Royal Influence

“You’d be wise to remember this is not a democracy, Trader,” a quiet, male voice rang softly through the air with enough authority that every person in the chamber cringed–none more so than the man receiving the reprimand. Even the stoic guards could not disguise the winces that flitted over their faces, and yet that voice was never raised in anger.

Eyes wide, a young peasant watched the remorseful merchant grovel his case, no longer so bold in his demands over the price of the furs he had come to sell. Before him, the Emperor gracefully listened to the offers before ignoring them all and setting his own prices–which the man promptly accepted. As the nervous man was led away to complete the business transaction, Laarie found herself struck speechless by the power of the man sitting so passively upon a throne in the Grand Ballroom of the High Court.

Satin drapes and silk tapestries adorned the walls, the ceilings lined with gold. The throne itself shone with that precious metal, sturdy and tall upon a raised platform. Its cushions were made of crushed velvet: a deep cobalt color that signified the house of the Emperor. Carved pillars took on the shapes of the gods and goddesses that protected their kingdom, staring down upon the hall as though passing judgement upon all who stood before them; even the very stone of the chamber itself was elegant: white marble inlaid with ribbons of a subtle, irridescence. She had never seen such finery, nor such grandeur: the room itself was easily as big as the homes of herself and three of her neighbors, stretching out before her like some ominous pathway; nevertheless, that gentle voice carried clearly all the way down to where she stood at the massive double doors that had first allowed her entrance to such a grand ballroom.

“I will see the next.”

She started at the feeling of a hand on her arm, face snapping upward to look into the amused eyes of a guard. “Your turn, girl.” The words were not mocking, but neither were they friendly, and so Laarie forced her feet to move forward in compliance with the subtle command. She trembled as she walked.

Approaching that distant throne and looking upon the royalty before her, Laarie felt her words grow thick in her throat even as she stopped short of the first level of the platform. She did not notice the guards that barred her from venturing any further, but instead found her gaze overtaken by the face of that god-like man whose grace she had come to ask. He looked younger than she had thought he would be: the result of the death of the previous Emperor by pneumonia. His robes were silk, embroidered by delicate thread; her hand, deft as it was, could not mimick such precision. Soft leather slippers, the crest of his house resting upon his breast on a chain of gold, encrusted by precious stones; long, silken hair flowing about his shoulders, restrained only in part by a leather thong. He was truly as royal as his title suggested.

“-irl? Girl? Are you well, Child?”

If it was possible, her eyes grew wider still when she realized that the man in question had been speaking to her. Instantly, heat and color flooded her cheeks.

“M-My apologies, My Lord. I-I-I….” By the Gods, what was wrong with her?! Patient eyes looked upon her, waiting expectantly for her response. All at once, it was too much, and Laarie forgot the very reason she had come to address the Emperor. “Pardon me, Grace!”

Without looking back, she ran from the chamber, privy only to the words that floated out after her:

“What a peculiar girl.”

“You seem to have that effect on many a woman, my Lord.”

“So I do…”

~ by eeratka on December 3, 2007.