This story is inspired by @byn's #fivehundredcontest. She has reached 500 followers and is celebrating by holding a really interesting contest. You have until 13th March to enter so please go and check it out!. If you don't follow @byn do yourself a favour and do it now.
I won't tell you the rules. You need to go and read her post to see if you think I have stuck with them or broken them.
This story is 1494 words long.
The King is drunk again. He grabs my arse as I pour his wine. I wince, but say nothing. He’s the King. He takes what he wants. I learned that lesson quickly.
The rules are different here.
It is well known that our King likes a drink. Songs have been sung, jokes have been told. But now, no one sings. Laughter is rare. Only the King’s drunken laughter - full of bitterness, and suppressed anger - fills the Grand Hall.
I never thought I would miss Loli, the snotty little stuck up princess. And in truth I don’t miss her - she is (was?) an insufferable spoilt little brat - but it is only when something is gone, do you realise the role that something played in keeping everything else "normal”.
Normal. That is a joke. I haven’t known “normal” for almost a year. Not since I gazed into the cracked mirror, back in the place I still think of as home.
The King calls over one of the musicians - Gala - a jolly woman with an accordion. It is out of place this instrument, it should not have have been invented, yet. She made it with her own hands, from my designs.
“Play something cheerful, with that odd box of yours,” he says, wine sloshing from his goblet. “I wish to be entertained.”
Gala laughs, a twinkly, sparkling thing that falls out of her mouth easily. She bows deep and works her magic. The tune is uplifting and clear. It reminds me of my country. My homeworld. The King closes his eyes, and for moment he looks almost happy. Perhaps he sleeps.
The doors to the great hall are flung open and the spell is broken with a loud crack as the heavy oak hits the stone walls. Guards spring into action, ready to protect their King. The man himself opens his eyes, and watches a breathless messenger speak to Drend, the King’s right hand man. Drend dismisses the messenger with a nod.
Drend approaches. He is a slippery, oily man. I don’t trust him, I don’t like him.
“Your Majesty,” he says, the words oozing out, of his lips like melting butter. “I have good news! The Princess has been rescued! She is at the city gate, she will be with us in but a few short minutes!”
I watch the King’s face shift with drunken confusion as the information reaches the part of his brain that still functions.
“Little Loli?” he croaks, eventually.
“Yes, Majesty,” Drend nods like one of those dogs people used to have in cars, back in my homeworld. “The err,” Drend coughs. “people who rescued her, wish to see you. Will it please your Majesty to receive them?”
The King pushes himself upright. He seems to have come back to life. The news of the rescue of his daughter has sobered him.
“Yes,” he says. “Of course. The hero who saved my daughter from the kidnappers must be rewarded.”
Drend nods. There is something that he is not saying. Something that is not quite right. The King sends Drend off to “fetch gold, man!” and then calls me over.
“Make me look less of a mess, girl,” he says. “I want my daughter to see the father she left six months ago. Not,” he gestures at his stained tunic. “This.”
I fetch a bucket of water, a cloth and a fresh tunic. I clean the King as best I can, and help him out of one tunic and into another. I straighten the crown on his head. He still looks like a drunken mess, but more like the drunken mess he used to be, rather than what he has become.
At the doors, a fanfare of trumpets, announce the arrival of guests. A number of guards, most of them familiar to me, lead the way. Loli is amongst them. She is different, I see straight away. Not just the makeup, her pierced lip and the tattoos on her face and neck. It is the way she holds herself, the way she moves. She has grown up. She still has buckets full of attitude - I can see that in how she struts. She is smiling.
That is new.
“Father!” she says, and bows down low. This is also a different side to the girl - young woman - I correct myself. Showing respect to her father was something she had never done in my presence.
Tears well up in the King’s eyes and he calls her to him. They hug. I barely notice. Because I have seen what has walked in with them.
Their leader is a pig. A well dressed pig, granted (or should that be grunted?). But a pig, nevertheless. It walks on its hind legs, and nods at everyone in room, all of whom stare back open mouthed. When its eyes find mine it holds my gaze. There is a look of recognition.
It has found what it has been looking for, I realise.
Behind the pig, is the girl from outside the club. The strange eyeless woman, grey-blue hair frame her face, coloured dots tattoo the olive skin of her face and neck.
The sight of her brings me back to my homeworld, at least temporarily.
I stand blinking in the cold grey light of that early morning in Paris, outside the club. The man I spent the night dancing with leaves my side and walks up to the odd but beautiful woman and hands her a note. I watch her appear to read it - even though her eyes are opaque and sightless. She fold it carefully, drops it, casually to the floor, and nudges it into the gutter with her foot. When I look for him, the man I had hoped to go home with has vanished. The girl seems to look in my direction. She smiles and then spins on her heels and walks away. Not wishing to go home, and with nothing better to do, I follow, stooping to pick up the note from the gutter. She moves with a fluidity, a confidence, and speed, which leaves me to believe she is not blind.
I follow her through the Paris streets, strangely empty - even for this hour - and onto a patch of wasteland. It looks as though there were once houses here. There are artefacts here, evidence of lives lived. I am distracted and when I look for her, the woman has disappeared. I pick my way over to the spot I last saw her. I see only broken pots, an abandoned pushchair and a broken mirror. Of the woman, there is no sign. I pull the crumpled note from my pocket. “The Cracked Mirror” it says. Curious, I wonder if the mirror on the ground could be the same in the note. I look into it. My reflection shimmers and ripples and I lose consciousness. When I awake I am in this place.
Wherever this is. Whenever this is.
The King stares at the pig-man.
“You’d have me believe,” he says, his voice dark and dangerous. “That my finest soldiers could not rescue my darling Loli, but a -” he pauses, and then spits the word. “Pig! and a blind girl can?”
The pig bows deeply.
“I have a certain magical power, your Majesty,” his deep voice is familiar to me. “When I fart - excuse my language, my King - when I break wind, I can make people believe all sorts of things. In the case of the Princesses kidnappers I had them believe that they were drowning in gold coin. It distracted them long enough for us to escape with your daughter.”
The King laughs.
“I don’t believe it. There’s no such thing as magic.”
“You’re having a conversation with a pig, Sire,” said the pig. “Perhaps there are things, in this world, even you, do not know. Let me demonstrate.” And before the guards move towards him the pig farts, loudly. The smell chokes us all. I am sitting back in my home office. The laptop is on, the cursor blinks at me. It is taunting me. I give up! I am no writer! And then as I am about to slam down the screen onto the keyboard I see the keys dance. Words appear on the screen. “Don’t give up! Manipulator of words! Creator of worlds! We need you.”. I cough, suddenly and my vision clears, I am outside the club, once more. The man I danced with stands before me. He smiles and waves. “I’ve come for you,” he says. “You have the power we need.”
I cough again, and my vision swirls and I am once more in the Great Hall. The pig man is smiling at me.
“You have the power to create worlds,” he says. “I have come for you. We need you.”
He holds out his hand and I walk towards him.
I don’t know if I should trust him, but he is my only link to Paris.
To my home.
...
