To Make a Kinder Children's Tale

29: First Attack

Esme made it to the park in one piece-was mostly ignored, even. Whomever planned this greenscape went heavy on the alabaster theme: scattering enormous white crystalline structures in with birch stands, skeleton flowers, ghost plants, annual honestys, alien plants that didn't normally grow well in the heat. The whole park felt at least ten degrees cooler than the land surrounding it, offering a promise of respite. The surrealism of the design didn't speak to her.

The former thief sat down on a bench about midway, and began listing to herself things she desperately wanted to change in her life-with or without her bondswain's help. She couldn't hold him responsible for what she wouldn't work on. It took some effort with the distracting scenery. Esme eventually had some success, as the world faded away. She sought for any memory that held joy in simple tasks throughout her childhood. What did she play with? How did she play? (She sometimes forgot about the toys she once favored.) Her mind eventually settled on a pair of hands-an older human who nursed drinks in the corner of the bar while holding a tiny knife, using it to tear at the soft flesh of some chunk of greenwood-whit-lin, he had called it. She spent hours watching his hands on the slow nights when few men were in, or she'd not been forced behind the counter because of some over-eager fool wanting Tal-Anan's personal attention during regular work hours. She used to pretend this old man was her grandfather-and he seemed genuinely fond of her. He had called himself Elevan...or was it Lavenan?

"Princess Esme?"

The sound cut across her memory: jarring old alarms, demanding her to beware of danger, urging caution and aggression alike. The people didn't know her personally. This was not the tone of any of the Aelfine-too much deference that lied. Nor was it the accent of the lowborn. This was some form of trap, but whether it was dangerous or not was unknowable-save for the feeling of wrongness. The former thief stood and pulled her dirk from its customary resting place in her left boot, managing a defensive posture even as the taller woman stood over her with a blade of her own, clearly angled to shove down into Esme's shoulder. Short blades were horrible at catching a stabbing blow like this. The bondmaid had barely decided to roll backwards for space, when an arm reached across the bench to grab her assailant by the collar, roughly dragging the woman over the Princess' former seat.

Her betrothed had found her in time.

Althalos forced the woman to drop the blade with his free hand before wrapping both hands firmly about her neck, choking her into unconsciousness, even as she flailed around trying to hit him. Esme used her freedom to check out her surroundings, noting her straggling guard was moving in and no other strangers edged into her personal space. She sheathed her blade and stood, waiting on whatever would come next.

The Prince felt the of edge of his rage, calling for him to end the life in his hands. In disgust-more at himself than anyone else-he tossed the woman at the nearest guard just as she passed out. "Get her to Rileus. Now."

He stood there: eyes closed, hands clenched, giving himself a moment before speaking to his woman-his! Every nerve he had was seething with a primal urge he didn't understand. The bondmaids were no one's-unless the chose to stay, not even this one. But he found he could not help himself in this moment, as he rounded on his betrothed and spat out the one phrase burned into his mind. "What the hell were you thinking, Esme?"

The former thief stood her ground though she wanted to take a step or a hundred back, remembering that he promised no discipline. She hoped he remained true to his word, or she'd have reason to fear him. Perhaps the truth wold help. "I was thinking about ducking back to get out from under her, to try to find a better defense. It wasn't dire, yet."

"You could have had an attack of nerves and dropped your blade." He took his time walking towards her-still angry, but no longer shaking.

She arched her far more rounded brow, "But I wasn't, and you were here, Althalos. There is no reason to work yourself further into a fit."

He reached out, gathering a strand of her pale hair around his finger, restlessly twining it. It was a moment before he spoke. "Am I not allowed to be terrified, Esme?"

His voice was tired, drained of the barely controlled rage that had given her caution. While she was no longer afraid, it left her aching. The Princess nodded, and her Prince pulled her into his arms: a couple alive to their own fears against a deceptively deadened landscape.