A Thief's Abyss

Helena Yvette Deacon sighed desperately as her fingers fumbled with the glimmering silver needle for the thirty-seventh time in her sewing lesson. She was simply not one of the princesses built to sew. Her instructor, a waddling woman with a pile of gray hair sitting atop her head in a messy bun and glasses sliding down her button nose, made her way over to admonish Helena. The princess simply tuned out until it was over, knowing that this would take place every day, no matter her complaints to her father. King Christopher was a very busy man who could take no time from his day to listen to his only child whine about her classes and her lessons. Helena knew as much, and had learned to keep her mouth shut and persevere.

With a light huff, Helena placed the traitorous needle and thread on the table, getting to her feet with a little difficulty; the dresses she was made to wear were not meant for flexibility or any kind of unrestricted movement. The instructor stared at her with wide eyes, opening her mouth in preparation to snap at Helena. The princess gave a rarely used cold glare, forcing the old woman down to her knees in a respectful bow. Helena smiled brightly as the woman lowered her eyes to the ground.

"Goodbye, madame. Tell my father that I will no longer take this class, if you so wish," she told the woman, shrugging nonchalantly. With those last words, Helena skipped out the door, her midnight blue gown swishing around her legs and flying out behind her like a cape in the wind. The smile she was wearing grew even wider as she made her way down several flights of stone steps and out into the garden.

She skipped down a multitude of cobbled paths, lined with flowers, bushes and trees of all shapes, colours and sizes, until she found herself at a circular pergola. The path turned to white marble steps, shining in the bright sun. The stone base of the pergola was a cream colour, matched with a glass dome above, entwined with black swirling patterns. The base was surrounded by rose bushes, flowing over the grass on either side, and ivy wound its way up the stone columns. Helena had always been entranced by the beauty of the pergola, and it had quickly become her favourite place when her mother showed it to her as a young child.

Biting her lip, Helena stepped quietly up the steps and into the centre of the pergola. She made her way to the stone bench circle the left side of the structure and took a seat, revelling in the beauty of her surroundings. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, allowing tranquillity to wash over her and surround her mind in a shield of serenity.

Helena frowned as she heard small thuds around her - her trance was broken, but only slightly. She shook her head and was about to return to her musing's, when a huffing and puffing came into hearing range. Suddenly, there was shouting. Helena jumped, startled, and opened her eyes to find her favourite guard of the past twelve years, Damien, running towards her, shouting about the platoon. She opened her mouth to ask what he was talking about, when a knife suddenly found itself sticking out from his head.

Covering her mouth to muffle her shaky gasp and the beginning of her scream, she scrambled backwards on the stone bench. It wasn't every day you saw one of your oldest friends, someone who was like a father figure to you, lose their life right in front of you. No matter what she did, Helena would never get that look of shock, the fading of light from his eyes, out of her mind. She barely noticed the knife as it went under her chin until the holder spoke.

"Move an inch and you'll feel the cold bite of my steel, highness."

She froze immediately, eyes glistening with unshed tears as many more made their way down her cheeks. She sobbed, wincing as she felt the nick of metal against the delicate base of her throat, allowing tiny beads of crimson blood to seep from the small wound. Her eyes darted around her, trying to see if she could find a guard, or see the face of the intruder. All she noticed from her peripheral vision was a white mask, bordered in black and spattered with red. Blood, she realized, horror dawning on her. This was not someone she knew, but she knew that this was personal. Somehow. Why, though? Why her?

Helena closed her eyes again, trying to keep in the tears. Tiny drops of water leaked out from under her eyelashes, making her skin glisten in the morning sunlight. She waited, motionless, for the intruder - no, the murderer! - to make another move. To say something. To do something, at least! She could hear the light breathing, could feel the warmth on the back of her neck, but the intruder still said nothing.

Within moments, Helena faded into darkness, feeling strong arms slide under her body and lift her into oblivion.