There once was a kingdom on the shores of a tropical
island. It was a tall castle standing above a bustling city, and every day the
sun would reflect off of its shimmering walls in the morning, a sight the castle
was famous for. But even as lovely as they were, there was still conflict within
its walls.
Living in this palace were a king, his queen,
their two daughters, and several servants. The king was Theodore, a stern Eyrie
with a brooding expression on his face. As intimidating as he looked, he still
loved his wife, Dara, and his daughter very much. Their youngest daughter went
by the name of Miranda. She was thought to be the fairest Eyrie in the kingdom,
(or, rather, anyone thinking otherwise would receive a one-way trip to the castle
moat,) by everyone in the castle and the city. Everyone, that is, except Theodore's
older daughter.
Camella was her name. She was given little notice
by anyone in the castle, let alone anyone in the kingdom. She was older than
Miranda by three years, and even though she was more entitled to rule the kingdom
by law, her parents completely ignored that fact. A wretched child, she was.
Every time Miranda ruined anything, it was immediately blamed on Camella. Sometimes,
the scribe's son, En Guarde, would be blamed, but not often. Every time she
was punished, Theodore would send her into a windowless, dreary room for the
remainder of the night, and Dara would come by, sigh silently, and walk away.
Whenever there was positive attention to be given,
however, it was always to Miranda. "What a lovely painting you've done!" her
parents would exclaim at any five-minute finger painting Miranda could come
up with. It would always be the loveliest thing they'd ever seen until she painted
a new one. Every time she banged on the harpsichord, it was the loveliest thing
they'd ever heard until she played again. Every time she produced a tangled
mass of fabric on the loom, it would be the loveliest thing they'd ever hung
in the halls until she made another. To say the least, it all made Camella sick.
Every time she put all of her time into
painting a masterpiece, it could use a little work. Every time she imitated
a symphony on the harpsichord, it could use a little work. Every time she
spent weeks creating tapestry, it could use a little work. Her father even had
the audacity to say that it would never compare to 'dear Miranda's' work. They
never called her 'Princess Camella', no. They instead referred to her as 'Duchess
Camella'. She didn't even have enough right to be called by her proper title.
Camella's daily routine was simple: Wake up in
the morning, traverse down several cases of stairs and rummage around the kitchen
for breakfast, remain ignored for the remainder of the day, and go to sleep.
The only highlight of her day was whenever she would get into trouble and be
sent to The Room.
One day, Camella was in the garden, plucking
petals from the flowers as she usually did, when all of a sudden, a crash and
a loud scream came from the hallway. "Miranda made that vase!" her father exclaimed.
Camella smiled. She knew just what vase he was referring to as well.
"Calm down, dear; it was probably a Kadoatie
or something," said her mother.
"B-but, I spent weeks making that!" said
Miranda. "Put it back together! Daddy! DADDY!"
"Oh, you can always make a new one," said her
mother. "Creating lovely things like that must come easily to you."
"It was probably Camella's fault!" Miranda insisted.
Of course. It was always Camella's fault.
"I'm out here!" Camella cried. "I didn't touch
that thing!"
"Yes you did!" said Miranda, coming out into
the garden. "You did and you ran out here! Or you got En Guarde to do it!"
"Why would I care that much?" Camella
asked, continuing to pluck petals from her flower. "You can keep that vase of
yours, for all I care. I didn't touch it."
Miranda sniffled, on the verge of false tears.
"MMOOMMYYY!" she squealed. "CAMELLA BROKE MY VAAAAAAAAAASE!"
"N-no, don't cry! I didn't--MIRANDA! STOP CRYING!"
"CAMELLA!" her father snapped. "How DARE you
take that tone up with your sister? Go to The Room and STAY there until you
can learn some respect for the rest of us! Especially little Miranda here."
Little Miranda, was it? She looked at
her father, staring at her sternly. She looked at her sister, beaming proudly,
memories of the vase gone as quickly as they had come. She glanced at her mother,
who said nothing. She only stood quietly, her hand pressed to her mouth, (or
paw pressed to her beak). Camella squirmed defiantly as two guards hauled her
off to The Room, knowing quite well that they couldn't trust her to actually
lock herself in.
"Show some respect," one guard echoed, thrusting
Camella onto The Room's hard, marble tile. "And don't come out until tomorrow
morning." The door was slammed in her face, and she backed into an oaken cabinet.
Startled, she quickly stood up to observe her familiar surroundings.
The Room had primarily red décor, with a few
wooden pieces of furniture scattered about. It was about half the size of her
bedroom, which was small to start with. The Room was windowless and gloomy,
only dampening Camella's mood. Eyes brimming with tears, she threw herself onto
the small, wooden bed and cried herself to sleep.
The next day, En Guarde opened the door to The
Room. "Your parents forgot you were in here," he explained. "The sun rose five
hours ago." Camella merely sniffled and walked out the door without a word.
Soon after leaving the room, Camella scuttled
down a few flights of stairs. Her parents and Miranda were having a formal breakfast
at a table, which was rare. As usual, there were only three chairs. Camella
took a wooden chair a few feet away and dragged it to an empty side of the wooden
table.
"Oh, Camella, dear," said her mother. "How nice
it is of you to join us."
The nerve! So she was dear now? Camella
ignored this comment and stared solemnly into her lap. She had no appetite,
and skipped searching for food around the pantry.
Miranda was the first to break the eerie silence.
"I taught myself another song on the piano," she announced perkily. "I will
play it for you."
"Ah, marvelous, Miranda!" her father exclaimed.
"Please do."
The princess sauntered to the nearby piano by
the table and sat down. "I learned it on the harpsichord, but this will do,
I suppose," she added. Miranda began to play, tapping a few keys gingerly. Camella
was surprised. At least this time, she wasn't all-out banging on the piano.
"Oh, marvelous, Miranda!" her parents
cried in unison once Miranda had finished. Miranda beamed happily, standing
up.
"So, then, that's what you want?" Camella asked,
silencing the standing ovation.
"Pardon?" her father asked.
"Is that what you want?" Camella repeated. "If
I were to go up to that piano--right now--and play some mediocre third
grade choir song I mastered over the period of three weeks, would you acknowledge
me for once?"
Miranda was speechless. Her father, however,
was beyond that point. "MEDIOCRE?" he fumed. "MY Miranda's BEAUTIFUL song--MEDIOCRE?"
"Oh, you heard me!" Camella said, standing up.
"Mediocre! Frankly, I'm sick and tired of being mistreated and completely ignored
by you for no significant reason! I've TWICE the talent of Miranda, and both
of you know that! If you would only give me the chance to prove that I need
attention too! I need praise too! And I've been shoved aside ever since THAT
was born!" Miranda gasped, on the verge of tears.
Her father was speechless. "R-r-r-" he finally
stuttered. "R-r-rooooooooom," he moaned, collapsing in his chair. "The Roooooooooooom--Take
her to The Roooooooooooooom."
A few guards seized Camella by the shoulders.
Camella squirmed uncomfortably as her mother stood up. "Th-Theodore, isn't this
a bit harsh?" she asked him. "Twice in two days! The child only wants a bit
of attention, that's all!"
"She INSULTED Miranda!" he replied, ability of
speech returning to him. "She NEEDS this--she needs to be brought up right!
Like sweet Miranda here."
"Not for this long!" said her mother. "Just for
a few hours this time--please!"
"No--she needs it, dear," Theodore averred. "She'll
wind up being no worse than those criminals on the streets; it's really for
her own good. Please, take her away from Miranda--for two days this time."
"TWO DAYS?" Camella blurted out before she was
taken away. "NO! Not a whole TWO DAYS! Put me back! PUT ME BAAAAAAACK!"
SLAM!
The loud sound of The Room's door slamming shut
was followed by an uncomfortable silence. Camella sat down on the cold, marble
floor and sulked. She'd read so many tales of princesses in faraway lands who
were mistreated by their parents--some locked away in tall towers. Sooner or
later, a charming prince would valiantly come to save them, and they would live
happily ever after.
But where was Camella's prince? Where was her
happily ever after? Where was her sparkling crown and long, flowing ball gown?
Where was her faerie tale? A solitary tear rolled down Camella's cheek. She
had no prince. She had no happily ever after. She had no sparkling crown, nor
a flowing ball gown. She had no faerie tale.
Hours, or so they seemed, slowly passed by. Camella
tried to fall asleep, but to no avail. The moaning wind outside the castle walls
kept her awake--and occasionally she could hear the applause of her parents
for another 'piece' of Miranda's.
Two days. The punishment rang in Camella's
mind over again. She was to stay in her confinement for two whole days, and
only an hour had passed. Camella lay in her wooden bed for three more hours
to come, and suddenly, the door creaked ajar.
"Camella? Camella dear? Are you in here?" said
her mother. Dara had come to rescue her--she was sure of it.
"I'm here, yes."
"Camella, I need to speak with you." Her mother
came over to the bed and sat down, holding a lantern as Camella sat up. "I apologise--what
happened today--"
"No need, mother. You tried to help--today. Today.
What kept you quiet for the past nine years?" Camella queried.
"That's what I've been meaning to talk to you
about. Camella...." she sighed. "Camella, I love you as a daughter. And I love
Miranda the same--but, your father obviously...he--"
"Plays favourites."
"If you'd like to put it bluntly, yes. I'm so
sorry, Camella--I really am. I do know you need to be brought up right, but
after nine years, I'm sorry of seeing this happen again and again. Camella...I
know it's hard--I do. And as long as you do live here, I do want you to know
that I apologise."
Before Camella could reply, her mother had gone.
As long as she lived there? What if she didn't live at the castle much longer?
She could leave--that was certainly an option. Camella smiled and lay down in
her bed.
The next day passed as quickly as it had come,
and Camella was set free from further confinement in The Room. Once back in
her own room, she quickly set to packing her belongings. She didn't want to
stay in the castle anymore--not with Miranda and her father. Tying everything
in a small bundle with a sheet from her bed, Camella tucked it in her small
wardrobe and waited for her first chance to come.
Midnight finally struck when Camella noticed
the two guards outside her window were gone. After convincing En Guarde to tag
along, she climbed down the window on a chain of sheets and reached the castle's
gate. The drawbridge was rarely ever closed, and tonight was no exception. Camella
decided to simply cross the bridge and find shelter in the village. Maybe someone
there would take care of her.
Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all. She
didn't need this tiny kingdom to rule as long as Miranda lived there. Who knew?
Maybe she could even take over Faerieland
someday. Maybe.
As she and En Guarde crossed the bridge, Camella
noticed a solitary vase resting on a pillar near the gate--Miranda's latest.
She ran back to it, tipped it over, and crossed the bridge once more--one last
time.
The End
Author's Note: Thanks for reading my story, everyone! I hope you enjoyed
it, but if you did, or you didn't, or you just want to comfort Camella, let
me know! Drop me a line via Neomail.
Tchao! | 
