Chapter Text
Like many young girls at the tender age of sixteen, Elizabeth believed herself to no longer be an ignorant child, but rather an intelligent, mature, young woman. She was no longer a little Alice trapped in the Wonderland of her juvenile playthings and thoughts. She was much more of a Cosette, or perhaps she more closely resembled the elder Catherine Earnshaw.
Of course, unlike her elder counterparts, she had no men asking for her hand in marriage. No men fought over her affections. No man braved the heights of her tower to free her from the captivity she had known her whole life. Perhaps, she told herself over and over again, that is why these stories were only in books and not in the pictures or newspapers Songbird sometimes brought her.
Yet, there were times, despite the promise she had made to herself to abandon such foolish thoughts, she found herself imagining a dashing prince climbing into her tower. He would pry the door open with his strong hands and guide her away from the floating island without even the slightest struggle.
Once free from the horrible place, he would promise her all of Paris and they would—
Kiss. It was supposed to end with a kiss, was it not? That is what all the fairytales she had read as a child has stated. A prince and princess always kissed at the end of their story, it was a simple, undeniable fact. Yet, Elizabeth could never bring the image of their lips connecting into her mind. It seemed wrong, nothing about it felt right. That, in itself, was even more wrong. A lady was supposed to desire the attentions of a man. A lady, especially a beautiful one, should find the idea of such affections to make her heart race and her knees weaken, but Elizabeth felt none of those things. Perhaps, instead, a simple handshake would do.
After all, a lady should not rush into such things, correct?
A proper lady would take her time with romance and a man should understand that. Perhaps before a kiss, he should take her dancing, or perhaps to a lovely little restaurant by the waterside. Yes, of course, that was all that was wrong. Elizabeth simply needed time—respect – before she could give out a kiss so freely. There was nothing wrong with that, of course not.
Elizabeth had no time for these fairy tales as it was anyway and decided it best to push aside the confusion this entire situation brought her. She instead turned her attention to her books, ones of merit and facts. Books filled with science, history, and the arts. She had wasted too much time already locked away in her dreams and her studies were important to her newfound adulthood after all.
Songbird brought her many books, often several a day, and while many of the books were simple stories, or written records on the history of Columbia and Zachary Comstock, Elizabeth’s favorites had always centered mainly on the history of the arts, especially painting. She found the way the brushstrokes danced deliberately across the canvases of the ancient works to be fascinating and intoxicating. She often found herself tracing the patterns they created back and forth with her fingers, as if it were a dance that the artist had hidden away just for her to find.
Her dance was interrupted that day though, when her readings brought her face to face with a most indecent sight. Elizabeth had never seen a painting of a nude woman; in fact, the very idea of the nude form presented in arts was frowned upon in Columbia and Elizabeth could not help but to wonder where her guardian had come across such material. How scandalous this must have been! How deeply guilt ridden the book’s owner must have felt for daring to bring such material into the New Eden!
And yet, the painting, this Venus of Urbino as it was titled, seemed almost enthralling in her very beauty. This mysterious woman felt no shame from exposing her body for all to see; she seemed proud, almost daring, in the way she gazed directly at the viewer. It was as if she was daring all those who came across the painting to challenge her display.
It wasn’t until several moments later that Elizabeth realized she had not looked away from the woman since turning the page. Shame presented itself in the form of a rose colored blush upon her cheeks and she forced herself to slam the pages closed, resolving that such things were better left forgotten. Indeed, Elizabeth told herself, the book would be nothing more than a dust covered memory within a few days time.
Much to her annoyance though, it seemed that the image she had witnessed, the one that still caused her cheeks to burn as bright as roses were red, would not be so easily forgotten. Time and time again, for several days, she would find herself passing by the shelf where the curious book now sat, glancing cautiously over her shoulder as she passed, as if she feared that the book would inform someone that it was in her possession.
Each time she would catch herself, she would quickly grab another tome and bury her nose deep into the pages; eyes darting back and forth from each word, she found herself finishing whole chapters before she realized that she had not absorbed a single word and that instead her mind had been focused solely on the feeling, warm and pleasant, that sat in her belly as she recalled the image hidden away only steps away from her current position.
In fact, the feeling, that warm and pleasant tingling, followed her and crept into her body each time she thought of the book. When she took her meals, as she painted, or any of her other activities were not safe from the new sensations the book had presented to her. She found they even followed into her dreams, both in the sleeping and waking world, and it was there that she discovered their meaning.
The first time, it was Christine Daaé.
She was dancing, spinning in circles while laughter bubbled out past her lips. She moved gracefully, hands grasping the air as she pretended to dance along with a partner. The world around her disappeared from her thoughts and she only focused on that moment, how happy she truly felt to be there.
“ Oh, how wonderfully you dance, Miss Daaé! I find that I could spend the night in your arms!”
The name tumbled past her lips before she could think to stop herself and she stared at the space where her faux partner had stood in her mind’s eye. Her hands shot up, pressing into her lips as if she could force the words she had uttered back down her throat, as if she could will them out of existence, but the moment hung heavy and thick in the air.
She felt as though she could not breath.
Shortly thereafter, nearly every book in her library had been ripped from its shelf and thrown to the floor, discarded as she found they provided her with no explanation for her words. No science. No history. No words to ease her panic; she did not have merit and facts anymore. She felt once more like a child and fears that she did not know possible crept into her mind.
Was there something wrong with her?
Her eyes returned, slowly, back to her rows of empty shelves, as she searched and scanned for the answers she craved, but the were only met with a single book—the very book that contained the image that had started this dreaded nonsense.
With a cry, she ripped the cursed thing from its home and ran, tripping once on her way up the stairs, to the window. Her body shook and her eyes leaked tears of anger down her cheeks as she tore open the window with a scream. Her heart pounded and she looked back to the book, her hands gripping into the hard, heavy cover with such force that it flaked off in small chunks beneath her fingernails.
With a heave of her arms, she discarded the hellish thing, watching as it flew from the safety of her tower and fell to the earth below, never to be seen again.
What good had it done though, she found, if she still found herself no longer dreaming of handsome princes, but lady knights and queens? The book was gone and yet, so many questions remained. There were no books about ladies courting ladies; never had she read or heard of a wedding between two women.
What was this?
She took a moment to catch her breath and glanced towards the mess she had created. Her heart pounded against her ribs, threatening to tear itself free, and she truly feared that it would burst from her chest at any moment. She pressed a hand to her breast and fell to her knees, one hand still grasping onto the windowsill.
So, she thought, a smile curling its way onto her lips, this is what love felt like. She laughed, tossed her head back and jumped to her feet. Her heart continued to beat and her smile grew as she threw her arms wide and danced.
This was love.
Princes quickly became replaced with princesses and Elizabeth found herself editing book after book to contain the proper phrases. No more princes, no more heroes. Queens, lady knights, and women who fought and bled for a forbidden love replaced each and every one; when that was not enough, she wrote her own stories, or spent hours racing around her tower, imaging wonderful scenes of romance—scenes that were filled with kisses and touches and most importantly of love.
She danced with Catherine Earnshaw.
She kissed the lovely Cosette.
Christine Daaé sung love songs for her.
Her cage no longer seemed so dull; how could anything ever seem dull again when she felt like this? She was alive and heavens, if this was not love, she could not imagine what it could be. Everything felt in place and her stomach quaked with excitement and fear. This was everything she was supposed to be.
She had only to dream until her dreams came true.