The Lost Princess

Chapter 5 || Give Him Eternal Rest

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This cannot be happening. It simply cannot. Everyone gazes upon the ghastly scene as though 'tis the only way, as if 'tis normal. Nay, 'tis not. The gentleman is about to be whipped unto death, and not a soul speaks out.

The man Leathan named as the tax collector rolls up his sleeves with menace, striding towards the stand where a long black whip awaits his grasp. His long fingers curl around the metal grip, and he turns to his desensitized audience, proclaiming, "Meeting adjourned." Then he rounds on the man strung up before him. The tax collector draws back his arm, the whip held high, and begins the three hundred strikes.

I clutch Leathan's arm, feeling the hardness of muscle beneath his sleeve, so unlike the soft, perfumed courtiers I'm accustomed to. A shiver runs through me, unbidden and unexpected given the dire circumstances. The crowd has already dispersed, even the man's granddaughter, dragged away despite her protests. A gust of wind carries the faint scent of lavender from my hair, a cruel reminder of the sheltered life I've left behind, now jarringly out of place amidst this scene of suffering.

"No, no, no, no," I mumble, my words keeping time with the lashes. Everything I've ever known is naught but falsehood, and this man's suffering is the proof. This must cease.

I can bear it no longer. I release Leathan and run towards the stage, my skirts hampering my progress.

"Arabella!" Leathan calls after me, "Stop!"

The tax collector, unaware of my approach, readies another strike. I charge at him, shoving with all the might I can muster. "Enough!" I cry out.

"How dare you interfere with the workings of the King!" The man bellows, spittle flying from his lips.

"I am the workings of the King. I am Princess Arabella, rightful heir to the throne, and if you do not untie this man and quit this place this instant, I shall have your head," I command, summoning every ounce of royal authority I possess.

"Oh, the Princess," he sneers. "You mean The Lost Princess? The myth folk conjured to spring hope? Aye, I believe you, dearie," he chuckles, seizing my arm and hurling me towards the gentleman on the whipping post. The man moans in agony. His blood soaks into my dress, the warm stickiness a horrifying sensation against my skin. I try to avoid his wounds as I fumble with his bindings. The rough rope refuses to cooperate with my fingers as I try to work the knot out. 

"I'm so sorry, sir," I whisper, struggling with the knots. A whooshing sound cuts through the air, and I brace myself, clinging tightly to the man. My back faces the tax collector, hoping to shield the old man from further harm, but no blow lands. I turn to see Leathan, the whip wrapped tightly around his wrist. He yanks hard, toppling the tax collector. Leathan casts the whip aside and strikes the man's face, felling him in an instant.

"Arabella, I bade you stay by my side," Leathan says, turning towards me. His voice carries anger, but his eyes hold something else: wonder, pride, perhaps even hope.

I shake my head, "Help me, I beg you! I cannot free him." Leathan's tall form towers over me as he swiftly releases the man.

The man's eyes meet mine, filled with pain and gratitude. "Thank you, my dear, for your kindness." He falters, slowly sinking to the ground.

"What is your name?" I ask, my voice urgent.

"Dand, my lady," he strains to answer.

"Please, do not thank me, Dand. This should never have come to pass. Now, let us find you aid," I plead, but his eyes flutter, life seeming to ebb from him.