Crimson Lace

By sophkpwriting

80K 2.8K 9.4K

"It's people like you who will have the world begging on their knees and crippling themselves for your approv... More

Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
ANNOUNCEMENT
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
THE END (Please Read)
(BONUS) Chapter 58

Chapter 1

11.5K 178 234
By sophkpwriting


ELLE
CHAPTER ONE

People say that colorful red clouds are an artwork, but I think it's just the sun's way of bleeding.

The neon sunset shines brightly through the drapes that dress the grand windows. The light brightens the red petals of the rose corsage given to me by the king. I want to rip it off my wrist. Bury it, scorch it until it's reduced to nothing but ash. It just shows that I belong to him. I pluck a few petals off, one by one until the flower is as bare as the king is cruel.

I wait to be escorted out to the terrace. Not attending this gathering would be ideal, but I am to make an appearance.

The dinner is more of a formality, something to keep our mouths busy and stomach's full. Either way, I am excited for the food and the food alone.

"You understand your role for tonight, correct?" Carlyle asks again.

I don't even give him so much as a glimpse of my attention. I don't know why he seems to think it's inevitable that I'll screw this up. The role I play is well known to me. I have been playing that role since I was an infant, and I don't actually need the rundown to be told again in further, boring details.

Carlyle sighs exaggeratingly, before exiting in a rather dramatic, tantrum like manner. He doesn't like to be ignored, so I use my silence as a way to coax him into leaving me alone.

"Fine, but don't think I won't say 'I told you so' if you happen to get into trouble again," he grumbles.

I couldn't care less about trouble, and I am glad to be left alone so that I may ponder my thoughts in silence.

"Go trim your nose hairs, Carlyle," I mumble under my breath.

"Excuse me?" He pokes his head back around the corner. I don't turn to face him.

"I said that I like your hair." I can almost feel his glower burning holes through my back, but don't pay him any more attention.

He is very fond of his hair. I think it makes him look like a silky mop, whereas he prefers the term sophisticated. He doesn't argue further, and exits with a scoff.

I wait, staring ahead through the drapes at the luminous horizon. Waiting isn't bothersome to me. I have been waiting my whole life. Although, I'm not really sure what for, but I will continue to wait until whatever it is finds me.

I would rather stay here than see His Royal Highness's son, Prince Alec. Our split mangled my heart, leaving me broken and scrambling to pick up the pieces. Seeing him tonight will only shatter my heart further, and I have worked so hard to piece myself back together.

I trace the ID branded scar on my wrist with my thumb. It's rigid texture and number are a firm reminder of what I am, of who I am. E2456N21W05, I repeat my number in my head. It is one of the only constants in this world. My number never changes. My identity never changes. I will always be a flee in a crowd of wolves.

"Excuse my interruption M'lady, but dinner awaits you. Shall I escort you forthwith to the terrace?" A charming tone from a charming boy. It's relieving to hear a familiar voice.

Gracefully, I turn around to find Wesley leaning on the marble entryway to the hall. A slight smile crosses my face as I take in the sight of him. His thick black hair falls neatly around his head. He looks quite different from the last time I saw him, appearing to have grown a few inches and finally showing a broader physique belonging to that of an adult, not a child.

"What happened to the scrawny, string bean of a boy that I grew up with?" I tease.

He takes a playful step forward. "I suppose the war brought out the man in me." His response is meant to be funny, but I don't see the humor in it.

"Especially when you get drafted into it at age sixteen." I remind him of the seriousness that is this subject. "Your childhood, our childhood . . . ripped away. We were forced to grow up too fast, Wes. Don't ever forget that."

His kind smile slowly fades into a faraway glance as he recalls the past that I wasn't there for. The part of his pain that I will never understand. The piece of him that belonged to those battle lines and fought alongside dying soldiers. His childhood died along with them.

I still remember the moment he opened that drafting letter, and all the fear that came with it. The months he was gone for were the longest months of my life. Every card and letter that I opened from him I'd fear would be the last. Each word was another agonizing goodbye.

His pupils twinkle like stars against the dark sky of his deep brown irises.

I try to keep my composure as I approach Wesley, even though all I want is to run into his arms. But I must maintain poise on a night like this. Despite the fact that the sight of him brings happy tears to my eyes. Life without my best friend in it was hollow and empty. More so than usual. I don't want to feel like that ever again.

"Could you at least look pleased to see me. Come forth Mousy and give me a hug." He laughs, sarcastically.

I practically skip, leaping into his capable arms with a grin that is painfully wide. Mousy. I scoff, slapping his shoulder jokingly. The nickname is as much of an insult as it is a loving memory. "I grew out of the squeaky voice a long time ago. When will you let that silly nickname go?"

"Not until the day I die." He holds me close.

Being in his arms provides comfort that I didn't know I was in need of, and knowing that he is like me just adds to that comfort. The branded ID number on his wrist is proof of that. He's nothing too. But he is something to me.

I take his wrist in my hand, admiring the natural golden-brown of his skin that makes him look so alive and run my thumb over his number like a blind woman reading braille.

W2456L11B02. I know his as well as I know mine.

He is startled by the touch, but is used to the act and allows me to examine his scar.

Wesley Banik, born February eleventh, in the year of 2456. I recite his information in my head, if only to solidify the fact that he is really here. With me. I'm not alone right now.

He snaps me out of my compulsive thoughts, pulling me in for another embrace.

"Be wary, Wes. I do not want to ruin my hair prior to dinner," I say, slowly drawing out of our hug to check and see if my soft curls are still intact.

"You? Worried about your appearance? It's cute to see you care." He pauses, a far away look reaching the inner workings of his eyes. "What happened to you while I was gone?"

Lots of things. I want to say, but no need to burden him with my own issues.

"Well, I have to look pretty in the face of the royal guests, especially the prince." I chortle, coiling a strand of hair around my index finger.

Wesley's expression hardens at the mention of Alec's name. A look of something resembling jealousy crosses his face. Though he wouldn't be at fault for feeling envious toward the prince. After all, Alec has grown up being spoon-fed creme brulee on a silver platter, while Wesley grew up stealing food to survive and using newspapers for a blanket.

"Forget the past," he explains. I wish it was that easy. "You were stupid and young last winter, and you needed a wake-up call, so did Alec."

"Gee, thanks." I roll my eyes, even though he is right. My feelings for Alec are stupid.

"That's what I am here for," he sighs.

I nudge him to prepare the stage for my nostalgic inside joke. "No, you're here to keep me from falling down the stairs again."

We laugh at the memory. He pretends to hold me up as if to keep me from toppling over.

I roll my eyes. "It wasn't my fault that the whiskey ended up in my glass."

"Right, because it magically appeared there." Wesley has this charming way of being sarcastic. His voice just echoes positivity no matter what he is saying. His genetic makeup is like the rest of us Serfs. However, if he were to have an ability, I bet it would be to lighten people's moods with just his mere presence. He's already a wiz in that department.

We link arms as he guides me out into the hall and onto the palace's finest terrace. I am perfectly capable of walking myself out, but since Wesley is my escort for the night I'll let it slide. His arm tightens for a second as he wobbles on unsteady legs.

"Wes?" I hold him tighter while he regains his balance. His dark eyes disappear into his head for a brief second. "Wes—Wesley?" My voice choking on fear. His face has developed a sudden sickly color. The moment only lasts for a few seconds. I watch as he steadies himself, and places a hand to his now fevered skin.

"Shit." He says, his voice disoriented.

"Are you okay?" I don't loosen my grip on his arm, afraid of what might happen if I let go. He is heavy, it takes all my strength to keep him up. His thick muscle mass makes for one heck of a heavy load.

He is still a little woozy but collects himself quickly. "I just haven't had enough water today," he explains. "I will drink some at dinner."

"What did I tell you about staying hydrated?"

That was the worst episode I've seen. How long has he gone without drinking water? It's hard to shake the image of the blankness in his eyes, or the limpness of his body, but I push it far from my thoughts.

The fine crafted wooden table is set for our feast. There are eight place settings distributed evenly across. Wesley and I do not have the luxury of sitting with the royalty and other Nobles, so we take a seat at the end of the table opposite to where they will be seated.

We are careful not to disrupt the seat meant to honor the king's late wife, Queen Santia. The chair for her is seated next to King Keaton's, of course. It is covered in gorgeous red roses and photographs of her. If it weren't for the hauntedness of the flowers, I would think the display is beautiful. But I find it peculiar that a man so cold could love a woman so dearly, even after her death.

As expected, Wesley takes his seat next to me. He leans over to whisper something, his perfectly full lips close enough to my ear that I feel his breath. "I heard that Keaton makes out with a life-size doll of her."

"Wesley Banik!" I scold, leaning away to look him in the eye.

"What?" He gawks at me, confused.

I roll my eyes. I am always happy to hear a good joke, but not when it disrespects someone who is dead. I leave such poor taste to Wesley. But I'm glad to see he has recovered from the fainting spell that took place just minutes ago.

Using the palm of my hand, I flatten the skirt of my champagne colored dress into my lap.
The way I look tonight has to do with a plan of my own for once. My plan is to show the prince precisely the woman he can't be with. It's a cruel thing to do, but it makes me feel better about myself to know that I look desirable.

"Compliments to the chef," Cane says to his glass of wine. He wears his usual deep red coat, King Keaton's house colors. Just another way for Cane to show his loyalty to the throne.

"Enjoying another bottle tonight, General?" My smile is faker than his shiny black hair.

He sneers, with a look full of rancor. "Just because you have the clothing, education, and grace of a Noble, Miss Woodruff. That does not mean you can speak to me like you are any more than a dirty sewer rat," Cane bites out through an angry scowl.

Wesley stands up to defend me, his chair almost tips from his sudden motion, but I place my hand to his shoulder, forcibly pushing him down. 

"Well, it was His Majesty who chose to make me like this, General Cane Dormont. Let's not forget that," I tut.

Once in a while people need a reminder as to why I am really here, even though I hate being used. My hand remains on Wes's shoulder in case he decides to do anything stupid.

"Do you have something to say, boy?" Cane grins, hoping for an excuse to slaughter him on the spot. I won't let Wesley give him one.

"No, he was just stretching his legs, General," I say with a kind smile, turning to face my best friend with eyes that plead for a hundred mercies. "Weren't you, Wes?"

Wesley bites his lip to keep himself from saying something that he will regret. "Yup," is the only semi-polite response he can muster at the moment.

"Let us not forget, boy. Without me you would be a soldier down on the battlefront where you belong, dying in the war with most Serfs your age."

My stomach twists with every word uttered from his loud mouth. The expression on Wesley's face is maddening, as part of him drowns in Cane's hurtful words that bring up haunting memories. The General's claims are sickening, but the thought of losing Wesley is enough pain to send me to the Healthguard station.

I watch as Cane glares in our direction, examining us both like offensive and displeasing objects.

"Go retrieve my gold pocket watch, Serf," he grumbles to Wesley, running his fingers through his scruff.

Wesley only nods, springing to his feet like a rabbit in hunting season. I roll my eyes as he scurries off to fetch the watch. But before he can make it inside, his body collapses to the ground in a heaping pile. He lands in a very undignified pose, with his rump reaching for the sky. I leap from my seat and rush to his aid.

"I can't feel anything," Wesley snarls. His face is pinned against the ground.

I roll him onto his back before flashing Cane a look that I can only hope summons demons to feed upon his puny brain. This isn't a result of more dehydration. No, this is the work of an old man with a droopy beer belly and an ugly sense of humor.

"Have you had your fun?" I snarl.

"Very much so, indeed," he replies, letting loose a crooked laugh fit for a rabid hyena. "Now that is where you both belong. I could easily step on you, snuff out your life, or snap your necks. It would be no trouble really. I don't suggest that you test my patience."

Wesley tries to move, but is still being controlled by Cane's paralyzing ability. "You mother fu—"

I put my hand to his mouth before he can finish the curse. He locks eyes with me, annoyed. Now I am grateful for the General's powers. Without it, Wesley would have attacked him by now, earning himself far worse than the sweet release of death.

"He was going to fetch your stupid watch. Now let him go." I stand up, to look Cane square in the eyes.

We hold each other's stare in a silent fight. He could have me killed, locked away, or worse. But he won't, not when I am adored by the Serf community. I am the king's tie to his people. His buffer as well as his bridge.

"Fine," he sighs, suddenly bored. The invisible hold Cane has over Wesley's body releases like a rubber band that has been snapped.

Before Cane decides to do it again, Wesley pulls himself to his feet and hurries out of sight.

I watch as he goes, before taking my seat again. My mind is still buzzing with frustration, but I must let it go if I want to survive dinner. Which, judging by this not so great start, there is no doubt that I'm going to need all the strength I can muster.

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