nothing else but my heart's desire [COLLECTION] | FINISHED

Figures - ORIGINAL PROSE

A princess, soon-to-be queen, rose one night, as she woke from her nightmare. Rain poured, patting against her window as she wiped the sweat from her brow, her breathing heavy, quick and laboured from the awful visions her mind had conjured: she recalled how her father and mother's reign had come to an end, how blood had stained the marble floor, how the wicked foes had sought to eliminate their family line by eradicating the children, along with the parents, that fateful night, but had been stopped in their tracks by some unknown force. Her own memories had been messy, with many black holes where knowledge and insight into her parents' murder had fallen through, likely never to be retrieved; her nightmares did their best to make up for such things, filling in the gaps with dreadful images of unspeakable horrors, twisting her survivor's guilt into something even more horrid, as it did with her brother's, as they both often had terrible nightmares. When they were young, they found they could only really sleep well if they slept side by side, safe in the knowledge that they had each other, that family still remained. It had been a hard few years then, but as time drifted on, her brother had strayed, giving up his birthright as he felt the weight on the crown too heavy to bear. As the oldest, it had been his, only hers now as a formality, though no one truly thought a woman could rule. She gritted her teeth and cursed herself under her breath, safe in the knowledge those nightmares were not real, but frustrated, angry by how much she had to prove herself to be worthy of her parents' legacy, though it had been just as much hers in name as it had been her brother's. Now, he found himself drunk in pubs and rarely came home, though she always had her spies, loyal to her and her family, lingering nearby, keeping a watchful eye on the former prince and heir, on any would-be assassins who thought about finishing the job started long ago. She glanced over at the windows - tall, wide, looking out over the gardens, which had been, previously, such a beautiful sight, but now the gardeners had found themselves fast asleep in their beds, the tree branches twisting and turning violently in the chaotic winds, the ground turned the mud quickly in the rush of rain from the heavens; it invoked such unease in her heart, and she longed for her parents, as she did every night for the past decade or so. She had been young then, and while no one said it, they had expected her, especially her, to move on past the incident, to push it to the back of her brain, to follow her path as the future ruler, without carrying the baggage of the past upon her shoulders - no tears, no pain, no upset, as was the responsibility of the monarch, for they must be the will, the strength, the collective conscience of the people. She was their mother, their daughter, their child and themselves embodied in one singular being - as she had been told many times by those closest, and not-so-close, to her. She wanted to scream each time she thought of such things, instead she curled back beneath her covers and tried to seek comfort in the warmth her bed sheets offered her. She could feel the cold creep in through her hands and feet, inching their way towards her heart, and not for the first time she wondered if it were not her brother who was in danger of a attack or life-threatening attempt to end their family line. It would make sense, and she couldnt help but feel panic rising in her chest, as all things do when she dwells too much on them. She found herself struggling for breath under the now oppressive nature of the sheets which covered her head; her mind conjured up images of monsters and ghouls waiting for her on the other side, and it took all the courage she could muster to remove them, to face the fears she felt, all but some self-imposed, like a self-fulfilling prophercy, as though she were her biggest enemy, her greatest obstacle and her downfall in the end. She was alone, and she found herself sighing in relief, finally finding sleep overcoming any anxious urge to stay awake, watching the shadows. If only she had, the would-be queen might have seen them flicker and shift, as a figure appeared, taking the shape of a man, holding a sword, gripped with ease in his hand, as though it were an extension of his own arm, as though his hand had adapted perfectly to grip it, to hold it, to use it with lethal precision. And it took only moments for him to do so, or at least it would have, had Maria's guard, one of her most trusted, had not opened the door to check on the sleeping princess. She slept peacefully through the night, the guard glanced around the room and saw not a soul, as the figure melted back into the shadows, its whole being becoming one with the darkness which engulfed the room in the dead of night. And so on, the figure waited, until it had the perfect moment to strike.