xi. the princess and the penitent
felon
// humanity is his disease. it has given him a shovel, and with it he dug himself a hole. the bottom he found on his own, but without another, the top was forever out of reach.
————
The stable boy and his master made for a rather pleasant audience. They were silent and attentive; respectful, though perhaps only out of fear. Out of a desire to serve—to please you so that their lives might continue undisturbed.
And how terribly you could disturb them.
The stable master—Olten Naegan, if you remembered correctly—eventually did excuse himself. Work—or perhaps his supper—was in need of completion, and though he did so terribly wish to remain in your company, he was also so awfully busy that it simply wasn't feasible.
His only hope was that you, his dearest and loveliest princess, would understand his troubles.
Should you?
You could say no; you could take offense—act appalled at the thought of another pursuit taking precedence over you. You could use your power—your clot as a princess of Alaimore—to keep him with you—to punish him for wanting to leave your company.
Use him as your scapegoat—your whipping boy. Because you could; because here you had authority—faculty. No one would care—not your parents. Not the people who mattered—who had the power to stop you.
He was just a servant.
Just a man.
Adalleth had been just a servant, too.
"Of course." You nodded your head—offered the ginger-haired man a small, comforting smile. "How selfish of me—to keep you from your duties." You shifted a little in your seat upon the crude wooden stool Rulen had fetched for you. The rough wood pressed up uncomfortably against your tailbone, but you did well to hide your frown. "Go ahead—go. You're excused."
The relief that washed over Olten's face was palpable and nearly insulting, but still, you smiled—simpered at him sweetly. Warmly.
"Thank you, Your Highness." Olten bowed his head and began to turn away, but then he looked back—shot the dark-haired boy sitting in front of you a wary, hesitant glance.
Rulen didn't catch the look; he was too enthralled in waiting for you to continue your storytelling that he hardly paid his cautious master any mind. But you saw the look—recognized the wariness shining in the man's eyes. Children were but necessary poisons—liabilities that one had no choice but to account for. But they were valuable, too. Valuable liabilities, if such a thing could exist.
Your face was turned to the stablemaster, and before his worries could manifest themselves into action, you leaned forward to place a hand on Rulen's shoulder. Your touch was light, but you could still feel the shape of the boy's arm—the odd narrowness of his immature shoulder.
"I have some more tales I'd like to tell," you started smoothly. You offered Olten a polite, encouraging smile and then glanced briefly at the boy seated before you. "They're perfect for an audience of one, unless you require Rulen for some task of sorts."
The stablemaster's dark eyes widened just a fraction, and then he hastily shook his head. "No—no of course not, Your Highness." His reply was quick—vehement. Fearful of running his princess's patience thin—of offending her. "I simply wanted to—to—to wish you a pleasant evening, that is all." His eyes moved quickly—from you to Rulen and back again—and then he swallowed and bowed his head. "G-Goodbye."
"Goodbye." You watched Olten depart but then, once his back was to you, your eyes fled to Rulen. The boy's head had turned; his wide-eyed stare had settled on the stablemaster—observed the ginger-haired man with a certain thoughtfulness.
A certain hesitance.
"Rulen?" Your hand had fallen from the boy's shoulder, but touched you it again gently—briefly—to garner his attention. "Is there something wrong?"
The thoughtful look clouding Rulen's eyes was suddenly burned away—chased off by the sound of his name—and he blinked, gave his head a little shake, and then turned to you. "Huh? Oh—no." Rulen shifted in his seat upon an overturned pail, and he moved his crudely fashioned walking stick so that it fell across his lap. And then he corrected himself. "No, Your Highness."
You regarded the boy carefully—eyed how his hesitance was almost curious. Unsure. Confused. And then your gaze fell to the walking stick sitting in his lap, and a small smile rose to your lips.
"Did you make that?" you asked softly. You nodded at the staff in his hands, and he quickly glanced down at it—like he hadn't known he'd even been holding it. "Your walking stick, I mean. It's very nice."
The hesitance in Rulen's eyes vanished, and another smile spread across his lips. It was golden—proud and satisfied. But now because of something he had done—something he had made.
He fingered the staff in his lap—ran his hand across the carved wood—and then raised his eyes and met your gaze. "Yeah!" His voice was bright and cheerful and full of a delighted sort of glee, and his smile widened—stretched from one ear to the other. "Yeah—I did. Do you like it? Sir Hilift and Master Naegen helped me. They're—they're really good at carving and stuff."
Confusion rose in your chest—pressed against the backs of your eyes. It threatened to settle in the planes of your face, but you pushed it back—kept it out of the curve of your lips.
When had Isil been apprenticed to a woodworker? He'd always been a swordsman—a fighter, just like his father. And a very good one—a very talented one. He was unparalleled—undefeated, though rare it was that he was challenged.
He was the best; he was the greatest swordsman to have ever lived.
And his talent exceeded all those but the gods themselves.
But wood carving? When had he ever desired to be a woodcarver? You tried to remember—to recall a memory of Isil before he was a swordsman. Before he didn't fit nicely into the shoes of his father. But he'd always fit nicely—snugly. A perfect son; a perfect successor.
Perfect, just like his sword fighting skill.
And then the memories came. They were hazy and faded—delicate, like worn fabric. Thin, transparent fabric that dripped like water from your hands. You remembered a shape—a block of wood crudely carved into a figure that resembled the shape of a horse. You remembered tools, packed away into a little chest and hidden—tucked behind a pillow. And then disappearing—being taken somewhere.
Away.
Where had they gone?
"Y-Your Highness? Princess [Name]?" Rulen was talking—calling your name. He sounded concerned—concerned and curious.
You closed your eyes, and something bitter and resentful spread across your tongue. You'd daydreamed again—lost yourself in your thoughts. You shouldn't have; you knew you shouldn't have and yet you had.
"Oh, my apologies." You opened your eyes and regarded Rulen warmly—forced your lips to curl into the shape of a kind smile. "I just drifted off for a moment." You'd made a mistake, but he was a child—a little boy who'd fashioned a walking stick for himself and took pride in sharing the name of a god. And if you acted as though nothing had happened, perhaps he would believe the same. "Now, you said Sir Isil helped you make that nice staff of yours?"
Just as you'd hoped, much like his earlier hesitance, the concern that had filled Rulen's eyes fled, and he beamed at you. "Yeah. Him and Master Naegan. They helped me a lot." Rulen's voice grew a little higher and quicker, increasing in time with his excitement. "Sir Hilift helped me get the wood, and he showed me how to hold the knife and let me borrow his tools, because he said he didn't need them."
"He did?" The smile on your lips warmed and grew less forced—less deceitful. It was something about the way Rulen spoke—of your friend; of his ginger-haired employer. Something about the satisfaction in his voice—the pride that his walking stick embodied.
The honor that came with knowing his hands had created something worthy of praise.
It was so familiar.
"Uh-huh! And Master Naegan—he gave me some of his candles, so I could work on it when it got dark," Rulen continued. His voice had slowed—lowered again in lieu of a certain thoughtfulness. A memory, rising to his face. "And he sat with me sometimes..." He lowered his gaze again—stared down at his walking stick.
Rulen's smile faltered. Like the memory saddened him; like the memory ignited a melancholy within him.
A longing.
"Well, that was very kind of them," you reached out a hand and offered Rulen a comforting pat on the arm, "to do that for you."
Slowly, Rulen nodded his head. "Yeah. It was." He glanced up again—added, "Your Highness."
An amused chuckle rose to your throat, and you smiled.
And then came a commotion—rising from outside the stables: voices and the sound of horse's hooves. It grabbed your attention—had you turning away from Rulen and standing. And then your eyes fell on him: Sir Isil. He was clad in the same attire as when you'd last seen him, but now the clothes were a little dirtier—a little messier.
He hadn't seen you yet; he was busy dismounting from his horse and greeting the stablehands who came to take the beast from him. He was polite when speaking to them—polite and warm, though somewhat distracted. Distracted and disgruntled, but kind enough not to take it out on those below him.
Olten Naegan came out from where he'd disappeared and approached Sir Isil, but you sat back—watched him quietly from afar instead of going immediately to him as you had originally desired. He appeared a touch calmer—more put together than he had been earlier.
That was good; that must be good.
Isil greeted Olten, but then confusion flashed across his face, and he started looking around. "Hey," you heard him say, befuddlement and concern coloring his voice, "where's Rulie?"
Rulen perked up at the sound of his name, and he jumped to his feet and eagerly yelled, "Over here!"
Isil looked over at Rulen, and the warm relief that had filled his eyes suddenly froze when his gaze met yours. He paused and stared at you. The look in his eyes—in his face—was unreadable. It was cold, and warm, and everything and nothing. And maybe you shouldn't have come—maybe you shouldn't have sought him out.
Maybe you should've left him alone—let him find comfort on his own.
But no—you shouldn't have done that. You couldn't have done that.
He meant too much to you.
Rulen started waving at him, and Isil lifted his arm and waved back. And then he parted from Olten—started walking over to you and Rulen. You still couldn't decipher the look in his eyes—couldn't discern the emotions seeping into the lines of his face—but you didn't move away.
"Welcome back!" Rulen chirped. Cheerfulness colored his voice and face, and he beamed at Isil.
Isil looked down at him and smiled. "Thanks," he replied with a chuckle. The look in his eyes was soft and warm—caring. Almost like how he regarded you. "What're you doing all the way over here, kiddo? You had me scared for a moment."
The boy frowned. "Sorry," he apologized. "I was keeping Princess [Name] company." Then the look in his eyes brightened, and he smiled again. "Her stories are really good. And you know what she said? She said Rulenis i-is the name of a god."
"Really?" Isil replied. He sounded genuinely surprised, but there was still amusement in his voice, and he patted Rulen's head—ruffled his hair like they were kin. "And what does that mean, hmn?" He crouched down in front Rulen—looked him up and down. "Do I need to start worshipping little old Rulie?"
The boy simpered. "Maybe," he replied cheekily.
"Rulen!" Olten called suddenly. He was standing a little away from the three of you—deeper within the confines of the stable—and there was a look of urgency decorating his face. "C'mere. The others need your help with the bridle."
Realization made Rulen's eyes wide, and he glanced away from Isil. "Oh—coming!" he called back. He looked back at Isil—offered him another wide, toothy smile. A gleeful smile. "See you later." And then he remembered you, and he offered you a quick bow of the head. "A-and goodbye to you too, Princess [Name]."
You smiled at the boy. "Goodbye, Rulen."
He turned away and scurried off, moving just as fast as he had when he'd left to fetch a stool for you. But this time, you noted how much he relied on the walking stick to get around—how he leaned on it and extended it and moved with it. Like it was part of his body.
And Isil had had a part in making it.
Your eyes fled to him—to his shape, still crouched and turned to stare at the space where Rulen had disappeared. He hadn't acknowledged you yet—not with words.
Was he upset? With you?
Or did he just not know what to say?
"How was your ride?" Your voice was tentative—careful—as was your question. There were too many people around—too many ears and eyes.
A pause. Isil lilted his head to the side, cleared his throat, and then slowly replied, "It was...fine."
You swallowed your frown—watched him carefully.
He was lying.
"Why'd you come here?" Isil continued. He straightened back to his full height, but he didn't meet your eyes—didn't even look your way. "I thought you didn't like the stables."
You looked at him—tried to get a glimpse of his face. But how could you when he wouldn't look at you? "I came to see you." You spoke honestly—truthfully. Like you always used to. Because you could always be honest with Isil; you could always trust him.
He looked at you then, and there was surprise in his eyes—pale, bright surprise that seemed to flood every crevice in his face. Surprise and then guilt, crushing the light—causing it to crumble to ugly ash.
It pulled at you—tugged at something tender deep inside you.
"Isil, what's wrong?" You stepped closer to him—ignored everything else in you telling you to keep your distance in fear that someone could see you. "And don't lie and tell me everything's fine because I know you and I know that it isn't." You placed a hand on his arm and looked up into his eyes—his familiar, warm eyes. Your voice was soft and pleading and earnest, and it colored the skin of your face. "Please. I just want to help you. You can trust me. You know you can trust me."
Isil stared back at you, and something filled his eyes—shone briefly in them before he pressed them close. And then he took a breath and opened his eyes—looked around. Quickly, he looped his arm around yours and lead you out of the stables—into the fresh air.
He kept walking—tugging you along in the direction of a destination only he knew. Eventually, he found it: a little alcove in a hallway temporarily devoid of guards. There he brought you, and there he waited for a moment. There was little room in the space to which he had taken you, and it forced you to stand close to him. Intimately close, so that your body was all but pressed up against his.
You could smell the outside on him—could feel his breath on your cheek. Feel his warmth, bleeding through his clothes and into yours. It bothered you; it made you want to pull away—to press closer.
He'd been this near only once before.
And then he spoke.
"[Name], I..." His voice trailed off; he wasn't looking at you again. He was looking down—at the wall you were both tucked against. But you were staring at him—at his face, so close to your own. "I'm sorry." His voice was quiet and tender—soft, a whisper. "I shouldn't have ran, I know. I shouldn't have made you worry about me like that and I'm sorry and I'm an idiot and a fool and—"
"Isil," you interrupted him quietly. "Don't say that. You're not a fool." You raised your hands—brought them up against his cheeks and cupped his face. "You're not anything of the sort." He was looking at you now—staring at you with wide, wounded eyes—and you stared back up at him. His skin was warm, and you could feel his heartbeat, brushing the fingers pressed against his neck. "Just tell me why, alright? That's all I want to know."
He stared at you, and a sheen came to his eyes—made them wet and shiny. He closed them—tried to blink the tears away. And when he finally spoke, his voice was soft and low and muffled. "I don't want to lose you."
Something in your heart seemed to crack—snap, like a frail twig. Because of his words; because of what they meant.
And now you couldn't deny it.
"You won't, Isil." You wanted to let go of his face—to stop touching him; to stop stringing him along like he was a dog. A plaything. Because touching him and knowing how he felt—knowing how you felt—was wrong. Was cruel. But you couldn't let go of him. If you moved away from him now, nothing of what you said afterwards would hold any weight. "I'm only getting married. I'm not going to disappear."
He brought one of his hands up—pressed his gloved fingers against the back of your hand. "You don't know that," he muttered. "You don't know what he can do."
You brought your face closer to his and peered up into his familiar eyes. "He's just a man, Isil." You tried to smile at him, but your lips felt heavy. "You overestimate him."
Isil inhaled slowly. "And you underestimate him," he murmured. The tenderness lingered in his gaze, but the hurt had begun to fade—burned away by a soft content.
You hummed, and then the two of you stood in comfortable silence for a moment. And then, slowly, you started to let your hands drop from his face.
"There'll be an empty seat at the dinner table tonight." You started to draw away from Isil, but he caught one of your hands in his own—held on to it. You wanted to tell him to let go. And yet, at the same time, you didn't want to say anything. "If you'd like, it could be yours."
Isil wrapped his fingers around your hand. They were rough and worn, but warm. Familiar. You watched him look down at it—at your hands together. "What happened to its owner?"
You brought your free hand to the one holding yours—gave his a kind but firm pat. "He opted not to take it."
Slowly, Isil began to loosen his grip—allowed his fingers to go slack—and he looked back up at you. "That won't go over well with the queen."
"No, it won't," you affirmed.
Another silence. Stretching. He stared at you, and you met his gaze, albeit hesitantly now.
You should tell him—tell him to move on. To forget about you. You should step away from him—leave the alcove and make space between the two of you. He deserved that. He deserved to be happy.
But he wouldn't be, not if he stayed with you.
A good friend would be able to turn him away; a good friend wouldn't lead him on.
So then why did you find it so hard to be one?
"Supper does sound rather nice right now," Isil finally said. And then, despite the small confines, he offered you his arm.
And you took it.
He lead you out of the alcove and into the hallway just in time for the two of you to watch the guard patrolling the halls disappear around the far corner. Isil and you shared a look, and then a relieved and somewhat mischievous smile spread across the both of your faces.
If you had been found—
Your mother would have skinned you alive.
"To the dining hall?" he asked. His voice was calm again—level.
You smiled. Even though it was wrong of you to—wrong of you to string him along. Even if you meant it; even if there was a part of you that wasn't leading him on.
A part that only seemed to grow.
"Why, of course." You nodded your head. "Lead the way."
And he did.