still, like dust, i'll rise [part i]
By gothamwanes
prelude
The girl is lovely, really, with black hair that falls in waterfalls across her back and lips that bleed red like wine, contrasting against the dusty paleness of her skin. She is honest-to-God something out of a song. The masses praise and revere her, and Snow White—ever the bashful maiden—accepts all of this adoration with a graceful tilt of her head, a blush against her cheeks, an innocent kiss blown into crowds.
And by God, they’re going to break her.
Andromeda has lived this story already, has breathed every single chapter of it. Contrary to popular belief, she was capable of that blind naivety once upon a time.
Because, you see, most tend to forget that all Queens were Princesses, too, youthful and radiant, with bright grins and wide gaping hearts too big for their chests. They were wildfires, loving blindly and recklessly until they consumed everything in their path.
(but then again, no one ever thought to tell them that that was wrong.)
See here: Andromeda is a Queen. She has no desire to return to whatever fate poor Snow White is destined to live out.
.
.
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i. lesson one
Andromeda is six, and she is the prettiest Princess in all the land.
It’s true, of course—her mother said so after all, and Andromeda’s mother was the most captivating woman she’d ever seen. Her mummy was her entire world, and Andromeda kept every single compliment and smile and kiss close to her heart.
At night, Andromeda’s mother would run a brush through her hair and whisper praises into the soft dark curls. You are the fairest of them all, ‘Dromeda, she would say, do not ever forget that.
The fairest of them all, Andromeda would mouth to herself, utterly enchanted. She liked the way the words tasted on her tongue; she felt regal and graceful and almost like a proper Queen, just like her own mummy was.
“Will I ever be a Queen like you?” Andromeda asks one night, wide-eyed and breathless with excitement. “Will I ever fall in love the way you did with Father?”
Her mother’s eyes—the same foggy gray as her own, the only physical trait Andromeda had inherited from her mother—goes hard like flint then, and Andromeda draws back, a spark of fear running through her at such a cold expression on her serene mother’s face. But then Andromeda blinks, and the harsh lines on her mother’s face have smoothened over.
A small smile curls her mother’s lips, but for the life of her, Andromeda cannot figure out why her mother does not look happy at all.
“I only wish the best for you, sweet daughter,” her mother says, quietly, softly.
Andromeda hears a soft intake of a breath, a faint tremor--
“Only the best.”
Her mother continues to brush through her hair, and Andromeda sits still like the sweet daughter she is and pretends not to notice her mother did not answer her question.
.
.
.
Years past, and Andromeda still does not forget the look of utter stillness in her mother’s eyes, the terror written in her face for the briefest of seconds, the moment her breath caught and never returned.
She keeps all of this close to her heart, too.
.
.
.
Andromeda is sixteen, and the son of Lord Baelor won’t stop looking at her.
It’s a grand ball to celebrate her coming-of-age, her venture in the world as a real woman, or so her maids said as they prepared her for the opening feast, swathing her in layers and layers of lavish fabrics and adorning her neck and ears with heavy jewelry.
A true Princess, they’d sighed as they readied her. You will be gorgeous, darling.
At the ceremony, she sits with her father and mother at the very top of the hall, welcoming her guests and allowing herself to be passed around to lord after lord, telling her how beautiful of a woman she’d become and how any man would be lucky to have her as a wife.
One lord, bearded and old, is particularly enthused and takes to shaking her hand vigorously. She cringes under the tight hold of his pudgy fingers. “You would make a fine bride for my own son,” he near yells, and Andromeda purses her lips at the spittle that flies from his mouth.
A beautiful bride, she thinks, forcing a tight, polite smile onto her face as she waves the man good-bye. She sips from a cup of wine, and it leaves a bitter taste on her tongue. Is that the highest compliment they are able to give me?
They have begun the formal dances when Andromeda catches his eye. He is the embodiment of a true noble man, tall and handsome with fine, aristocratic features. It is the boyish grin playing on his lips that give his age away, and it is that which makes Andromeda stop and stare.
He looks back after a minute or two, an abrupt turn of his head--oh, he has green eyes—and Andromeda averts her gaze immediately, trying to fight down the rush of color flooding her cheeks. Her mother had told her that such a display was too improper and flighty for a girl of her status.
Do not reveal to them anything, ‘Dromeda, she’d said. They will ruin you that way.
Andromeda maneuvers her way around laughing and dancing crowds. Curious eyes burn a trail after her and she refuses to turn back.
Do not show him your face. Do not reveal to him anything.
She only makes it so far until a hand brushes against her shoulder.
Her first thought is, Oh, they’re more blue at this distance.
Her second thought is, His smile is brighter, too.
His eyes are riveted to her, and his gaze is heavier than the jewelry adorning her neck and ears. He bows, and Andromeda does not breathe a sound as her hand is brought to his lips for a light kiss.
“Princess Andromeda.” His voice is still a boy’s, not quite the deep drawl of her father’s or the heavy, booming voices of the Lords around them. “Astor, of the House of Baelor.”
Andromeda tilts her head but keeps her gaze locked with his.
She may be a proper woman now but that doesn’t mean she isn’t allowed to bare some teeth.
“And you’re here to congratulate me, I suppose?”
“I am here to request a dance, my Grace,” he says in his boy’s voice, polite but earnest in the only way a child can be, presented with a large, magnificent gift. His eyes—blue, green, she can’t quite tell with the lighting—gleam.
Color floods her cheeks once more, unwillingly, and she quickly nods her head in acceptance.
Astor leads her into the center of the hall, and everyone is whispering and tittering, sighs and whispers following them as they take their spot on the floor, her hands resting on his shoulders and his spanning around her waist.
“A true vision of love in this era, how nice to—”
“I can already picture the wedding, oh, what a spectacle it would be—”
“Oh, dear, it looks like our young Lord has found his bride already—”
Andromeda swallows. She lightly squeezes Astor’s shoulder, and slowly, their feet begin to move, falling into the rising crescendo of the music.
He is not the most graceful of dancers, Andromeda notes, staring at him under heavy lashes. His grip is too firm, his steps a beat off, clumsy. But he is at least genuine in his efforts.
And then:
“You look absolutely effulgent, my Grace.”
It is said in a younger voice and strung with different words, but nonetheless the same dull sentiment expressed again and again.
If she were less mannered, she would have sneered, an ugly contortion of her face, and oh, all those compliments about her beauty and poise would have been wasted.
A pity, truly.
Releasing a slow, steady breath, she murmurs, “Do I?”
“Your beauty surpasses them all,” he insists, and Andromeda almost laughs, a rough, tattered sound that catches in her throat.
(—for a split second she forgets whom she is talking to; is it to the noble lord with a beard of white and black, envisioning her as his daughter-in-law, or is to the man with a boy’s voice and smile, gaze burning and bright; or is it to a mother with tired gray eyes and a heavy crown atop her head, smile just as polite and just as forced as her daughter’s?)
“Thank you,” she says finally, and then the dance is over. She bows once more, a low sweeping gesture.
And the woman leaves the boy, back turned, with the taste of old, bitter wine lingering on her lips.
.
.
.
This is the first lesson Andromeda learns:
Girls become women when they are placed upon shiny, bright pedestals.
Boys become men when they put them there.
prelude
The girl is lovely, really, with black hair that falls in waterfalls across her back and lips that bleed red like wine, contrasting against the dusty paleness of her skin. She is honest-to-God something out of a song. The masses praise and revere her, and Snow White—ever the bashful maiden—accepts all of this adoration with a graceful tilt of her head, a blush against her cheeks, an innocent kiss blown into crowds.
And by God, they’re going to break her.
Andromeda has lived this story already, has breathed every single chapter of it. Contrary to popular belief, she was capable of that blind naivety once upon a time.
Because, you see, most tend to forget that all Queens were Princesses, too, youthful and radiant, with bright grins and wide gaping hearts too big for their chests. They were wildfires, loving blindly and recklessly until they consumed everything in their path.
(but then again, no one ever thought to tell them that that was wrong.)
See here: Andromeda is a Queen. She has no desire to return to whatever fate poor Snow White is destined to live out.
.
.
.
i. lesson one
Andromeda is six, and she is the prettiest Princess in all the land.
It’s true, of course—her mother said so after all, and Andromeda’s mother was the most captivating woman she’d ever seen. Her mummy was her entire world, and Andromeda kept every single compliment and smile and kiss close to her heart.
At night, Andromeda’s mother would run a brush through her hair and whisper praises into the soft dark curls. You are the fairest of them all, ‘Dromeda, she would say, do not ever forget that.
The fairest of them all, Andromeda would mouth to herself, utterly enchanted. She liked the way the words tasted on her tongue; she felt regal and graceful and almost like a proper Queen, just like her own mummy was.
“Will I ever be a Queen like you?” Andromeda asks one night, wide-eyed and breathless with excitement. “Will I ever fall in love the way you did with Father?”
Her mother’s eyes—the same foggy gray as her own, the only physical trait Andromeda had inherited from her mother—goes hard like flint then, and Andromeda draws back, a spark of fear running through her at such a cold expression on her serene mother’s face. But then Andromeda blinks, and the harsh lines on her mother’s face have smoothened over.
A small smile curls her mother’s lips, but for the life of her, Andromeda cannot figure out why her mother does not look happy at all.
“I only wish the best for you, sweet daughter,” her mother says, quietly, softly.
Andromeda hears a soft intake of a breath, a faint tremor--
“Only the best.”
Her mother continues to brush through her hair, and Andromeda sits still like the sweet daughter she is and pretends not to notice her mother did not answer her question.
.
.
.
Years past, and Andromeda still does not forget the look of utter stillness in her mother’s eyes, the terror written in her face for the briefest of seconds, the moment her breath caught and never returned.
She keeps all of this close to her heart, too.
.
.
.
Andromeda is sixteen, and the son of Lord Baelor won’t stop looking at her.
It’s a grand ball to celebrate her coming-of-age, her venture in the world as a real woman, or so her maids said as they prepared her for the opening feast, swathing her in layers and layers of lavish fabrics and adorning her neck and ears with heavy jewelry.
A true Princess, they’d sighed as they readied her. You will be gorgeous, darling.
At the ceremony, she sits with her father and mother at the very top of the hall, welcoming her guests and allowing herself to be passed around to lord after lord, telling her how beautiful of a woman she’d become and how any man would be lucky to have her as a wife.
One lord, bearded and old, is particularly enthused and takes to shaking her hand vigorously. She cringes under the tight hold of his pudgy fingers. “You would make a fine bride for my own son,” he near yells, and Andromeda purses her lips at the spittle that flies from his mouth.
A beautiful bride, she thinks, forcing a tight, polite smile onto her face as she waves the man good-bye. She sips from a cup of wine, and it leaves a bitter taste on her tongue. Is that the highest compliment they are able to give me?
They have begun the formal dances when Andromeda catches his eye. He is the embodiment of a true noble man, tall and handsome with fine, aristocratic features. It is the boyish grin playing on his lips that give his age away, and it is that which makes Andromeda stop and stare.
He looks back after a minute or two, an abrupt turn of his head--oh, he has green eyes—and Andromeda averts her gaze immediately, trying to fight down the rush of color flooding her cheeks. Her mother had told her that such a display was too improper and flighty for a girl of her status.
Do not reveal to them anything, ‘Dromeda, she’d said. They will ruin you that way.
Andromeda maneuvers her way around laughing and dancing crowds. Curious eyes burn a trail after her and she refuses to turn back.
Do not show him your face. Do not reveal to him anything.
She only makes it so far until a hand brushes against her shoulder.
Her first thought is, Oh, they’re more blue at this distance.
Her second thought is, His smile is brighter, too.
His eyes are riveted to her, and his gaze is heavier than the jewelry adorning her neck and ears. He bows, and Andromeda does not breathe a sound as her hand is brought to his lips for a light kiss.
“Princess Andromeda.” His voice is still a boy’s, not quite the deep drawl of her father’s or the heavy, booming voices of the Lords around them. “Astor, of the House of Baelor.”
Andromeda tilts her head but keeps her gaze locked with his.
She may be a proper woman now but that doesn’t mean she isn’t allowed to bare some teeth.
“And you’re here to congratulate me, I suppose?”
“I am here to request a dance, my Grace,” he says in his boy’s voice, polite but earnest in the only way a child can be, presented with a large, magnificent gift. His eyes—blue, green, she can’t quite tell with the lighting—gleam.
Color floods her cheeks once more, unwillingly, and she quickly nods her head in acceptance.
Astor leads her into the center of the hall, and everyone is whispering and tittering, sighs and whispers following them as they take their spot on the floor, her hands resting on his shoulders and his spanning around her waist.
“A true vision of love in this era, how nice to—”
“I can already picture the wedding, oh, what a spectacle it would be—”
“Oh, dear, it looks like our young Lord has found his bride already—”
Andromeda swallows. She lightly squeezes Astor’s shoulder, and slowly, their feet begin to move, falling into the rising crescendo of the music.
He is not the most graceful of dancers, Andromeda notes, staring at him under heavy lashes. His grip is too firm, his steps a beat off, clumsy. But he is at least genuine in his efforts.
And then:
“You look absolutely effulgent, my Grace.”
It is said in a younger voice and strung with different words, but nonetheless the same dull sentiment expressed again and again.
If she were less mannered, she would have sneered, an ugly contortion of her face, and oh, all those compliments about her beauty and poise would have been wasted.
A pity, truly.
Releasing a slow, steady breath, she murmurs, “Do I?”
“Your beauty surpasses them all,” he insists, and Andromeda almost laughs, a rough, tattered sound that catches in her throat.
(—for a split second she forgets whom she is talking to; is it to the noble lord with a beard of white and black, envisioning her as his daughter-in-law, or is to the man with a boy’s voice and smile, gaze burning and bright; or is it to a mother with tired gray eyes and a heavy crown atop her head, smile just as polite and just as forced as her daughter’s?)
“Thank you,” she says finally, and then the dance is over. She bows once more, a low sweeping gesture.
And the woman leaves the boy, back turned, with the taste of old, bitter wine lingering on her lips.
.
.
.
This is the first lesson Andromeda learns:
Girls become women when they are placed upon shiny, bright pedestals.
Boys become men when they put them there.