Lips Like Ice

XXIX

Lydia is shut away in the basket again when they arrive. She cannot see what happens when the door opens, only hears the people come in and start pulling out the little luggage that was in the compartment with them. The rest of it, the boxes of books and Lydia's writing desk, his clothes and his personal items, must be stored under the carriage, because Lydia can feel thumps and hear voices under the floor.

"Is this really necessary?" the Prince mutters beside her, and there is the sound of a murmured reply, the shuffle of cloth. "Well then can I not dress in an actual room after I've bathed. Can you not—stop! I am perfectly capable of unbuckling my own... oh, I see I've lost all bodily autonomy along with my freedom. As you like, then," he sneers, voice thick with sarcasm.

It would be funny if it wasn't clear that the Prince is being cleaned up for the pleasure of a wife that is a serial killer.

Lydia peers through the gaps in the basket wall, but all she can see is the Prince's back, tight with annoyance and flexed with muscles held rigid to prevent him, she assumes, from striking out at the people flittering around him. Cloth is pulled off his body, pulled on, his hair combed and styled. Lydia hears the jingle of jewelry, the clink of precious stones, smells something acrid and false. A perfume that mimics the floral scent of the Prince in the midst of coitus, but is too fake. Someone is right in front of the Prince's face, holding a stick up to his eye. No, a brush. Makeup? Possibly.

The Prince turns his head away when the person before him pokes too hard, snarling in annoyance, and Lydia catches a glimpse of his face. He looks like a tart. Lydia has enough of a gut reaction to the thought of a little guy-liner to realize that her pre-fire self must have believed that it was hot, but too much is too much, and the Prince is being dressed up like a seraglio harlot.

Lydia feels a pang of sympathy, but stays quiet. She knows he prefers darker, richer colors, simpler cuts, less decoration and ostentation than what they are manhandling him into. He is no peacock, like his father and brother. Perhaps his preference for drabber looks is what makes him womanish, here, but Lydia can't figure out if that makes him the weaker or oppressed sex. It seems pretty equal among the ice elves; the men rule the court, and the women rule the men. But royal children, it seems, are chattel until they prove themselves in blood sport, take power for themselves.

It isn't the Prince's maleness that disgusts everyone in this world, but the fact that he went against tradition, that he chose wrong.

Lydia sits back in the center of the basket, and screws her eyes shut, pinching the bridge between them in the hopes of fending off a headache. Nothing in the world makes sense. But, granted, if the Prince had come to Earth, she's sure that nothing in her world would make sense to him, either.

Instead of getting herself in knots over something she literally and in the largest sense can't control, Lydia lays back and schools herself to patience. She tries some deep breathing, trying to clear her mind, listening to her body. Mostly her body is saying "the scar still prickles and burns!" and "the cut on your hand is stinging!" and "when do you think you're going to get a bathroom break? Not urgent now, but soon..."

But she's gotten very good at mindless waiting now. She just takes deep breaths and listens to the Prince splutter and squawk. Lydia isn't going to lie to herself: it's amusing as hell. Exactly as she expected, one of the porters grabs the basket by the handles at either side and hefts her up off the seat as soon as the Prince is declared done.

"Where are you taking that?" the Prince demands to know.

"Your apartments, sire," the porter replies.

There is a pause, and Lydia can visualize the Prince's glare absolutely perfectly. A giggle escapes at the thought of the way the porter must be reacting, and the basket lurches.

"Careful!" the Prince snarls. "It is alive and fragile. And it will remain unharmed, do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sire," the porter says and there is another sway and shift, and Lydia is being carried away.

Panic swells against her sternum and Lydia puts her head between her knees and breathes deeply. The last time she was taken away from the Prince, it was by his brother. And now... it would be so easy for the porter to throw the basket out a window, or down a garbage chute, or into a... into a fire.

Don't think about it, Lydia screams to herself. Don't think about it. Think about something else.Think about... about how the Prince is still protecting you. Referred to you as "it" just now, not "she," not "you."

Back to impersonal pronouns.To protect you. To make you seem less valuable than you are. Oh, god, I feel sick. I feel sick.

Lydia lays down slowly, so the sudden shift in the weight distribution wouldn't make the porter drop her. The basket must be big and unwieldy, even for an ice elf alien thing, and the last thing she wants is to take a tumble. Especially with the glass shard still tucked against her lower back.

They walk for what is probably twenty minutes, which means that the docking port is probably a good ways away from the royal apartments. If the royal apartments is where the Prince and by default Lydia are going to be living.

She has killed her last three husbands, Lydia thinks. Possibly we're headed straight to a torture chamber.

She'd been trying very hard not to think of her lover's fate. But now, closed up and dark, alone, terrified, the tears come. Lydia hates how weak it makes her feel, how small, but tears are all she has, the only freedom left to her. And to her Prince.

And if he dies, she knows that she will be right behind him. She reaches around, unsheathes her makeshift weapon. She fingers the tip of the shard through its wrapping, unable to see it clearly for the tears that roll, fat and hot, down her sore cheeks. But she can feel it, the sharp sting of the uneven glass, the smooth contour of the bottle it once was, the cold weight in her hand. The press against her cut palm.

She cradles it carefully, forehead propped on her knees, and begs the universe for the strength that she's going to need. Hopes that it won't be so soon as all that.

It is the only power over her own life that she has left—to live, or die. And she has already chosen to die. She has already died once, really, so there is no one left on Earth to grieve for her this time. There is only one person who will miss her, and if he does outlive her, his missing her is not actually a guarantee.

So Lydia weeps, and instead grieves for herself.

For them both.

*If you're enjoying this story, please don't forget to vote and comment. Thanks.