Actually, it's only one story at the moment. ;-) Smiles is a short story that I wrote as an assignment for my Literature class.
The Prince had a ready smile, though it somehow never quite seemed to reach his eyes, which were cold slate, the color of an overcast winter sky. Still, it was a serviceable enough smile, and what it lacked in quality it made up for in magnitude. He smiled on friend and foe alike; and the smile blessed, or shattered, lives. The Prince had many friends, of course—as picnics have ants. Enemies also—what great man does not? And he had fame: all the fame that status, and wealth, and looks could conspire to confer upon a man. His name was known.
Despite his fame, his wealth, his station, he was restless in the nights. He dreamed often of the justice of poets and would awaken, shaken and pale. After one such dream he ordered all the poets of the land to silence. Some were. Others, poets being what they are, could not still their voices. So he helped them hold their breaths with long, rough ropes that danced in the public square. At last the poets’ pleas for justice were silenced in the land—though not in the Prince’s dreams, which were troubled still.
It was one such night, while standing on his balcony of rough, cold stone watching the cold autumn wind play with leaves, that he spied the woman. He watched her walking in the public square at an hour when all proper women were abed, and in a place where all improper women should fear to walk—for the Prince’s gray eyes were known to be keen, the moon was full, and his… habits were well known. Yet there she was. He commanded his men to fetch this misplaced woman.
He waited, and while waiting donned a robe of fine, purple cloth, well trimmed with ermine and arrogance. He tied it with a silken rope (which had seen much use) and passed the time by imagining the woman’s passage into his power.
Would she resist his men? Or would she be too daunted to offer even token resistance? The latter, he supposed; after all, his name was known. They would pass through the gateway where gargoyles stood watch with dark, stone eyes (such a sight could not help but cow the type of woman who walked alone in the night), down the Great Hall (lit by candle and by torch), where history was stitched into tapestries, and trapped by paint on canvas. It was the history of the Prince’s House. It was a history of victory, unmarred by defeat.
It was a history of power.
They would take their time; the Prince’s men knew his wishes well—then up the marble stair that wound toward heaven. Would she struggle now? Or plead? His men were well trained, moved by neither tears nor threats. So down the long hall they would come, past the niches where statues of dead gods lived, followed by an army of echoes, to the Prince’s ornate door.
He posed himself in front of the autumn fire—just so—knowing from long practice precisely where to stand so the flames could halo him in light. The room was dark. Other than the fire there was only one chandelier, and it only half-lit, so that the candles seemed to be trying desperately to illuminate the room by drawing crystal shadows on the darkly paneled walls. The door opened.
The woman entered, flanked by her escorts who quickly withdrew. The Prince knew that they would station themselves outside the door to await his call, though of course he would have no need of them for some while yet. He smiled the smile that blessed or broke.
"Welcome my dear! I could not but think, as I saw you walking, that it is far too cold a night for a young woman to be walking alone. I hope you find nothing wanting in my hospitality tonight." He hoped to seduce a smile to her face, for the Prince took delight in watching smiles flee faces.
There was no smile, however, nor any expression he could define: not fear, not relief, not anger, nor despair. Her face was fair as it held still between dark hair and darker eyes. Perhaps fear had frozen her face into a death mask. It was like that sometimes. She was no great beauty; he saw this as he closed the distance between them with princely strides. However, her face knew more of beauty than he would have expected in a woman who walked alone at night. Nor did she smell of blatant perfume and wasted sex. Indeed, the only scent he could discern was an earthen smell—the smell of newly plowed fields in spring.
He led her to the table on which sat two crystal goblets (newly received from the finest glass maker in the land) and a well aged wine. The prince poured old wine into new glass, and presented it to the woman with practiced ease. She set it back on the table and spoke her first words: "I do not drink of spirits, my Lord." His smile died coldly.
"Who are you to refuse my wine!" the Prince demanded. "What title do you claim, that you feel free not to return my smile, with smile?" He raged! His arm swept the glasses from the table, and newborn glass died in pieces on the floor. The old wine dove into woven carpet (that was older still), leaving a blood colored stain across the Prince’s family crest. The woman’s face at last showed feeling. Fear, he thought and smiled again, or… something. Perhaps not fear, but some close kin. His smile faded.
The woman spoke. "Who am I?" she whispered, and paused, as if trying to remember a forgotten name. "No one, my Lord. I am no one." She drew a breath, deeply, as if she had forgotten how. "What am I my Lord? I am nothing. Nothing. Though once… long ago… far away… I was a poet once, my Lord."
At last she smiled, and, oh, that smile! It held the Prince’s breath, as her eyes held the night, and her teeth were white, and her touch was cold, and at last the Prince slept well, and long, in the arms of the Poets’ Justice.
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I hope you enjoy the stories. Please email me with any questions, comments, or suggestions.