Morning was always something she had loved. She was accustomed to waking at the break of dawn, to go to the fields. In her dreams, she was a little girl again; skipping along with her mother, hand tightly in hers. The warmth of her handā¦ She fell out of her dream as she slowly gained consciousness. Soft. Too softāthis was not her bed. Then reality hit her hard like it did every single morning; of course this was not her bed. This was the castle. She felt a bare body pressing against hers and nearly pulled away in pure revulsionābecause she knew exactly who it was. Instead, she shivered lightly, and her prince draped an arm about her possessively. āI was wondering when youād wake up, love.ā She was all too aware that she was as naked as he and fought the urge to wrap blanket after blanket around herself. She forced a smile onto her lips and let him kiss her hungrily. After all, he wasā¦her husband.
His fingers crept to her stomach and he whispered to her in a low voice; āHow are you? Mayhaps a little prince in your belly this morning?ā Freya smiled emptily and whispered back little excuses. She would never allow that to happen. Never. She would not bear his filthy royal spawn. To make sure, she expelled any signs of life within herself monthly using her magic. She had already murdered three children within herself; high treason if anything. Murdering unborn childrenā¦something she would have found lowly and despicable if in any other situationāand yet, the very thought of something growing in her that was a part of that royal brat made her sick.
She shifted uncomfortably; Prince Aramās bed was much softer than hers, which often made her back hurt (which was not at all the main reason she disliked being in his bed). She had her own quarters, but they were conjoined with his for easy access. Some nights she slept alone, but whenever her husband wished to sleep with her, she was not to deny him. The threat he had made to that day still hung heavy over her headāthe safety of the people she loved dearly, the villagers she had grown up with. No, she would not deny him because there was no way he would take no for an answer. She had denied his affections the first time they had met, and look where it had gotten her. Zephyr was dead and she was locked in this wretched castle, in his bed all the same. What had been the point of her resistance then? It made no difference now, either.
Luckily for her, a servant was soon knocking at the door, reporting that he had some matters to tend to. He was annoyed, but even he had his duties as Crown Prince. She excused herself and quickly made her way to her quarters before he had a lapse in his sense of duty. She drew her own bath, even though she knew the maids would make a fuss laterāand scrubbed every inch of her body until her skin was tingling. Filthy. She felt absolutely filthy. After their wedding night she had wanted to claw her own skin off in disgust.
Her ladies in waiting filtered in, rubbing sleep from their eyes and alarmed that the princess had gone and done something servants should have done for her (again). They insisted on dressing her and she stood with her arms outstretched, feeling idiotic as she had the first time they had dressed her. The soft blue silks were like cream on her skin, but Freya found no joy in the beauteous gown. She stared into the mirror as they transformed her into some princess she could not recognize as herself. This was not Freya. Who was the cold eyed princess in the mirror? Not herā¦
The maids brought in her morning meal, rich foods she was not accustomed to eating so early. And so much! How she had not gained weight was beyond her; they were feeding her almost as if to fatten her up for a slaughterhouse. She looked at the food and felt sick; did they know of how the poor starved on the streets? Of course not. They lived in their little paradise hereāand it made her sick to think that she was part of royalty now. She ate alone, while the ladies sat, ever watchful, like hawks watching prey. Their eyes looked down upon her, the low born wench who had become a princess overnight, the girl who often did outrageous things. They were determined to break her strong will, no matter what it took. They took away her plates after she had eaten as much as she could and then escorted to her own receiving room, which was littered with fine cushions for them to recline on, as well as musicians and all the snacks one would wish for.
Freya tried to look like she was paying attention as her ladies in waiting chatted away while they all embroidered. She wasnāt doing much at allājust randomly stabbing the needle in and out in the way her tutor had instructed. The flower she was mindlessly embroidering wasnāt looking so good, though. They ran their mouths like their lives depended on it; who was secretly sleeping with whom, who had a new dress, who had done something stupidā¦Freya didnāt want to hear any of it. All of them were backstabbers and she especially had to watch her mouth around them, lest they pick up on something and spread her secrets about.
And she would die for her secrets.
āMy, your Highness, what a beautiful flower!ā Lady Brennan tittered, her eyes singing a different song all together. Freya looked up at the woman, the gossip bag of the castle, and decided that she had nothing to say about that. She stabbed the needle inwards a bit more viciously and this time it struck straight into her finger, causing a big drop of red to well up from her porcelain skin. The ladies let out a screech, much to her lack of amusementāit was just a little prick. She nonchalantly wiped it off on a kerchief, though more continued to ooze out. Bad luck. Pricking yourself meant bad luckā¦ Freya wasnāt the type to be swayed by useless superstitions, but being a mage somewhat made you more sensitive to things of mystical nature.
The girl with the pale red hair looked up and away from the women with two faced lies and acts and out towards the window, where a sparrow flitted by. How she wished to be free! How she wished to be running in the fields again, barefoot, with dirt smudged on her faceāfree... Slowly, she turned back to the matter at hand. It would never happen. No matter how much she tried to get out of this place, it would never happen. Court was like a goblet of poisoned wine to a person dying of dehydration. There was a choice; to either drink the poison and die, or refuse to drink and die of dehydration. Either way, the only thing the path led to was death.
Freya realized painfully that she was slowly losing ground in the fight to keep hope, to stay herself. Everything was closing in on her, thirsty for her blood and hungry for her screams. She had sworn so fiercely to remain true to herself, but it seemed even heaven was against her. Every day, things became harder. Every day, her husband demanded more. And every day, the fire inside her seemed to fadeā¦and there was nothing she could do about it.