A Tale of Crowns and Stars

Terrors & Feasts

The night rolled in like a cloud, pulling its blanket of stars over the High Court. Outside of Cyra's window, lanterns slowly came to life across the landscape, revealing the feast preparations for Halewijn's return. The feast would be opulent, no doubt, and only the most adequate food would be given to all who attended.

While Cyra examined the scene, Mirabel stood behind her, making sure the ends of a fur stole were wrapped tightly around her neck, and the blue dress was straight against Cyra's figure. When the lady finished, she slipped the sapphire ring on Cyra's finger. Shakily, she turned away from the expansive windows and to the mirror on the other side of the room; despite looking like herself, Cyra felt oddly out of place. Her mind was on the feast below, in the future - trying to anticipate Omar's plan.

As she stared at her reflection, the Princess felt some kind of hollowness opening in her chest. The gaping hole pulsed like a heartbeat, and waves of anxiety began to crash over her mind, engulfing and spitting her back out on the shores of despair. Leaning over for support, Cyra shakily exhaled again, attempting to ground herself to stave off another panic attack.

"Princess..." Mirabel began, but Cyra could only hear her voice from far off as if the lady-in-waiting spoke from across a chasm. Cyra inhaled through her nose and out of her mouth, but even those tactics couldn't steady her. I'm not going to make it.

Mirabel disappeared, which cleared space for more thoughts and more speculation. Still, she quickly returned with a half-dressed Halewijn, Alorha, and Wyndemere, who promptly began their assessment of the situation. Halewijn attempted to soothe her by running a hand over her back and whispering comforting words, but Cyra couldn't truly hear him. All of the voices she heard sounded miles away - nothing could reach her in the small space she had built in her brain to protect her from the living nightmares. Blood pounded in her ears as she folded over into a fetal position, clutching herself tightly and shrinking away from Halewijn's touch. When she closed her eyes, the terrors began, launching her back into her body on the night of the assault.

Cyra lay beneath the grunting High King, his face full of hate and malice as he abused her body and soul, tearing her apart from the inside out. She noted his eyes were closed - almost as if he couldn't look at her while he committed his crime. But she was glad for it. If Cyra had to look into Omar's eyes while he hurt her, she wouldn't be able to look into anyone's eyes ever again.

The High King's fingers dug into her side and her wrists, and sweat dropped from his face onto hers unceremoniously, mixing with her tears and mucus. The assault lasted for what felt like eons, and when the High King finished, he pulled away and scowled.

"Get up, and go back into the Grand Hall." He spat. Omar's lip curled up as Cyra rose from the bed robotically, smoothing her skirts down and half-attempting to fix her hair. "And wipe your face. You look like filth." He offered her no tissue or a handkerchief, so her sleeve would have to do. As she made her way to the door, Cyra placed her palm on the knob before Omar stopped her with a hand. Cyra didn't turn around, but she knew the words that would come out of his mouth next. "If you say a word of this to anyone, they will find themselves in unimaginable predicaments. Understood?" Cyra nodded, and Omar retracted his hand, letting her go.

Despite the memory ending there, it would replay in her head. Every time the terrors came, the scene replayed a handful of times before letting her go. Nothing changed; everything stayed the same. Cyra couldn't fix nor end the situation early; she had to let it all play out again and again before she felt the release.

~~~~~~

Halewijn stared down at the curled up Princess, unsure of what to do.

"It's a terror," Alorha spoke, crossing his arms over his broad chest and sitting on the edge of a chaise. "We have to let it pass." The suggestion of just letting Cyra go through it didn't sit well with the High Prince. Especially not now. Wyndemere pushed his white hair back, letting out a loud sigh.