Aurelia Venerius
I stare at the Eighth Prince's departing back, frozen by a mixture of shock and fear. Why was he trying to kill me? Why didn't he follow through? Just how am I alive? As I ask myself that final question, the Eighth Prince turns back, looking at me over his shoulder. His eyes only reluctantly meet mine, and only for a split moment, before he turns back and leaves me lying on the floor. For a man who just unflinchingly stared at me for over an hour, he's being awfully meek.
As the black shadow that is the Eighth Prince soundlessly disappears around the corner, a wave of relief washes over me. I'm safe at last, thank the gods. Fatima belatedly rushes over to my side, semi-faux concern painted all over her face. I can't tell whether it's out of her actual concern for me or whether it's her concern over the wellbeing of the Parthian alliance with the Han. One thing is utterly, unlike Fatima, clear though: the Eighth Prince is crazy, he's completely nuts. That slash of his was undoubtedly meant to take my head. And I tried to kick him afterwards! Shit.
"Your Highness, what did you do for the Eighth Prince to try and take your head?"
I don't answer, letting the question hang poignantly in the air. Wouldn't I like to know the answer to that? I struggle to stand, not because my dress is restrictive, not because my muscles are sore from staying as still as a statue for an hour, but because I believe that if I continue to stay glued to the ground, if I continue to keep up the mask of a subservient little wife, if I abandon my dignity and pride, I just might live. But it's not that realization that is stopping me from rising. It's the realization that I'm willing to abandon everything if it means I can live. It's an ugly, horrific truth, that, as I slowly rise to my feet, have no choice but to embrace, to embody.
Stumbling out to the garden, I let myself collapse by the very same pond that I last sat beside when I was free. I bask in the silver glow of the moonlight, gentle and soft, unshackling my mind from the prison of my body. I lifelessly gaze into the pond, swimming through my thoughts and memories trying desperately, vainly, to find some comfort. Somewhere along the way, my body, tired from my recent ordeal, gives up, and I drift off into the void.
YOU ARE READING
The Foreign Empress
Historical FictionA cold and potentially fatal marriage, an imperial court embroiled in assassination and conflict, a hidden conspiracy that could shatter not just a four-century-long peace but the empire itself. In the midst of it all, a girl whose struggle to survi...
