Unfinished: A Collection

A Real Princess

A blast of harsh, wintry air burst into the hall the instant the heavy wooden doors opened. Two figures, wrapped in sodden cloaks, hurried in from the storm. The second stopped to push the door shut, but the first did not even bother to take his cloak off. He did not seem to notice the layer of crusted ice on the cowl and the shoulders left there by the sleet and the rain. He did not care to notice much of anything.

At the far end of the hall, sullen embers coated the bottom of a firebox that dwarfed either person. The still-cloaked man stopped just shy of the hearth, staring at nothing. He lifted his hand to run his fingers through his hair, but instead felt the smooth bronze circlet that ran across his forehead. His eyes hardened, and he pulled the circlet from his head and threw it as hard as he could.

It clattered a stop in front of the second figure, an older man wearing the livery of a servant. He looked from the circlet to his prince. "My lord Theron?"

"Leave it, Raymond." Prince Theron did not turn from the embers. "The night is far too old and I am far too tired for such things."

The old servant looked down. His fingers twitched, itching to pick up the circlet honor dictated he never touch. "My lord. . . . Your father's crown. . . ."

"Yes. The crown of a prince waiting to be king." The Prince Theron leaned an arm against the mantel, and never once looked at the bronze crown or the kindly servant. "I think I should like to be an ordinary man tonight, that I might have the luxury of giving up." In the silent glow of the embers, he could almost see his father's face. Close beside it, as always, was that of the Queen-mother. They had always been one in his mind. What was a king without his queen? For that matter, what was a prince without a real princess?

He wished he could give up. He was tired of the wrenching disappointment every time another princess claimed—and failed—to be the one. He didn't want to travel halfway 'round the world just to find another girl whom he couldn't even see. But the tug was still there. He knew it wouldn't be long before he rode back out into the storm.

Raymond knew this, too, although he did not fathom the full depth of his lord's pain. He wished there was some way  that he could find the girl Prince Theron was searching for, but he could not  discern why the princesses they had sought out had been rejected. The only reason his lord ever gave was, "She is not real." Raymond sighed, and left his lord to his thoughts.

The bells in the tower had just tolled sixth watch when a pounding came at the door. No one noticed, at first. The storm had not ceased to rage, and the wind often made the old wood rattle and creak. But the pounding came again, more defined and rhythmic than anything a phantom of the elements could produce. A servant hurried to the door, and in moments, the wind and the rain swept inside once again.

Theron did not turn to see who had come at this hour of the night. He fought to keep his eyes on the fire in the hearth. The tug was stronger, more incessant than ever. It always grew when the storm was allowed in. Even after the doors were shut, the memory of the wind pulled at him.

He heard a servant asking questions, but the crackle of the fire drowned out any response that may have been given. He did not think anything of it until a single word made its way to his ears. Princess.

Prince Theron turned in spite of himself. He knew what he would see, but he looked anyway. There were wet footprints and small puddles of water, as if fallen from the hem of a rain-soaked garment, leading up to the door. He could see them quite clearly, as he could the servant who must have answered the door. He tried to see the person that had come in from the storm, but his eyes gaze slipped past like a raindrop from a leaf. He knew where she must be standing. He could see the puddles on the floor growing.  He knew where the servant was looking, but his eyes refused to focus on the princess, as always.