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Lavaliere laid on her cot.
All was quiet, except for the occasional scuffling feet outside her room. Per her request, nobody was to come in and bother her. She was free to do nothing but listen to the steps outside, the shuffling of her hospital gown when she shifted and the creak of her bed. To feel the creases on her mattress — undoubtedly unfit for someone of her standard — and sometimes, unwillingly, against the part of her mind that knew it wasn’t real, she could feel the bulbous boils scattered across her face pop and the mixture of pus and blood leak out of her, the pain, searing and hot like someone had branded her face with a hot poker—
At some point during the actual event, she had reactively bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood, and the iron tang of it had just served to make her more and more hysterical. After that, everything blurred together, but the pain and that putrid smell stuck with her.
And now. Now, she stared unseeingly at the ceiling.
Her next couple breaths were long and deep in hopes of calming her erratic breathing and quelling the tears gathering in her eyes. Every time she thought she had run out of them, her body would prove her wrong.
Her mother used to reprimand her for even the slightest hint of a tear. Don’t ruin your eyes, she’d snap. Glasses are not a good look for a lady.
Lavalierse’s lips pulled into a small, mirthless smile. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about that now. No matter how much she cried, there wasn’t a state her eyes could reach that was worse than ‘blind’.
A couple gentle knocks interrupted her thoughts. She didn’t say anything, hoping whoever it was would just leave her alone.
“Miss Lavaliere?” came the muffled voice of one of her nurses. “You have a visitor.”
In the past two weeks of recovery, Lavaliere’s only visitor was the queen. She would come by every single day and stay by her cot for hours. Sometimes she would talk with her–or, at her, because Lavalier never talked back, and sometimes she just sat there with her, a comforting presence.
Lavaliere hated her for that. She hated the daily reminder that a stranger would go to these lengths for her, to stick by her during and after her operation while her mother was nowhere to be seen. Her own mother couldn’t be bothered to show up.
(Lavaliere hated herself for that. Not her mother’s inaction, but her lack of a reaction to it. She wasn’t angry or heartbroken, just numb, like she’d been laying in an ice-cold bath for so long that she’d forgotten what anything felt like.)
This didn’t mean she wanted anyone to visit her. She’d said so, right to the queen’s face. She’d screamed it, actually, uncaring of how egregious a social blunder it was to act this way towards the queen. But at that moment, she didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything. And so she had yelled that and an assortment of other things, things that embarrassed her now, even moreso because she was certain the medical staff had overheard.
But all throughout her verbal barrage, the queen had remained silent. Moments after, the queen had plainly stated, “I’m not leaving you,” and Lavaliere knew without a shadow of a doubt that she meant it.
Still, Lavaliere was adamant about not letting any more people see her in this pathetic state.
“Go away,” she said, her voice raspy from disuse. Either she was too quiet or the nurse ignored her, because the door creaked open. She heard a light pair of footsteps make their way towards her.
“I’ll be back in a bit,” said the nurse, closing the door behind her, leaving Lavaliere and her visitor alone.
The young woman stayed silent. She wouldn’t be the first to speak, especially not to ask who the person was. There was a beat of silence, then she heard a small sigh. In a tone laced with relief, yet unmistakable exhaustion, they said, “Hello, Miss Lavaliere.”
She hoped it didn’t show on her face how the voice startled her. After what had occurred the night of the engagement ball, she thought that Serge would never want to speak to her again. Unless, she wondered bitterly, it was to say “I told you so”.
She thought about not saying anything back. But it did not seem like a good course of action; it had only been a minute and she was already sick of the loaded silence that had fallen over them. She swallowed and bit out, “Why are you here?” She kept her face tilted slightly away from him, though it was impossible to hide her face, which she knew was scarred beyond recognition.
It took Serge a moment to reply. “I knew that you had pulled through the surgery, but I wanted to check on you in person.”
His words filled Lavaliere with irritation, turning fully towards him, she replied nastily, “Well, here you have it: here I am in perfect condition.”
She heard him inhale sharply and scowled, further marring her facial features.
(Deep down, she was glad that she couldn’t see how ugly and deformed her face must look.)
“I don't know what more you could possibly want. To gloat?”
He sighed, and it was heavy with sadness. She gritted her teeth.
“I just want you to know that I care for you; I always have.” His tone was one she’d heard before, soft and regretful. . .
It was your choice. Remember that.
These words rang in her ears, rattled inside her chest, then settled in her stomach, heavier than anything she’d ever felt. She choked on an emotion she couldn’t name, one that wrapped around her heart and squeezed tight until she could hardly move.
That moment was ingrained in her mind forever. His calm and gentle offer. His resigned expression. Her stubborn rejection.
And that millisecond where she had actually considered his offer. The thought of getting away from everyone, of feeling no pain, no pressure, of nothing at all, of being nothing, nobody, not her mother's puppet nor the stupid prince's fiance had made the pain go away. For a moment, she was light, with no burdens or boils weighing her down.
Immediately afterwards she had felt disgusted by her lapse in judgement. How could she be so weak as to even think of giving up when she was so close. To becoming princess, to becoming someone who commanded the attention of the kingdom, someone her mother would no longer be able to control.
Hate and anger welled up in her stomach, so hot and acidic that she wanted to scream. At her mother, at Serge, but most of all, at herself.
She wanted to scream.
“Lady Lavaliere? Are you okay? Would you like–”
“SHUT UP!” she exploded. Her strangled shout did nothing to lessen the pressure in her chest. If anything, those feelings ate at her more and more. “Stop acting like you care about me. This is all your fault, you and everyone else!”
She found that she couldn't help herself; any thought of decorum or dignity fled her mind as she hurled insults and accusations and finally, objects – anything within her reach – at him.
He said nothing.
Her eyes burned. She twisted her face into a hard, impenetrable scowl.
Finally, she ordered with as much force as she could:
“Get OUT!”
Lavaliere stubbornly held her expression. She continued to do so as her former fairy godfather stood still, and as he walked away from her. When she heard the click of the door being shut, she weeped.