Runaway Love

Chapter 2

The next day was agonizingly slow. You know how time moves faster when you're having fun? Well, it moves like maple syrup when you're excited. Which is to say, not very fast at all.
The princess packed for the trip at once. Flowy dresses, adorned with silk and velvet and satin, all folded neatly and packed away. Underneath the beautiful gowns, however, was a dress and apron much more suited to commoner's fashion. This was crucial to the plan.
The princess's plan was as follows: she would go into town as expected, followed by a gaggle of guards. All royal business would be conducted on the first day (nothing suspicious going on just yet). On the second day, she would ask to be escorted by a guard into the city to familiarize herself with the townsfolk. Underneath her lavish gown would be the commoner's clothing that was packed. She would go into a crowded tavern, duck into the mass of people, and ditch the guard, as well as her overdress. Now that she knew about Martin's weak leg, she was also prepared to use force if she had to. Once in the crowd, she would sneak out the door, run out, and never look back. Blending in with the common folk, she would assume a new life, and finally be free of the kingdom she loathed so.
Just a few more days, she thought. And then I'll be out of here for good. She stared at the ceiling once more. There was nothing left to do but wait for the day to pass.
Wait. And wait. And wait some more. It was unbearable. She had been held captive for years, but now just one more day seemed like too much. All she could do was wait, until she eventually fell asleep.
The night was hardly restful, though. Tossing and turning, the princess woke up frequently. It was likely the cortisol in her system from all the excitement stopping her from sleeping, but this is not modern day, and they don't know about that kind of thing, so let's just say it felt like a curse. The lamest of curses. What kind of witch wastes their time stopping a princess from sleeping? That's so boring. Step up your game, witch. But anyway, the night passed, albeit slowly.
When morning broke, the princess rose. She checked and double-checked her bags, brushed and re-brushed her hair, and sat patiently as her royal makeup artists put on a full face for her. Today was the day. She would finally leave the castle.
It wasn't long before a guard came up to escort her down the castle steps. Hundreds of ornate portraits and ornaments decorated the halls of the castle. It would have been beautiful if it wasn't a reminder of the reason she was leaving the castle in the first place. The two of them made it down the long spiral staircase leading out of the princess's tower, and walked down the stark white corridor to the throne room.
There the king was, sitting regally on his chair. Silver and gold, jewels of all kinds, vibrantly dyed fabrics, all competed with each other for attention on the king's body. It was not a good look, but it certainly was an expensive one. The perfectly clipped beard that sat on his face only added to the chaos, a juxtaposition of style and garishness. The throne itself was no different: the golden details of the armrests and skeleton of it were beautifully done, handcrafted with care and skill, but the velvet seat was studded with every kind of jewel and decoration imaginable. It was certainly a symbol of good fortune, but definitely not one of good taste.
The princess stood there, taking it all in, as more and more guards began to take their positions around her. This was the first time she had seen her father in ages. Her resentment for him had had years to ferment and brew; it took all she had to not tear him apart right then and there.
But looking at the old man, she saw sadness in his eyes. The look of a man who is world-weary and war-torn, who had seen unimaginable horrors. She almost felt sorry for him. This man, given so much power against his will, forced to carry the burden of a kingdom he never experienced firsthand, cooped up in his royal circle and never knowing the lives of the townsfolk he ruled, couldn't be the same evil figure that cast her aside and locked her away, could he?
Wait a minute. First of all, it's his fault he doesn't fraternize with the villagers. He's an adult, and he has control over his own actions. And sure, he may have a lot of work to do, but he shouldn't take that out on real living beings, whether that be raising taxes on the poor to pay for his decadent robes or imprisoning his own daughter in her room for life. No matter how much grief he has experienced, that doesn't give him any right to be the kind of person he is. One twinge of pity doesn't make up for over a decade of abuse.
The princess's rage started to build again. But she couldn't say a word. One wrong move, and she'd never see the outside world. One wrong step, and she'd be right where she started. All she could do was wait in silence until the procession was finished.
The king began to speak. Something about a momentous occasion, little bird finally leaving the nest, yada yada yada. His booming voice echoed around the empty room, drawing attention to how eerie the space was when it wasn't filled with council members and royal guests. It sent a chill down the princess's spine. She stood there and accepted the stingingly impersonal speech. It hurt, really, hearing all these affectionate terms, hearing the king talk about how precious his little girl is to him, knowing full well how little he must love her to restrict her to a single room for a lifetime.
But soon it was over. A royal procession flanked the guards, and marched along with them all as they left. The king went back to sitting there with his blank, sad stare, not appearing to care about the event at all.
And they were off. Trumpets and confetti filled the air. They weren't very good trumpets, mind you. It was the king (and his shockingly bad sense of style) that set this up, after all. People stared, gaping, at the extravagant procession. They dared not to get too close, because of the strict rules of the kingdom, but they got as near as they dared to get the best look possible at the elusive Princess Verenise. Every gossip in the town took mental notes, preparing to recount the story of how they got to see the hermit princess leaving her cave: how beautiful she looked, how ugly she looked, how she appeared to them in a dream, all that jazz.
Soon enough, though, they made it to the carriage and were off on their journey.