part 4
It feels wrong.
The silk on your skin, baby-skin soft. So light, like a barely-there kiss. Like the last spring wind before summer starts, still managing to cling to the hindmost dregs of winter frost — coating your skin in a layer of cool, before the warmth of your blood seeps into the fabric. Silk, you think, is like those oils they used to dot on your skin every morning after scrubbing you down and combing your hair. Lavender and lemon and eucalyptus, sweet almond and coconut. Cold, first. Warm, after.
Wrong. It’s all wrong.
You don’t remember much of the journey back to Azureal. A soldier cut your bindings and scooped you up when you didn’t respond to his hurried shouts — your mind had been filled with such chaos that it simply went blank.
He had carried you through the wreckage that once was a beloved camp — tents aflame, bodies strewn across the ground, people tied up and shoved into jail wagons. You couldn’t hear anything despite the devastation around you. It was as if the entire world had gone silent, save for a high-pitched whistling sound that you couldn’t rid yourself of no matter how long passed.
The riding didn’t take long, though of course you were hardly aware of your surroundings. Maybe it was a day. Maybe it was three. All you know is that when you reached the palace, the first thing they did was send you to the palace physician. A man you've known since you were a child, kind and pitiful.
You spend a day or two in induced unconsciousness while the physician and his assistants cure you of your ailments — of which there are not many. A cut or bruise there, a dullness to your skin and hair, maybe. Malnutrition. The gashes across your palms. After that, they hand you over to your handmaidens.
They bathe you like they did before. Not in a river or a tin bucket like you’d been doing for the past year or so — but in those behemoth sunken pools in the bathing room, rectangles cut into pale, polished marble. Columns rise from the ground, great grand stacks that rise to the ceiling far above your head, carved with stories of the gods and their acolytes.
You’ve never quite had the connection with the gods that your mother has, but you don’t think they’d be content with such sizeable shows of affluence when the rest of their people suffer. The grandeur, in truth, makes you sick to your stomach, but you’re so poignantly empty and — and dispassionate that you simply let the handmaidens do what they please with you.
They peel the bandages from your hands and wash the blistered, raw skin with tea tree, apply ointments that smell of yarrow and calendula, whispering amongst each other all the while. Every inch of your skin is shaved with sharp, flat silver blades and scrubbed all over with sugar, and then moisturised with shea butter. They unbraid your hair from its messy updo and brush it, quick and efficient but mind-bogglingly rough, nothing like Natalia.
(Natalia… What had happened to Natalia—?)
Oils are poured onto your locks, and then your hair is washed with the pomegranate soap specially sent to the palace every month.
They do your makeup.
You’d been kidnapped. Almost murdered by an assassin sent by your own father. Fallen in love. Had the man you love taken from you by your father, most certainly planned to be executed publicly along with the rest of your friends, and you’d have to watch. And now they’re doing your makeup, like these pigments and powders are really so important in the grand scheme of things, like the world will topple on its head if your skin isn’t clear of blemishes and bloody dullness—!
But still, you sit at your vanity. Completely immobile, a marble bust being painted, and you watch them cover you up. Rouge on your cheeks and lips, kohl on your lashes, cream under your eyes to conceal the darkness that had grown there. They string little flowers into the plaits they so expertly craft onto your head, slip a shimmering silk gown over your body. It’s a soft shade of beryl, the same hue as the sea, as a river, as… a pair of familiar blue eyes.
When you look in the mirror again, you’re the same you as you were before the world turned upside down. But there’s something in you that’s changed — a sadness, an awareness, an understanding. A stubbornness brought on by the very man who’d ran from your arms and into the fray, who’d left you with nothing but a hasty kiss and a declaration of love. You close your eyes at the thought — it wouldn’t do you good to cry now. Not when these girls have worked hard to bring you up to standard once more.
Somewhere between clasping a golden necklace around your neck and fitting your tiara upon your crown, you catch sight of the fresh bandages on your hands. With the superior medical care in the palace, along with the constant attention from the palace physician, you’d surely be healed with the next few sennights. Nothing would tell of your time with the rebels except for a few shiny gash-shaped scars and a permanent bumpiness on your palms, hardly noticeable. But you would carry the memories with you in your mind, always. You don’t think you could forget if you tried.
After dressing you up like a fine china doll they leave you to waste away in your solar, sitting on a chaise lounge that had once been your favourite. Like your dress, it’s a soft, stormy kind of blue, soft to the touch, almost unbearably comfortable against your bottom. You haven’t felt — seen — luxury like this in a long time.
Your room had been cleaned in your time away, it seems. The book you’d left open on your table has been pushed back between two large tomes on your bookshelf; the sheets on your bed folded and pressed to perfection. Not even a speck of dust has marred the dark mahogany windowsill — and the thick pillars that support the ceiling are polished, gleaming. This had once been your favourite place to be. Where you could shed your quiet, obedient demeanour and settle in with a book and a blanket. You often sewed here, too, though not completely out of fun — where your father had war councils and the like, you were expected to embroider and stitch.
Gods, you hate it. You hate every inch of embossed wallpaper, every gilded spine of every History book. You loathe the thick velvet curtains pulled back, you hate the view of those expansive gardens. You cannot revel in luxury knowing what you now know.
And you despise this encroaching, gods-forsaken silence! You want to scream, shout, sob, tear the dull pain from your chest with your bare hands and scatter it to the floor. You feel trapped – a little bird in a gilded cage, the glinting gold of freedom held just up and out of sight.
Is he here? Your mind wonders. You almost curse yourself for thinking of him so quickly. You'd hoped for another few hours of (miserable) ignorance before the last nail in the coffin was knocked in. In this castle, in these dungeons? Maybe they took him to the catacombs, instead. Maybe… maybe he never arrived at all…
You spring up like a children's toy, a jack-in-the-box, and find your chest too constricted. The corset's strings are pulled tight, but even as your feverish fingers tug at the tail of your spine, even as the fabric loosens just the tiniest bit, your lungs still gasp for breath. Those pesky tears are back to tormenting the expertly-placed kohl around your eyes—
And it's a panic. Clutching the edge of your table, tripping over your own feet to fling open a window and breath in the fresh air.
You can't be left to your own devices, not now, you realise, gasping, a hand to your heart and a hand to your stomach. If you think too much on it–
There's a gentle knock on the door. "Your Highness?"
It’s Elizabeth. One of your many handmaidens.
You screw your eyes shut, fingernails scratching painfully against the wood of your mantelpiece.
“Y-yes?”
Curses — you sound as strained as a strangled cat. But this faceless woman’s voice gives you something to latch onto, desperate for any succour from your own mind, and you find the pain in your chest steadily diminishing with every second — not quite fading into non-existence, but becoming more manageable.
“My lady,” she continues, soft, “Your king father and queen mother await you in your mother’s solar.”
“Of… of course.”
Gods, even your voice has started to sound alien. So lacklustre and flat, now, hardly telling of the turmoil your brain threatens to molder under. You almost preferred it when it sounded like your throat was closing up — at least then you felt something, if only embarrassment.
You’d never quite been good at acting — though is that what this is? It doesn’t seem like acting. It simply appears that you’ve lost the will to be energetic. All zeal and ardor is desperately trying to distract your mind from the fact that your love could be… your love could be....
You walk through the corridors with four handmaidens behind you. They bow their heads and stare at the ground and you find yourself fighting to not do the same. How many people are in their families, you wonder? Do they live under one single roof, fighting for scraps, spending all their money on servant’s clothes so they can simply exist in the same space as you? So they can exist in this skeleton of marble and gold and powdered noses and too-tight corsets?
Your attention is drawn from the women behind you to the path in front of you. The hallways haven’t changed. You don’t suppose they would — what reason would your disappearance give to change the decor? All these family portraits and gilded candelabras, cardinal red carpet underfoot. Hanging chandeliers of cut crystals, curtains thicker than the furs that the rebels used to keep warm. You swallow bile, and try to subdue the guilt that has taken root in your stomach. A foul, bitter, encroaching feeling that makes your hands shake, a feeling produced by the constant, haunting reminder that your people are dying while you live in the lap of luxury.
Your parents quarters are hidden behind two large mahogany doors — almost too grand for their own good, twice your height and carved deeply and meticulously. The handles are gold and polished daily, twisted into the shape of swirling, curling waves. The two guards on duty simultaneously pull open the doors for you, and once you’re inside, shut them behind you, leaving you without your handmaidens.
Alone. You almost miss their silent presence.
You walk through the large greeting room of your parents’ quarters; decorated magnificently, as everywhere else. Bunches of brilliant white lilies are set in crystal glass vases — atop the small table, atop the accompanying cabinets… It seems as if they’d already begun mourning you.
The doors to the solar are already open. Through them, you see the deep red of drawn velvet curtains, the precise and particular Toile de Jouy pattern of the seats, the two prized bayonets above the fireplace — and when you step through the doorway, heart in your throat, you find your father, mother, and (curiously) your father’s advisor, one Jasper Sitwell.
You inhale deeply — feeling much sicker than you had even when the rebels had been overpowered — and setting a smile upon your face. “Your Majesties.”
You bow, as is customary — though it is shaky and imperfect from almost a year of disuse — and then you accept the embrace your mother lays upon you. She’s weeping and crying, clutching you close and pressing your face towards her neck like you’re a babe again. And although your eyes sting and your lungs constrict with the effort to not cry, although you are secretly glad to be back in such a familiar hold, you can’t help but hate her too.
Because she is soft and gentle and kind and yet, you’re not sure whether you can trust her anymore. You’re not sure that she’s as soft and gentle and kind as she’s always appeared, and your mind scurries between wanting to believe she is and refusing to. With her soft, manicured hands and gentle brow, her clear skin, the delicate lines at the corners of her eyes, one would think you mad for insinuating her involvement.
“The gods have returned you safely,” she sobs, pulling back to stare at you with shining eyes. She holds your face in her hands, cupping your jaw like you are a precious gem, a rare and beautiful stone, the crown jewel. “My darling girl. Had you not drawn those rebels away that night...”
They wouldn’t have killed her. Just like they didn’t kill you.
Still, you swallow your doubts and smile weakly. You hope that your fatigue can be excused as distress from your captivity or something of the like — a quick glance at Sitwell shows well the pity painted on his tanned face, and your chest swells with relief.
“And I would do it one hundred times more,” you say truthfully, clasping your hands over hers. Because you met friends there. You met Steven… Determined to keep your act afloat, you shift your eyes to your father — who, you notice with an abundance of repugnance, has the gall to appear tearful. “Father—”
And you surge forward as if taken hold of by your emotions, winding your arms around his neck, burying your face into the golden epaulettes draped on his shoulders. The smell of lemongrass makes your head spin, and not pleasantly; suddenly, you are simply all too aware of everything happening all at once, every noise, every movement.
In your hurry to greet your parents, in your steadfastness to uphold your act, you'd forgotten just how thin the ice you danced over was. Should one mouth out of thousands seized speak about your involvement with Steven you'd be as dead as a doorknob before the next sunrise. And now – just as you had been at the beginning of your time in the rebel camp – you find yourself looking over your shoulder at every corner, wondering if the Kingsguard would slink from the shadows and drag you to the gallows.
“My girl,” your father murmurs, pressing his hand to the back of your head, “My darling daughter. The gods look down on us, surely.”
He pulls back, too, like your mother had done, clasping your hands in his and looking at you with such devotion that for a second – a miniscule second – you truly thought that you must've gotten it all wrong. But then his eyes darken, and you're returned rather gracelessly to the truth.
"They won't get away with this. I give you my word, daughter."
You swallow. "I have every faith in you, father." Then, realising that more must be said: "Had it not been for you, I don't know what would have happened. How long I would have lasted. An attempt on my life had already been made…"
If you weren’t looking for it, you would have missed the slight stiffness of your father’s shoulders, or the glance he exchanges with Sitwell while you turn back to your fussing mother. “It’s where I got these wounds.”
“But he failed, of course,” Sitwell speaks up. “This rebel soldier.”
Rebel soldier. The thought of considering Rumlow a rebel is disgustingly offensive. Nevertheless, you fix a mirage of relief on your face, smiling. “Yes. The — the Captain said I was too valuable to kill. Though he kept me housed with the hounds and—” You feel gut-wrenchingly guilty just thinking about it. But Steven had told you to lie, and lie you shall— “They treated me like an animal. Fed me once every two days and—”
When you break off to wipe at your eyes, it’s not from the trauma like they think. You’re genuinely sickened by the lies you have to spout — a complete disservice to the men and women who’d lain down their lives for the sake of good, to the people who lived everyday in squalor.
Your mother laments into a silken handkerchief she’d procured from the table beside her. You’re unsure of whether she’s crying for the ‘horrors’ you’d endured or the fact that you were scarred for good now — both mentally and physically.
How hard will it be now, you wonder idly, to have me married off? Surely every prince this side of the Indigo Sea has heard of your plight, and a sullied princess is not a prized bride.
Steven hadn’t cared, a voice in your head whispers. He had loved all of you. He had protected you.
The tears begin again — your mother takes you in her arms once more, soothing you with a soft hand to your hair, only pulling back to hold your face between her hands like she did earlier.
“You must give thanks for your safe return,” she says firmly, staring into your eyes. “Visit the temple and pray, my daughter — tonight, after dinner. I have begged each day for you to come back, and the gods have rewarded my perseverance. Now you must show your gratitude.”
“I—I will,” you promise, clasping your hands over hers. Then, significantly more befuddled, you look over to your father and Sitwell. “And of course, I’m grateful to the gods for returning me — though… I can’t help but wonder how you knew where they’d be.”
Another set of glances exchanged — an invisible message, an understanding, passed between the two men. Sitwell gives the tiniest, most miniscule nod of his head — so small, in fact, that you’re almost convinced that you imagined it — and your father meanders forward to clap a hand to your shoulder.
“My girl, you must recover before you throw yourself back into politics,” he says. “We will feast and then you will go to pray — anyhow, the rebellion will come to a halt tomorrow afternoon. You’ve nothing to worry about.”
You suddenly lose all feeling in your limbs. You have to keep your knees locked tightly to stop yourself from becoming a puddle on the ground, but your hands fall limply to your sides. “S-so soon?”
No. No, please. Give me time to do something, anything, give me time to see them before—
“We’d thought to drag their sentences out, at first — to make them pay for the years of tyranny and injustice—”
How dare he—
“— but we decided to get it over with. The captain will be executed tomorrow. His chain of command and the rest will be judged in trial over the next few months or so. We’ll finally have peace, hm?”
Judged in trial.Unfair trial goes unsaid, but it’s heavily insinuated.
“Finally,” you repeat. Your subsequent smile is weak. “Yes, finally.”
x
When your father had said feast — when your mother had said dinner — you thought they’d meant something small. Something small, and intimate; a few of your father’s council members, the captain of his guard, perhaps, as well as some distant relatives and the like.
This is not small. Or intimate. No, not at all. You’d guessed as much when your handmaidens had revealed that your mother would like you to redress into your celebratory garments, complete with one of your many tiaras. You had to bathe again, with an entirely new hairstyle and face of makeup — something subtle yet refined, your mother had apparently requested, something that would go with your gown.
Because the gown is the show stealer, of course. Pale gold, composed of two pieces — a long slip dress of embroidered flowers and prayers of goodwill, birds and clouds and everything in between; and an equally as embellished thin outer garment, almost like a robe. This style is foreign, but has spread like wildfire through the entire continent. The rich continent, of course, brought over by traders and ladies from across the Indigo Sea. Around your neck and from your ears hang diamonds; your tiara is gold and diamond-encrusted to match.
You find yourself staring at it in the mirror. Transfixed by the sparkling gems, sickened by the glamour. It is nice to be cared for again, in some way — no river baths, no scratchy clothing, a full belly. It is disgusting in equal measure.
The banquet hall — the largest one — is full to the brim. Lords and ladies and dukes and duchesses from far and wide, relatives you’ve never seen or heard of before, representatives for kings and queens across the sea. The second you enter — your title and presence announced — you’re bombarded from every direction. One person is clutching your hands, wishing your good health; another is calling your name over and over, desperate to tell you just how happy they are that you’ve returned well.
You’re reminded of your first entrance to the rebel camp — how, for a heart-stopping moment, you’d felt like you were floundering, mouth deep in metaphorical mud. At least then, you think idly, the rebels had meant their threats. Here, each wish of health and kindness is a grapple for attention, for power, for favour.
(Steven had been your one constant, then. The one substantiality at your disposal, the only thing for you to ground yourself to. But now...)
You find your place beside your mother, beside your father’s left side. On the table lies a feast for the gods: thick, fluffy bread rolls, slabs of dandelion yellow butter. Shining sausages bursting with fat, expertly blended soups in every flavour and colour imaginable, salads and orange-yellow cheeses, dishes of brined olives and sundried tomatoes — platters of golden roasted potatoes and whole roasted and stuffed chickens. A cornucopia is the centrepiece, spilling candied fruits and nuts over the tabletop, and the desserts have yet to be presented.
Your stomach grumbles — a year of thin, flavourless stew has left you longing for more than broth. And yet, still, guilt holds your stomach in a vice. You don’t think you’ll be able to force down more than a bowl of soup — but the wine? You snatch a glass and drink eagerly. It’s sweet, bitter. Sour. Your mother’s face is just as sour when she sees you finish it.
“I understand that you’ve been through much in the past year,” she says quietly — lips still set in a picture perfect smile — “And I mourn with you, daughter. But appearances are still important.”
The servants refuse to serve you wine for the rest of the night. It’s only sweetened water and cold teas for you, even when the dinner has come to an end and the mingling has resumed. You feel like a spectre, drifting along the edge of the crowd. It seems that the shortage of wine was not extended to everyone; most were merry with drink already, drunk enough to forget the reason why they were here, drunk enough to leave you to your own devices.
The gardens call to you again. The sun is low in the sky, half hidden behind the horizon, setting the sky aflame with orange and purple; you watch from the balcony as the light casts itself over the leaves of hydrangeas and peonies. Wasn’t it just a day or three ago that you were falling asleep in the arms of your love? Singing songs around a campfire, dancing strange jigs, drunk off laughter and love?
“I’ll have a dance made in your name, dove. And we’ll dance it on our wedding day.”
But there would be no wedding day. Not anymore. There’d be no spinning around in circles, narrowly missing the shoulders of Natalia and Clint, no fast-paced fiddle to follow. No collapsing on Steven’s chest, giddy and giggling, cheeks warm and heart warmer—
No, there is only this slow and dragging tune, prim and proper. Violins and pianos and careful dances, stoic faces and appropriate distances. Your fingers tighten on the balcony — if not to calm your heart, then to stall your anger.
Gods, why do you torture yourself like this? Thinking of what once was, what would never be again. It’s as if you enjoy making yourself upset — like you take joy in smudging your kohl and ripping your heart from your chest — yet even when you actively try to think about something, anything else, your mind finds its way back.
You want to tear that ballroom to the ground. You want to pull up the shining slabs of granite floor and throw them from the balcony; let them shatter to pieces beneath you. You’d take those damned violins and smash them against the walls, snap the strings in half so that they curled up like little springs. The table would be lit with matches, taking every crystal glass and porcelain plate and every piece of cutlery with it. You want them to suffer like you’re suffering, to hurt like you’re hurting—
“Princess. I hadn’t the chance to greet you earlier.”
Oh, it never ends.
You plaster a smile on your face and turn. The man that faces you is old, wrinkling, but the ghost of youth still lives in him; dirtying blond hair, pale skin, blue eyes. He would remind you of an older Steven, if not for the shortness of his face and the cruel upturn of his thin lips. You cast a glance over his shoulder, hoping that if your mother or father happened to pass, you’d be afforded an exit, but—
“That’s quite alright,” you say instead. “Though I don’t believe we’ve ever met.”
“No,” he says, extending a hand. “Pierce. Alexander Pierce.”
The world goes blank.
Pierce.
...
Pierce.
Pierce.
Pierce.
“Once we join Pierce and the other allies, we begin planning for a coup.”
...
"Alexander Pierce is one of our greatest allies, if not the greatest. He’d never betray the cause."
But here he is in front of you. Hand still stretched out expectantly. Features cocksure and over-confident. No guilt. No remorse. No regret at the fact that he was essentially sentencing thousands of innocents to their deaths.
“Alexander Pierce,” you repeat, faint. You place your hand in his — watch, sickened, as he lifts it to his lips. “Yes, we’ve never met.”
“And yet, I’ve heard all about you, Princess.”
Had Steven told anyone outside of the camp about your change of loyalties? Surely he hadn’t been so rash. Still — if Pierce knew anything about Steven, he’d know that he would never treat you as terrible as your parents were claiming. You would have to play your cards carefully.
“Oh? Well, only good things, I hope.”
“If you count kidnapping and imprisonment as good things, Your Highness.”
A fake laugh. “Oh, of course. Of course, yes. It’s all anyone’s wanted to talk to me about this evening.”
“You can hardly blame them.” He is standing much too close for comfort. Your skin crawls with the ghosts of one thousand spiders.
You still try a smile, though it is spurious and fleeting. “No, I suppose I can’t.”... “Was there something you wanted in particular, Sir Pierce?”
“No, no. I just wanted to extend my condolences. The rebels, they… they are a plague on our society. I’m only sorry that it took so long to subdue them; and that you were caught in the crossfire, dear princess.”
Dear princess. You’re going to get sick all over your pretty dress.
“That’s quite alright, Sir Pierce. No one man is at fault. I’m simply glad that it’s over with, now.” The words fit strangely in your mouth, and, licking your lips, you decide that you really can’t stay any longer. “If you excuse me, Alexander Pierce — I must pray now, and thank the gods for my return.”
“I understand, Your Highness. Have a nice night.”
“And you too, Sir Pierce.”
You stride away from him and even then you feel as if you can feel his gaze on you, crude and cloying, like oil or treacle. You’re stopped by a few patrons of the night, though you bid them adieu quickly — I must pray, you see. Forgive me, but thank you for your condolences. They all understand. Religion and power have always been tightly intertwined, after all. A full night of solitary prayer isn’t uncommon, as is your eagerness to reach the temple.
It isn’t until you’re safely corridors away from the banquet that you collapse against the wall, panting, ears ringing.
Alexander Pierce. This entire time — this entire cause, crumbled to nothing but dust and ash by one man trusted by everyone.
When you sob, clutching your chest, it echoes through the hallways.
Nobody hears.
x
The Sacred Temple is deep in the catacombs — a web of tunnels that stretch underneath the entire kingdom, and maybe further. Interlinked passages and corridors, secret doorways that end up in more places than you can imagine. Some dank and dar and ending in dead-ends, others well-lit and tiled: as is the passage to the Sacred Temple.
Square, aquamarine tiles cover every inch of floor, wall, and ceiling, illuminated with warm torches. The passage itself stretches far, taking up to 30 minutes to reach the end of, and although it breaks off in multiple places, you know the journey like the back of your hand.
You came here when you were born; when you were 10 and had your first bleeding; when you were 13 and entered womanhood. And every year you traipsed back and forth for the festivals of the Winter and Summer Solstices to pray for a plentiful harvest and goodwill.
You emerge from the tunnel just as the moon emerges from the clouds. The pale light of the moon affords you some comfort from the blackness of night.
The Temple's ceiling is so high it seems to stretch to the sky, with a glass ceiling of a rainbow of colours that — during the day — casts beams of light throughout the entire structure. You’ve always wondered how it was possible, with it being underground, but the ceiling had never been discovered from the surface, so in truth you had no clue where you truly were in the kingdom. Another one of life’s mysteries, you suppose.
The chamber is large and circular, with 7 other dark, vine-entangled doorways positioned at equal intervals. It tells of its age; at the time when the temple was discovered, almost two thousand years ago, it was already millenia old. The other 7 passages have never been explored, but you guess they open up all over the kingdom, if not the continent.
Dark, expertly carved stone pillars hold up arches and barrel vaults, crumbling and eroding in places — plants grow from cracks in the ground, thick creeping vines and roots. And in the centre of the room, the grand centrepiece — a statue of the Mother, the patron goddess of Azureal, almost seven times the size of a fully grown man. Carved with all the love of a loyal acolyte, the same dark stone as the rest of the temple.
She stands with her arms outstretched, eyes forward and unseeing but wise. All-seeing. The Mother, who gave birth to the first of everything. The first human, plant, animal. The bringer of harvests and seasons and justice — what irony that she is the patron goddess of Azureal.
Dripping water is the only thing that permeates the silence, along with the scuffing of your shoes along the dirty, dusty ground.
Now, standing at the entrance to the ancient temple, you feel completely and utterly small. A tiny blip in the grand scheme of things. A mere bystander to history. This temple has been here for thousands of years and it would remain for thousands more — a witness to war and famine and death and kings long gone.
Still, you continue forward. You kneel at the Mother’s feet, hands on your thighs. You look up at her, and then you begin to speak.
“I’ve never had the connection to the gods that my mother is blessed with,” you begin, quiet. “I… I falter in prayer. I forget to give thanks for every luxury I’ve been gifted. I rarely ever admit my sins. Sometimes, I—” You break off, throat dry. Your nose and eyes are stinging with the sudden weight of tears. “Sometimes, I wonder if you’re really there.”
The Mother simply stares.
“Before I pray, Mother,” you say, wiping your nose gently, “I have a confession. A confession, and a plea. I confess before you, Mother, that I have been complacent in the oppression of my people. I have lived every opulence there is to be lived, ignorant to their struggle. I want to make it right — I need to. It is my duty as princess and citizen.
“I’ve fallen in love,” you continue — and your chest floats with the revelation. You take a shuddering breath with it, laughing at your own relief, pressing a hand to your chest to steady your beating heart. “There — I’ve said it. I’ve fallen in love with the very man my father intends to — to execute. He fought for justice — he fought for your cause! He is kind and gentle and he loves this kingdom more than my father has, Mother, so I beg you—”
A watery, desperate sob. Your bottom lip trembles, but you don’t wipe away the tears that begin to pockmark your cheeks.
“This is my plea.” You place your fingers on the stone folds and creases of her dress, squeezing your eyes shut so tight that you see stars, galaxies, clouds. Hoping with every breath you take, with every grain and fleck of life within you that there is someone listening. “Please, Mother. Let him live on. Let the rebellion live on. Let us carry your message… Let my love live on. This is the only thing I will ever ask of you.”
You inhale shakily, and risk a glance up at her face. A bead of water falls from the ceiling, trailing its way from her sculpted eye to the ball of her stone chin. A tear.
There’s a scuffling behind you — you jump to attention, spinning on your knees to face the only entrance available.
“H-hello?” You call cautiously. Quickly, you whip away the tears on your cheeks. “Reveal yourself, please. I’ve only come to pray.”
A few seconds pass, before a figure in the doorway shifts, moving forward into the dim light. You recognize the pale blue of the dress, the long face and kind eyes. It’s Elizabeth.
“Elizabeth,” you say, tentative as you rise to your feet. “How — how much did you hear?”
She says nothing — just looks at you warily, as if searching you for something you’ve long since hidden away, and you feel sick. If she had heard even a second she’d be justified to report to your father—
“He said you were true. We didn’t believe him at first.”
You still. “...who?”
“Steven.”
“Steven?” You’re surging forward before you know what you’re doing, crossing the room to take her hands in yours. You know you must look in disarray — eyes wide and glassy, hands trembling. But she doesn’t recoil. “You — you’ve spoken to him? Is he okay? What is—”
“He’s mostly unharmed,” she murmurs. “A friend of mine was tasked with delivering food to the prisoners — well, if it could be called food. He asked her where her loyalties lay, and when she said with the rebellion, he begged her to send a message to you.”
“And — and the message?”
“He loves you more than life itself.”
It’s a strangled noise that leaves your throat. You find yourself releasing her hands and pressing your palms to your eyes, turning on your heel so that she couldn’t see your broken features. Foolish, foolish man. Risking everything to tell you he loves you, on the eve of his own execution.
Elizabeth clears her throat. “When I — when I heard that, I knew I had to help you see him. You both deserve that much before... before he…” Another awkward lull in conversation. “There are tunnels through here that lead to the dungeons. He’s separated from the rest of his men, with only one guard on duty that sleeps through the night. I can bring you there.”
“Y-you’d do that?” One last night. One last chance. One last kiss. Your heart thunders in your chest, palms perspiring with the anticipation of seeing him again. “I... didn’t know there was such support in the palace.”
“Most of us are lowborn. The guards are loyal to your father, but they fear him more than they love him,” Elizabeth says. She turns, then, nodding towards the door. “Come. You aren’t expected until morning — no-one will notice your absence.”
You let her lead you back out into the catacombs, with only a backward glance at the Mother. She is as indifferent as she’s always been.
Thank you.
X
When Elizabeth had said that the tunnels lead to the dungeons, you’d been expecting a door back into the palace near the dungeons entrance. Not a tiny, hidden latch that opens a trap door into an empty cell, complete with a rickety wooden ladder. Elizabeth goes first to check if the coast is clear — she gives you a hand up, then, ushering you quickly into the musty cell. It’s all cold stone walls and dusty floors; one miniscule barred window that lets in moonlight. Elizbeth swiftly opens the heavy iron door — peeks both ways once more, and with a nod of her head, you both turn left and start down the unlit corridor.
At first, all that is to be seen is the same iron doors on either side of you — one after the other after the other after the other, though they’re all bolted shut. You’re suddenly reminded of all those you knew that could be hidden behind them; Natalia and James and Samuel and Anthony and everyone. Everyone you wouldn’t be able to say goodbye to.
Suddenly, the corridor ends in a thin, steep staircase, poorly illuminated and much too rocky to be considered safe; but Elizabeth scurries down it hurriedly. There’s no banister to hold onto, and even the walls are slimy and grimy — but you keep your balance, you must, you refuse to fall, not when you’re so close to seeing him again—
The stairs come to an end. A passage runs perpendicular to the staircase — at the end of the right side, a table with a snoring guard. At the end of the left, a single, solitary door. Your heart lurches, but just as you surge towards it—
“Here,” whispers Elizabeth, quietly moving towards the guard. With nimble, artful fingers, she seizes the keys from a loophole of his belt; then, equally as quiet and fox-like, she crosses the corridor to the other side. You follow like you’re one of your father’s new hunting dogs — young and obedient and docile, almost shaking as she unlocks the door with a silent click. She presses the keys into your hands, then, peering into your eyes. “The guard doesn’t change until first light. Be gone by then, or—”
“I understand.” You glance at the unlocked door — still tantalisingly closed. But before you can enter… “Thank you, Elizabeth. Truly, you’ll never know how much this means to me—”
“I do,” she says, her smile heartbreakingly sad. “I can see it, princess.”
And with naught more than a nod of her head and a glance to the door behind you, she flutters back up the stairs, and out of sight.
You waste no more time — you push open the door, shutting it just as quickly behind you.
It’s still for a second. And then, from the shadows—
“Dove?”
You let out a great, shuddering cry at the sound of his voice. The dark mass in the corner of the cell rises to his feet, stepping into the light allowed in through his barred window — and there he is. Beard thicker, lip bruised, a cut across his forehead and a ring of purple around his left eye, but—
“Steven—” And it’s almost a whimper, in truth, as you toss the keys to the floor and instead set yourself into the bow of his embrace. “Oh, thank gods—”
He pulls you so tight to him that it’s hard to breathe, so tight that he lifts you from the floor and balances you against his chest. So tight that for a moment you think you’ll simply melt together, become one. There’s a wetness against the crook of your neck that makes you tremble — lungs convulsing with the effort of withholding tears.
“I thought I’d never see you again,” he sniffs, crowding a hand around the back of your head. “Never — never hold you again— Look at you, you’re divine—”
His lips are on yours before he can finish his sentence — once, twice, three times, stealing every breath you can muster, teeth clashing and lip biting in your hurry to feel each other. Somehow one set of fingers ends up tangled in his hair, the other pressed over his hand on your cheek, and, for the period of time your kiss lasts — could be one minute, or ten — you let yourself forget everything.
Everything. (Even this dank, cold cell.)
Everything. (Even tomorrow.)
He pulls back. His eyes scan the synclines and anticlines of your face — in another universe he’s an artist, you think, rendering your likeness in his brain to recreate it hours later on canvas. That’s how he looks at — studies — you.
“Did you get my message?” He says, smiling tearfully. His shackled hands move fleetingly over your face, as if to imprint the shape and texture of your skin in his mind — cupping your cheeks, your jaw, brushing his thumb over your forehead and wiping away a traitorous tear.
“Yes,” you sniffle — laughing, crying, it’s all the same here— “Yes, yes, I did, my love. And you know I feel the same.”
“I never doubted it for a second.” His smile flickers. “What are you doing here? It’s too dangerous for you to be seen—”
“I don’t care,” you interrupt. “To hell with it. Let them catch me—”
“Don’t say that. You have to live.”
“While you die—?!”
“The rebellion must live on in some way,” says Steve, eyebrows furrowing. “It can’t end with us, my love, you have to carry it on—”
“I don’t think I can live without you.”
It makes him freeze in his tracks, the weakness of your voice. The way it cracks and breaks halfway through, crumbling to grief. You see his own jaw quiver with restraint — eyes growing watery, nostrils flaring.
“Don’t do this,” he pleads — presses his forehead against yours, so close that you can feel his breath against your lips. “Please, I — I can’t go to the gallows a brave man if I know that your death will follow.”
You say nothing. Your frustration is building, brick by brick — your desperation is mounting in equal measure. “I — I have the keys,” you continue hastily, “We can leave. The guard won’t be awake for hours and I’m not expected until—”
“_____.”
Even you know that it’s all hopeless blabbering. Plans and wishes that would never come to fruition. The truth is that you’d never make it out of the dungeons, never mind the kingdom. He knows this. You know this. Still, your body is wracked with sobs. You feel as if your heart will simply continue to tighten and tighten until it bursts and shatters and deteriorates.
“To escape while the rest of my men die goes against everything I stand for,” is whispered against your lips — firm, but distraught. “You know this.”
“I do.” And… and you wouldn’t be able to, either. You know this, too. You wouldn't abandon your people once more — your mind would never allow it.
"Don't try to save me," he whispers, eyes flickering between yours. "You'll endanger yourself, do you hear?"
"Like you'd do the same?" Your words are too bitter, maybe, but he only smiles.
"We both know you're much smarter than me, princess."
…
“I’ve never felt so helpless in my entire life.”
“Not even when you were first learning to pick potatoes?” A weak quirk of his lips that you follow with your eyes.
“It’s a close second, I promise you.”... “It was Pierce that gave up the rebellion. I talked to him — he was a guest at my welcoming banquet.”
Steven curses, crude and snake-like. His shackles rattle as he turns and slams his palm against the wall — you jolt, worriedly peeking out of the cell to check on the security. But nothing has changed. “After everything… after everything.”
“Look at me,” you say, pulling at his arm. “We only have so much time. Don’t spend it on Pierce.”
“Right. Right.”
The silence that follows is melancholy, heavy.
It’s a strange feeling. You’re both aware that tomorrow, the world will change. You’re both aware that these are your last hours together. But here, in the darkness, with only quiet and moonlight to guide you, it feels as if those last hours could simultaneously last a lifetime or a few seconds.
And then he’ll be gone. Forever.
Your fingers in his hair tighten. Another kiss is pressed to your mouth, petal soft.
"Steven,” sighed in the air between you, eyes squinting to see each other, “If this is to be our last night together… let me give myself to you.”
His hand stills on your waist, tightens its grip. You see, as he tugs his face away from you, that he is trying to look from one of your eyes to the other — flickering back and forth, eyes narrowed as if it would help enhance his vision. “Are you… are you sure?”
“You’re the only man I want to have, Steven Rogers. In this life and the next, and… if I can make sweet of a sour situation, I will.”
You feel the splashing of a tear where you’ve placed your fingers: across the curves of his cheeks, thumbs smoothing over his raggedy beard lovingly.
“I can’t say that I have much to give, but I will give myself to you as if it were my first.”
You swallow through your own tears. “That’s all I can ask of you, my love.”
And so, that night, you hand your maidenhood to the rebel captain on a silver platter.
It is dirty, dusty, grimy — and yet, he takes you just as carefully as if he’s laid you down on plush blankets. He’s ever so gentle with your clothes — undoes every button and lace, waits patiently as the dress and robe fall to your ankles, a pool of gold. And when you’re laid bare to him, completely bare, he drops to his knees as if in prayer.
You’re beautiful — whispered against the soft skin of your stomach.
I’m the luckiest man alive — murmured as his hands rise up, thumb brushing the pebbled tips of your breasts.
I love you, I love you, I love you. His lips never falter in their chanting — as if he’s determined to say it as much as he can in what little time he’s been afforded. But he makes good of that little time.
First, with your thighs wound around his head so tightly you blush. His tongue feasting between your legs, a hand stretched up your torso to grasp and squeeze at your chest — he brings you to your first orgasm like this. It catches you so off guard that you yank on his hair much too roughly, wide-eyed and gasping because who knew it was supposed to be like this?
When he takes you, then, it’s with just as much attentiveness as before. He sits you on his lap so that you’re as close as you can possibly be, and then, for the first time in your life, you’re entered. The stretch burns, at first, but with his fingers working between your legs, you adjust. Every touch is meant to bring you pleasure, and pleasure alone — hands cradling you as if you’re the finest China, the most delicate porcelain, the most precious of jewels. It’s enough to bring tears to your eyes again.
He brings you the most intense, loving pleasure you’ve ever felt, wringing your lungs of all breath, rendering your limbs shaky and jelly-like. With you sitting on his lap, cradling his head to your chest, his arms grasping your back in such a way that you know there will be bruises, marks. Evidence painted on your body for only you to see, even after he — after he—
“Be here with me,” he gasps, “don’t be out there. Keep your mind in here, in the now, dove.”
You only clutch him closer — tighter, then, when your pleasure peaks again and you’re left with white vision and goosebumped skin. His own ecstasy follows minutes later, hips held flush, his face buried into the crook of your neck to muffle his groans. The warmth that fills you from the inside out makes you shiver, though the room is now clammy and hot. Maybe that’s just your skin — sticky and sweaty, your tiara askew and hair falling from its pins.
Gods know how long you stay like that for. Maybe an hour, maybe two. You simply hold each other close and breath the same air, exist in the same space. He’s still seated deep inside you, all warm and oddly comforting. In the back of your mind you think, perhaps, that the earth will simply stop spinning if you stay like this. Time will stop. Tomorrow will never come. The infamous rebel captain will live on and on and on.
Alas, the darkness outside begins to lighten, bit by bit.
Steven tries to be strong as you lift yourself from him, as you slip your dress back over your head. He silently helps tie the laces around your back, assists you as you grapple with your slinky robe. You’re not quite so unassailable— your hands shake so hard that he has to help you straighten your tiara, clasping his hands gently over yours, though even after it’s fixed he refuses to let you go.
“Don’t forget me.” And he’s genuinely scared, no matter how well he hides it behind his hardened brow and his sharpened jaw.This rebel leader, the fearsome Captain of the revolution. Death may not scare him but this does — still, you can’t even fathom how he can think that you would ever. “Even when — when you’re married and—”
“If I marry another it won’t be out of love,” you say fiercely. “You know it won’t. You’ll always be the first.” He doesn’t look doubtful — only teary, and disbelieving, as if still he can’t quite believe that you’re his. You grapple shakily at your wrist, then, unlatching the diamond bracelet hanging there. It had belonged to your grandmother, worn for special occasions only. “Take it.”
“I won’t need it.”
“Take it,” you insist. You push it into his hands, close his fingers around it. “P—please. To have something with you when — when…”
His throat bobs as he swallows. It’s too small for his own wrist — he pushes it into the pocket on his chest, right atop his heart. “I love you. Don’t ever forget that.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it — I love you too, Steven Rogers.” More tiring, treasonous tears that sting your eyes and your nose and your throat and your mind. “I won’t abandon the people of this kingdom. I promise you.”
The sky is a deep, cerulean blue, a burning orange at the horizon. The sun is rising.
You slip out of Steven’s cell with one more whispered declaration of love that’s more crying than words; you lock his door behind you. You tie the keys back onto the still-snoring guard’s belt loop, and climb those treacherous stairs once more. With a mind so vacant that you hardly take notice of the journey through the tunnel, you soon reach the Temple once more, and rise from the catacombs.
You retire to your quarters. You don’t sleep a wink.