Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 52915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 265(@200wpm)___ 212(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 265(@200wpm)___ 212(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
“Around a hundred years.”
“Okay. Alright. Well. That explains so much.”
“Are you afraid of me now?”
“Am I worried you’re going to rip my head off and put a cat’s head on it? Maybe a little,” she says with a grin that tells me she is not worried about that at all. “I am more worried about you, Charming. These are not healthy coping strategies, and as wonderful as all your animal servants are, and as efficient as I am sure the flying harpies are, you were not made to rule over a kingdom of beasts.”
“I am not sure about that.”
“Neither am I,” she says, frowning. “I’m not even entirely sure why I said that. Who the hell am I to tell a king what sort of kingdom he is supposed to rule over?”
“You’re getting caught in the story,” I tell her. “You are the good, pure princess, and you are compelled to argue for what is right.”
“I don’t want to be the good, pure princess,” she frowns. “I don’t want to be a mouthpiece that makes things worse.”
“How do you know it makes things worse? You are arguing for something better.”
“Charming, you murdered your entire court. This is a kingdom of death and decay. The beasts of the world cannot replace what was lost… ah fuck, I am doing it again!” She scowls. “I don’t care. I bet you had a very good reason to chop them if they were chopped, and Whiskerton seems cool. I like this world. I refuse to be a perfect princess. I refuse. I refuse!”
The angrier she gets, the more beautiful she becomes and the more she glows. As she rejects the stories, both the ones that are trying to wrap her into the proper narrative and the darkness around her, she becomes something transcendent, something with the capacity to escape the stories being told about her and around her. I see the darkness begin to peel back as if in horror of what she is. Not good. Not bad. She is chaos.
“What’s happening?”
“I don’t know,” I tell her, taking hold of her, wrapping my arms around her to settle her down. Physical touch is very powerful with my princess. She reacts to my embrace by taking a deep breath. The glow starts to retreat and little tendrils of darkness begin to return almost apologetically.
“I thought you knew everything, King Charming.” She gives me a little smile and I know that she is feeling much better.
“We should get some sleep,” I tell her. “Tomorrow we have yet more sword forms to learn.”
“Whee!” she says sarcastically, following the exclamation up with a yawn. We are both in dire need of sleep. Every day in this dark realm is a cause of bitter exhaustion that must be inevitably capitulated to.
With my princess in my arms, I fall asleep, and in my sleep I dream. I dream of a time long ago, a time before I was a king. A hundred years and a day ago, I was merely a prince. I had little in the way of worldly cares. The village was full of ruddy-cheeked peasants, merchants, so on and so forth. I took them for granted. I took the throngs of courtiers, jesters, minstrels, soldiers, and nobles similarly for granted. My father was king, my mother was queen, and I was untouchable. Until I was not.
“Will you be going out for a ride, young prince?”
Butler Whiskerton has been an old man since I was born. He has a full white beard, which many royal houses would not tolerate, but my father is a kind king, and Whiskerton is an established fixture in our castle.
“Yes, Whiskerton, thank you.”
“Very well, your highness. Your unicorn has been saddled. Do be careful. I detect a hint of fate in the air.”
I will live to regret laughing that comment of his off, for within hours it proves to be utterly correct. This is a day of fate, and no amount of riding the grassy plains will avoid it. I ride my unicorn stallion, Mythos, for many hours, carefree and happy, little knowing that these will be the last happy and carefree moments of my life.
When I try to return home, that is when everything turns to dust. I notice it first as a plume of smoke coming from the castle village. As I draw closer, I notice that there is a shadow over the land, a magical shade rather than an actual vapor cloud. It is a bright, sunny day, and the shadow falling over me does not belong there. Neither do the great plumes of smoke rising from the village, nor the shrieking cries and wails of common folk in mortal distress as I turn my mount homeward.
Mythos is the progenitor of all the younger horses in my father’s royal stable. Some are horned, some are not, but all have his gleaming bearing and intense pride. To ride Mythos is to experience perfect freedom. He is a steady beast, never shying at anything.