part 1
As instructed, they deal with you; bind your wrists with the roughest rope and tie a dirty strip of cloth around your eyes. They must decide that the sniffling, sobbing girl in front of them isn’t worth too much trouble, because no more of that filthy cloth is shoved into your mouth to silence you. Once you’ve been adequately restrained you’re dragged along back through the trees until you reach what you assume is your ransacked carriage. You can hear them rummaging through the trunks you had taken with you, running their filthy hands over precious silk and satin–
They congregate there now, surrounding their ‘Captain’ and hanging onto every word he spits. As you approach, a veil of sneers and laughs rise and spread over the air – at your tattered dress, your tangled hair, your tear-tracked face. You feel like an animal caged for viewing, but you are, in a sickeningly dark way, glad that your eyes have been covered. Suddenly, you’re grasped by the hips and yanked upwards, and you cry out, kicking your legs.
“Calm down,” a gruff voice says behind you, too close behind you, and you realise with a start that you’re atop the Captain’s horse. The Captain is behind you, your back to his chest, his arms reaching around you to grasp the reins. You feel bile rise in your throat at your close proximity, and you have no doubt that were you to be placed on the ground again, your legs would be too weak to carry your weight. “Or I’ll make you calm down, Princess.”
He says it like it’s a curse. You’ve never hated your title, but the way he spits it – like poison in his mouth – makes you shrink into yourself.
The ride lasts for hours, then. Without your sight, it lasts even longer. You’re jostled and pushed back and forth as the Captain’s horse gallops through the snow, face numb with the cold and fingers losing feeling. If you continue at this rate for much longer, you’ll be of more use to them dead than alive.
You don’t suppose the Captain is facing the problems you are; no, he and his rebels were bundled up in fur cloaks and leather armour. Surprisingly good quality fabrics for a group of tyrants. You, on the other hand, are still dressed in your cotton and silk and wool, tattered to pieces and quite literally hanging by multiple threads. The snow and cold will be your death – you’re sure that the Captain can feel your shivers and hear your chattering teeth even over the sound of his horse.
Though, some part of you thinks, death will be favourable to what is to come.
After what feels like years the horses slow to a trot. You hear the far-off crackling of fire and the low hum of chatter and laughter, and your blood freezes over. There seems to be much, much more rebels than you had thought. Than your father had thought. Your breathing quickens.
“It’s the Princess!” A voice suddenly cackles. “Look at 'er. Not so pretty now, eh?"
The attention has successfully been drawn to you. Faceless voices leer at you from every direction, and for an ephemeral moment you’re glad for the Captain’s firmness behind you. No matter how positively terrified you are of him, you can feel him, at least. He’s not a smoky, shifting shadow spitting obscenities at you. He’s remained quiet all throughout the ride to the rebel camp, save for shouting directions and warnings of the weather.
Your stomach turns. It is an utterly disgusting trick the gods must be playing on you. The Captain, of all creatures, is where you feel safest. Though, he hadn’t had you beheaded on sight, so you’ll count what meagre blessings you’re afforded.
The noise doesn’t cease as the horses come to a stop. If anything, it escalates, inflates, surrounds you from every which way. The Captain slips off the horse first, and you’re left shivering and shaking alone, unsure which way is up or down – until you too are lifted from horse and placed upon snowy, uneven ground.
Hands are grappling at you. Tugging at your skirts, scratching your bare arms and neck, pulling your hair. You don’t know if you’re crying from fear or pain, if you’re whimpering or not, if your throat is closing up or if you’ve just forgotten how to breath. Your blindfold is still on, but you’re being pushed in every direction – where are you going? Maybe this is your punishment. Death by beating. The Captain will let his men kick and punch you to death. The slow, painful ending a monarch deserves.
A firm hand grasps your shoulder, guiding you forward soundly.
”Stand down,“ the Captain snaps. "Get the bloody hell back, Rumlow–"
A few more seconds pass. The yelling and rough grasp of desperate fingers against your dress and skin and hair becomes so suffocating that you worry you’re on the brink of drowning in your own fear. The Captain’s hand is the only consistency – the only clarity – you are offered, and you take it eagerly. You’d rather one horrid man over what felt like hundreds surrounding you.
There’s the sound of fabric being moved, and you can sense that you’ve been moved inside somewhere. The air is warmer, the shouts dimmer, and there’s the distinct smell of leather and dust. The snow no longer falls upon your shoulders, though it has left its mark upon you in the form of chattering teeth and purple lips. You stand uncertainly as the Captain and others move and shuffle around you, your hands shaking and breaths rapid. What will become of you now?
You startle as the blindfold over your face is yanked roughly from your head, leaving you blind momentarily as light floods your eyes for the first time in hours. Blinking owlishly, you take in your surroundings.
It’s a large tent, like the kind used by your army when they marched far north to the coldlands or during winter. The walls and floor are a patchwork of weather-worn leather and plain, dirtied canvas, the interior illuminated by candles and lanterns and fire grates. The space is scarcely furnished, save for a desk and chairs, and a large, carved table which seems to be the centrepiece of the room.
This is how it was near impossible to find them, you realise. They were constantly on the move, never staying in one place long enough for your troops to find them. A nomadic army. Nowhere and everywhere at once.
"Get the girl some furs,” the Captain says. He’s gathered around the table with five – no, six – other men, and he barely spares you an upward glance before beginning to converse in low mutters. The others are not so calm or collected – they sneak looks at you and don’t care if you see them or not. After all, your status means nothing here. Respect for you means nothing here. Wait – furs?
“Furs?” One man near the entrance snarls. He clearly shares your sentiment. He reaches out and snatches the arm of the woman who has scurried off to find you some. “For her? You’re joking."
The Captain still doesn’t look up. "That’s what I said, isn’t it, Rumlow?”
Rumlow. This is the same man who had grabbed you just minutes before. The darkness and hatred in his eyes makes your stomach turn.
“She’s the princess,” Rumlow hisses in return. “She doesn’t deserve any fucking furs!”
“Watch your mouth, Rumlow,” the man nearest the Captain says lowly. He’s got dark hair and blue eyes that glint dangerously in the low light.
“I won’t, Barnes. Her father is the reason why I’m here – why we’re all here!”
“Have you forgotten yourself?” The Captain has finally raised his head. Although his voice is far below a shout it commands the room, and you find yourself glad that you’re not on the receiving end of both his words and his eyes – which have narrowed into a nasty glare that you hoped could render even Rumlow speechless.
He rises from his hunched over position on his forearms and steps towards Rumlow slowly. Your breath catches in your throat – you’ve never been in the presence of a man quite so… quietly threatening. He didn’t need noise and overconfidence to strike fear into the hearts of those around him. It was in the low curve of his brow and the downturned corners of his lips, the silent ripple of muscles beneath his furs and cotton, the slow but sure steps he takes.
The Captain stops just inches from Rumlow, jaw tensed.
“Do you remember who brought you here, soldier?"
Rumlow’s lip curls the tiniest bit.
"Yes, sir.”
“And do you remember whose orders you follow, soldier?"
”…Yes, sir.“
The Captain nods slowly. Then, he peers over his shoulder and meets your eyes momentarily. You feel your entire body stiffen, but it seems he bears you no more ill will as of yet. He turns towards the table once more.
"Furs. Now.”
The woman who had been restrained by Rumlow yanks her arm from his grasp with a huff and scurries off to find these furs that would hopefully stop your blood from freezing in your arteries. With the Captain and company otherwise preoccupied with their strategizing, you’re left standing with only Rumlow’s frosty glare to keep you company.
The weight of your situation clatters down onto your shoulders all too suddenly.
You would die in this place, surely. If not the ever-formidable Captain, then there were enough men in this camp that were eager to slit your throat. Or maybe you’d contract the Red Flu, bleeding from every orifice and your eyes turning cloudy blue. It seemed likely in this weather.
You didn’t want to die. Gods, you didn’t want to die. There was so much you’d yet to experience, foods left untasted, things left unsaid. You’d never even felt the touch of a man or woman before. You wanted to see your parents again. Your Natalia, what had happened to her? Have these savages taken her somewhere horrid?
“Here.” The woman who brings you your furs is pale and blonde, cheeks reddened from the nippy winds outside. She’s dressed modestly, the simple fabrics of a peasant. Still, she looks better off than you. You could do with a bath. And new clothes.
Years of etiquette classes push you to express your thanks but your nervousness is equal in measure. You don’t want to draw any attention to yourself, and so you take the furs silently. She rolls her eyes, exhaling sharply through her nose.
You pay her no mind. You bundle up tightly, blowing hot air into your cold fingers. The furs do little to warm your legs but your chest and shoulders are covered and that’s all you need. And now you wait.
You would think that someone would restrain you or bring you to a holding cell of some sort. You had expected to be housed with the hounds, starved until you’d give them what information they sought. That’s what the old maidens said happened to any poor soul unfortunate enough to be captured by rebels – if you had even a modicum of luck you would find yourself a quick, painless death before they decided to interrogate and torture you.
Though all this waiting seems torture enough. You’re in enough pain as it is – legs aching from running, littered with scrapes and cuts, and your ankles are weak from when you had tripped and fallen. You fear you’re on the brink of collapsing – from time to time you find yourself swaying on your feet, too disoriented to gather your wits. Your whole body feels…heavy. You want to sleep… You’re so weary, so confused and uncomfortable and anxious and unsure and terrified, and this waiting only serves to intensify it.
When you surface from your thoughts, you realise that the talking has come to a standstill. You glance up, uncertain whether you should risk making eye contact with anyone, and you find that every pair of eyes has already found its place on you.
“She’s shivering,” one man says. He’s got dark skin and darker eyes, hair close shaven and body muscular and tall, like most of his companions. “And swaying on her feet.”
“We can see that, Samuel,” another man says.
“But it’s roasting in here,” Samuel replies. They don’t seem to care that you’re staring right at them as they speak about you, but their conversation does capture your attention. Shivering? You hadn’t noticed. You hadn’t felt it.
“The ride was long,” the Captain murmurs, eyes trailing and narrowing over the rips in your dress and the cuts on your legs. “There were no overgarments to spare.”
Yet another man curses underneath his breath. “Gods, Steven, she’s no use if she catches her death!" He glances towards the woman who had brought you the furs, stood quietly in the corner of the room with her hands clasped and gaze lowered. "Take the girl to the infirmary, will you, love?"
"O-of course, Sir Stark,” she says, and crosses the room quickly and yanks you outside at an equally as tiring pace. Your mind notes ambiguously how you can’t quite feel her grip on your arm. You’ve never been a healer but you have enough common sense to know that that’s worrying.
The camp has quietened now that time has passed and night has truly begun. As you stumble through the snow, you realise that the cold has affected you worse than you had thought. You feel tired, too tired, like your limbs are tied to weights and your shoulders are topped by boulders. Your mind feels exhausted, too, and you can’t find it within yourself to focus on anything as the woman leads you to the infirmary.
The white tent, with its medical flag flying proudly above it, comes into sight just as your eyes roll to the back of your head.
When you wake to a grimy khaki tent ceiling and not the polished white stone you are used to, it feels as if the happiness has been sucked out of your lungs and thrown into the air. You had thought – hoped – that it was a bad dream.
Blinking at the ceiling, you wiggle your fingers and toes, just to make sure they hadn’t fallen off with the frost. The cuts in your skin sting as they brush against scratchy sheets, and the equally as scratchy clothing you’ve been put into. The thought of being changed by foreign hands in a place like this… you swallow bile, hands already shaking.
“Back to the land of the living, princess?” A voice says. You would have jumped had you the energy, but you have to settle for trailing your eyes to your left, where your presumed doctor stands.
He is evidently the kindest man in this camp, you think. It shows on his face. Soft brown hair and eyes, a nervous smile, and what seems like a generally good disposition towards you. He didn’t murder you while you were sleeping at least, or leave you untreated.
“Who’re you?” You ask throatily. “H-how long ‘ave I been…”
“Asleep?” The man asks. “A day and a half, at this point. I’m Banner – head physician.”
You stay silent. Your head feels like it’s been bashed in by a rock and your throat doesn’t feel much better. Every inch of your skin aches and shivers despite the blankets piled atop you, and your confusion and anxiety from earlier is seeping back into you at a slow, steady pace.
“Hypothermia,” Banner says, fiddling with his glasses in his hands. “Unlucky, but not the worst you could catch in this weather. Red flu’s been going ‘round… Salve has been applied to your cuts and what not. Didn’t want them getting infected. Ankles were bruised, too…”
Hypothermia. That would explain why your voice is slurring like that of a drunk in a tavern.
“…”
“Would you like some water?”
You would, in fact, kill for some water, but you have queries and questions that are plaguing you. You don’t want to risk Banner’s kindness by showing insolence and ignoring him; he is, after all, the one person on this stretch of land that you have an iota of trust for – but this may be your only chance to have them answered.
“Where am I?” You murmur.
“I… can’t tell you that exactly,” Banner replies, hesitant. “But you are housed in the rebel camp of Captain Steven Rogers.”
Captain Steven Rogers. He has a name. You don’t know why that takes you aback – perhaps because you’ve always seen him as the monster in your closet, the shadow at the end of the dark hallway. The thought that he has a family, a life… You flounder for a few seconds.
“And why am I here?”
Banner smiles softly, reaching for a skin of water by his side. “Here, drink. I’m not sure I can divulge that information with you either, princess.”
You gulp down the water greedily. It’s not very fresh, but it’s cold and brisk and that’s all you need.
Banner may not be able to tell you why you’re here, but you’ve read enough books to know a bit about politically-fueled kidnappings. Maybe they intended to hold you hostage until your father relented – or perhaps they hoped you’d know something of your father’s dealings. They wouldn’t get what they wanted from you, either way.
Your father treasured his kingdom over everything, even you. They could make even the smallest of demands and they’d face only a stoic wall of indifference – and you, well, you’ve had that same loyalty to your people instilled in your veins ever since you were a child. You were prepared to sacrifice yourself if your people would rest easier.
“Then… why are you helping me?” You ask. If your other questions cannot be answered, there must be a logical explanation for this one – a question that is perfectly appropriate for you to ask given your circumstances and yet, Banner looks surprised. “Why are you so kind? Offering me water and tending to my illnesses. I would have thought that my throat would be slit and my body cut into pieces by now."
His eyes widen just a fraction, and for a second he seems at a loss for words. "We–we’re not savages, princess.”
“Not savages?” You repeat incredulously. Your breathing shortens, images flashing back and forth in your head: villages set alight by rebel men, grains raided and pillaged from innocents, women raped and men murdered and children stolen from their beds – and you want to tell him as much, throat tightening with the effort of restraining yourself. You can’t let your emotions surmount you, not now. It isn’t smart to allow it in a situation where you aren’t in control.
You merely hum instead, lips on the verge of curling. “Forgive me, Banner. Being held against my will to die, by the men who attacked my mother and handmaidens as we were travelling, has obviously confounded me.”
The thought of your mother overwhelms you as soon as it surfaces. Gods, you hope she made it back to your father. And the handmaidens… you haven’t heard a whisper of them since you’ve arrived. Granted, most of your time was spent incapacitated. Sighing deeply, you stare up at the ceiling. You don’t want to think about anything with Banner in the room. Showing weakness here will no doubt have severe ramifications.
Banner gathers his wits above you, his mouth opening and closing in befuddlement. Finally he comes to his senses, and you aren’t quite sure how to digest the sympathy with which he speaks. "Princess,” he says, “I… I fear you’ve got the wrong idea.”
When you say nothing, staring soundly at the tarp ceiling, he swallows and nods resolutely once more. “Rest. No harm will come to you here, I promise you.”
You don’t believe him, but there’s also a part of you so far gone that doesn’t care. As desperate as you are to live, the logic in you doubts you’ll leave this place alive.
Despite your sudden imperviousness towards your safety, you’re still entirely apprehensive to fall asleep in this place. The infirmary is made purely of aging canvas and barely manages to block out the wintry wind outside – correspondingly, numerous fire grates have been lit through the tent, even though you were the only patient. The fire draws shadows up and down the walls, rolling over the ceiling and floor and bedding with each flickering flame.
With your sickness rendering your sight blurry at times, your paranoia grows. Are those shadows simply a product of the flames or a rogue rebel coming to put an end to you? Is that crackling coming from the fire, or is there someone outside?
Soon, though, your illness wins over your stubbornness, and you’re put to sleep – or, does it count as sleep if you’re dreaming so vividly?
You’re in one of the many hallways in the palace. It’s long and wide, with tall ceilings and large, arched windows that show off the gardens. An ostentatious rug runs along the stretch of the floor, ruby red in a way that reminds anyone who walks the length of the crown’s wealth. That, and, of course, the portraits that line the walls. Each one composed by the realms greatest artists, showcasing your ancestors in the throes of victory and power.
Your great-great-great uncle standing in battle, boot pressed to an enemy’s chest and sword in hand, peering off into the distance. Your great grandfather, sitting on the throne dressed in his finest habiliments, face stoic and emotionless. Your father, with his detached, impassive features, dressed in his embellished uniform. The only paintings that had women in them were the family portraits – no triumphant poses and vehement statements translated into oil and acrylic.
You stop in front of the most recent portrait painted. Your father, situated on the throne. Your mother standing behind him, a hand on his shoulder, and you at her side, hands clasped. You remember the day it was painted; you had been so excited to be immortalized for years to come, so eager to see how you would be shown to future generations. Looking at the picture now, you know what people will think of you. Docile, weak-willed.
Your feet carry you away from the paintings and to the other side of the hallway to peer out of a window. The sky is inky black. No stars are to be seen, the moon hidden behind tall evergreens – and yet the hallway is still eerily illuminated by some pale, dramatic light.
You look back at the paintings. The faces don’t look so benevolent anymore. This light makes them appear scarred, scowling, growling at you, frowns tucked deep into their foreheads and lips curled back in snarls. Your heart pounds in your chest, and, despite your unwillingness to do so, you step closer to the portrait–
Red rivulets drip from your mother’s eyes. Her eyes widen. Her mouth opens in a silent scream, and horror claws its way into your mouth–
And you wake like that, chest heaving and throat scratchy and cheeks wet with tears that you can’t remember crying. You huff and puff and press your hands to your heart, screwing your eyes shut and praying to the gods for – for something, anything.
You open your eyes then, fully determined to gather yourself – though it takes a few moments for you to realise that the Captain is sitting by your bedside. Granted, you have only awoken, and he is frighteningly quiet for his size. He doesn’t speak when he notices you watching him – he only watches back.
He somehow seems less threatening in this light. Maybe after your night terror he seems even less so. Those stories of the ruthless Captain who rode through the night fit the man on the horse like a glove, but not the one in front of you. In your sleep-born delirium, you let your eyes drift over him.
He has pale, ruddy skin and eyes as blue as the Indigo Sea. Dark eyelashes, the types ladies in court lusted over, and a thick smattering of facial hair covering his chin and upper lip. Blonde hair that fell backwards, and a permanent frown between his brows. Maybe he would be handsome in another life. If he wasn’t a murderous savage in whose hands your life rested.
When he speaks, you trail your eyes towards the ceiling once more, mind still reeling.
“Night terrors?” He asks. (His voice is of that baritone that makes anyone who hears it want to listen. Even you, though you suppose that may be because your life depends on him.)
You don’t answer. You wonder if it will make him angry, but the thought of talking to this man about your night terrors seems about as unrealistic as attempting to escape this place.
He hums. “I don’t expect you to answer.”
Good. Because you won’t be–
“Banner tells me you think we’re savages,” he says, and you feel anger spark to life in your chest at the amusement his voice housed. When you don’t reply, he shakes his head. “I suppose you have no reason to think otherwise. I am, after all, the reason you’re bedbound.”
In any other situation you would be glad that your tormentor is admitting his wrongdoings – but it’s so unexpected, so uncharacteristic for this grandiose man in front of you that you’re simply unsettled.
“It’s ludicrous,” he says, laughing shortly, though he doesn’t sound very entertained. “Many a man in this camp would call you the savage, princess.”
Amd that sparks something in you – that deep, ancient hatred that has had its home in your heart since you were but a babe. In your sudden flare of rage you fix your eyes upon him once more, narrowed and poisonous.
“Me?” You can’t help but scoff. Ideas of the silent treatment, of entombing your emotions until a safer time, are buried six feet below you. “I don’t burn down villages or steal grain from farmers or slit the throats of innocents. And I certainly don’t kidnap princesses or queens, either.”
“I know you don’t,” he says. He smiles – not unkindly, mind you, and your mind churns with unrest at the civility in his voice and on the arc of his lips– “Natalia has vouched for your character. I trust her with my life.”
Natalia? Your rage and confusion stumbles to a dizzying stop. You feel bile rise in your throat.
“Natalia?” You whisper. Natalia. It… makes sense. How the rebels knew what road you would take and the time you would arrive – she had even gone to the trouble of putting on a decent show, with her kicking and her screaming and reaching for you. When you thought back, you realised that she had never actually been harmed. A spy. A traitor.
The Captain’s eyes soften just a fraction. “I know how you feel about us, but what you’ve been told isn't–"
"I’ve been told the truth!” You interrupt, though even you can hear how brittle your voice is. Brittle and weak, like it could crumble under the slightest of pressure. You had trusted Natalia, been under her care since you were 10 and she was 19. She had been a sister to you. And she had betrayed you for the people who wanted you dead. “My father is not a liar–!"
"Your father is a tyrant!” The Captain bellows, rendering your efforts silent in seconds– “He is a murdering, cowardly tyrant and you are his daughter.”
Shock and rage and irritation and another cacophony of emotions stir into a whirlwind in your chest, seizing your throat and voice and limbs until you’re a rigidly still, gaping-mouthed thing, staring at the Captain as he has the utter audacity to continue his rant–
“Ever since your father’s reign began the common people have lived in squalor,” he spat. “They spend their days harvesting crops, sunscorched and exhausted – crops that only get taken from them, leaving them with next to nothing to feed their own families. If they speak out about it their throats are slit and their villages burnt to the ground, while your father reclines on his golden throne and gets fat off of roast goose and pastries.
“I know what you’ve been told about us,” the Captain finishes, standing. “I know what lies your father has fed you – Natalia’s told me – but I have more important things to deal with than stiff-necked princesses who refuse to see the truth. This rebellion is the last hope of a people.”
“And how do I know you’re telling the truth?” You ask hoarsely. “What am I supposed to do? Trust you?”
The Captain shrugs, smiling in that patronising way that makes you bristle. “The thing about truth, princess, is that it doesn’t change. Whether you believe it or not.”
And he turns on his heel, hands clasped behind his back, and some ignorant, foolish voice in the back of your head notes how he looks more like a king than your father ever has.
Natalia comes to see you a sennight into your bed rest.
The days have been spent in relative silence. A lady delivers you thin broth and stale bread twice a day – once in the morning and once in the evening. She doesn’t make eye contact and she doesn’t talk, but she also doesn’t glower at you. The guards outside the tent don’t speak, either – in fact, you haven’t even caught a glimpse of their faces, but you get the odd glance at their backs when the entrance flap is opened enough. You suppose things could be worse.
Banner checks in on you every day to monitor your healing, making sure you have enough blankets and take the medicinal concoction that he’s contrived for you. He doesn’t attempt much conversation after the last – but he smiles and asks about how you’re feeling, so you aren’t completely isolated from human interaction.
When you weren’t being checked over by Banner, you were – refractorily – mulling over the Captain’s words, looking for the cracks within your father’s lies that you hadn’t known existed. But you saw them, and it broke your heart. All the strange happenings that you hadn’t wanted to connect, connected – the prisoner’s you would spy being hauled into the castle after dark (young, innocent men with too much fear in their eyes to be terrorists), paper-thin excuses when you asked why you could see the ribs of the townspeople on your rare excursions out of the palace. The betrayal had hurt more than the hypothermia. Your own stupidity had hurt more than the hypothermia.
The night the truth had veraciously settled in, you cried yourself to sleep. Your palace was built on the backs of workers and the blood of the common people, the people you were born to serve and honour. Your father is an autocrat, a glorified murderer, and – like the Captain had said – you are his daughter. You live a lavish life while your people suffer and starve. Culpability rests heavy on your shoulders – and with no way to atone for your ignorance, you simply have to sit and stew in it.
You had been taken for a fool – you are a fool. Crimes of war committed right underneath your nose, and you were none the wiser. And your mother! Gods above, did your mother know? Did she stand behind your father, hand on his shoulder as he gave the orders to slaughter innocents and rip children from their mother’s arms?
You had always looked up to your mother. She had little to no power or influence as the queen, and yet she had been the one to teach you to be gentle and kind, to have empathy for the less fortunate and treat others equally. The thought that she would be able to live soundly knowing how the people were treated…
How crass! The gods must be having a good laugh.
Banner has just given you crushed white willow bark and Valerian root to ease your pain when Natalia steps into the infirmary tent, though the pain you feel as you see her cannot be cured by any known plant or potion.
She looks so different; red hair cut short and curling into loose waves. Stray flakes of snow cling to her copper locks, and she gives you her sickeningly familiar smile as she takes a seat beside you. (It doesn’t reach her eyes.)
You don’t say anything.
“Banner says you should be right as rain in a few days,” she says, crossing one leg over the other. “I remember when I got hypothermia. Wasn’t the most pleasant experience.”
How can she act as if nothing has changed? As if your whole world hasn’t been turned on its head – as if you aren’t the princess of the man who presumably had ruined her life (and the lives of every soul in this camp)?
“Why didn’t you tell me, Natalia?” You ask, cursing your throat for becoming clogged with tears. “I – you let me live in ignorance for… for years.”
“Would you have believed me?” She asked, raising an elegant brow. (You had always joked that she was more suited to be a princess – delicate features, slender figure, able to charm even the most brutish of men.) “If I told you, would you have?"
"You’re like a sister to me,” you whisper. “I would have believed anything.”
You can count on one hand the amount of times you’ve seen Natalia at a loss for words, and this seems to be one of them. Her mouth closes and her jaw clenches just the tiniest bit, so miniscule a movement that you wouldn’t have noticed it had you not been looking for it.
“I could have helped,” you say then, but even to your own ears you sound hopelessly desperate. “I could have – could have sneaked out food, o-or bought blankets and furs and medicine. I could have talked to him–”
“Your family’s been like this since before you were born,” interrupts Natalia. “It’s in his blood to be this way. Second nature. Nothing you could say would change that.”
You sniffle. You feel like a buffoon. How long would you have been in the dark had the rebels not taken you? How long would you have supported your father, loathing the rebels who are really the people you should be protecting? You feel sick to your stomach thinking back to how blatantly he had lied – and he would’ve continued to, as well.1
“What will happen to me now, Natalia?” You whimper, pawing at your eyes. Your eyes sting, chest contracting. You haven’t been so vulnerable in front of someone in all your time here. It feels strange to shed tears in front of her. “I can’t go back there. Not ever.”
“You have a place here, ______,” she says gently, grasping your hands in her. “You can help us..”
When you say nothing, staring ahead like she notices you do when you’re overthinking, she tightens her grip on your hands.
“Steven is a good man,” she urges. The mention of the Captain makes you narrow your eyes. You hadn’t seen him since your rude awakening, and maybe that was for the best. Your own shame would be too debilitating to carry a decent conversation. “He protects those who can’t protect themselves. A bit gruff, maybe, but he’s seen too much to not be. He hasn’t had the easiest life. No-one here has, little one.”
You feared that if you were told of the horrors he had so obviously endured you wouldn’t be able to forgive yourself. But it was your duty as princess – no matter how blood-covered your title really is – to listen and accept that it had happened, to work towards a better future. Wasn’t it?
“I’m still trying to separate him from the ghost stories,” you admit quietly, lifting your gaze to meet hers. “I – I know he’s not the… the esoteric monster I thought he was when I was a girl. But it’s hard, after so many years.”
Natalia smiles sadly, shaking her head. “I’m sure he’ll understand. You really could help here, _____. There are certain things that even I don’t know about Azureal. I’m sure he’d appreciate working with you.”
“If he doesn’t kill me first,” you say, laughing dryly with the last of your tears wiped away.
“Don’t be silly,” she says, scoffing, “No-one wants you dead–”
“I can think of many a man who wants me dead right now, Talia.“
Natalia looks you up and down again, and you see her eyes sadden. You know how you must look to the woman who’s seen you at both your best and worst for years; frail and weak, teetering precariously between sickness and health. Bags under your eyes and greyness lingering under your skin. Far worse than the common cold you had once considered your lowest point.
"I’m sorry this had to happen to you in the way that it did,” she mutters, seizing your hand again. A noise over her shoulder draws her attention, before she turns back to you with a sigh. “I… must be off, little one. Errands.”
When she stands you get a glimpse of what had captured her attention, and your heart lurches – there stands the Captain, watching closely with his arms folded and his brow set. He’s waiting for her to leave, you realise. You suddenly feel more alert.
Natalia bends and kisses your forehead, and for a second you’re back home, tucked into bed and drowsy from the day. She always kissed your head before you slept – once she started when you were a child, she never stopped.
“I’ll see you soon,” she promises. The last thing you see of her is a smile thrown over her shoulder as she passes the Captain by.
He clears his throat as if you hadn’t seen him already, stepping into the tent with all the composure and aplomb of a military man. Your eyes follow him as he drops into the chair Natasha had been occupying, sitting just as he had the first time you had truly spoken to him.
For a few moments he doesn’t say anything – just stares, looking as if he’s hesitating to speak. Your own nerves begin to broil in anticipation; he truly must not know how striking he is, even when he’s sitting so simply. You’re sure he could look terrifying first thing in the morning – he is, after all, built like what you imagine the giants from your fiction books are, thick corded muscle and broad shoulders and strong thighs.
You wonder if you should speak first. You owe him an apology, you think, for your own insensitivity and disregard. Although you’d been taught to react in a way that was the exact opposite to how you actually reacted, you knew your attitude hadn’t been completely unfounded – there’s no rulebook on how to act when you realise you’re the daughter of a despot.
But then–
“I wanted to give my apologies,” the Captain says, clearing his throat again. Your eyes widen. You had half expected him to pretend his paroxysm never happened and move on, to continue skirting around you like you were a scared filly prepared to bolt.
“…W-whatever for?” You ask.
He leans forward, elbows to his knees. “It wasn’t my place to reprimand you for something you had no control over. I… admit I allowed my own negative judgements to cloud my actions. You’re the daughter of my worst enemy.”
For a second you’re completely flabbergasted. Never would you have thought that the Captain could be as… empathic and emotionally-logical as he actually is. The fact that he’s evidently overcome his pride to apologise to you of all people…
“I… I…” There is so much to say but no concise way to say it. You’re still trying to fight against the instincts that have been hammered into you since you were a child; that this man was dangerous, that he would kill you the first chance he got. “Captain–"
"Steven,” he corrects, though he looks awfully troubled when he says it. As if he hadn’t meant to. As if it had slipped out. “'Captain’ is for soldiers on duty.”
“Steven,” you say carefully, feeling your stomach turn pleasantly at how the syllables feel in your mouth. “If I may speak informally…”
“You don’t have to ask.”
Of course. You weren’t home anymore. You could speak however you wanted to. (How… strange…)
“I have been taught from young to put the needs and wellbeing of my people above all,” you say, swallowing. (You will yourself to organise your disorderly thoughts, ably avoiding the piercing eyes fixed upon you–) “I… I was so focused on what I wanted to believe that I so quickly dismissed your truth – and I am sorry.”
His smile is one of disbelief, surprise. Had you really come off so stubborn that your very apology took him aback? "I… suppose we were both dolts, then, princess."
”______,“ you murmur, and suddenly you understand how the Captain – Steven – felt when his own name had been suggested. It’s as if your mouth has a mind of its own. You inhale sharply, prodding nervously at your sleeves. "If I am to call you Steven, you should call me by my gods-given name.”
“______,” he repeats. (Gods, why do you shiver?) He nods to himself, a tiny smile gracing his – admittedly handsome – face. “______.”