[ WP/MP ] Write a story reimagining a character from another piece of fiction as down-and-out/washed up/past their prime .

Something gnawed at the pit of her stomach as she watched the couples whirl about on the dance floor. Part of her wanted to join them, but she knew her knees would not permit it for long. Another part of her wanted to climb off her chair, make her excuses, and go straight to bed, but that would appear odd to the guests and God forbid the guests get upset. 
 
 `` Can I get you anything, Princess Consort?'' a timid maidservant whispered. 
 
 `` Did I *ask* you for anything?'' 
 
 As soon as the words left her mouth, she regretted them, but it got under her skin. Fifty-three years old and she was still Princess Consort. Then again, it was hardly this girl's fault the king was continuing to live for such an ungodly long time. The man went to the ends of the earth to find a bride for his son to produce an heir to the throne. In another cruel twist of fate by whatever gods controlled her life, the king was enjoying marvelous and unprecedented good health. 
 
 She glanced at the maid's hands. Though hidden in crisp white gloves, she knew exactly where the blisters, burns, and cracks would be. Not so long ago, ( or was it? ) she had been in the exact same position. Even worse off, when you really thought about it. At least here there were others to help share the workload. She remembered the back-breaking work, the thanks that were never uttered, and the intoxicating joy that came from collapsing in bed, only to be broken moments later by the rising of the sun. 
 
 The girl blushed and curtsied, hurrying away from her. Damn. Now that she thought about it, she WAS thirsty. She could call the maid back and no one would think anything of it, but she herself would know. The poor girl probably had a dozen other things on her plate, why bother fetching a drink for a withering Princess Consort? 
 
 A quick scan of the room told her this evenings festivities were exactly the same as they always were, save for the changes in fashion over the years. Necklines were getting too low and hemlines were getting too high for her taste. These girls had no modesty. Lady Elyssia, daughter to the Duchess of Cartwright ( or was it Carnervon? ) was wearing a corset that turned her decolletage into a shelf. A poorly-timed sneeze or cough and she was sure to pop out. The thought made her chuckle, despite her disapproval. 
 
 `` Something funny, dearest?'' came the familiar old voice. 
 
 Her heart skipped a beat at the sound as it always had, but she ignored it, keeping her eyes focused on the dancing couples. 
 
 `` It's nothing. I was merely recalling something funny Lady Cecilia had told me recently at tea.'' 
 
 He pursued the matter no further, as she expected he would. His eyes, pools of dark brown which had once been her world, went straight back to the other woman he had been ogling the entire night. He always did this. She was surprised after marrying him to learn that they did not share a bedroom, that she had her own and he had his. It surprised her even more to learn that he had nocturnal visitors other than her, and frequently. Little by little, she allowed it to bother her less. That, or she was bottling it up. The few times they ever discussed it, screaming matches resulted, followed by tearful reconciliation and renewed dedication. 
 
 At least until the next whore. 
 
 In a way, she felt sorry for him. Here he was, fifty-seven, and no closer to the throne than when they had first laid eyes on each other. His birth had been orchestrated, planned, and prayed for. He was born with two purposes: to rule once the predecessor had vacated the post, and to produce an heir of his own. They had succeeded with the latter, but the former was proving difficult. He could n't even manage the armies properly, what with it being peacetime. Every now and then he would joke that he longed for a good war and she would swiftly rebuke him. 
 
 Speaking of sons, where was... ah, there he was. Her heart swelled with pride as she watched her son dance. He was almost as old as she was when she had attended her first ball, but this certainly was n't his first. He moved with a natural grace through the guests, treating them all with respect whether he actually liked them or not. He stopped and asked the less-than-stunning daughter of a powerful merchant for a dance. Flattered by his invitation, the girl's face lit up and she all but swooned into his arms as they joined the crowded dance floor. 
 
 He was a mixture of her and his father. He had the effortless way of charming women, but her compassion and patience. Even watching him perform the virtues she tried to instill in him, her pride was somewhat overcome by a jealousy she hated. As much as she loved her son, and truly she did, he just did n't understand. He had been born into this, had never really known the meaning of a hard day's work. He understood the responsibilities that would someday be on his shoulders, but for now he was in his `` youthful wastrel'' phase. His hands had never known blisters or cracks, nor were they ever likely to. 
 
 That was it. Her mood was completely, and most likely unjustifiably, soured. She would be no pleasant company tonight, she could feel it. Her knees creaked as she rose from her chair. 
 
 `` Is everything all right, dear?'' 
 
 She wanted to slap him for daring to call her `` dear''. She wanted to cuss and spit and scream at all of them. Dancing and celebrating a good harvest while someone somewhere could be starving to death in an alley? Her blood was boiling, her stomach clenching at the hypocrisy of it all. But no, she had to hold her tongue like a proper lady. Anything else would be seen as terribly gauche. Lord, how she hated that word and all others like it. 
 
 `` I am fine. A slight headache, is all. I think I will retire to my room and rest for a moment.'' 
 
 `` You will be back, though?'' 
 
 `` Certainly,'' she lied. She had no intention of returning. 
 
 Two guards were immediately at her side and led her to her chambers, as if she could have possibly forgotten where she had been sleeping for the last twenty-eight years. She rang the bell by the door the moment she was inside and two maids, one old and one young, entered before she had finished removing her jewelry. They worked quietly and efficiently, stripping her of her finery and helping her into a white nightgown. 
 
 `` Is there anything else you require, milday?'' the older maid asked. 
 
 She paused and glanced into the woman's eyes. Well, her good one, at any rate. The younger servants, when they thought they could n't be overheard, liked to gossip that this woman had been working at the castle since it had been built. 
 
 She looked down at the woman's hands. They were wrinkled, cracked, and wonderful. She raised her head. 
 
 `` Just some tea. That will be all.'' 
 
 Both maids nodded and left. She was alone. She glanced around the room, taking in its opulence and inherent sameness. The space had been redecorated several times in the almost thirty years she had been sleeping in it, but she would be loath to call it change. It was variation, really. This antique was taken out for that one, that painting removed to make room for a sculpture, a new wardrobe to hold her increasing amount of clothes. 
 
 Her feet carried her across the room to an ivory box sitting on her desk, her jewelry box. She gingerly placed the earrings and brooch and pendant in their velvet compartments, briefly touching each piece and recalling happier memories. She closed her eyes and her fingers automatically moved the hidden clasp, lifting the tray out to reveal the false bottom. With her eyes still closed, she reached in and caressed the familiar curves of the treasure that lay beneath. It was cool at first, but it warmed to her touch, just like it always had. Goosebumps broke over her skin and she almost felt like crying. Some tightness burned in her chest and her eyes stung. 
 
 She lifted the glass slipper out of the jewelry box and turned it over in her hands. It was like embracing an old friend again after years of not seeing them. She finally opened her eyes, ready to take in its eternal beauty. It was flawless and clean, either due to her secret and vigilant polishing or some magic still lingered within. If she was very still and listened closely enough, she could hear the ghost of the song that had been playing when she first entered the ballroom all those years ago. 
 
 As she hugged it to her chest, she glanced sorrowfully into the box. There was an empty space where its mate had once lain. She had thrown it at hubby dearest during an argument on the night of their tenth wedding anniversary, shortly after learning he had been schtupping her lady's maid since their ninth anniversary. She never understood why it had broken. She had been able to dance on it for that entire blessed night without feeling the slightest tremor. In better days, he confessed to her that clumsy servants had dropped it several times during his search for her, but it never suffered so much as a scratch. She had thrown the right one at him, not the left one. She could n't have thrown the left one. It was the one she had left behind on the stairs, her prayer that he would take it and use it to find her. 
 
 Feeling tears building up in the corners of her eyes, she reverently placed the pretty little thing back in its box, placing the false tray on top before closing the lid. She looked out the window at the full moon bearing down on the garden. She wondered if the left one would also break if she threw it. She wondered if she would ever throw it. So far, that day had not yet come. 
 
 Gazing up at the moon, unchanged since she had been that girl of the ashes, she did as she always had every night: she waited for a flash of light or the musical lilt of a kindly voice she had not heard in almost thirty years. That day had not yet come, either.
