Glendetta's AU

[master of spaz]

1 POV Glendetta

I was born, on an autumn night, surrounded by the moorland - apple orchards in full bloom. Glendetta was my father's picking, after his late sister Gailietta. I was lovingly received by the midwife and raised until I was two by my milk mother when suddenly, she disappeared.

I never met my father the day I was born, and I never met him hence. And so, I had never harbored any capability of missing him from the beginning of my life to now. Whether he had passed, or he had simply vanished from the face of the earth, I could never conclude for myself. And I never asked my mother. So, it remained an undeciphered mystery.

When I was a young girl, my mother told me that children were borne from the seeds of rotten apples that had fallen from their trees and left their homes. I suppose to her it was amusing and light-hearted, calling me a rotten apple, but her true victory was that upon hearing such a story, I, youthful and naive, swore then and there never to leave my home.

My mother, Astroline, was beautiful and vain, and my father had left her a fabulous title and fabulous wealth.

She was named Duchess of Hinter, and assumed the highest position in all the manor, Duke’s Dowager. Despite her money and her title in the village, my young mother was not someone of clear wealth or distinction around the lively kingdom. It was likely the king had never even lain eyes or ears on the existence of a Duke and Duchess of Hinter. Although not amicable in the least, she certainly was reserved and soft. Her smooth, white hands concealed her inferior youth, where she’d acted as servant to, Count and Countess Henderson, who she commanded today.

Underneath her womanly exterior were her dishonorable calluses, her rudimentary foundations. And so, she wore her femininity as proud costume and never removed her mask.

Never seeing my mother unclothed of her clever disguise, I was quite alone in the world.

When I was three, and already my language was fluent and my penmanship coherent, my mother began to dress me with the same cloak she uniformed herself in. I was taught to keep my hands and neck, soft and white, to keep my straight and stubborn hair curled into ringlets, and to learn the crafts of true women.

But feminine arts were not my sampling.

It was around that time that a merchant by the name of Picos Monorto visited our grand manor. For three days and three nights he stayed, but in those three days and three nights, I was changed forever.

[master of spaz]

2

Pico stayed in the room directly above mine.

That particular day, out of some fortune and will of fate, one of the maids had fallen suddenly ill on her way up to his chambers, carrying his belongings up to him. There on the staircase she had a fit of terrible convulsion, and was taken to her quarters but the head lady-in-waiting. With no one else around to witness it, I took in my own hands the russet parcel she carried and delivered it to Pico.

At first, he sat tiredly and without interest, slumped half asleep against his armchair with a heavy bound book in his palms. But when he looked up, he seemed delighted to see that his waiter was not a dim maiden, but an aristocratic little girl, standing tall and humble before him.

Without a moment's glance, his long, gangly arms swept me towards him and he opened his russet pack before my eyes. It was then, in his harsh hand's grip I noticed a rough metal poking me. He wore on his middle finger a thick brass ring that seemed worn with perspiration and wear.

He asked me in a hardly audible voice, "Would you like to see my collection, little Glendetta?"

I nodded obediently, yet never taking my eyes off his brass ring.

But when he opened the parcel, was when my true astonishment began. Among the wine, coins and trinkets, there was a small but grand canvas, depicting a man and woman carrying a child. He noticed my glance, smiled at my intrigue, and hoisted me onto his lap. His wire beard brushed against my hair.

"It's an oil painting I purchased from Alarcette in northern France," he remarked, pointing to the painting. "It is the archetype piece of the French influence, but look. It's strokes are uncareful but natural, yet it's structure is devotedly loyal to the human body. Only an Italian! The true artist must have been an Italian."

He glanced at me.

"Do you know what it depicts? This, is the boy Alsace. He is the great soldier, who they are calling the new king of Italy."

"Estienne. A French name," I whispered.

Though his face was blurred by his long beard, I could see the odd, jovial light in his eyes, as he remarked at my comment. There was a mysterious expression on his face. Of fear. Of wonder. He brushed a loose strand of hair from his grey, aged eyes.

"Yes, it is little one," he murmured. "How do you know that?"

"I read it once, in a book."

A hushed silence fell over him. There was a rising, baritone gurgle in his voice. I knew he was thinking. He was thinking of what to say next, and I began to wonder as well, what he would say. In my ears, I heard the ringing of swords clashing, and horses falling, for such was what I saw when I thought of romantic France, not so far away. It was a naive idea, but it was the best I could conceive at so young an age.

[master of spaz]

At that moment in my young life was when I first realized I was quite inexplicably lonely. Picos was a very, very knowledgeable man, and I had never looked up to someone so fondly. He'd shown me his art collection, and his little trinkets. He showed me coins he had taken from around the world, and a scribe from beautiful, euphoric Asia. He'd also showed me his book, and that I liked best. They were usually small and thin, leather bound, and I liked them better than the ones I had in my own library, for they held many more tales. Picos would read them to me, and I would return to my room, and paint a little picture about what he read to me. He told me of a story of a long war of greed and power between two large, strong kingdoms, that raged for many, many decades, and lasted so long, that in the span of that time, they became frail, compared to the countries besides them, who had pledged their peace to one another, and soon after the war, both disappeared without a trace. He chided of peace, but spoke of the romance of war, and with his whispering words, baritone voice, told me of a land I could only dream of visiting one day. And so I painted for him, on an old canvas cloth from the kitchen, that was for wiping tables, a large king, draped over his throne, while another held a broken crown. Faces worn in pain. Such pain.

Over the next three days, Picos invited me to his chamber every night and every morn. He asked me many long questions about politics and war, or he would entertain me with science books. He asked me to paint for him, whatever I wished, so I took up a brush and mimicked the oil painting of Estienne, The Young Crown. So he asked me to write one of my own, and asked me to title it myself, and so I wrote a lonely little story about a girl who became lost in a kingdom, I called Roshliu, and I named her Picos, which made him give a soft chuckle.

It was on the third night, before he was to leave early in the morning, that Picos again opened his package again to show me his odd belongings.

"Little Glen," he said, calling me lovingly by my pet name, whilst stroking my long hair. I sat beside him, hands in my laps, watching as he flipped through his items. Over the course of those three days, we had in fact, both grown rather fond of each other. Picos was a lovely companion, and a true intellect. I had never had many friends in my life, having lived so isolated in a manor to large and without many kin to my name. I hadn't even acquaintances, save for the few noblemen I would often see, or the servants who would flutter around me.

"Lord Picos," I responded eagerly, for that was what I had learned to call him, who seemed as great as a true lord. And although later in my life was when I would find out he was not so lordly or kingly, but instead a simple baron, I always fondly remembered him as the great Duke of the World.

"Oh, little girl," he smiled. "I have never met such a young child as precocious as you, and yet so small. Little girl, I will miss you. I wish I could stay, and watch what you may do, but it is very sad."

"Sad?"

"To watch you, confined to this life," he spoke with glassy eyes that did not look at me, and gingerly touched the stone walls. Rested his hand on my bed frame. "A dame who will live in these vast, golden halls forever is lucky, but you are no simple dame. You deserve a harsher, but happier life, little Glendetta."