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MoldaviteGreen
The world’s upside down here…
- Joined
- Dec 7, 2018
Caramel fingertips ran over green leaves, the gravel crunching underfoot as sharp corner was rounded with playful speed. Crisp Spring air carried with it the biting chill of an early morning, edged with the sweet scent of the rose garden just over yonder. Blue birds chirped from atop the spindly branches of the pines that dotted the garden’s perimeter, standing as tall sentries against all that lingered beyond. This was the last remaining sliver of paradise, unable to be sacrificed for the sanity of the family, the final estate being clung to like a child would a favourite toy. Here, nothing but frivolous fun existed, the harsh of the world outside kept at bay by gold and wrought iron gates.
“I can’t find you, Nascha!”
A whined complaint that came with desperation. Maeve, the eldest, easily defeated when things didn’t go her way.
Girlish laughter erupted from between the brilliant green of the hedge maze, echoing from four points of the twisting channels. Gravel was kicked up, a hand clutching at a bush as one darted around a corner a little too eagerly. More laughter, the sounds of joy, carried on the gentle easterly breeze.
“I think that’s the whole point, Maeve; not to find her.”
A wise declaration that came from the second youngest, Harold, close to his mischievous little sister to know that she likely lured them within the hedge maze simply to entertain herself for several hours on end.
“Are you doing as I suggested? Keeping a hand on the left hedge and following that wall? You can’t get lost that way....”
A logical suggestion from Esmerelda, second eldest, a young woman wiser beyond her years that had followed her siblings into the maze, if only to prove that she was the smartest and would be the first to find the end.
But there was a single child, one of the royal four, that kept quiet amongst the growing shadows amongst the hedge maze, the morning sun slipping ominously behind a low laying cloud, swollen with rain. Instead, she grinned wickedly as she watched her siblings from her vantage point atop the elevated rotunda, crafted from white-painted pine wood. Lean-muscled arms were crossed over her chest, elbows perched upon the railing as she leaned forward to watch as her siblings blindly treaded through the maze; one running in desperation as the others took their time. Plush lips parted, Nascha, the youngest, about to call to them in her sing-song voice to draw their attention upwards, but her words never came.
The peaceful morning was pierced by a thunderclap that came from inside the palace.
Once.
Twice.
The siblings drew still, some mid-step, and Nascha slowly straightened away from the railing. Blood ran cold. Guts twisted. That wasn’t what it sounded like....was it?
“What was that...?” Maeve wrapped arms about her middle, suddenly withdrawing into herself as she stepped backwards against the hedge. She knew what it was, they all did, having spent time with their father hunting and learning how to use a good aged pistol.
But just in case she needed it clarified, Esmerelda spoke up, her voice deadpan; “Shots.”
Caramel fingers wrapped over the bannister of the rotunda, knuckles paling as white as the painted wood that they gripped so tightly, as eyes were drawn over the edges of the hedge maze and towards the elegant steps of the palace, the back door suddenly thrust open. Several men, dressed in mundane clothes of brown and black, each wore a crimson sash across their chest; the ominous colour of fresh blood. Handmaidens were pulled down the steps by their hair, their own hands trying to defend their faces, before they were thrust into the gravel. But not all were given the same harsh treatment, a few walking smoothly out from the palace at the side of one of the men, chattering away in conspiracy.
The muscle at the corner of sharp jaw pulsed as teeth grit, the handmaidens tossed to the ground shot where they knelt while the others simply, and seemingly happily, watched on. Her siblings could hear everything, but they weren’t granted the same macabre view as their youngest, Nascha unable to pull dark chocolate eyes away from the scene unfolding before her. Not until more men burst from within the palace, with more hand servants in tow—some obliging and seeming to be in on whatever plot was taking fold and others defying—and several more were slaughtered at the base of the steps.
“Nascha!” Harold’s voice was piercing enough to pull her from her place, spinning from the railing to take two steps at a time, the siblings suddenly desperate as they realised they didn’t know the way out. “We need to leave. Now.”
Maeve whimpered. “Mother and father...”
“Are likely dead.” Esmerelda growled, gathering her own skirts, abandoning her method of keeping to the left wall as she sprinted towards the sound of her softer-hearted sister. “Stay where you are, Maeve. Don’t move. I’m coming for you.”
But as Nascha rounded the stairs, midway through her descent, eyes were inexplicably drawn upwards towards the palace-made-slaughterhouse. Gravel was drenched in pooling blood, the handful of bodies left where they fell, but that wasn’t what made her run faster. It was the pointed finger of a handmaiden she believed to be her closest confidant as she spoke calmly to the murderers and gestured to the hedge maze. It only took a split second of comprehension before the red-dashed men were bolting towards the mouth of the maze.
The siblings were no longer alone in their game of cat and mouse.
Nascha jumped the rest of the way, sprinting off into the direction of her brother. She knew this maze by heart, every twist and every turn, having spent years as a child meandering through the channels. Breaths were coming fast, her heart thundering as she rounded a corner and slammed straight into firm body. Hands caught her upper arms, fingers dimpling caramel flesh and just as Nascha reeled a fist back to strike, Harold sighed with relief.
“We need to find the others.”
A simple nod was all that was given, their fingers intertwining before Nascha tanked her brother off in the direction of where she had last seen the other two. They ran, sliding on the gravel with each sharp corner they rounded, almost slipping. They had to be close, they weren’t far off from where she’d last seen Maeve....
A gunshot.
A scream.
A scrabble in the gravel as rough hands captured the eldest and dragged her through the maze back towards the entrance by hair and the scruff of her dress. Maeve cried for her siblings, kicking out and begging; the sound haunting as it echoed about the hedges. Esmerelda had been closer, having captured a thick stick from the ground in her run for her sister, that she now brandished like a weapon as she leapt from a channel, wielding it against a red-sashed man.
A man who wore a familiar face and made her draw pause.
“Julian...?”
Esmerelda’s two second pause left her sister struggling, being dragged across the gravel, enabling several men to round the second eldest from behind. The stick was taken with a swipe of her childhood friend’s hand, stolen with a look of spite, as the young man simply glowered at the woman who had always had it all. Arms were snatched, held behind her back, joints groaning in displeasure as she was marched from the maze behind her dragged sister; the hair reduced to being handled like a boar.
“No. Please no!”
“Leave her be!”
The echo of a strike against cheek had Nascha’s mind reeling, fuelling her with adrenaline as she looked to her brother and paled. Nothing was spoken between them, the pair agreeing to silence as they turned on their heels and sprinted back towards the rotunda. Nascha lead the way, never once taking a wrong turn.
But they weren’t quick enough.
Another shot was fired, clipping Harold in the thigh, reducing the young man to a cripple as he crumpled mid-step into the gravel. Nascha spun, breathing heavy as she made move to collect him, but her brother pleaded with her.
“Go.”
The men were upon him in seconds, a fist in his hazelnut hair as the butt of the pistol was brought down violently upon his skull, the weapon brandishing him unconscious within the dirt. Their violence, however, did not stop there; the red-sashed men driving booted feet into the prince’s stomach several times over until blood spewed from agape mouth.
And then there was one.
Green eyes lifted from the fallen prince, lazy in consideration as they met the dark brown of the last remaining sibling. There was no movement at first, the rebel and the princess simply staring darkly at one another as neither dared to move. The palace grounds were far from silent—all those who did not believe in the revolt executed at the steps of the palace, and her sisters pleading desperately for their lives—and yet Nascha heard nothing.
Gravel slipped underfoot as she turned and ran, fuelled by the need to survive. There was nothing but blood-lust in those green eyes and while her family may never forgive her, Nascha was suddenly set with the selfish need to live.
The men were hot on her heels, calling to her with cruel names and wicked promises if they were to catch up to her, but Nascha always remained several steps ahead. She was birthed from the end of the hedge maze, a flurry of colour as she tripped into the lush lawn. Silvery blonde hair fell about her face, loose from the braid, before it was brushed away by shaking fingers. Hands shoved against the ground, the princess rising to her feet before she made off towards the tree line in a sprint.
There was nowhere for her to go, but she knew she needed to get as far from this place as possible, to put as much distance between herself and the red-sashed men as she could. But if some of the hand-servants, if not majority, were in league with them, who was to say that anywhere would be safe?
Nascha needed to find the King’s Guard.
At the base of the palace stairs, a middle aged man stood, pot-bellied and weathered-faced. He, too, wore the sash of crimson across his chest, a cheap steel raven pinned to his breast. A calloused hand clapped a young man, Julian, on the back as he admired the royal siblings in all of their captured beauty; one crying desperately with red cheeks, the other glowering up at Julian, and the brother heaped on his side in unconsciousness.
“Perhaps we should reunite them with their parents.”
The devilish grin was anything but reassuring.
“I can’t find you, Nascha!”
A whined complaint that came with desperation. Maeve, the eldest, easily defeated when things didn’t go her way.
Girlish laughter erupted from between the brilliant green of the hedge maze, echoing from four points of the twisting channels. Gravel was kicked up, a hand clutching at a bush as one darted around a corner a little too eagerly. More laughter, the sounds of joy, carried on the gentle easterly breeze.
“I think that’s the whole point, Maeve; not to find her.”
A wise declaration that came from the second youngest, Harold, close to his mischievous little sister to know that she likely lured them within the hedge maze simply to entertain herself for several hours on end.
“Are you doing as I suggested? Keeping a hand on the left hedge and following that wall? You can’t get lost that way....”
A logical suggestion from Esmerelda, second eldest, a young woman wiser beyond her years that had followed her siblings into the maze, if only to prove that she was the smartest and would be the first to find the end.
But there was a single child, one of the royal four, that kept quiet amongst the growing shadows amongst the hedge maze, the morning sun slipping ominously behind a low laying cloud, swollen with rain. Instead, she grinned wickedly as she watched her siblings from her vantage point atop the elevated rotunda, crafted from white-painted pine wood. Lean-muscled arms were crossed over her chest, elbows perched upon the railing as she leaned forward to watch as her siblings blindly treaded through the maze; one running in desperation as the others took their time. Plush lips parted, Nascha, the youngest, about to call to them in her sing-song voice to draw their attention upwards, but her words never came.
The peaceful morning was pierced by a thunderclap that came from inside the palace.
Once.
Twice.
The siblings drew still, some mid-step, and Nascha slowly straightened away from the railing. Blood ran cold. Guts twisted. That wasn’t what it sounded like....was it?
“What was that...?” Maeve wrapped arms about her middle, suddenly withdrawing into herself as she stepped backwards against the hedge. She knew what it was, they all did, having spent time with their father hunting and learning how to use a good aged pistol.
But just in case she needed it clarified, Esmerelda spoke up, her voice deadpan; “Shots.”
Caramel fingers wrapped over the bannister of the rotunda, knuckles paling as white as the painted wood that they gripped so tightly, as eyes were drawn over the edges of the hedge maze and towards the elegant steps of the palace, the back door suddenly thrust open. Several men, dressed in mundane clothes of brown and black, each wore a crimson sash across their chest; the ominous colour of fresh blood. Handmaidens were pulled down the steps by their hair, their own hands trying to defend their faces, before they were thrust into the gravel. But not all were given the same harsh treatment, a few walking smoothly out from the palace at the side of one of the men, chattering away in conspiracy.
The muscle at the corner of sharp jaw pulsed as teeth grit, the handmaidens tossed to the ground shot where they knelt while the others simply, and seemingly happily, watched on. Her siblings could hear everything, but they weren’t granted the same macabre view as their youngest, Nascha unable to pull dark chocolate eyes away from the scene unfolding before her. Not until more men burst from within the palace, with more hand servants in tow—some obliging and seeming to be in on whatever plot was taking fold and others defying—and several more were slaughtered at the base of the steps.
“Nascha!” Harold’s voice was piercing enough to pull her from her place, spinning from the railing to take two steps at a time, the siblings suddenly desperate as they realised they didn’t know the way out. “We need to leave. Now.”
Maeve whimpered. “Mother and father...”
“Are likely dead.” Esmerelda growled, gathering her own skirts, abandoning her method of keeping to the left wall as she sprinted towards the sound of her softer-hearted sister. “Stay where you are, Maeve. Don’t move. I’m coming for you.”
But as Nascha rounded the stairs, midway through her descent, eyes were inexplicably drawn upwards towards the palace-made-slaughterhouse. Gravel was drenched in pooling blood, the handful of bodies left where they fell, but that wasn’t what made her run faster. It was the pointed finger of a handmaiden she believed to be her closest confidant as she spoke calmly to the murderers and gestured to the hedge maze. It only took a split second of comprehension before the red-dashed men were bolting towards the mouth of the maze.
The siblings were no longer alone in their game of cat and mouse.
Nascha jumped the rest of the way, sprinting off into the direction of her brother. She knew this maze by heart, every twist and every turn, having spent years as a child meandering through the channels. Breaths were coming fast, her heart thundering as she rounded a corner and slammed straight into firm body. Hands caught her upper arms, fingers dimpling caramel flesh and just as Nascha reeled a fist back to strike, Harold sighed with relief.
“We need to find the others.”
A simple nod was all that was given, their fingers intertwining before Nascha tanked her brother off in the direction of where she had last seen the other two. They ran, sliding on the gravel with each sharp corner they rounded, almost slipping. They had to be close, they weren’t far off from where she’d last seen Maeve....
A gunshot.
A scream.
A scrabble in the gravel as rough hands captured the eldest and dragged her through the maze back towards the entrance by hair and the scruff of her dress. Maeve cried for her siblings, kicking out and begging; the sound haunting as it echoed about the hedges. Esmerelda had been closer, having captured a thick stick from the ground in her run for her sister, that she now brandished like a weapon as she leapt from a channel, wielding it against a red-sashed man.
A man who wore a familiar face and made her draw pause.
“Julian...?”
Esmerelda’s two second pause left her sister struggling, being dragged across the gravel, enabling several men to round the second eldest from behind. The stick was taken with a swipe of her childhood friend’s hand, stolen with a look of spite, as the young man simply glowered at the woman who had always had it all. Arms were snatched, held behind her back, joints groaning in displeasure as she was marched from the maze behind her dragged sister; the hair reduced to being handled like a boar.
“No. Please no!”
“Leave her be!”
The echo of a strike against cheek had Nascha’s mind reeling, fuelling her with adrenaline as she looked to her brother and paled. Nothing was spoken between them, the pair agreeing to silence as they turned on their heels and sprinted back towards the rotunda. Nascha lead the way, never once taking a wrong turn.
But they weren’t quick enough.
Another shot was fired, clipping Harold in the thigh, reducing the young man to a cripple as he crumpled mid-step into the gravel. Nascha spun, breathing heavy as she made move to collect him, but her brother pleaded with her.
“Go.”
The men were upon him in seconds, a fist in his hazelnut hair as the butt of the pistol was brought down violently upon his skull, the weapon brandishing him unconscious within the dirt. Their violence, however, did not stop there; the red-sashed men driving booted feet into the prince’s stomach several times over until blood spewed from agape mouth.
And then there was one.
Green eyes lifted from the fallen prince, lazy in consideration as they met the dark brown of the last remaining sibling. There was no movement at first, the rebel and the princess simply staring darkly at one another as neither dared to move. The palace grounds were far from silent—all those who did not believe in the revolt executed at the steps of the palace, and her sisters pleading desperately for their lives—and yet Nascha heard nothing.
Gravel slipped underfoot as she turned and ran, fuelled by the need to survive. There was nothing but blood-lust in those green eyes and while her family may never forgive her, Nascha was suddenly set with the selfish need to live.
The men were hot on her heels, calling to her with cruel names and wicked promises if they were to catch up to her, but Nascha always remained several steps ahead. She was birthed from the end of the hedge maze, a flurry of colour as she tripped into the lush lawn. Silvery blonde hair fell about her face, loose from the braid, before it was brushed away by shaking fingers. Hands shoved against the ground, the princess rising to her feet before she made off towards the tree line in a sprint.
There was nowhere for her to go, but she knew she needed to get as far from this place as possible, to put as much distance between herself and the red-sashed men as she could. But if some of the hand-servants, if not majority, were in league with them, who was to say that anywhere would be safe?
Nascha needed to find the King’s Guard.
At the base of the palace stairs, a middle aged man stood, pot-bellied and weathered-faced. He, too, wore the sash of crimson across his chest, a cheap steel raven pinned to his breast. A calloused hand clapped a young man, Julian, on the back as he admired the royal siblings in all of their captured beauty; one crying desperately with red cheeks, the other glowering up at Julian, and the brother heaped on his side in unconsciousness.
“Perhaps we should reunite them with their parents.”
The devilish grin was anything but reassuring.