by M. D. Laird
He had taken the day off work after the onset of his mood after Genevieve’s New Year party the previous night. He had been in good spirits and had been looking forward to spending the evening with Genevieve, to taking her onto the dance floor and spending a few precious hours enjoying her company when he was not crippled by his feelings. It was not to be. He felt his mood deteriorate rapidly over the course of the evening.
He had sat at the rulers’ table sipping champagne. Genevieve was circulating the guests and was planning to join him after she had finished mingling. She had not thrown the party simply for the sake of nostalgia, there had been political reasons. Genevieve was regretting her decision to reform Arkazatinia and make it democratic. She was finding making the decisions she, as queen, felt were in the best interests of the Arkazatines difficult as she was met with dissent from the rulers. Rather than a meeting to plan spending, the quorum had become an arena for posturing and arguing amongst the rulers. Frequently the meetings ended without decisions being made and without all items on the agenda being discussed.
Calab too had thought the democracy was a good idea when Genevieve had suggested it, but he wondered if he had been tempted by the extra power she offered him and thought that if he had considered it objectively he may have warned Genevieve against it. Though maybe he wouldn’t. He had abandoned her during that time. He was refusing to speak to her because of his damned emotions, and two years on, they were still bothering him. He was trying to rectify his mistake with the political situation and encouraged Genevieve to take steps to regain some of her power over the Arkazatines.
The party was an outlet for her to make an informal speech to the rulers and the members of the public and heralds who had been invited. She had told them that she realised that there was an issue with the current system, that she had acknowledged the many complaints she received from members of the public and she would go back to the drawing board to see what could be done to improve things. It was a simple speech to sow the seeds that things were going to change. Genevieve had then spent time at the party moving through the guests to offer reassurance that things would improve and trying to clear the air amongst the members of the quorum. She’d also spent some time trying to mend her fractured relationship with Thalia after their recent quarrel.
Calab had waited at the rulers’ table for Genevieve to join him. He had not felt like socialising with his former peers. He did not know whether it was because he was still finding his emotions difficult to deal with or if he had tired of their pettiness, but he had little tolerance for making small talk. Instead, he had taken in his surroundings and watched the other guests—especially those on the dance floor.
He had found his former third in command, Barakel, dancing with the Procnatus kitchen girl. He watched them together. Calab had never paid any attention to his demons’ relationships, but he knew that Barakel had been with the girl for around a hundred years—since before the First World War at least. He only knew that because Barakel had previously courted a girl who Calab took to his bed. He felt guilty about that now. Barakel had started courting the Procnatus girl shortly after that.
Though he did not have the emotions Calab had, Barakel was the most sensitive of any other demon he knew. Calab had watched Barakel with the kitchen girl.
She has a name!
Barakel had always demonstrated affection for the girl—for Calia. Calab had never seen him with anyone else since he had courted her and he always seemed to enjoy her company. He was always kissing her or holding her, and always laughing with her. Calab was jealous of the simplicity of their relationship. Why could Barakel enjoy his relationship and Calab could not? Why could Barakel have an affectionate relationship without overbearing emotions and Calab could not?
Calab had turned his attention from Barakel and Calia, and his eyes had found Prince Thomas and Princess Eleanor. Thomas was considerably less sensitive than Barakel, but even he seemed to manage a relationship of sorts with the princess. She was certainly much happier with him than when they were first married. Gone were the resentful glares, the awkwardness and the bitter snipes and in their place were fond gazes, an easiness and laughter at the prince’s comments. The prince also showed frequent amusement during conversation with her, and they had barely acknowledged any of the other guests at the party and had seemed to enjoy one another’s company.
Calab had found Genevieve and told her he was leaving. He could not bear to be surrounded by people anymore. He had returned home to sit in the sanctuary of his library. Genevieve had called on him after the party to see how he was. He had wanted her. He wanted her in his arms. He wanted to kiss her, to feel her naked against his body and spend the night with her. He had not given her a chance to speak before he kissed her passionately and pulled her to the rug on the floor of his library. He kissed her mouth, her ears and her neck until she moaned and told him she wanted him. He had held her for a few moments afterwards and then told her he needed to be alone.
Genevieve had told him she would wait for him. She had told him she would give him all the time he needed. But how long could she realistically wait? How much rejection would she take before she gave up on him? How many times could he take her to bed and then turn her away before he hurt her so much that she would not come back?
He loved Genevieve. He loved her more than anything, but he was breaking her. She generally hid her emotions well, but he had started to sense her sadness. Every time he made love to her he could smell her happiness, her hopefulness that perhaps he was finally able to be with her and then he sensed her sorrow that he wasn’t and her despair that he wanted her to leave him alone. She was beginning to become wary of his advances and had tried to avoid his kisses. He had to encourage her, he told her he loved her, and he wanted her and kissed her until she gave into him.
He knew he shouldn’t touch her. He shouldn’t kiss her or make love to her until he was sure of his feelings, but he could not help himself. He loved her so much, and he craved her affection. Afterwards, he felt guilty that he had given into his selfishness again. That he had hurt her again. That he was sending her away having used her again. She was trying so hard to be there for him and be patient with him, but she could not possibly tolerate him much longer. She did not deserve to tolerate him much longer. She deserved better than someone who would treat her as he did.
But he just could not resist his urges. He could not bear to be around her, yet the temptation to be with her was too much. It was as Lord Henry said in The Picture of Dorian Gray ‘The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it’. That was Genevieve’s favourite book, though Calab doubted she would appreciate the sentiment.
The urge to be alone was stronger than the urge to be with her. Once he was sated he had to leave her. He had to be alone with his thoughts. It wasn’t just Genevieve; he could barely tolerate anyone’s company—even Thalia, who had been his dearest friend for many centuries. As Blake said:
“And, when night comes, I’ll go
To places fit for woe,
Walking along the darkened valley
With silent melancholy.”
He dropped his head into his hands and cried.
“Well, isn’t this nice.” The king smiled wickedly as Thomas and the princess sat at the king’s table. “My daughter and my son-in-law here for supper.” The princess said nothing as she took her seat. “Do you not have a friendlier greeting for your father, Eleanor?”
“It’s good to see you, Father,” she said, forcing a bitter smile.
“How is married life?”
“Fine.”
“I hope you’re keeping Prince Thomas happy, is she?”
“She is, Your Majesty,” replied Thomas who received a grateful glance from the princess.
“Good. It sounds like she serves you better than she has ever served me.” The princess cast another glance—a resentful glance—towards Thomas. She had told him he would taunt her if they came. “Yes,” the ki
ng continued. “I have spent too many years trying to take my daughter and her wayward thoughts in hand. I had offered her hand in marriage to lords before, and they would not accept her. They preferred a daughter who is less…difficult. You seem to be controlling her well, Prince Thomas. What’s your secret?”
“I don’t know, fear I suppose.”
The king laughed. “I should have given her to you years ago, perhaps then she wouldn’t have betrayed me.” The princess swallowed nervously.
“What do you mean?” asked Thomas nonchalantly.
“She has been entangled with her educator’s son. I’m afraid I owe you an apology, Prince Thomas, it seems my daughter was not a virgin after all.”
“I figured as much,” replied Thomas, taking a sip of his wine. “It’s no matter.”
“You are much more gracious with the news than I expected, Prince Thomas. Eleanor is lucky; another man would beat her within an inch of her life.” Thomas saw the princess glare venomously at her father, she truly hated him, and it was not difficult to see why. “I considered having the boy killed, but I felt it was down to my daughter’s husband to decide a fitting punishment.” The princess’ eyes pleaded for mercy.
“I see no need to punish the boy,” said Thomas. The princess looked relieved, and she gave him a small, grateful smile.
“You’re not angry to have been deceived?”
“I am a demon,” said Thomas. “It is not in our nature to experience jealousy.”
“Surely a few lashes would not go amiss,” pressed the king, “just to teach the boy some respect.”
“It’s really not necessary. There is no harm done.”
“Very well, though I am holding the boy in my dungeon, perhaps you would like to say a few words to him.”
The princess whipped her head towards the king. “Please, Father,” she begged. “Please let him go. He has done nothing wrong.”
“He lay with my daughter without permission.” The king snarled.
“He had my permission.”
“It was not your permission to give. You have made me look a fool. I offered Prince Thomas a maiden princess and what he got was some farm boy’s leftovers. You are lucky you are no longer under my control, Eleanor, because I would peel the flesh from your bones with my whip.”
The scent of terror filled the room. Thomas looked at the princess who had raised her chin and met her father’s eyes. She stiffened to stop her body trembling and hide her fear. The king gave the princess an evil smile and appeared to relish her discomfort. Thomas was beginning to tire of the king’s sadistic tendencies.
“I’m sure the boy has learned his lesson,” he said calmly. “Perhaps it would be prudent to allow him to return home. I shall ensure the princess does not see him again.”
The king smiled at Thomas, his eyes gleaming. “Why don’t you both accompany me downstairs?”
Thomas and the princess followed the king and his attendants down the stairs to the guild’s dungeon. The princess walked stiffly at Thomas’ side to conceal her fear and her anger.
The king had the boy chained dramatically to the walls of his dungeon. He was slumped forward with only the chains clamped at his wrists keeping him upright. The boy had been brutally beaten. His face was blackened and bloody, his eyes were swollen, and his lips were split. He was naked, apart from his underwear, and every inch of his body was bruised. His chest was compressed unnaturally, and his breathing was ragged from the broken ribs. His right leg was twisted at an awkward angle, and his shin bone pierced the skin where it had been broken.
The princess screamed and ran to the boy, her dress becoming saturated with his blood. “James!” she wailed. “Can you hear me? Father, please! Don’t hurt him anymore. Please let him go.”
Thomas turned to the king. “This seems excessive.”
“It’s about to get worse,” said the king, nodding to Victor who stood grinning beside the boy.
Victor unsheathed a blade from his waist, and within a second he had slit the boy’s throat. Blood sprayed from his throat covering the princess who began screaming.
“NO!” she shrieked as she tried desperately to stop the flow of blood. Victor pushed her aside then raised the blade once more and cleaved the boy’s head from his shoulders sending it thumping to the princess’ feet. The king laughed as his daughter screamed frantically. Thomas shook his head as the princess dropped to the boy’s feet and sobbed beneath his body. She held his head in her hands and stared into the bloody, bulging eyes.
“Now it’s her turn,” said the king.
“Excuse me?” Thomas growled.
“It is her turn to be punished.”
“This display is not punishment enough?”
The king smiled wickedly and picked up a heavy bullwhip and threw it to Thomas who caught it easily. “Do you want to do the honours? She is your wife after all.”
“I don’t think so,” said Thomas, throwing the whip to the rear of the dungeon.
“Then I shall do it myself.” The king snarled and turned to Victor. “Whip the princess.”
“How many lashes?” Victor asked.
“Until you get bored or she’s unconscious—whichever comes first.” The king gave Thomas an acidic smile, a toxic scent of hatred pelted his nostrils.
“She will not be harmed,” said Thomas simply. “The princess is a member of my guild and is protected against such treatment under my decree. She cannot be punished without first being given fair warning against her behaviour and certainly not to this extent.”
“As the king, I order—”
“I think you have tormented her enough for one day.” Thomas approached the princess. He lifted her into his arms, cringing as the blood soaked his favourite waistcoat, and left the dungeon without another word to the king. The king’s men were not stupid enough to try and stop him.
The princess clung to Thomas sobbing heavily as they rode the vector back to the guild. After alighting at the guild, Thomas carried her through the entrance and was met by Arakiel, who appeared puzzled.
“Does she require a conservator, Your Highness? It doesn’t smell like her blood.”
“It’s not. Have Ramiel meet me in her room.”
He took her to her bedroom, set her down on the bathroom floor and began to draw her a bath. He filled the tub, added lather and was joined by Ramiel. He gave the attendant instructions to fetch the princess clean clothes and brandy. Ramiel returned as the bath was ready. Thomas turned to the girl.
“Princess,” he said, “your bath is ready. I will leave you.” She did not respond; her eyes were glazed as she stood staring in the mirror at her bloody reflection. “Princess?” She said nothing. “Princess, you need to take off that dress and have a bath.” He sighed when she gave no reply and nodded to Ramiel to leave the room. “Princess, I’m going to have to help you. Are you sure you don’t want to do it yourself?” She did not reply.
Thomas unfastened the princess’ dress and allowed it to drop to the floor. She did not move. He removed her underwear, and she remained motionless. He lifted her into the tub, then soaped and rinsed her hair before soaping a washcloth and cleaning her face, shoulders and arms. He removed his bloody waistcoat, shirt and trousers, and cleaned himself before lifting her out of the bath, towelling her dry, dressing her in a clean nightgown and carrying her to her bed.
Ramiel collected the bloody clothes and cleaned the princess’ bathroom as Thomas poured himself and the princess a brandy. She stared forward unblinkingly and did not appear to notice him as he offered her the glass. He placed the drink on her bedside table and took a seat next to her on the bed. He began to mull over the events of the evening.
What is the king playing at? Why would he behave like that?
It did not make any sense. The king had always been a bit of a tyrant, but his treatment of the farm boy and of his own daughter was extreme. He had been determined to hurt her and to have Thomas hurt her.
Why would a father encourage his daughter’s husband to beat her?
It was not the behaviour of a normal father. He had observed some evil acts on decree, but rarely did he see such cruelty. Most men, even the worst of men, protected their daughters.
Why did he marry her to me? There is more to this marriage than an alliance with the Arkazatine queen. It seems to be a part of a scheme to cause as much suffering to his daughter as possible. But why? Why would he do that? He can’t be that angry that she had an affair. And if he was, why did he not just disown her or even execute her? Why go to such lengths to torment her?
Thomas growled inwardly. He was being used by the king—he did not know why, but he did not like it.
The princess had fallen asleep. She was still sat upright, but her head slumped to her chest. Thomas lay her down and covered her with her blankets before midspacing to his room.
“Thomas!”
The sound of his name being cried out in the night wrenched Thomas from his sleep.
“Thomas!” cried the princess again.
Thomas midspaced through the wall and found the princess writhing in her sleep. “Princess,” he said, shaking her shoulder.
“Thomas,” she shouted.
“I’m here,” he said, shaking her shoulder again. “Wake up.”
The princess’ eyes snapped open. “Prince,” she cried. Her eyes began to well with tears. “James is dead.”
Thomas nodded.
“I dreamt my father was holding me in his chains and…” She trailed off as though she did not wish to repeat the horror of her dream.
Thomas said nothing and sat on her bed. He still wore only his underwear, and the princess blushed at the sight of his half-naked body.
“I’m…I’m sorry you had to…bathe me.” She cringed. “I…I was…well, in shock I suppose.”