He gave me weapons. He gave me armor. He gave me hope. He kept his end of the deal, and he elevated me.
I gave him my body.
And a lot more than that.
When I find him, he’s passed out with his head on the arm of the couch, a little puddle of drool soaking into the ivory fabric. He’s growing softer by the day, living off wine, fatty meat, and the adoration of a people he keeps under his thumb.
Me included.
His empty wine glass sits on the table, and the thought occurs to me for the millionth time: one slip. Crack the bulb off the stem. Slit his throat. Turn the couch red.
It would all stop.
But they’d catch me. They’re outside my door even now, where they’ll remain until he calls for them. I’d be killed or sent to Victora Prison. Probably the latter. It’s less merciful.
The Emperor’s son is following fast in his father’s footsteps, day by day becoming cruel and unaffected. Crowned in gold and glory, all for having been born rich, the son of a monster. He’d pursue me just for the sake of revenge.
And then I’d never get home.
The thought of my mother’s shoulder, my head resting there once more, pushes me on. I stoop, taking this man who sickens me into my arms, carrying him through to my bed.
His head indents my pillow, his body sinking down into my bed cover.
His shoes are already off. He’s wearing nothing but a loose robe. Something simple to slip out of. Expectant. After all, when have I ever said no?
Not since that first day.
I unclasp it, open it, reveal the body that repulses me, flaccid in swaths of pasty moonlight. Working the bedspread from beneath him, I cover as much of him as I can, then disrobe.
I crawl into the bed next to him, naked, and try to sleep.
It takes a long time, and even then comes only in drifts, broken with fear that he will wake. That the drug won’t hold.
The gasps of sleep are full with nightmares.
Powders floating in wine, blood soaking into sand, shower water so hot my skin boils with it, my flesh peeling off in enormous chunks, the Deathball, its spikes slicing into me, the Emperor waking, the Emperor sleeping, the Emperor…
Neither awake nor asleep is an escape from this night. Every heavy breath he takes, every cough, seems to signal the end of the prelude. Time for the show.
Somewhere around dawn, I roll onto my side, my back to him. My skin crawls awaiting the touch of his callous fingers. Fingers dipped in the blood of so many others.
Sinking, drowning, in a sea of gray.
Deeper, darker, gray.
Then peace.
Gray and stormy sky. A dark ocean. Floating.
Robin’s eyes, distrustful. But so beautiful.
Atrea.
Rocky cliffs so close, if only I could reach them. Scale them. Let them cut me to shreds, let my flesh be swallowed by that ocean, vomited back out onto the shore. Let every piece of me rot in the sun of that fair isle. Ground into dust. Swept into the dirt of my homeland.
I’d die for one full breath of that fresh air.
One good and deep breath.
