The Ballroom

The Ballroom was, as usual, flooded with nonsense. It bumped and jostled, nudged and poked. At every turn Felix could see masks, plastered and tied to the faces of the crowded room. But the masks were hardly what was bothering him.

It was the people that were doing it, their actions like clockwork that moved around in joltingly smooth patterns. Waltz, Waltz, Tango, Chit-Chat, Small-talk, nonsense. Felix can’t stand the horrible nature of social awareness.

Over here was a woman talking about and with her peers, gossiping and slurring the good and bad names of her friends. Her cliques swarm like bees, feeding off of her sour thoughts and articulate accusations.

Over there, a man stood bragging about titles and statuses, about his power and prestige. His peacock plumed mask dips and bobs, beady eyes scanning the ballroom for unwilling ears to pour his soul into.

Felix slumped in his painfully hard throne, shifting his shoulders in a failed attempt to get comfort from hard gold. He’s annoyed to the very extent of his pleasantness, He rolls his eyes and smirks and coddles the girls who come to seek his favor, but he still bats them off with half-formed and fully flattering insults.

An advisor approaches him, seeking to force his counsel down the prince’s throat, but he is dutifully ignored. Felix does at least pretend to pay attention, offering nods and the occasional non-committal noise. He day-dreams about a different day, hopefully soon, where he can just relax in his chair and do nothing. No duties, no itchy suit, no heavy crown, no masked girls to hark on him. At the very least he could sit back and watch that foolish little jester of his.

He bats away a smile that nearly escaped him, that would have been a tragic mistake, especially since a girl was watching him with the hopes that her horrible story about a clumsy rhino would make the solemn ruler laugh. No, he gives her the same simpering smirk and waves a hand to send her off, signaling the next girl to step forwards.

Marriage was a dreadful thing, he decided, surveying the girls about him. There were absolutely stunning women, all around, of all ages. But all of them had hollow smiles peeking out from their masks, smiles that didn’t quite reach the gaping holes in their mask’s face.

A weary voiced- page prods Felix’s thoughts with a loud trumpet and the sound of an announcement. Usually he’d have ignored it, like he did the countless other introductions that night, but a name caught his attention. He only caught the latter half, but the name Queen Mathilde of Hungary bounced about Felix’s head and made him sit up straighter.

A relief at last. Queen Mathilde would at the least be able to keep him company. She usually had the best remarks about the noblemen, who she insisted were actually up-right pigs in petticoats. Their shared whispers in Hungarian were the life of any party. Felix sits up a little taller, balancing the stack of thank you cards and bribe money in his lap.

          “But who is that?” He asks with a frown, the queen had brought a lady with her. A girl, from appearance, with hair drawn back in a tight bun. Her clothes were laughably plain, a simple brown dress with a bit of green sewed onto the sleeves. The mask was made of wood, and only had a swirl for the sorry excuse of a design. For Felix, it was a sight for sore eyes. All of the other girls had worn their best finery, and clumped together in masses they clashed with bright pastels and neon hues. This girl was plain and dark and simply lovely to his eyes.

She must be a foreign princess.  He thinks to himself, leaning on his hand. He yawns, remounting his imperial façade. Regardless of this already forming opinion, she’d have to try hard to make him laugh. He was bored out of his mind, and stubbornly set on not even cracking a smile this long night. He won’t be marrying any of these frumpy little girls. She’s just another flower to add to this over-glorified perfume gas-house.  He watches, severely unimpressed, as she approaches the stand and curtseys. 

“Good evening, your majesty.” She drawls, in a tone most unsuited for any ballroom. Felix’s eyebrows twitch, then furrow. “It seems that you’re in desperate need of ...” She pauses for effect and he knows immediately who he’s talking to, he starts to laugh even before the dreadful pun takes effect. “…a jester of kindness.”

“Ildiko you brat!”  He hoots, standing up to greet his jester. The perfectly stacked pile of perfectly made cards topples from his lap to slide under his throne- not to be found for several decades- as the shoulders of every other girl raises in indignation and then fall in defeat. The gaggle of gawping officials start up their murmuring, buzzing like insidious bees as they try to figure out who on earth this girl, the only one to make the king laugh, could possibly. But regardless of her identity, the damage was done. The prince was laughing, and as the royal decree declared, his chosen bride would be this plain and simple girl.