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FALLING OFF WINGSIDE
"Cancelled!? What do you mean it's been cancelled!?" Olympe crushed the ivory letter in her hand and waved her fists wildly at the messenger girl. Maids and launderers stared and moved out of the way as they passed. It was a hot, muggy summer day. Normally it was cooler with Wingside's high altitude, but for some reason the winds were changing early this year. The sun glared with heat as though angered. The humidity amplified the scents of oils and perfumes. Some people passed out from heat exhaustion. None of this was helping Olympe with her monthly cycle, or her problems. "I knew it was too good to be true! How could I have even put an ounce of faith in those savage Greythorners! I'm ruined!" "Olympe, please calm down," Aimé tried to comfort her, only to be shoved away. "Don't touch me! That's the last time I ever listen to one of your moronic suggestions!" Olympe stormed out of the halls and hid away in her study where she was never to be bothered. Due to Rose's illness, the Cloughs sent the Pierponts a letter stating their cancellation of the wedding. They did not specify if a rescheduling was allowed, but Olympe was a pessimist, and received the news as most pessimists do. She had an excuse to be worried, though. Olympe was only living off of the money she inherited from her family. She had no occupations, and no skills. She hoped that by marrying off her son, she could gain financial security from another rich family. However, these days there was a shortage of young girls in Marcel's generation, and their only hope was to reach out of Wingside's borders. It had been seven years since they arranged the marriage with the Cloughs, but if Rose ever passes away, the chances of finding a new suitor was slim. Marcel, who had watched Olympe's outburst from behind her back, went up to Aimé. "What was cancelled, Father?" He looked down at Marcel, who was, to him, the source of this problem. "Your wedding," he replied. "Why?" "Because of Rose," he explained simply. Marcel's face grew long. He didn't want to hear that. He quickly turned around to leave unnoticed, but he was immediately pulled back. "Where do you think you're going?" asked Aimé. "You know you aren't allowed in the stables anymore." Marcel braced himself for a scolding. "I have to see Rose!" "You will do nothing of the sort." "Don't I have a right to see my fiancé?" he demanded. "No, Marcel, you have no rights." Aimé gripped Marcel's shoulders and looked at him in the eye. "You have no fiancée! You also have no future unless you stop these irrational actions! Put your etiquette lessons to use and start behaving like a normal, proper gentleman! Do you understand?" Marcel paused, contemplating his reply. Words were bubbling up inside of him, but his mouth did not want to speak. Aimé began to grow impatient. "Do you understand?" he repeated. "No." Marcel replied in a matter-of-fact tone. Aimé did not expect that. "I don't understand how you could say such a thing. I don't understand what good acting like a stupid, empty gentleman will do to help a friend who is unwell. I can't leave her behind, because unlike you and Mother, I care about the one I marry. But I suppose you cannot understand that, can you?" Marcel freed himself from Aimé's hold effortlessly. He said quietly, "Now if you'll excuse me, I'd prefer to be on my way." Aimé did not say anything after that, but Marcel was wrong. He did understand what it was like to care about someone. He too once had a lover before he married Olympe, but to him, there was no choice. He did not rebel the way his son was doing. As a result, he became Marcel's potential future and worst nightmare--a life behind walls, weak and helpless. Marcel stole another horse from the stables and rode as fast as its legs could go. He prayed to the gods that Rose was fine, and hoped that perhaps the cancellation wasn't due to her sickness. A broken bone? The Valley's weather? He thought of what to do, and what to say when he saw her. He thought of the different futures he could have with her. He thought of the futures without her. When he arrived at the front door, an unwelcoming face was waiting for him. "Let me inside!" demanded Marcel to the butler. "I'm sorry Mr. Pierpont," the butler replied sullenly, "but you are not allowed on the Cloughs' property at this time." "I must see Rose! Please let me inside!" Marcel was beginning to grow anxious. He patted his sides, looking for the jingle of coins. "Money! How much do you want? I'll give it to you!" The butler, now insulted by being offered a bribery, pushed the boy away. "Please leave, Mr. Pierpont, or I will call the guards." Marcel feared his visit was in vain. He slowly dragged his feet back down the walkway. His horse was now dallying around in the street because he forgot to tie it up. A low voice called to him. "Oi! Marcel!" He turned around and saw Foster hiding behind a bush. Foster waved for him to come over. "Follow me!" Marcel was led over to the side of the mansion where they couldn't been heard. "You came to see Rose?" "Yes. Is she alright?" Foster didn't reply. He urged Marcel to climb up a tree with wooden planks nailed to the trunk side. The branches leaned over a balcony next to Rose's bedroom. Foster used a pin to unlock the glass doors and they entered. The room, once stark white, was now sporting pink wallpaper for amusement. The stench of otherworldly bitter herbs filled the room, indicating the Cloughs' desperation for foreign medicine. Stuffed animals were everywhere. For the past several months, Marcel never saw Rose out of her bed. By now she was no longer the peppy little child when he first met her. She was frail and tired. Her beauty was masked by a raspy voice from the constant coughing, and her neck felt raw. "Marcel, you're not supposed to be here," she said hoarsely, "So... thank you." She tried to make a weak laugh. She had been sick for a long time, but this was the worst she's been yet. Marcel kneeled by the side of her bed and gave her a warm hug. "Please get better," said Marcel, "I want to marry you some day." It was true, too. He would be glad to marry someone like Rose, and even children sounded appealing to some extent. He remembered when Foster once confided to him, "I think I'm glad you're going to marry Rose. I wouldn't let anyone else near her."
This was sweet, but Rose didn't care about being married. She had dreams of adventures across the world. Her assortment of stuffed animals was only rivaled by a secret collection of maps and globes that she hid in locked cabinets. However, they didn't seem to have much use to a girl living in her bed. They talked a while more until Rose's voice came close to disappearing. She begged Marcel to come close to her face so she could speak more softly. There was something she wanted bring some light to for a while now, and this seemed like the best opportunity. Marcel complied and she kissed his cheek, then whispered in his ear, "I know what you've been doing with Foster." Marcel froze. His cheeks flushed. What did she just say? How did she find out? Who else knew this? Was he in trouble? What kind of trouble would it be? Rose made another one of her hoarse laughs and stroked Marcel's hair, which she envied because it was blonde. "He talks a lot about you when you're not here. It reveals a really endearing side to him that he never shows to other people," Rose chaffed and poked Marcel's nose, "And don't make that expression. It ruins your face." Marcel was now more embarrassed than scared. He stood up and chuckled at how ironic this moment was. Here was the only person who was caring and understanding to Marcel, and yet she was hanging off the edge of her life. He wiped a single tear from his eye before anyone could see. They spent the last minutes of the day optimistically and made a few jokes. They said goodbye to Marcel before he left, and they parted with the mindset that they would have days like this again. But they didn't. And there was no wedding. Instead, several weeks after Marcel's visit, the Pierponts received an invitation to a funeral. Olympe and Aimé refused because they found Greythorn's burial custom of embalming offensive. They locked Marcel in his room to keep him from leaving. He prayed to the gods that a miracle could happen, for his fiancée could come back, or for time to reverse, even though he didn't believe in miracles or gods anymore. He sent numerous letters to the Cloughs, hoping someone would reply, but nothing came back. For the next few months, Marcel sulked in the mansion, only thinking of the past, and what his future could have been. His mischievous nature was now overwhelmed by depression. No banquet, nor beautiful flower, nor party could bring a smile. He didn't pay attention to his body anymore, and without his regular outdoor excursions, he lost weight fast. Not only did he mourn for Rose, his body ached for Foster. Empty afternoons would go by unscheduled. He yearned for another warm body to hug and feel, and it was at these times when he realized how much he took their time together for granted. There was no perfect substitute either. He could ride the horses and have lunch with company all week long and still remain unsatisfied. Things only got worse, when one day, a maid knocked on his door. The maid asked Marcel to follow her into one of the parlors, where his parents and a guest were waiting for him. "Marcel, we have splendid news," said Olympe and had him sit down for tea. She gestured to the guest, "I'd like you to meet Rochelle Dautry." Sitting on one of the chairs was a woman close to Olympe's age who sat up rigidly in her chair. Immediately Marcel noticed her star, which was more extravagant and detailed than both Aimé and Olympe's, showing her high status. Her eyes were cold and distant, and she gave Marcel a polite but false smile. "She owns most of the shops uptown, so she has access to a variety of foods and material items, and not to mention a head start on all the latest fashions," continued Olympe. "We were so ecstatic to meet her and found out she's a widow looking for a new husband. What do you two think of this arrangement?" Marcel's heart dropped down to his stomach. "Well..." Rochelle put her hand to her chin and looked at Marcel as one would when picking out a new real estate. "He's a bit young for me, but I don't see how that would get in the way. Actually, his childlike expression reminds me somewhat of my late husband." She stood up and seemed to tower over Marcel. This made him extremely uncomfortable. She held out her hand. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Marcel." Marcel did not take her hand. He refused to believe this situation. This was hardly the time to be introduced to a new suitor. "How on earth could I accept this?" His parents glared back at him in fury and astonishment. Olympe was ready to get out of her seat and slap him. Marcel argued, "Rose is dead. This is an insult to her! How can you just rush out and find me another woman like it's not an issue? I didn't lose a pet, I lost a friend!" Rochelle stepped back in dismay. "Perhaps this is not a good time..." she said as calmly as she could. "No, of course." Aimé abruptly stood up and apologized to her. He led her humbly out of the parlor. "I have no idea what has come over my son. This is very unusual, but please, reconsider Marcel. What he lacks in propriety is more than made up for in other qualities, I assure you." "We'll see, Mr. Pierpont." Rochelle said and took one more unsteady glance at the boy before leaving. As she was guided to the front door by a maid, Aimé turned back to Marcel sharply. He said in a darker tone, "This behavior is unacceptable, Marcel. You'd had best change your attitude or else not only will your life, but all of our lives will be at stake." Aimé left, tired of managing this situation. Marcel merely pouted in his seat, crossed his arms and had bitter thoughts about his family. It was easy to mistake his attitude as haughty, but Olympe could see her son was hurt. However, unable to deal with her own maternal instincts, she sat down next to Marcel and talked to him as if she were discussing business. "This has been the first time someone close to you has died. However, it is important to understand that these things happen every day. In the future, more people will die. I will die, Aimé will die, and you will die too. It isn't healthy to dwell on such occurrences." Marcel shook his head. "That doesn't mean we can't still be rude to the deceased. Wouldn't you be offended if Father married Miss Rochelle after you died?" Olympe did not admit it, but she knew she would really be deeply offended if that happened. Rochelle was so much more accomplished and had a rivaling status. If Aimé turned to her like that, Olympe would be insanely jealous. Marcel continued, "I can't let Rose roll over in her grave while I marry someone else. I wouldn't be half the gentlemen you want me to be if I did." "This is not a fairy tale," Olympe tried to persuade him, "I know boys like you often make misconceptions, but just because you marry a girl it doesn't mean you have to fall in love with her. Love and a happy marriage are two very different things. Now, I know you think you love Rose, but it's just a trick of the mind. You have to get over it." Marcel couldn't take this anymore. "Who are you to tell me what I do and do not think? I never loved Rose, but I cared for her, and I respected her, which is more than I could say for any woman of Wingside." Tears started flowing when he thought of Rose. He hung his head low, but spoke once more before leaving. "Even a fool could see she deserved better than this." In all her days, Olympe never even dreamed of having a child as overbearing and rebellious as Marcel. She was outraged at the words coming from this boy's mouth, yet she didn't know how to respond. Marcel returned to his room and locked his door. He wanted to curl up and be reborn into a new life since this one was obviously not satisfactory. He felt like a child who lost his innocence. The world seemed so much uglier now. Wasn't there once a point when it was a paradise? Marcel started to remember the parts of sex and archery he liked with Foster, and by doing so ended up longing for him even more. Just the thoughts could make him erect, or his hands would grip the air and he would expect the feel of a bow. But without those real sensations, he felt empty. He dreaded the thought of having sex with Rochelle. That night, Marcel decided he had to escape the Wingside land before he too, like every other man, was engulfed in the marital trades.
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