I made my way towards the hall for the traditional dance. I could feel the vibrations from the drums pounding. The words of the songs floating above the drum beats praising the moon goddess and begging her for a love match mate. “What house?” A bored dance coordinator asked at the stage door. “Alpha Osiris.” I said with a flat tone. The coordinator handed me two silver bell anklets The bells are worn to add to the drum rhythm as you dance. “Turn around so that I can pin this number to your back.”“Be careful of my gown please, it’s to be judged at the feast this evening.” “You will dance to the Full Moon dance in group three.”It has been so long since I danced to this song. The drum beats steadily build to a crescendo and the singers declare devotion to the moon goddess. Your hands and arms telling a story as you spin and stomp to emphasize the beat. We make our way to the hall to perform for the gathered crowd. The crowd is mainly the aristocracy gathered at tables drinking win
“Congratulations!” Number forty-four said. “I’m Joy. I’ve never seen you before, what troupe do you dance with?” She looked at me puzzled. “Ceres.” I stuck out my hand. “I belong to Alpha Osiris’ house. I rarely have the chance to leave the estate.” Being a slave is a strange thing to tell other people. I don’t belong to anyone. I’m not a thing to be possessed. I am though. Even if it shouldn’t be the case it is. So I say I belong to the house to make it seem less degrading. “You dance beautifully. I danced in group one so I was able to watch most of the performers. I already know them from dance class and private parties though.” She shrugged. “But you. YOU I don’t know,” she giggled. “Where did you learn to dance?”I thought back to watching the dancers of every fair and festival held in the pack perched on my fathers knee, or when I was older proudly sat beside him. A front row to all the most talented dancers, singers, and instrumentalists in the pack playing and dancing their h
The ten of us spread across the hall stage. Somehow I ended up being in the center. I always enjoyed the haunting nature of this song. It is both seductive and terrifying. I again feel an intense gaze burning into my skin. I feel completely exposed and on display even if my dress is exceptionally modest. The slow and steady beat of the drum begins to pound. “Go on,Go on and break my heart.Go on,Go on and break my heart. I am not worthy of your heart my king” the singer’ sorrowfully croon. Our bodies moving seductively to convince him otherwise. “Go on,Go on and break my heart. Go on,Go on and break my heart. Burn the funeral pyres. I cannot live without you” the singers continue to plead. Our arms extended above our heads like flames as we spin and pound our feet to create the jingle of the bracelets. The drums and the bells like a beating heart, pleading to be loved.“Go on,Go on and break my heart. Go on,Go on and break my heart. Reject me,Plunge your sword into
We quickly make our way to the wood craft tent. Barn owls have an angelic heart-shaped white face. The males are more ghostly with white bellies and white feathers streaking their wings falling from brown feathered epaulets. The females are more striking with white faces framed in a coppery red feather. Dappled brown and red body with a white belly splattered with copper red and brown feathers. The barn owl had more of a shriek than a hoot, raspy and cutting, swooping silently in the dead of night. Their white bodies gliding like spirits and ghouls, swallowing their prey whole. Some believe that these owls are demons that swallow your soul. Hearing the owl screeching is an omen of your death. I like to think of them as beautiful nighttime creatures. Graceful but strong. Elusive and solitary. “Ceres!” Dmitry exclaimed, running towards us. “Where have you been? I expected that you would have been here much earlier.” He asks while tightly embracing me, his little arms tightly claspin
The bells clanged to signal the start of the feast ceremony. Pack members begin to line the pathway leading to the pavilion where the feast is held. The clergy would proceed first carrying religious relics. This parade was different from the others because the full harvest moon relic was paraded. The relic was a large harvest moon with thousands of small orange and rainbow moonstones set in silver. It was created upon the realms foundation as tribute to the moon goddess. I had seen it many times before, but every single time I did it left me awestruck. “Let’s hurry and get a good vantage point to see the moon!” I said excitedly. “Again?” Groaned Mari. “We need to hurry to be up front so I can see too!” Dmitry demanded. I grab ahold of Dmitry and he grabs ahold of Mari, creating our own little daisy chain cutting through the crowd. I settle for a spot just behind the ropes on a bend so that we can see everyone. First the clergy, the Harvest Moon, the Alpha family, the school child
The man who has invaded my daydreams has just appeared. Riding a trotting horse, with a perfectly manicured mane. Each step precisely on beat with the drums. Trotting triumphantly up the pathway. I squint. “Why would a guard be riding on a horse in the parade?” I ask myself as much as I ask Dmitry and Mari. “What? No, that’s Prince Edward. I saw him when he stayed at the estate.” Mari responded confused by my mistake. “Prince?” I couldn’t even speak from my shock. His eyes snapped to me and met mine. His eyes are a piercing jade, cold and hard. His blue suit had the star constellations stitched into it with moons in all phases, sparkling silver. The blue so deep, I imagined only the deepest parts of the sea could be such a dark blue, devoid of light swallowed by darkness. I wanted to get lost in that darkness with him. “Uh yeah. You know the Crown Prince’s eldest son and declared heir. The King’s grandson.” Mari answered sarcastically. “He’s stunning right?” I stood there stunne
There is a buzz of excitement amongst the women backstage. It isn’t everyday that you get to see a handsome unmated young prince up close. A man that maids and slaves whispered about. That debutantes wanted to be mated to. That old social climbing mothers dreamed about for their daughters. His breathtaking beauty and cold demeanor. His dark aura. His power and dominance. “I hear he is quite skilled in swordsmanship and fighting. He wins all his matches.” A young model in a harvest moon orange colored gown. It seems unwise to beat up a Prince, I muse silently in response. “According to the Kingdom of the Moon Court Circular, it is a pastime the future king enjoys; second only to charity, his favorite activity. He will make an excellent king, so handsome.” Another model in a silver gown added. “I pray to the goddess!” She squealed clasping her hands in prayer. If charity is cutting ribbons and opening libraries. Or maybe charity is dining on fine meals at every fine house in
“Top Three will be announced. Those three are to go to the wing on stage left and the Prince will be announcing the order and giving the medals.” The old woman explained. “The medals will be given to the head of the house that submitted the dress, not the model; unless you are both the submitter and model.” She recited as if she had the rule book in front of her. “The three models to stay are,” she spoke clearly and sharply. You could feel the collective breath taken by the room in anticipation of the names being called. We all had our own reasons for being here, whether by choice or as a slave, but we all wanted to win.“House of Chairman Zhadnost, House of Beta Vtoroy, and House of Alpha Osiris.” She took a short breath. “The rest of you are free to go, thank you for the lovely submissions. Please go enjoy the feast.” She said attempting to minimize any disappointment. An uncomfortable smile settling on her face. I smile to hide my disappointment. I’m happy that my work is one of
It was as if Asteria’s memory played out on a screen in front of me. I’m a captive audience, cordoned off in a far off corner of my mind. Separated from my body but still aware of what is happening. The scene from Theia’s point of view also playing out, oddly disconnected from me, padded feet to forest floor the smell of earth and water. The dirt flecked in her fur and her nose pressed to the earth inhaling its aroma. Asteria’s trauma unfolds before me, almost happening to me, although the screams are not my own. The hunger in his eyes. The manic rage. His whip. My feelings are not entirely my own, it is as if I am Asteria in this experience. “Prince Aares.” I say in a voice that is not my own. A memory of an event I never experienced, yet vividly recall. This isn’t real, yet, I can feel his whip biting and tearing my skin. I can feel the blood snaking down the back of my thighs. The warm ooze somehow soothing the stinging pain. My back flayed open. His scent coats my skin like an
“May the Goddess anoint you with her love and bless you with your dreams.” “We give our devotion to the Goddess!” My mate and I reply. The priestesses are all around us. Their voices echoing off the walls of the cave, it’s impossible to tell how many are speaking as the voices echo around us. Our naked bodies only inches away from one another as we stand in the pool, his intoxicating scent masked by the abundance of minerals in the spring. “We ask our Goddess to cleanse you of all your impurities. Remove any malice from your hearts.” The priestesses chant around us. My body feels drawn to him. The urge I have to touch him is overwhelming, to just feel his skin pressed against mine. Any doubts I have floating away the second I am near him. I look ahead to the priestesses. I do not dare look at him in all his glory. One glance at him may be what breaks the dam holding back my urges, my last vestige of control. “Tonight, you are to shift into your true nature. The greatest trea
“The Mountain stands, unmoving— never wavering, rooted deeply into the soil.” The Queen begins, seated behind me on a small chair, her gown spilling out of the narrow seat displaying the sheer volume of fabric she seems to carry so effortlessly. Monica is plaiting my hair for the first ceremony. An intricate pattern of different braids joined together and fastened with a plain rag tie matching my temple dress. “The Wind with her sons raging across the lands, charge right at the Great Mountain, but it still stands. The nymphs of the waters try to claw through it, but still it stands. Rigid. Strong. Proud.” Her hands move with the story, in a way it was more akin to a fireside chat rather than dressing room gossip. It reminds me of my father’s stories around the fire. I listen to her tale, knowing little of her people, attentively watching her through the mirrors reflection. “The Goddess herself blessed the Great Mountain, and appointed the Shadow Mountain pack to be the Guardians
“Waltz of the Mountains.” The King sneers. “Let’s see how well you keep up.” He casts a glare at Edward. “You know how your Grandmother adores the dance of her homeland, grandson. Do not disappoint her for the sake of your mate.” The warning is clear. “Yes, my King. I would not dream of disappointing.” He bows deeply, his hand on his heart pledging his allegiance. I remember our first meeting. “You play a dangerous game, girl.” He said with his hand around my throat. I suppose I am still that dangerous silly girl, too headstrong to fully submit. Incapable of bending to a tyrant. Incapable of silence. I am who I create. I feel Theia and Asteria in the front of my mind. Any overt display of power would be disastrous, so they lurk, careful not to allow their presence shimmer in my eyes. I deeply curtsy holding my hand to my heart as well, averting my eyes to the floor, not uttering a word. Silence and obedience. That is what the King demands. My stubbornness to blame for not b
Silence. I dare not speak or move. “I have heard you can dance.” The King says in my direction. A small smile creeped on his lips. A sneer. “Yes, your majesty.” I say meekly. “You shall dance for us.” Edward looks at me with sadness in his eyes. A shimmer of anger rippling in his fields of green, at my faux pas. The weight of the King’s displeasure not only hitting me, but crushing him as well. Collateral damage. “I would love to see the waltz.” The Queen hums. “Edward can lead her if she does not know it. Besides, she will be expected to dance at their wedding celebrations.” I hope he indulges his wife. It is a far better option than being forced to gyrate in front of the King. His expression leads me to believe he wishes to not only remind me of my place but humiliate me in the process. The Queen’s suggestion is only her tossing a rope to her grandson to save him from the front row seat to my humiliation. The King looks to his Queen. “Very well.” He replies. “L
Fairytales have a modicum of truth to them. Just enough truth that the reader can absorb the message, learn whatever moral imperative is being taught. The tricky part is discerning what little bit is rooted in truth, and what is an outright lie, a fantasy embellishment to keep you reading. I prefer the stories with happy endings, lessons are still learned, but the main character in the end is well and fine. Perhaps that’s my first mistake, assuming my placement in the tale is the main character, rather than the abused maid or gullible villager, or otherwise nameless background character. A person in the crowd as the King strolls down the street naked. A lady’s maid to the wicked queen or damsel in distress. A nameless cousin to the main character, who tried on the shoe but it did not fit. Perhaps I am the main character, in one of those tales where she tragically dies. Her choices and bad decisions leading her to death, rather than the happiness she was seeking. The Queen seem
“Beauty is pain.” Monica consoles. “You cannot achieve divinity without sacrifice. We want ethereal. We want glamor.” “We want to be able to have dinner.” I squeak, the corset of the gown so tight I can barely breathe. “Or maybe just be able to breathe.” I have been trying on gowns for hours. I tire of looking at my reflection. “Long deep breaths from the lungs, not the belly.” She demonstrates, her body rod straight, long measured breaths expanding her ribcage. My wedding gown, gowns for tea and dinner, dresses for travel and leisure, for breakfast or prayer— the stacks of fabric seem endless. I was nothing more than a doll. Monica has the same persistence as Agatha. I remember her wrapping me in endless fabrics for my Moon Ceremony gown. “You will be elegant! Ravishing! Demure!” She shouted as she wrapped me in satins and tulle. “Posture is key. Beyond that, relax. High anxiety breathing isn’t very effective or attractive.” Monica concludes. I smile, my mind wander
Something in my soul longs for the sunshine. The rays on my skin make me come alive. My internal battery dependent upon feeling the sun against my skin. I do not recall the last time I was outside in the sun. It seems a lifetime ago that I was able to truly enjoy it. My gown manifesting what I need the most, time to bask in the sun. I can feel the whispers of winter on the autumn wind. A small chill dancing in the breeze, winter days soon to come. I stare upwards to the sky. The sun’s rays like golden spires piercing through the clouds, a magnificent sight. The sun coyly peeks from behind the clouds to bathe me in its rays. Today, I am the sun, and I will absorb the warmth and joy it brings me. Monica stops in front of a small gate created between two apple trees. The trees already bare from harvest, the priestesses and acolytes have started the pruning process, preparing the orchard for winter. The branches and stems are neatly stacked in piles along the treeline. My ow
The material is a diaphanous gauzy gold, a Grecian peplos, the fabric expertly draped on the body. A hint of silhouette peeking through the multiple layers and folds of fabric, my feminine form exposed through gauzy golden haze. I am the sun incarnate. Even my tiny golden bracelet glints in the light, highlighted by the gown's golden glow. My ring proudly displayed on my finger. Monica has dusted my eyelids with a golden shimmer and painted my lips a soft pink. I look upon myself in the mirror. The long elegant gown perfectly compliments my shape. Long gone is the young girl dreaming of her escape, replaced in the mirror with an elegant woman, soon to be a married woman. A princess. A future Queen. The gown strikes me as familiar but I am unable to place it. I feel an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. “You look divine!” Monica squeals. “You are the artist, I’m just the canvas.” I respond softly. I stare into the mirror in awe of her art. I don’t even recognize myself in the reflectio