The Princess
I’ve always thought that men were funny things, with egos the size of boars. When they see something said unattainable, they kill themselves trying to attain it. When they are warned away from something, they run toward it. When they see something dangerous they go ahead to prove it is not, not for them, the strongest, the fastest, the smartest, the etc. I would know. I spent my life taunting them, blooming in their minds and their desires.
Today, five men danced with me. Today, three have died on the floor, one against the wall, and the last on the final beat of my favorite song. They may have all been by my hand, but none were by my intention. It has been three years and still they come, one after the other, from far out lands, old storyteller pubs, countrysides far and wide. It is obvious to me why, even if my father does not see it. They want to prove themselves different, see if they can do what no other has, if they can tame the untamable, if they can win my heart, and if not, the throne.
My father is displeased, I can see it on his face as he studies how the maids scrub at the blood staining the center of the dance floor. He does not dare to go near me, but he has too much pride to plainly cast me out of the house. It helps, I think, that he has no legitimate male heir, just the million bastard-born sons that litter the streets, and me, a female devil. It is why he does not let me near him, hands me over to the female servants, nine of which I have managed to mortalise in the time I have met them. I can see it in the way that he forces the servants to polish his crown; he does not want to be mortal, when he is already the nearest to a God he can be. It just goes to show the jealousy of the Gods as they sent the Devil herself as his daughter.
Father’s eyes flicker to mine and narrow into slits. It is the closest thing to a threat I have gotten since he attempted to throw me out of the manor and I killed the five soldiers who tried to drag me out. Now, it is only glares and unspoken words. Funny how the most powerful man in Brookes is undone, quieted, scared by a mere woman, his own daughter. I feel my lips curve into a smile and I know to the man, to anyone who knows my story, it is a dangerous thing. I see it in the slight gasp given by the maid on my right, the hesitation given by the soldier at my side, the paling of the King.
For a second, I think of the throne as mine, the kingdom as my domain, and my heart as my own. Then I remember nothing here is mine and I turn away to step through the gilded doors of the room where I spend most of my time. Nothing here is mine but for the fear I inspire in the World and the worn dancing slippers on my feet. Even my heartbeat is promised to another.
There will be another ball tomorrow, and one the day after, until my father realizes no man is immune to this, and then, when he undoubtedly tries, no women either. I will kill them all.
The Champion
There is an almost intoxicating air at the King’s Ball. It exists every night, and it is strong enough that there are only around two-hundred men and women waltzing on the expansive gold and red ballroom floor. Many more line the walls, unwilling to get onto the dance floor touched by the Devil, but curious enough to see her. I wear my jacket, the one covered in foreign medals, but the true mark of me is simply the face of the man who changed the world. The people around me whisper, some about the exploits in England and the heroics in Scotland. For all my saving, it should be, by all accounts, Brookes turn. It would be the largest of my conquests, my venture into the quiet, rich Kingdom to slay their deadliest creature: the Princess.
Surely, that is what the people around me think. And yet…
And yet, I am tired. I have no wish to change another country. No wish to find my name again on everyone’s lips. I only wish, to finally sleep, rest, die. And, of course, have a conversation with the she-devil. Which is why, of all places, I am here.
Hello Brookes, home to my grave.
The Princess
I wear crimson, like always. The maids have grown tiresome of washing out the blood stains that find their way onto my gowns each night, and now I have grown bored of the color, though it claims to suit me. There are five more gowns waiting in my room, in close vicinity to the ornamented ballroom where I spend my hours, ready for the next men who find themselves dead.
One of the servants motions to me frantically, and I look up and steel myself just as the doors open and I step out, surveying the crowd as my name is announced… and blink. They will need more than five gowns.
The music has stopped, and so has the eerily familiar sea of swirling bodies on the dance floor. Throngs of gentlemen wait by the stairs, studying me as I descend, and I hold my head higher to make up for the rumors, the ads, the sermons by hateful priests. The strangely populated crowd parts around my body, and I nod and smile and wave when supposed to as I make my way to my Father’s throne. I am not intercepted. My father’s guards step forward slightly to stop me from stepping too close.
It hasn’t been this crowded since the very first ball.
I feel their eyes on my form, my body, and I am grateful, for once, to my maid for choosing the deep-cut and embroidered gown I wear now. With so many enemies, I need my battle armour. I am perfectly pristine, my eyes devoid of emotion, my hair pinned back just so. I am the fruit dangled over a viper’s cage, or better yet, I am a viper. A man asks me to dance, we do, he dies at the King’s feet.
It is an hour before the eighth man steps up, and, at that moment, I know I am definitely going to Hell. Unless you are blind, you know his face, it’s plastered over every surface in the next seven realms. He is the savior of five of the greatest nations in the World. And now, he’s here to save this one from me.
At least I know the Devil will welcome me.
He bows low, his chest folding almost all the way down to his legs. “May I have this dance?”
I feel my father’s glare, hear another unspoken threat and smile weakly at this savior before me. “Of course.”
I slide my palm into his, wait to see a sign of pain, and let him lead me onto the dance floor, ignoring the excitedly whispering onlookers. I know this waltz well, like all other dances. This is what I have been doing since my fourteenth birthday, since the law, and the church allowed me to. My father, if approved, would have done it much earlier.
He leads me through the dance with practiced ease, but in solemn silence. It’s a waltz, but a strange one, supposedly from some other foreign land recently conquered. My dance tutor, the one who always wears leather armor and a sword when he dances with me tells me that I need not be interested in these types of things, rather stick to my dresses and the steps.
My savior smiles at me tightly, his eyes beginning to cry tears of red, and I try to smile back even as our bare palms brush against each other.
I start to close my eyes, for even I can feel guilt about this one death, this great man.
“Wait,” he whispers. “Don’t close your eyes, red flower. I know my own time for death. At least look at me.”
I breathe in sharply. Then, I open my eyes.
The Champion
My Lord, does it hurt. It feels like all my bones are one fire, like my eyes are tearing themselves out of my skull. And the girl, the dangerous she-devil looks as if she wants to fall into the pits of Hell, like she can’t help my silently screaming pains. She is quite beautiful. My eyes unwillingly glance down towards her spilling cleavage as they bleed and water. Very beautiful.
No. My mind says. You’ve lost all time for pleasure. Do what you have come to do.
Right, I grip her palm tighter, and smile a little softer. She is three years my junior, responsible for hundreds of more dead men than the plague, and beautiful. That is all I need to know.
She swallows carefully, her gray eyes watering, her strength wavering. Sympathy has always been something that escaped me, as there was the right and the wrong. Those who wavered in the in-between lost to one or the other side eventually. And yet, this girl seems to occupy the perfect shade of gray.
“I don’t want to kill you.” She starts, and I go to cut her off, but she executes a perfect spin at that exact second, and I blush at my bumbling leading skills. Even for a dying man, without her excellent form this dance would be atrocious. “I have admired what you have done for many years, really. It is quite incredible, the differences you have brought to our world… I-I admire you more than I have ever admired someone.”
Her eyes dance with a barely lit fire. She does not look malicious.
She continues, “You’re the only one to save this kingdom from me, you know. The only one who can free these people from their fantasies.” She meets my eyes here, as if she’s trying to prove something to me. “When I touch someone they die. You know this, undoubtedly, and I assume the world will tell you that the best way to save Brookes is to tame me. You are here to save Brookes, I assume.”
I go to answer her, only for her to speak over me. My breath gets softer and gentler, and the pain ebbs a bit. I wonder if this is what death feels like. Terrible at first, and then soft and sweet, like an embrace more than stab. I try to focus back on her words.
“-would it matter so much if I died? My father believes he will find a man immune to what I can do, one who does not die when I touch him, and he thinks that when he does he can marry me off simply. He will have his lineage on the throne then, and his she-devil taken care of. But there’s no need!”
I blink. Perhaps it is the way that she says it, like it’s the only truth in the world, her words dipped in a tone of self-loathing, but there is that blasted sympathy rising once more to the surface.
“Then,” I pause, wincing at the rough texture of my voice, “what do you suppose I should do,” the last couple words release from me like a gasp, and I can feel myself slump forward slightly onto her form. We trip a bit in our steps, and all at once the volume of the crowd around us rushes into my skull, breaking down the weak dam I had built against the pain. Some people are gasping, others moaning, and more so laughing at our spectacle. I think they have hope, for I am not dead yet. It has been near an entire song, and I am not dead yet, so I don’t have the heart to yell to the gleeful few that I am nearing death quite fabulously.
“Champion-” she starts, undoubtedly to answer my question, but I stop her, putting a finger up to her plump, red lips. I think I would like them to form my name.
“Call me-” I gasp, trying to get some air in my lungs and her eyes widen as even more of my weight slumps onto her. I notice something wet where my hand meets her waist and lift my palm to my blurry eyes during the next dizzying twirl. It seems to be in the process of leaking blood, as if there are a thousand little cuts where my pores should me. How intriguing.
When our bodies meet again she looks frantic, almost like a gaping fish. The sight makes me smile, but that somehow seems to make her more anxious. “WHAT? CALL YOU WHAT?” she hisses, pressing closer than I’m sure propriety calls.
I lean closer, adopting once more the position of my weight onto hers, and whisper into her ear, “Charles. My name.” Her lips are quite captivating. They form a perfect little ‘o’. She looks struck, almost, like she has been given the birthday present that she wished for her whole life.
“Alright then.” A swallow. “Charles.”
The name sounds honey sweet on her lips.
“I propose,” She looks up at me, and for once it does not feel like saving when she tells me her request, “for you to kill me.”