The air is cold this morning—so cold that when the princess releases a small sigh, I can see her breath freeze in the air. The lake shimmers with a thin layer of frost, and the grass beneath our is skirts green with the first breath of spring. Winter has always been her favorite season. No one visits the lake in winter.
No one but us.
I watch her round eyes skate over the surface of the water, watch her hem flutter and stray wisps of hair float in the wind. She turns and catches me looking. I don’t look away.
This is the story: Prince Lucion was called to battle the night before his wedding to Princess Aryllen. He donned his armor and his sword and left at dawn; they say Princess Aryllen came out in her wedding dress, tears shining on her cheeks, to kiss him goodbye.
This is the story: She spent the next day at the lake that introduced them, the day he’d been fishing and she’d been picking the little yellow flowers that only grow on the lakeshore—the one they met in again, and again, and again, each time less of an accident. She spent the day after that at the lake, as well. Then the day after that, and the day after that, and the day after that. Spring turned to Summer, Summer to Fall, Fall to Winter, and Princess Aryllen never once wavered in her routine. Every sunrise, she was there, her dutiful attendant by her side.
The once-secret lake became famous, renowned by the entire kingdom. Great painters travelled from far and wide to capture her essence at the place she fell in love, tourists flocked in droves to see her—wistful, they say she is, and always just a little sad. The spot was given a name: the Lake of Longing, where lovers now come to greet the Princess and offer up a coin to the lake, in the hopes that they will never be separated. That she is bearing the burden of loneliness for all of them.
Of course, she is never entirely alone.
I am there by her side, every sunrise, every sunset. I rouse her to wake, dress her in fine chiffons and silks, brush her hair and bedeck her in jewels. I walk beside her on the path, sit when she does and remain there until she rises. I am by her side through hordes of poets, packs of bards, all of the so-called artists who will spend their entire lives trying to know her. Little do they know, that is a privilege only one of us has received.
This is the story: on the night before her wedding, a princess was crying on her bedroom floor. Her attendant finds her, and begs her to tell her what is wrong. Through the tears, the princess confesses that she does not want to marry her betrothed. That she never has. That he asked her, and because he was a prince, and she was a princess, she said yes. That she wished she could have said anything but.
She cried and didn’t stop crying. Not until that attendant pulled her in by her shoulders and kissed her petal-pink lips.
That night, as if by divine intervention, the prince was called away to war. It was a far-off kingdom, a dangerous rivalry that had been brewing for far too long. It was a sword to the heart and a body dumped in an unmarked grave. It was every answer buried—and every promise along with it.
Now, Princess Aryllen smiles, just slightly, and it warms me more than any fire. Her hand slides over mine—the feeling of her skin, smooth and soft from a pampered life, sends a shiver up my spine. It has been like this since the first time I set foot in her chambers. It was only on the brink of our total destruction that we could finally pull it into the light, coax our desires to reveal themselves.
Some call the princess a widow. Others, a tragic virgin. Everyone agrees on one thing: that she will spend the rest of her life alone. But they’ll never know of the rumpled sheets on both sides of her bed in the morning, or what goes on once I lock her doors for the night. They’ll never know of the little yellow flowers she left on my nightstand after she went out to the lake, that first life-shattering time.
She squeezes my hand and looks back out over the water. I return it, and feel no cold at all.
I call her Aryllen. And I know that everyone is wrong.
thepollenthatfell t1_j00ppt2 wrote
Reply to [WP] Legend has it, the princess waits for her beloved prince who never returned from war. The princess is seen waiting every day where they used to meet secretly, a lake now known as the Lake of Longing, with only her attendant at her side. As her attendant though, you know the story differently. by salmontail
The air is cold this morning—so cold that when the princess releases a small sigh, I can see her breath freeze in the air. The lake shimmers with a thin layer of frost, and the grass beneath our is skirts green with the first breath of spring. Winter has always been her favorite season. No one visits the lake in winter.
No one but us.
I watch her round eyes skate over the surface of the water, watch her hem flutter and stray wisps of hair float in the wind. She turns and catches me looking. I don’t look away.
This is the story: Prince Lucion was called to battle the night before his wedding to Princess Aryllen. He donned his armor and his sword and left at dawn; they say Princess Aryllen came out in her wedding dress, tears shining on her cheeks, to kiss him goodbye.
This is the story: She spent the next day at the lake that introduced them, the day he’d been fishing and she’d been picking the little yellow flowers that only grow on the lakeshore—the one they met in again, and again, and again, each time less of an accident. She spent the day after that at the lake, as well. Then the day after that, and the day after that, and the day after that. Spring turned to Summer, Summer to Fall, Fall to Winter, and Princess Aryllen never once wavered in her routine. Every sunrise, she was there, her dutiful attendant by her side.
The once-secret lake became famous, renowned by the entire kingdom. Great painters travelled from far and wide to capture her essence at the place she fell in love, tourists flocked in droves to see her—wistful, they say she is, and always just a little sad. The spot was given a name: the Lake of Longing, where lovers now come to greet the Princess and offer up a coin to the lake, in the hopes that they will never be separated. That she is bearing the burden of loneliness for all of them.
Of course, she is never entirely alone.
I am there by her side, every sunrise, every sunset. I rouse her to wake, dress her in fine chiffons and silks, brush her hair and bedeck her in jewels. I walk beside her on the path, sit when she does and remain there until she rises. I am by her side through hordes of poets, packs of bards, all of the so-called artists who will spend their entire lives trying to know her. Little do they know, that is a privilege only one of us has received.
This is the story: on the night before her wedding, a princess was crying on her bedroom floor. Her attendant finds her, and begs her to tell her what is wrong. Through the tears, the princess confesses that she does not want to marry her betrothed. That she never has. That he asked her, and because he was a prince, and she was a princess, she said yes. That she wished she could have said anything but.
She cried and didn’t stop crying. Not until that attendant pulled her in by her shoulders and kissed her petal-pink lips.
That night, as if by divine intervention, the prince was called away to war. It was a far-off kingdom, a dangerous rivalry that had been brewing for far too long. It was a sword to the heart and a body dumped in an unmarked grave. It was every answer buried—and every promise along with it.
Now, Princess Aryllen smiles, just slightly, and it warms me more than any fire. Her hand slides over mine—the feeling of her skin, smooth and soft from a pampered life, sends a shiver up my spine. It has been like this since the first time I set foot in her chambers. It was only on the brink of our total destruction that we could finally pull it into the light, coax our desires to reveal themselves.
Some call the princess a widow. Others, a tragic virgin. Everyone agrees on one thing: that she will spend the rest of her life alone. But they’ll never know of the rumpled sheets on both sides of her bed in the morning, or what goes on once I lock her doors for the night. They’ll never know of the little yellow flowers she left on my nightstand after she went out to the lake, that first life-shattering time.
She squeezes my hand and looks back out over the water. I return it, and feel no cold at all.
I call her Aryllen. And I know that everyone is wrong.