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There is a lot that she misses — her home, her father, her freedom. But one of the things that she aches the most for is the stars. It is irrational, she knows, to yearn for them out of all things. But out of everything she misses, they are the only ones she knows cannot be touched – have not been touched – by the cruel hand of conquest. But despite this knowledge, the companions of her childhood have been stripped from her for who knows how long. All she knows now are four gray walls. Everything had been taken from her and her captors wouldn’t even give her a window.
The bed beneath her (it can barely be considered such) is thin and covered by a threadbare blanket. She sits curled up in a ball, pressing her temple to the cool stone. A mass of curls obscures most of her vision, though there isn’t much to see in the first place. She watches her own dark hand reach out and pull the blanket over her bare feet to barely warm them. At least the prison wasn’t freezing. Small mercies.
Voices softly echo in the hall outside her cell and she doesn’t bother to even look up. She lost the energy to do that a long time ago. A pair of guards soon comes into view through the bars, lost in their own conversation.
“The new commander arrived today. Have you met her yet?”
“No, but Lewis has. Says she was the last thing they were expecting.”
“How so?”
“She’s young . Younger than we thought. Mid-twenties.”
“Huh. But doesn’t she have the attention of the king?”
“Yeah. Apparently, she’s scarily good at what she does.”
“Let’s try not to get on her bad side then.”
“Hear that, princess? You’ll wanna be on your best behavior or else the commander will take care of you once and for all.” They both laugh before shoving her tray of food through the door.
Some part inside her rears its head and bares its teeth. It snarls and strains to break out, to tear apart the guards that mock her. She does not move from her place on her bed and they pay her no more attention as they move on. Only when their voices are indistinguishable again does she unfold herself from her place and retrieve her tray.
She stares down at the food and frowns slightly as she mulls over their conversation. A new commander. Mid-twenties ( she was in her twenties, right?). The most this would affect her would be routine inspections happening sooner so that this commander might become familiar with her new post. She then remembers the other fact of this strange woman — she has the attention of the bastard on the throne. That is all she needs to know to ignite a hatred deep within her belly. Anyone Cole claimed interest in was dangerous and not to be trusted. Not that she trusted anyone anymore. Those days had long since passed away.
She grabs the fruit from the tray and sits to eat and stoke the fire burning within her.
…
Heavy footsteps fall down the hall and their cadence is unfamiliar. These are not the normal guards. She sits ramrod straight on the edge of her bed and barely restrains herself from glaring through the bars. The figures approach.
“Prisoner 2BON2B,” two figures stop before the bars. “Otherwise known as Cinders.”
The woman on the other side stares at her with a blank expression, but Cinders can see a flash of something (curiosity? intrigue?) in her eyes for just an instant. Cinders appraises her, notes her red hair shorn short and pristine uniform. With a small twinge of pleasure, she realizes that were she to stand she would be two inches taller than this new commander.
She hadn't made the conscious decision to do so, but she finds herself standing from her bed. The loose cloth of her pants and shirt hang strange in places. She pushes the curls out of her face and stares directly back. Cinders knows she must be a sight to behold: a political prisoner in ill-fitting clothes staring down a commander favored by her king.
“Commander Villin…we must be going,” the man beside her states, casting a withering look at Cinders.
The commander’s eyes linger for a few seconds longer before she turns and begins to walk down the hall again. Cinders resists the urge to go to the bars and watch her until it becomes impossible.
…
It is not easy to maintain one's sanity when enclosed in a box for years, but Cinders does her best with what she has. And what she has are her memories.
She sits crossed-legged in the middle of the floor, eyes closed. In her mind, she travels back to a time when war was nonexistent to her, when she was far far away from her current reality.
“Checkmate,” his voice rumbled and a moment later his smile poked through his beard.
She sat there and pouted, staring at the glittering chess set in front of her. The pieces were black and blue glass inlaid with bright white to imitate the night sky. A gift for her eleventh birthday the previous week.
“I'm no good at this, Papa,” she said as she began to reset the pieces in their starting positions.
He hummed as he mirrored her movements, methodically placing each pawn in its square. “It comes with practice, shooting star. You cannot master a task overnight.”
“We've played every day for a week.”
He chuckled. “Or a week.” He picked up his queen. “Do you think the queen gained her power of movement within a day?”
“Papa. It's a game. The queen moves that way because of the rules,” her nose scrunched up as she spoke.
Another low rumble as he laughed. “You'll understand one day. For now….shall we play again?”
“I have your lunch.”
The unfamiliar voice draws Cinders out of the memory and she slowly opens her eyes. The first thing she sees is that scarlet hair and the hatred flutters within her. She narrows her eyes and doesn't respond.
The other woman watches her, tray still in her hands and making no move to pass it through. They enter a sort of standstill which only fuels Cinders’ ire. Withholding food hadn't happened since she'd first arrived in the prison, when they were trying to get her to admit and submit. She'd held out longer than this commander could imagine. And yet…
“Are you going to give me my food, Commander Villin?” Her voice is soft with disuse. When had been the last time she'd spoken?
The question seems to startle the woman and Cinders has the realization that she might not had been intentionally keeping the food from her. With a soft clearing of her throat, the commander passes the tray through the door. Cinders lets it sit.
“Normally my food isn't delivered by the commander of the prison.” The comment leaves Cinders before she can think better of it. Why did she say that? She needs to bite her tongue.
Villin shifts on her feet, looks away from her. Cinders is a bit out of touch with reading body language but even she's sure that this commander is feeling awkward. Not what she would expect from someone scarily good at her job.
“I was making my rounds and decided that I might as well.” Her voice has a bit of a roughness to it and Cinders is caught a little off guard.
She slowly pulls herself to her feet, never taking her eyes off the other woman. Three small steps bring her to the door and she could easily grab the tray. She doesn't. All that separates prisoner from commander in this moment are a few inches of metal. If she really wanted to, Cinders could reach through and touch Villin. The creature within her snarls and snaps, begging her to do so, to grab this woman and do something . At her side, her hand twitches.
The commander notices the movement and takes a step back. Her eyes narrow slightly but not in anger. More like confusion. She wasn't sure if Cinders would actually try anything.
The corner of Cinders’ mouth lifts the tiniest bit and she moves to grab the tray. Her hands rest on the edges as she looks down at her latest captor, once again feeling pleasure at the miniscule height difference. She intends to take her tray and say nothing else but once again she surprises herself.
“Thank you.”
Has she uttered those words since they brought her here? She would have no reason to. There is no one in this wretched place to be thankful toward. Her tongue betrays her before the person the hatred in her belly burns for.
“...You're welcome,” comes the rough response and then she marches off, casting a quick glance back.
The fire flickers.
…
Cinders is counting the number of bricks again (seven hundred fifty) when she receives another visit on brick four hundred twelve. The now familiar thump of boots alerts her of the arrival before ever seeing their owner. She doesn't look away from the opposite wall and can only see that vibrant red out of the corner of her eye and through a mass of curls.
“Careful, commander, you're beginning to make a habit of coming to see me. If I didn't know any better, I'd begin to think you like me.” Cinders finally turns her head, resting her cheek on the knee pulled against her chest and looks at the woman. “Or maybe it's all a ploy and you're actually just like every other commander before you.”
Villin's mouth twitches and she takes a step closer to the bars. She shifts as though to lean against the metal before catching herself and instead crosses her arms over her chest. “And what were the previous commanders like?”
“Boorish. Rude. Looking to break me and make themselves look good.” Cinders brushes hair behind her ear and stares at her with a challenge in her eyes. “Do you look to break me, Commander Villin?”
That strikes a chord and Cinders watches Villin squirm where she stands. Her eyes dart to the left and right then up, where she assumes there are cameras watching. Then a frown tugs down the corners of her mouth. “I…have no desire to break you, Cinders.”
It is not the first time that the commander has used her name and yet, just as every time, it sends a flutter through her body that she tries to ignore. Licking her lips, she sits up straight and peers curiously through the bars. “Then what do you want?”
An internal struggle occurs, evident from the storm of expressions that cross her face. Finally she reaches out and grabs one of the bars, leaning in close enough to almost rest her forehead against it. “I…I just want to talk with you.”
The response catches Cinders off guard and she’s startled into a momentary silence. When she speaks, it’s barely a whisper, “Why?”
“I’m trying to figure that out myself, to be honest,” Villin sighs out and her brown eyes lock onto Cinders with such an intensity that she involuntarily flinches. “But...I know that I would like for you to call me Rose. I don’t particularly care to be called Villin.”
Now it is Cinders’ turn to shift uncomfortably and she tears her gaze away to focus on the brick directly behind Villin’s head. “I could get in trouble for calling you by your first name.”
“It would only be to me and I’ve already told you I have no desire to break you. I want you to call me Rose. Nothing else, not when we’re alone.”
Cinder’s heart beats hard inside her chest and for a moment she fears it might explode. Her palms are sweaty; strange considering how cool her cell always is. She reaches deep inside of herself, searching for that fire she had ignited so long ago now. Nothing but glowing embers remain. “You swear that this isn’t a ploy…Rose?”
The name is strange yet somehow familiar on her tongue and Rose’s reaction to hearing it seems to mirror Cinders’ flutter of earlier. She sighs softly and meets Cinders’ eyes yet again.
“I swear.”
…
“My father had this beautiful garden when I was a kid, full of all kinds of plants. I could name all of them.”
Rose stands, leaning back against the bars as she talks. Cinders sits on the floor, leaning against her side of the bars. They're side by side. It's the closest they've ever been.
“Did he teach you their names?” Cinders asks. Her voice has grown stronger through all the talks with Rose. It's strange to her to use it so often now.
Rose huffs. “No. He isn't the teaching type. The old gardener taught us. My sister and I.”
Cinders turns her head ever so slightly to look up at her. The way the lights hit cast most of her profile in shadow at this angle. Cinders’ eyes trail down to Rose's hand hanging at her side. So close. It would be so easy to reach out and touch it– She quickly clenches her fists in her lap and turns her eyes to the ceiling.
“My father taught me the names of the stars.”
She can feel Rose's gaze fall on her but she doesn't meet it. She wonders, not for the first time, how much stone separates her from the sky. “We'd spend every night sitting outside and he would point them out to me. Tristal, Menicil, Polen. He'd show me the constellations they helped make up and tell me the stories with them. Heroes and princesses and animals. My favorite was always the one about the star that became a person.” She smiles sadly at the memory. “I think he made that one up just for me.”
Above her, Rose hums and it's a low deep sound in her throat. Cinders swears she can almost feel the vibration through the bars but knows it's just her imagination, desperate for some way to be connected. “Maybe one day you can teach me too.”
Cinders laughs. It is astonishment, not humor, that pushes the sound past her lips. She finally looks to Rose, meeting that deep brown gaze. “We both know that if I'm to see the stars again, your king would have to fall.”
She watches Rose bristle and look away. It is not the first time they have inched close to this topic. Each time, Cinders says something anti-Cole; each time, Rose quickly shifts the topic away. It is a dance they do. And then Rose changes the steps.
“There are some things that need to be changed, I do admit.” Her voice is low, nearly inaudible. “I don't agree with everything they…we do.”
The admission makes Cinders’ eyes widen. She leans over a little and looks up at Rose through the bars. Her forehead is barely avoiding touching the tips of Rose's fingers. Their presence burns in her mind.
“I don't know how or when or even if it will change. But I'll make sure you see the stars again. Somehow, someway. I swear, Cinders.” Rose looks down at her and for once Cinders allows herself to drown in her eyes. Her fingers twitch, hand shifting ever so slightly closer to bars. Cinders catches herself wanting to feel those fingers in her hair, catching on her curls.
Then Rose abruptly pulls away and Cinders is left feeling cold and guilty over her desire. Rose takes another step away from the cell and a shudder visibly runs through her body.
“I…I have to go,” she says almost breathless before stalking off down the hall.
Cinders presses her forehead against one of the bars and squeezes her eyes shut, cursing the fact that Rose had ever even been assigned to this prison.
…
Rose's visits stop. Not that they had been that common. She still had to be commander, still had to do her job. She could not be seen paying extra attention to one prisoner in particular. But this has been the longest she has been gone since she first arrived. It hurts Cinders in a way she can't explain.
She lays curled up on her bed, knees pulled to chest and forehead pressed against them. Her hair forms a shield around her face. There is an ache in her chest. Nothing burns deep within her. The numb veil that had been over her before Rose arrived has slipped back into place. When footsteps approach her cell, she doesn’t have the energy to look up.
“Cinders…” That whispered version of her name is so familiar.
She sits up so fast that she almost falls off the bed. Pushing the mass of curls out from her face she’s greeted with the sight of Rose watching her through the bars and she has to choke back the relieved noise that tries to bubble out of her. Her fingers clutch at the edge of the bed as she forces herself to stay seated. “Rose..” She breathes out.
“Cinders..I..-”
“Where have you been?” The question is out before Cinders can stop herself. She can hear the desperation in the words and hates it.
Rose flinches then sighs and presses her forehead against a bar. “I’m sorry. I had to…No, no it doesn’t matter. I’m here now.”
Cinders frowns. “You’re not telling me something.”
Rose shakes her head at the accusation. “It doesn’t matter. There’s something else I have to tell you.”
The words feel like ice down Cinders’ spine. Whatever Rose had to say, it couldn’t be good. Not after having been gone for so long. Cinders begins to steel herself for whatever Rose has to say, narrowing her eyes. “What is it?”
“I was…I mean I’ve been…I had to think. I had to…I mean I want…I want..” This is the most incoherent Cinders has ever seen Rose. And as Cinders looks closer, she notices her disheveled uniform as well. It’s still neat but not to the pristine expectation of the past. Something is up.
Cinders finally stands and marches over to the bars, fists shaking by her side. She looks down at Rose with a fire in her eyes. This is the most she’s felt since their last visit. “What do you want , Rose?”
Rose stares up at her, eyes matching her intensity as she whispers, “I want you .” Her hand reaches up and breaks the barrier neither of them had dared to break before. It passes through the cell bars and stops just shy of cupping Cinders’ cheek.
Cinders’ breath catches in her throat. Rose’s hand is a warm ghost beside her face and she finds herself desperately wanting to fall into its touch. When had even been the last time she’d been touched? Years since she had experienced a friendly, a loving touch. Does she even remember what it’s like? Does she even remember how to reciprocate? The idea of Rose’s touch makes her ill with desire. She closes her eyes and tilts her head, pressing her cheek into the calloused palm.
Rose lets out a soft sigh and runs a thumb across the skin under Cinders’ eye before her hand slowly glides back, finds the nape of her neck. Her touch is gentle and careful. Not at all what she would expect from such a hardened soldier. Rose’s fingers brush against her skin then shift up and bury themselves into her curls.
Cinders opens her eyes halfway to find Rose watching her with such a longing expression, an unasked question dancing on her face. She melts more into her touch and Rose must read the answer in her eyes because then she’s pulling Cinders in and her warm mouth meets Cinders’. Rose tastes of salt and dirt and freedom and stars. Cinders wants to move closer; she’s met with the press of bars against her body instead. Only then does Rose finally pull away, though her hand stays on her neck, simultaneously feather light and a welcome weight. Cinders is left breathless.
“I’m going to get you out of here, Cinders. I swear to you. No matter what happens you’ll never see the inside of a cell again.”
“You swear a lot on my behalf,” Cinders murmurs.
“I..have a lot to make up for.”
She siezes the opportunity. “Start now. Why were you gone so long?”
Rose sighs and bows her head slightly. “...They’re transferring me. I was trying to fight it.”
Cinders’ heart goes still. No. They’d only just—
“N-no. They…they can’t do that.”
“They can and they are. I leave today.”
Anger flares to life inside Cinders chest and for once she struggles to determine who it’s directed toward. Rose, for leaving her alone yet again? Her superiors, for making the decision? Herself, for allowing herself to grow close to Rose in the first place? All three? She takes a step back, pulling away from Rose’s touch.
“We’re never going to see one another again. I’m to stay in this cell and you’re to go off marching in the name of a king who knows nothing but destruction.”
Rose reaches through and grabs Cinders’ hand, squeezing it tight as she stares into her eyes. “
No
. No, I swore to you, Cinders. I’m going to get you out. I’m already working on it. I have friends here. Friends who will help. You might have to wait, but not for long. You’ll be out before you know it.”
Cinders sighs and looks down at their hands. The touch is foreign and deeply familiar. She never wants to let go. “...I’m trusting you, Rose.”
“That’s all I ask.”
…
The ship’s vibrations steadily roll through her body. They serve as her only grounding point, a reminder in the back of her mind that she is still alive. She stares down at her hands in her lap. The glass band on her finger, dull and dark. The events of mere hours ago replay over and over again.
The prison’s physician arrived, saying it was time for the yearly checkup, her white uniform glaringly bright to Cinder’s eyes. She’d felt it was too soon for such, but with no way to track time she could only follow. There were no guards with them and she thought it strange. She paid no mind to their path and trailed behind. It was only when the floor beneath her feet changed that she looked up and found that they were in a part of the prison she had only seen once before, when she first arrived. The physician continued to the exit, pausing only when she realized Cinders was not following. ‘We don’t have much time,’ she’d said. ‘Rose is waiting.’ Cinders’ heart swelled and she took quick steps to leave. A wedding. That is what Rose had planned. Cinders could barely believe it. They’d changed her clothes from the prison’s to that of a simple blue dress. Arrived to find an altar set up outside with Rose standing there in her own dress. “I want to marry you under your stars,” she’d said and Cinders had melted. She hadn’t even been able to slide the ring onto Rose’s finger when gunfire rained down on them. Rose was ready. She’d kissed Cinders one last time before pushing her away and Cinders ran.
Hot tears fall onto her lap. A sob tears through her throat. She buries her face into her hands. She shouldn’t have ran. She’d be dead if she had stayed. Her body shakes, joining the vibrations of the ship. Her Rose…Her Rose…
She sits up and stares out the window, full of black and stars. Her Rose was not dead. She would know if she was, feel it in her very soul. No, Rose was still alive. And she would find her. No matter how long it took.
“I swear to you, Rose. I will find you. Even if I have to search every planet, through every star. I swear I will find you.”