For a moment she had thought she felt someone staring at her. Freya blinked and glanced back at the large balcony window once moreāsomethingā¦ She stood, her ladies in waiting staring after her as she strode to the balcony. She didnāt have to prick her ears to know they were whispering about her and her strange habits. Freya grasped the ledge and gazed down, but there was nothing there but the faraway ground below and the luscious gardens dotting the grey with green. She looked about her once more; she had thoughtā¦ No, it must have been her imagination. The presence she had thought she sensed must have been a figment of her near-delirious wish to be free.
If she jumped here, sheād certainly meet her death. Was it so bad, death? It was better than to be cooped up in this cage, wasnāt it? The dark thoughts invaded her mind again and Freya had to physically shake her head to clear them. She had promised herself somethingāthat she would survive and come out of this as herself and only herself. That the corrupt royalty would not break her. That she would live on for Zephyr, too.
ā¦But keeping that promise seemed so hard these days.
She forced herself to take three steps away from the balcony and looked at the mist surrounding the castle and the clouds above. Perhaps it would storm tonight; Freya had always loved thunderstorms. Something about the roaring ferocity and the magnificent lighting up of the sky made her exhilarated, as if she was one with the earth and sky and all the mysterious, wonderful things between it. Whenever it stormed, she would take a walk, amidst the pouring rain and the delightful crashes and rumbles. It scared her ladies-in-waiting to the death, and they didnāt have the courage to chase after her to bring her back inside. It was only then she could have clarity and peace of mindālike the thunder was screaming and shouting out all the things she was forced to keep inside. However, even that seemed to be taken away from her nowadays; a month had gone by without a thunderstorm. Freya considered working a spell to create one, but it was too risky.
The whispers of the ladies stung like a spray of needles to tender flesh and she turned, making herself walk back to her seat. āItās a lovely day today,ā she said simply, as if that could explain her actions at the balcony. Freya ran a tentative hand through her neatly styled tresses, knowing theyād make a fuss if she were to ruin it. But since when she had cared about that? It seemed she had been molded to their way even more than she had suspected. She picked up her needlework and things fell back into place once more; her ladies gossiping and her ignoring them.
An hour passed. Tea and cakes came by. The flower she had on her silk square turned to a chain of lavender-colored flowers, the sort she would have worn in her hair on her wedding day had it taken place. Nothing like the cold and heavy circlet that was pressed into her brow that day she had been bound to that disgusting pig. Something in her told her that the normal Freya would have shed tears by now, but as she looked at her reflection in the well shined silver platter on the tea table, she could see how she had changed. Her face was frosted over into perfection, lips formed into a lovely, yet empty smile. Like the painted smile of a doll. Her expression betrayed nothing, nothing at allāa gorgeous mask of emptiness. And yet, Freya could see that her eyes were a flat grey instead of the clear electric silver they could be. In her hidden gaze was misery.
Two more hours passed and she was being tutored on the formal dances of court, as she always was at this time of day. āNo no no, Princess! You must step just so, you simply cannot step as your Highness pleases! The approximateā¦ā the elderly woman tapped at her ankle, and Freya merely began to tune out her prattling. The formal dances were soā¦tasteless. All pomp and no funāstiff and hardly any movements but the ever-so-precise steps that Lady Shirindale was going on and on about. She thought back to the exciting, fun filled folk dances the village would hold every harvest. With the keening fiddle, the claps of everyoneās calloused hands, the dizzying spins and twirls, the laughter filling the airā¦
Freya wondered if always reminiscing like this was healthy. Was she simply making herself even more miserable by comparing these two starkly different lives? Any girl in the country would kill to be in her position; married to the Crown Prince, in line to be Queen, beloved by everyone and surrounded by riches galore and all she could wish forā¦or so they thought. Perhaps, if she was engrossed with material riches as many were, she would be perfectly happy the way she was. But that had never been her goal in lifeāall she had wanted was a good, healthy, happy life.
It must have been too much to ask for.
By the time dinner was over she was exhausted. Tiredānot so much physically, but her head hurt and it was all she could do to keep the frosted smile frozen on her face. āA dance, darling princess?ā asked his voice, but she shook her head delicately.
āI fear I have exhausted myself, milord. If it could be allowed, I wish to retire early.ā She looked up at her husband with a flick of her eyes under lowered lashes. That usually worked when it came to these situations. And, as expected, he sent her off with feigned grace, because he was a prince and royalty must always be gracious. She felt venom rising within her, but to her vague surprise, the King did not seem all too affected by her early leave. Whenever that happened, he usually had a hidden look of displeasureāand yet, not tonight. Freya shrugged it off; perhaps he had something go his corrupted way. But of course. Because he was the law of this country, this poor damned country.
Her ladies in waiting trailed her into her apartments but left once she ordered them to. She didnāt think she could handle them right now; her head was pounding and her spite and misery was filling her up. Freya shut the double doors behind her and leant against them, letting out a shuddering breath. The nerves that had pushed her on during the whole day broke and she slid limply down to the floor, letting the door at her back support her weight. It was dark and even the moon seemed to be covered by inky cloudsāperhaps it really was an ideal night to storm call.
Freya made herself stand, thinking of the nameless language she had never learned of that would cause the clouds to gather and create a storm. She had never been taught to use magic, but it seemed like the world guided her; the howl of the wind, the crackle of fire, the rushing of water, the resonant heartbeat of the earth. She knew not the names of the spells she used, nor how to explain them, but they were a part of her as much as her arms or legs. The first syllable stuck in her throat as she suddenly felt someone else, someone else in the room with her. And just when she had been about to use magicā¦ She paused, going as still as possible. A spy? A courtier? Someone to sell her secrets? She could not let that happen. She would die for her secrets.
ā...Whoās there?ā