The Princess's Servant

81. Emotions

The cold air of the night chilled Holden's throat as he took in breath after breath. His body felt heavy; his forehead felt warm. He trudged and trekked and forced himself
through the dark woods until finally he reached it: his cabin.

The windows were dark. All was still in the night. The prince made his way up the familiar porch steps and he entered his abode. He went straight for the door to the left — his bedroom — and threw himself down on the bed.

A brush of wind. A chattering of leaves. The cabin creaked with the memory of Holden's footsteps. The prince took a long breath in and turned over in his blankets.

He stared up at the ceiling, dark though it was. Well this was it. This was the night he'd dreamt of. The night of his wedding. Holden felt cold water streak his skin from the sides of his eyes to his hairline. He held in sobs.

As soon as he met Sybil, he knew he wouldn't have the wedding he'd always imagined. He knew someone like her in a wedding like theirs would make for challenges. He'd expected drama, and he'd expected her pointed (if misdirected) rage. But what he hadn't expected was...

In his mind's eyes, he could see her in the cathedral.

"I swear to never harm you."

"Wardian, I would swear to be your thing for all of time if it meant I no longer had to be in a room with you."

Ice. Coldness that could freeze a sweltering summer day.

This was something worse than hate. This was apathy, and he had never felt it from her since they'd met. Not since the letters.

And yet... Holden curled a little in his bed. Behind the frost of her eyes, he swore he'd seen... The prince narrowed his own eyes as he remembered the feeling. A shred of warmth. A spark of emotion. Of perhaps something greater.

He brought a hand to his face and he laughed. Holden straightened himself out in his sheets, a smile on his lips. What a ridiculous thought. The princess didn't care for him. She never had, and he was increasingly certain she never would. She might not have even been capable of caring for anyone, not truly. And to imagine that there was anything behind her words besides malice and spite was foolish at best and dangerous at worst.

No, the warmest feeling Sybil could conjure was hatred, which Holden now nearly missed. He turned over in his bed again, his smile fading. Something deep within him stirred. So this was it. This was the rest of his life. This was his lot. He was bound to spend his days hated by the woman he'd swore he'd love. Trapped by his own promises and his own inability to be cruel and cold, as she was. 'You win,' she'd said. No. She'd won, in every interaction they'd ever had. She'd won, in every letter she'd never sent him. She'd won in every promise Holden had ever made.

He saw that now. He would always mind her, though she would never mind him. Because though Sybil was cruel, fate was far crueler. And it was time he bowed his head to the latter and accepted what circumstance had given him.

And anyways, Holden had always known deep down it would come to this. In ever promise he ever made, in ever letter she never wrote, in ever interaction they'd ever had, he'd read between the lines. Those fantasies of romance and those dreams of love he'd envisioned were never meant to come true.

*****

Sybil approached the guest house with her handmaid. In the dim lantern light she saw a blocky building with a tiled roof and vacant windows. The wind billowed hard enough to make the sheltered candle shutter. The handmaid braced against the gust and unlocked the door for her lady.

The parting door revealed a dark kitchen/living room that the two women piled into. The servant lead her lady to the back towards a spiraling staircase that led up. Sybil forced her bare feet up the slate steps until they met an old rowan door. The servant pushed it aside for the princess and Sybil entered.

Her handmaid did not follow. "Is there anything I can do for you, your highness?" The girl asked. But the princess slammed the door in her face. The servant flinched at the sound, but otherwise turned away, wordless as she headed back down the stairs.

The princess stood for a moment, and then she stood for another. And then another and another until finally, she fell to her knees. She heaved for breath, for breath, for breath as tears stung the corner of her eyes and her teeth clenched like a trap. Her entire body heaved with cries she would not permit and shook with a fear she would not acknowledge.

Death. Death. Her fingers gripped the grainy hardwood floor. She curled in deeper until her forehead met the planks. Death. This was impossible. This was the worst. This was the Thing That Could Not Happen, the Thing That Should Not Happen, the Thing That Ends All Things.

This was a feeling, as most terrible things are.

Sybil allowed herself one wail of a yell as she groaned out in pain. As soon as it was out she clenched her teeth back tight and arched her back further against the emotion.

Death. Death. The end of all. It didn't make sense. She'd heard people enjoyed this emotion. But how could anyone enjoy this?

Death. Death. Release. How she needed release. But to give herself that would be to acknowledge the Thing That Must Not Be Acknowledged On Pain of Death.

Death. Death. Light. The lantern burned beside her. The floors were wood. The house was stone, but the floors were made of wood. She was on the wood. It wouldn't take long.

Death. Death. Breath. She panted for air. And when she'd taken in too much, the world spun and she found herself spinning to the side. She collapsed and wrapped her cloak around her tight. She stared past the dark stone of the ceiling.

Death. Death. Death. The princess suffered on that floor for a long while. She gripped and shook and fought to breathe. And then she breathed too much and felt light-headed again, but there was nowhere left to fall. So the world just went a little dark for a minute before it blinked back into view. Death. Death. She didn't understand. She wouldn't understand. She refused. Why. Why why?  What had she done to deserve this feeling? She meant— she knew what she'd done. But why did she have to deserve this? Why couldn't she have deserved something else— like the plague, perhaps? Or an ass-kick to the back? A lightning bolt to the brain? Why, of all things, did she have to deserve the Worst Thing? Why did she have to deserve him?

Him. Her mind flooded again and her dull eyes shot open. HIM. She could feel him still. His skin on hers. His warmth so near. His... self so near. Barriers. Barriers between them. Clothing. Why did she wish there hadn't been less?

Sybil forced herself up. This was sick, what she felt. Perverted. An aversion to nature. It wasn't right. Her stomach felt queasy and so she clutched her womb. The visions flashed still. Things as they  had happened, and things as she had wished. His touch. His brush. His embrace. His tongue. His kiss. His hug. His invasion. His love. His words. His whispers. His poetry. Him.

Despicable. Demonic. Damnable. Depraved.

Submission. Sybil was sorry. Truly sorry to whatever star she'd crossed. She wouldn't do it again, she promised, so if it could just take this feeling away—

The visions flashed again. Harder. Vibrant. Skin on skin. Breath with breath. Her hands, his hair. His mouth. Her breasts. Everything she yearned for and everything she hated. Love.

The princess shut her eyes. She shut them tight and didn't let up. The visions flashed and played twice as vividly in the dark of her mind, but she didn't so much as peek. Because she knew that if she kept her eyes shut...

After long enough... She might finally die that little death. That she might finally find that little mercy granted to those who suffer.

She might finally find sleep. And so she kept her eyes closed shut and let the dreams of painful pleasure inflict their nightmarish shadow puppetry across the cave walls of her mind. And though the visions never once let up, eventually, at very long last, her consciousness did, and Sybil slipped into that deep dark night of sleep.

A/N:

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