fretting about. He knew the feeling. As he stepped further in, Rian gently nudged the door close but just a bit so that it was still slightly ajar. Someone as against closed doors as he couldn't abandon his beliefs just because he was in a foreign country, now could he? Especially when he was supposed to be courting the princess of that foreign country.

Rian glanced up, a bit disoriented by the question as it seemed he'd allowed his mind to wander. Clearing his throat, he remained next to the door, having yet to be officially invited in as was proper and wondering in the back of his mind exactly what emotion colored her speech. It seemed sympathy, but not entirely so, and he shrugged it off for later inspection, that is, if he remembered.

"No, actually, they were bought in the village here from a Silian peddler; amazing how quickly trade resumes when two countries lay aside their weapons, hm?"

He watched as he delicate hands wound the braid about her head, and for a moment, against his will, he found himself admiring the sheen of the whiteness that so reminded him of a frosty, northern Silian morn and the deathly quietude of a snowy plain. Was this symbolic then of the woman herself? Amiable on the surface, a femme fatale underneath? He smirked to himself; how deceiving were appearances!

At the invitation to enter, Rian rigidly nodded, strode to the bedside, and sat when prompted to. Funnily, at the moment she mentioned his "allergies and all that", he felt a sharp stab of pain in his chest area, and it took all his effort to keep from wincing. He only smiled gingerly and kept silent, for if she wanted to talk, then he was more than willing to let her.

“i assume your father or someone like that has told you i am here for treatment? i heard one of my doctors went to take care of you, which he was overjoyed about. they hate taking care of me.”

He laughed. A genuine laugh, something he hadn't experienced in quite some time -- months? Years, probably, and he himself was bewildered by the reaction because what she said honestly wasn't that funny. In fact, it wasn't funny at all, and he stood up after having sat down only seconds ago and turned his back to her, running his hand through his hair as the laughing turned into light chuckling and the chuckling turned into a tenuous silence.

"My-My apologies," he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose a moment before turning back to Zenda with the remnants of a smirk still tugging at his lips. "I'm-I'm a little tired, honestly; my reaction was completely inappropriate."

Sighing under his breath, Rian returned to his seat and leaned his elbows against his knees. From what he'd heard, Zenda's brother -- Luca? or something along those lines -- was quite opposed to his people, and for good reason, he was sure; he readily admitted Silians were not the friendliest people to walk the earth, and yet here she was, his sister, so -- benign. He'd best not underestimate her lest he fall into some political trap, but if she really was as benign as she seemed, well, then that would just make his job all the more easier.

"I can't quite recall if one of your physicians did come tend to me; my own is quite neurotic about my well-being, and he seldom will let others interfere. In any event, your doctors are probably better off than mine considering they are quite terrified of my temper."

Rian looked down as his lap for a moment, considering and picking at the imaginary dust on the sleeve of his outfit. "And yes, I was informed in a letter. Of course, I was obliged to come inquire after your well-being. I extend my well wishes and those of my country."

Glancing back up, Rian met Zenda's eyes a moment before he cleared his throat and refocused elsewhere.

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