The Royal We
'Sandalwood', I think. 'I've never smelled it before, but I know that's what this is.
'This body must know what it is.'
I shift my legs, feel the soft support of whatever I'm sitting on. Lean back and push my shoulders in, enjoying its exquisite construction, resting my arms on two sturdy, padded rests.
And I hear murmuring.
I open my eyes just a slit, just enough to take in the room while still relaxing.
It's dark in here. Nice.
I slide my gaze over the floor.
Rose patterned carpet. Wide, round room, like a private hotel room.
Small windows at the edges, almost like airplane windows.
I look up to see who's whispering.
The back of a couch, detailed in another fine rose pattern. I know each rose was hand-stitched.
On the left, my cousin, Anna Marie but with dark, red hair, leaning over and conspiring with her best friend, the brunette Shelby. In my reality, Shelby carried a child for Anna Marie who is barren. In this reality, Anna Marie is newly married to Prince Dove-Tree of the Great Plains Alliance, a gentrified Native American nation in the middle of what I would call The United States of America.
I look at myself.
My sleeves are of cream-colored linen interwoven with silk bands, alternating teal and primrose. My burgundy jacket hangs open revealing a stark white frilled blouse with black banding and a glittering undercurrent of swirling rainbows. I'm wearing black, leather pants with braided inlay and well-made but worn work boots.
I shift, quint, feel where I am.
'I'm in the women's car,' I think. 'But I'm not quite a woman, am I?'
I flex my hands. Long, dexterous fingers yet thick palms, like cement.
'For fighting,' I almost remember.
I think of fire and push with every muscle and nerve in my forearms.
Nothing.
I think of ice and with great effort my hands glisten but produce barely a hint of frost.
'Magick,' I think. 'But not strong, not elemental.'
I sink into my memories. 'Who am I? What is my role? What are my skills?'
'Ah,' I think, picking out an interesting tidbit.
I make a gesture with the first two fingers of both hands and it begins to rain blood inside the cabin.
Anna Marie sits up, looks around, grimaces, and stares daggers at me.
She audibly sighs, rolls her eyes, sits up straight and stands.
I see she's wearing a full-length, slinky velvet dress the same dark red as the rest of the rose motif. She smooths the the skirt, straightens her sleeves, lifts her head and walks toward the front of the room.
She makes a right but is also still heading the same direction. She goes around a partition that folds the wrong way.
'Non-Euclidean design,' I think, nodding to myself.
The blood rain isn't real, of course. It's an illusion.
Nothing is getting wet.
I smile broadly, lift my chin, notice the hat on my head for the first time. Glancing up, I see a broad, dark rim, coming to a point about six inches out.
I remove it and hold it in my sturdy hands before leaning forward to engage with Shelby.
In my reality, Anna Marie was a “cousin” by association, part of our chosen family. I wish to determine our relation here and, if possible, find a way to woo her into my own good graces instead of this Prince.
It's a dream, after all; I can do whatever I want.
“It won't work, charlatan,” says a smooth, calm voice to my left.
“Pardon?” I say, hearing my own lustrous, lyrical voice for the first time.
I feel a gentle, but demanding hand on my left shoulder, urging me to rise and follow.
I steal a glance to see a broad, stunning blonde man in golden, padded armor, lined with silver and bearing the yellow crescent and pyramid seal of the Anglican Cheyenne House. Prince Donald Dove-Tree.
He hadn't been there the moment before. His appearance also ends my blood rain.
I am compelled to follow until we are standing at one of the portholes. I am thankful to have been given the option to come voluntarily.
I can see we are traveling down a paved road that is not nearly wide enough to accommodate a vehicle of this size and I wonder what shape was given to the outer appearance, I wonder what the people see.
Speaking of “the people”, they wear anachronisms mixed with modern, blue jeans and Ren Faire. The buildings are stone and glass, of two times, straddling an imagined past and a dirty, industrial present.
“I have three theories about what happens when I dream—,” I start to explain.
“This is the real world,” Prince Dove-Tree insists. “Those are real people, with real lives. They do not need your interference.”
He pushes me against the glass, forcing me to look.
Unabated, I continue, “As I was saying, when I borrow someone's body, I gain an intuitive but incomplete understanding of the world and my place in it.”
He spins me around, showing intense iron-blue eyes, uncomfortable in his baby round face lacking even stubble on his clenched jaw or full upper lip. “This is a complete world. You are not needed.”
I sense his frustration and annoyance.
“And when we swap back, they will remember everything I did. I understand that their subconscious mind will ret con the memories such that it finds a reason for everything that was done.”
I laugh.
“Although, sometimes I don't make it easy.”
He rubs his forehead with his free hand, closing his eyes and grinding his teeth.
His looks into my eyes and softens, smiles, even.
But he gets no chance to speak as we both wobble with the stoppage of our conveyance. I hadn't even truly noticed its motion.
“Come, then,” demands the Prince.
I don't remember stepping outside, but I am. I turn to look at the vehicle and its a simple limousine. I'm not sure we were ever actually inside of it.
A black man in threadbare but clean worker's clothes greets us and leads us past the wide glass front of a restaurant. I see patrons seated at round tables eating and visiting.
I step toward the main door, but we are pulled and led to a simpler one, immediately to the right that I hadn't noticed.
Inside, we are in a hallway that wasn't visible from outside. The walls must be thick because I can't hear the restaurant.
I see other black men in formal dark blue uniforms, carrying perfectly vertical pike staves, standing at attention at regular intervals as we pass.
The hallway doesn't turn, but I notice I can't see that far behind us or very far in front of us.
Finally, there is another door to our left and a large black woman opens it from the other side and welcomes us enthusiastically.
I smell meat and spices, feel steam. Glancing inside is a kitchen fit for a castle with dozens of people, all black, working at chopping, slicing, spicing, preparing, and cooking in pots, ovens, and open flames.
Instead of entering the kitchen, we are led through another set of non-Euclidean hallways curving over and under until we are in the middle of what should be the restaurant and what should be the kitchen, until we enter and entirely liminal room, veiled in shadows and lacking walls or a visible ceiling.
Sitting at a conspicuous L-shaped table of carved marble is Jon, Anna Marie's brother and a Duke, slouching in heavy, dingy, deep red robes more appropriate for a king.
I know he's proud to have married his sister off to a Prince. I also know he's an idiot and his sister was the true master of this domain.
I estimate he will lose everything and be subsumed by the Great Plains Alliance in less than two years.
Speaking of the Prince, he quickly speeds to the Duke and they begin whispering back and forth.
Anna Marie and Shelby stay close to me, with Anna Marie gently touching my elbow as if to let me know she's there. I am supposed to be their protector. I didn't realize that until just now. I know them and typically call them my only true friends. I fight for them.
The Duke sits up, eyes suddenly bright and motions for two of the blue-clad, black-skinned sentries to come over.
They lean in for quiet orders while he gestures toward me.
The two men look at me, then back to the Duke and he nods then waves them away.
All the servants are black, I realize. All of them. And I haven't seen a single citizen on the street or in the restaurant out front that was black.
I think—I remember there was no Revolutionary War here and also no Civil War. That would explain the titles and pageantry, too.
History is not this version of me's strong suit. It's not mine, either.
One of the men asks Anna Marie and Shelby, “I'm very sorry Your Highness and Missus, but would you please step back from The Attendant?”
They step back as the two men flank me, The Attendant, apparently.
“Sorry, Mx,” one of them tells me as they push me toward the Duke. They don't prod me with their pikes, but I know they would if I didn't do as they asked, as The Duke asked.
I do not resist, focusing the non-binary honorific they used to address me. This one is considered neither man nor woman, but an official third thing.
Jon barely looks up once I'm standing over him.
“I thought you were better than this, Jesse,” he tells me. “I didn't even think you liked girls or boys in that way.
“The Prince informs me that you attempted to seduce my sister or rather that you planned to do so.”
'Shit,' I think. I completely forgot Prince Dove-Tree is a strong empath, nearly telepathic. The body I'm borrowing is typically far more clever than I've been.
Shit.
“Your punishment will be immediate.”
He gestures and the guard on my right takes my wrist and moves it to the table.
I understand and flatten my hand in front of the Duke.
“No need to hold me down,” I say.
The sentry doesn't let go.
The Duke produces a cleaver and seems to ponder something but thinks better of it.
“Three,” he says.
He positions the cleaver over the pointer finger of my right hand, leveling the blade just above the knuckle. He applies a tiny bit of pressure with his left hand steadying the blade before slamming his right hand down. A jolt of electrical fire shoots up my arm, my legs start to buckle, my vision blurs, my head swims, and my teeth grit almost to the point of breaking.
I hear a muffled scream and recognize it as Anna Marie.
“That's one,” the Duke says, lining up my middle finger.
The first cut left a spray of blood on the table and wall, but it's already stopped.
'I heal fast.' I know that. I knew that. But it still hurts.
He slams down his right hand and I feel the world spin around me, my insides flip, I bite my tongue nearly in two and feel my magick unspiraling itself, ready to retaliate. I have to push past the torture and will it back down.
“Two down,” he says, getting ready to cut off my ring finger.
SLAM!
Another scream, this time it's me. It takes every ounce of willpower and strength to not piss myself in pain and paint the entire room in illusory fire while sending a blast wave strong enough to flatten every living thing.
“Three,” he says nodding. “Now, all is forgiven.”
He rolls one of the fingers thoughtlessly before waving them away. A servant quickly scoops up the bulk of the gore.
“Now let's eat.”
He doesn't even have the blood cleaned from the white marble.
He never looks up at me. Never meets my eyes.
My hand throbs, my entire arm numb as a jellyfish sting. My stomach roils and my head threatens to send me to the ground as my vision narrows and blackens.
I'm gingerly led to a side table where I sit alone, watching my fingers knit themselves back together. I'll have a complete—albeit gnarly—set in a few hours and be fully functional by tomorrow morning.
Behind me, I hear Anna Marie crying softly to Shelby.
The shock and pain pushed me deeper into the memories of this body. For example, I know Anna Marie and I are already having an affair. The person I'm borrowing is just a far better “charlatan” than I.
I turn slightly to survey the feast of a Duke.
For all the savory smells from the kitchen, they are eating simple sandwiches of grilled, exotic meats and cheeses. The Duke doesn't care for fancy dishes, as I now recall.
I see a group of people, dressed as peasants, lumbering toward the Duke out of the distant dimness. There aren't any doors so I'm not sure where they are coming from.
They are shuffling zombie-like and there are more of them than I initially thought. I count eighteen so far and hear the scrape and slide of others still hidden.
The Duke notices and sends a half dozen of his sentries with a careless gesture while continuing to eat.
They rush ahead, confronting the crowd but are completely ignored. The few they stop offer no resistance, staring blankly while the bulk keeps coming, pushing past them, stumbling steadily forward.
“Enjoy the food?” a sonorous, sinister voice asks, as a thin man, dressed in a white robe fluttering in a non-existent breeze, with dark black hair appears from the larger group.
“Malcolm!” growls the Duke.
I see him move to stand, but nothing happens. He leans forward, he leans sideways, he pushes his arms down, but he can't get up, can hardly move at all.
None of them can. Not the Prince, not Anna Marie or Shelby.
I stand and stride forward.
Malcolm sees me coming and gestures with his right hand sending a snaking bolt of lightning at me.
Grinning wildly, I slap it out of the air with my left hand like an annoying gnat.
I love this part of the job.
Malcolm starts a more complex gesture, but I'm already on him, lifting him into the air with what remains of my right hand, squeezing his neck between the claw of my pinky and thumb so he can barely swallow, let alone speak. I grab his gesturing right hand and crush the bones as if they were balsa wood with my left.
“Not hungry today, eh Jesse?” he croaks.
I see Prince Dove-Tree struggling to form a sign with his hands as Malcolm is slowly enveloped by a yellow glow, further incapacitating him.
I'm not the empath that he is, but the satisfaction I feel from the Prince is uncharacteristic and overzealous.
This was his plan. The Prince. Malcolm. Perhaps even Anna Marie.
The Duke will not survive the night, I fear.
My mind races, searching for solutions.
In fact—I realize as the mesmerized people continue closing in, glazed and moaning—I know he won't survive the night.
#WhenIDream #WritersOfMastodon #Writer #Writing #WeirdFiction
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