No Fury

Now: Thirteen

I watch him from the window as he mounts his mare and tears off across the field with his steward and a handful of guards in tow.

His legs are long, wrapped around the beast's ribs. Fists hold the reins tight. I can't see the muscles in his back — have never felt them beneath my palms — but can imagine them now. He is broad, and strong. Heavy and solid.

My mouth waters inexplicably.

Small servant boys chase after him, calling out in youthful glee. The prince laughs, calling back to them as he reaches into his pocket, throwing them sweets.

He knew they would be there. He carried sweets on purpose.

No one in our world would ever dare chase after the king this way. He would give them a cloud of dust, at best. The end of his boot, at worst.

I watch the Sunshine Prince disappear into the dappled shade of the woods, and then fully out of my sight.

Panic clutches my chest, trapping my breath. We are not privy to politics, but we all know that war is looming. We simply do not know what it means. A day battle over a single border, or a loss of men and horses over much of our land.

What if if they captured him? What if anything happened to him? I do not know how I would bear it. My world is so small; despite everything—despite his selfish demands, his odd intimacy and distance, despite taking my innocence without ever asking—he remains my pure, true sun.

I want the power to refuse him. I want my visits to be my choice. I want him to ask my forgiveness again, I want him to say my name. I want the soft slide of his mouth on mine.

I want to be summoned tonight. I hate myself for it.

Looking down at my clenched fists, I open them, slowly. Angry red crescents remain in my palms where my nails dug in. But my hands are empty. A million things I want, and my hands are empty.