Dreamboat Annie

Oh Lucien. My Lucien. 

These were the words which stripped their way violently through Annabelle’s mind, like a child grabbing and tearing at the leaves of a bush as they ran past. Anna sat atop her bed, staring through her window with eyes clouded by tears, watching the orange glow of fire in the distance. The streets were erupting with activity. Peasants were running amok, attempting to do whatever they could to aid in the disaster in the distance. Kingsguard urged them to stay in their homes, and even got into an altercation with an indiscernible figure over the demand. 

The battle had been lost, but the war was not over. 

A hundred years ago, the land was ruled by one king who controlled many fiefs and smaller kingdoms with an iron grip. While devoid of malice, his reign was despised by many, as they knew that one man could simply not have the interests of dozens of smaller societies in mind at the same time. Fear of the tightfisted monarchy grew stronger, and so did the resistance. Ninety-nine years ago, the fiefs which had gained power under the loosening grip of the aging dictator revolted and have been largely independent ever since. Now is a time of great political divide. To this day, half the people in the land believe that the old way was better and attempt to reunite the fractured kingdoms into a larger conglomerate, while the other half believe that independence is the only answer, and thus fight to keep the young system in place, sometimes with their very lives.  

Annabelle believes in the latter, and rightfully so. After all, how could one deny the latter half’s virtue when their lover is a leader of the anti-monarchist rebellion? 

Lucien had fought on the side of dissolving the last bastions of the old way for years, but namely fought in a guerilla war against the establishment in the fiefdom of Ashdon, which had spanned the last year or so. During this conflict, he stumbled upon what he called “The most angelic young creature I had ever seen.” Their love was a whirlwind, lasting only a handful of months before Lucien’s tragic capture at the hands of the Ashdon Kingsguard. He was taken away from her in their sleep, with no goodbye to speak of.

Lucien had much regard among the rebels and told Annabelle what would become of her as soon as he captured the throne for himself and the people. “The first peasant queen”, was an idea he slipped into her mind through whispers into her ear during many a warm summer’s night. Lucien was a lover, a leader, and, as Annabelle could see clearly from the flaming prison in which he was held, a martyr.

Emotion overcame Annabelle like a claw slicing its way viciously through her back and exploding out her chest. She knew not what was worse - the grief of feeling her lover’s cold fingers through iron bars or knowing that she would never touch them again. 

His lips. God, his lips. The smell of his long, wavy hair, shining and black like a raven’s feather. She remembered his hands, oh, his hands - and how they would touch her and transfer his very passion through their tips and into whichever part of her body they chose to caress.  His striking blue eyes, and the look they would give her whenever he cracked a dark joke, with the sparkling, optimistic cynicism which made men into warriors of passion.

Her tears grew in such volume that she barely felt them as they streamed down her fair, soft face.  The well-worn tracks already so drenched that every choking, thrashing sob felt like nothing more than a spoonful of water in a vast ocean. She would give anything, in that moment, to see him just once more. 

A loud thud from outside her window caused her to jump, the shock hurting her even deeper and causing more tears to come. Her feeling of anxiety and hatred was fueled by the sight of seeing a rope being threaded through the pulley outside her second-floor window which had once been used to lift bales of hay. However, slowly, not in an instant but over the period of several, her seething melted smoothly into confusion and concern as she watched the rope grow tense and shake, as if someone were climbing it. 

Fear stabbed her heart like a dislodged icicle plunging through the snow. Freezing cold fear tightened her muscles as a thousand options ran through her mind at once. With the chaos in the street, it would be easy for any passerby to simply crawl into the window of the only lonesome girl in the hamlet and steal her and her possessions away. She feared the eyes which would come rising above her sill, the imagery in her own mind more terrifying then any real possibility. 

But the eyes which rose over her window sill were not dark, beady, or malicious.

They were crystal blue.

Annabelle inhaled sharply, sucking in her own tears which had covered her satin lips. She didn’t care, as she watched a man in bright red merchant’s wear and a crimson archer’s hat working his way up the rope. Only a select few waves of his soft, jet-black hair catching the kiss of her candlelight and reflecting into Annabelle’s joyous, grief-stricken eyes. She watched as he placed his tar-black boots upon the window which separated them and squatted against it. A moment of electric silence filled the air, followed by him pushing off, swinging backwards and then crashing, feet-first, into his lover’s room. 

Annabelle watched as the silky black gloves of her resurrected lover slid smoothly and silently off the rope and tucked beneath him as he rolled once before springing to his feet, moving in one fluid motion from the rope to her fair hands. His eyes shimmered as he stared deeply into her very heart. 

“We haven’t much time.” He said, his tongue caressing his words with care. “I have a horse down below, and some contacts in the southern fiefdoms. We should be safe- “

The feeling of his firm lips pressing into hers was the official stop to his rambling. His hands moved with gentle haste from her hands to her hips, gripping her tightly but altogether gently. She could feel his warmth through the supple gloves, and he the gentle curve of her waist through her dress. 

Gasping with great intensity, Annabelle pulled back from Lucien, looking him straight in the eyes as she could feel their muscles fighting to keep themselves from simply collapsing onto the bed behind her. 

“You… how did you escape the fire?” Annabelle half-whispered, her breath, her very life, flowing through Lucien’s soft, wavy hair. 

“I had a plan.” Lucien crooned in a plush tone, the smirk present on both his lips and his voice. 

“After all, it would be a little foolish of me to start a fire to escape, with no clue how to do the latter.”

At the mention of the word ‘start’, Annabelle smiled, overcome with joy, relief, humor, and playful frustration as she grabbed his felt coat and pressed her face into his warm chest with a fit of laughter.

“Lucien, you’re going to kill me some day, I just know it.”  Annabelle said through a grin as she met his starry eyes once more.

“I don’t have much time.” He said through a humored but concerned expression. “So, I must know…”

He had barely squeezed out the final breath of his proposition before she pressed her lips against his once more, feeling his grip tighten as she ran her fingers through the back of his hair, locking her arms around his neck as she pulled away. 

“Take me with you.” She assured him with the peaceful certainty of a clear-running stream.

“As you wish, Annie.” Lucian said, quickly thrusting his arm under her knees and lifting her up. Her stomach filled with butterflies and her body with fire at the thrill of sudden motion, and she held her body as tightly to his as she physically could, feeling Lucien’s breathing as he carried her out the window and into the cold night air. He gripped her and the rope, gently and vice-like respectively as he slid slowly down to where the horse stood stoic watch over the bustling streets. Reaching below her and around her waist, she was thrilled once more as Lucien lifted her up and onto the horse’s back. 

Annabelle looked out over the crowd. The moment was thrilling, but altogether anxious. Her lover, after all, was the most recognizable and garish symbol of revolution in the land with his eye-catching attire, so they had little more than a heartbeats time to escape. Lucien mounted the horse and strapped in, wrapping Annabelle’s hands around him as she leaned with full confidence and comfort into his back. 

“Where to, my sweetest dreamboat Annie?” Lucien said, his words traveling along cold, humid air filled with the scent of green grass and ash.  She looked to the south, where a road lined with lanterns gave way to a dark but open trail to freedom. 

“That way.” She said, pointing her tender fingers to the point where the last footprints of civilization were swallowed up by ancient trees and fog. 

Lucien reared the stallion with ease, turning it to the direction in which his delicate flower had pointed. With a click of his boots against its side, the horse leapt full-tilt into a gallop, sprinting into the sweet, gentle freedom and darkness which awaited them. 

Author's Note

Was written in the period of an hour so I'm certain technical/grammatical errors are a plenty. Please let me know if you stumble across any.

Reviews

[Emily]

Unique figurative language and nice historical touches. For real I'm surprised you haven't read the scarlet pimpernel cos this def has elements of it in it