Post by BELLATRIX ATREBAS on Aug 26, 2011 5:00:32 GMT -5
G E N E T I C P E R F E C T I O N
we need a little pretty 'cause
| [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,10,true][atrb=style,background-image: url('http://i53.photobucket.com/albums/g79/Juliart/background_black.jpg');,true][cs=2] THIS COUNTRY'S INSANE | |
| [atrb=width,240] This was it. This was the time. Now. This was the time she’d been waiting so anxiously for for months, nay, years, and it had finally come. Her heart was pounding. Her head was racing. Her breathing grew shallower and shallower. She took the golden hand-held mirror her mother had once owned into her shaking hands and grasped it with such fervency that the ornate mold from which it had been cast impressed itself into her palm. This was in no way a nervous shaking of the hands, however. This was pure anticipation; pure passion flowing through every fibre of her being. The thought of bearing the Throne of Rome sent a chill of utter pleasure up her spine. Queen Bellatrix. She very much enjoyed the sound of that. As she held the fated looking glass up to gaze into her own eyes, her shaking hand lay dormant, at least for now. A grin of what could be nothing but pure malice split the face of the eldest of the Atrebas children in twain. Once she had finished poring over her reflection, she slipped the looking glass into the inside of her dress and began to put the plan to action. As she slithered from her quarters, great care had to be taken to avoid being seen leaving. A single slip-up and the whole plan would crumble into dust, burying any slight idea that Trixie would, indeed, take the crown once Dastan had been killed. Though it was deep into the evening, guards patrolled the corridors and any sight of the princess would easily bring her motives into question. She moved quickly and with great stealth to the place in the palace she had known the ill-fated Prince would come to this particular night. Miraculously, she had not been seen by anyone and made it to her destination according to plan. She sat in a dark corner of the candlelit room in the West Wing, a room she knew well that Dastan would be able to enter unnoticed, as he had frequented this particular room many times. The great, arched windows stood imposing along the wall facing the grounds and a magnificent view of the kingdom. Yet now, the windows were black and almost opaque as she shot a fleeting glance at her reflection in them. She hid in the shadows, completely masked by the cover of darkness, when she heard the door creak open and the Prince hobble in. Gingerly closing the door behind him, the Prince slowly and with much difficulty made his way to one of the floor-length windows overlooking the kingdom that he foolishly thought would be his someday. The Prince smiled at this thought and pressed his hands to the glass. Bellatrix still sat in her chair in the corner, her hand moving every so slowly to the mirror in her dress. She paused for a moment in this action, knowing full well that she must have a more creeping, cautious mode of operation. The seconds passed like hours; the minutes, an eternity in that chair. It was now or never. Very slowly, she crept from the armchair and moved fleetingly to avoid candlelight. Her eyes locked on the crippled prince like an adder stalking her prey, and in one smooth movement, both shoved Dastan’s deformed back into one of the great stone pillars supporting the walls and covered the mouth of the ill-fated prince, muffling the shriek of agony from the former action. Bellatrix’s heart was beating out of her chest as she removed her elegant hand from the chest of the immobilized and silent Dastan to draw her mother’s looking glass from the interior of her gown. She held it with an unrivaled ardor and held it to face the agonized prince. “Look at this,” Bellatrix said softly, but with a fury that burned like a white-hot poker. “This is the thing that has destroyed everything I had ever loved or hoped for. This is the scum that stole my mother from me. This is the filth in the way of my crown. This is less than nothing. This is unlovable. This is shit.” Dastan made attempts to move his head so as not to look at his own loathsome reflection and surrender to his murderous sister, but these were of no avail. She clasped her hand tighter over his quivering jaw and whimpering mouth. With each act of defiance, Bellatrix grew more and more agitated. “Look. At. Your. Self,” she said, through gritted teeth, each syllable punctuated by a harsh blow to his face with the mirror. A large shard of the looking glass fell to the floor and Dastan opened his eyes to see his shattered and bloody reflection. “How dare you enter this world? You’re a waste. You‘re no brother of mine, Prince Dastan. And you’ll never be King.” Bellatrix’s arm swooped downward to pick up the shard that had fallen from the mirror and plunged it into the gut of the Prince. Blood splattered from the wound onto the stone floor as tears streamed from Dastan’s eyes. The future Queen glared into them, a smile creeping up her face as she removed her hand from the dying prince’s mouth. “Sister…,” Dastan uttered, coughing up blood. This she took as a final act of defiance. She wrenched the shard of glass from the prince’s belly and, her face contorted with fury, jammed it into the side of his neck. She pulled it out and watched as his limp body slid to the floor, blood flowing from his neck and pooling on the floor. She spat in his face and the realization of what she had just done was sinking in. Trixie grinned maliciously as she watched the light fade from Dastan’s eyes as the candles in the room reflected their flame into her own eyes, a symbol of the passionate fire that burned so greatly in her. “Long live the Queen,” said Bellatrix, slipping behind the door and venturing back to her room, envisioning her coronation. Tears of what could have been nothing but pure ecstasy cascaded down her cheeks. The Prince was dead. Bellatrix Atrebas woke with a start in her luxurious bed, tangled in the sheets of finest satin. This wasn’t the first time she had dreamt of killing her brother, a thought that plagued her mind since his unfortunate birth. Her hair disheveled, she smoothed a hand through the chocolate-colored locks and traced the side of her face. She knew what had to be done, she just didn’t know when. She rose from her bed, walking gently on the fur rug and over to her vanity, where her long fingers traced the ornate embellishments on a golden mirror that had once belonged to Queen Calliste. She picked it up and gazed into her reflection, beginning her day as usual with a rigorous check for imperfections in her skin. After what seemed like a half hour, she set the mirror back onto the wooden vanity and strode to her wardrobe for something to wear to breakfast. | [atrb=width,100] words , 1178 tagged , Romans notes , -------- |
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