Epilogue
I still remember the whole thing. Everything he drilled into my head. Everything he said to me too many times, so many times that I almost dreamed it instead of the voices and demons haunting them. But what’s the point now? Now that they are gone. It repeats in my head now. The words my loving father said so many times.
“Walk slowly into the room, careful not to trip. Sing. Dance. Smile pretty. Look at your suitors with an inviting look in your eyes, but no too inviting or course. Don’t adjust your crown too often, that’s not very humble looking. Feel the beat of the music in 3 beats, never 4. You are graceful. Always remember that. You are beautiful, even if you don’t think so. I think so, and until there is someone else to tell you that, I will continue to.”
Again, what’s the point? I am done. My mind hurts, and I just want it to stop, even if I have to kill myself. I look at the stone in front of me, the black of my dress, and I let the demons take over. Just let them go. I feel glass cover my body and I shatter.
Chapter 1
I’m here. I’m dying. I’m bleeding. But most of all, I’m dreaming. I’m in a hole of black, the voices I always hear surrounding me like a poisonous gas. They tell me exactly who I am, though I think I know. I try to stay calm.
The voices invade my dreams so I can’t rest even when I’m sleeping. I feel myself writhe around, covered in sweat, trying to jump back into my body, finding it inhabited with three voices, just as it always is.
I know it is just me, because I have asked, but I can’t keep asking, because what are you supposed to tell your father who thinks you’re impossible already? Who thinks you lie? Who thinks magic doesn’t exist, though his daughter is inhabited with a demon. But he doesn’t know that. And he never will. The voice says. How can I tell him, the one who thinks only three things, being honest, being strong, and trusting, bind the world together? I can not, but I can be just strong enough to control a dream. I stand up, imagining that blood is gone. It turns to glass and falls to the ground, shattering,
I ignore the voices telling me what my life is, because I know already. My life is hell. No one knows it but one, and it is hell. I blink. I blink again. I imagine my room, waiting for me, my maids, arriving to dress me for the day, the stone of my father’s castle strong around me. My closet full of more dresses than I need. My horse waiting for my daily ride. My crown sitting on the vanity, waiting to adorn my wavy black hair.I take a deep breath and shoot up in bed. There it is, everything, the voices quieting down a little. I take deep breath in through my nose, and out through my mouth until my heart slow enough I can feel my body. I realize I am digging my long finger nails into the palm of my hand. I take one more breath and stare out the window, looking at the moon to see what time it is. An hour past midnight. I know I won’t be able to sleep anymore, the dreams were too bad. I sigh and take a piece of parchment from the table next to me. I go to my desk and pick up a quill, dipping it in the glass bottle full of ink. I think about what my doctor said yesterday.
Record your thoughts. Then burn them or let them fly away. This will make you honest, make you become more like the roots of a tree. I sigh and bring the quill, dipped deeply in green ink made from emerald grass. My hand glides across the page, writing words in English and Latin. et voces in meo capite. Make them leave. Non potero. I want them to go. Scribe, dicunt. They’re wrong. Me frangis, vivificabis me. Shatter me, make me live. I take a deep breath, setting fire to the paper. The smell seems familiar, and I think I have smelt it in my horrible dreams. It is oddly comforting, though. On the first page I wrote, about three months ago, I wrote that I wanted to die. Now I want to live. I wonder if it really did help, or maybe I am just getting better. The dreams don’t come as often, and the voices are quieter these days.
I get up and pace around my room a few times, my heart slowing down a little, then heating up again. A sharp rap at my door comes and I pull on a robe over my sleeping clothes and run to open it. The wood creaks and a young guard I’ve never seen before stands there, a pitcher of water in his hand. His brown eyes bore into me, worry creasing his brow.
“I smelled smoke, your grace. Is everything okay?” I sniff the air and remember my burning paper. My voice becomes formal and I cover up my hoarse voice.
“Oh.” I shake my head, a prim smile crossing my face. “I am fine, thank you.” He takes a deep breath. “Just getting rid of some documents I don’t need.” I take a deep breath and the guard nods.
“Alright.” He turns to walk away, but I put a hand out to stop him.
“Excuse me one moment, sir.” I say softly. He turns around.
“Yes, mam?”
“You can call me Crystal.” I tell that to all the guards, even if They work for me, they obey me. They never call me by anything but your grace or Princess Crystal of the house of <name.> Why would they treat me as a friend? I know he too, because that is what he was taught, will continue to call me by my royal name. Your grace. That is who I am to everyone. No one is my friend. He smiles a little.
“Thank you, Crystal.” My gasp is small and short, barely visible. He accepted me too fast, almost. “And you can call me Samuel.” I smile, a real smile for once. I can’t remember the last time I smiled. Stop. I chide myself silently. It is too late for such thoughts. I go into my room and pick up my quill, scratching out the guard’s likeness onto a paper. Samuel. I don’t even know if I’ll see him ever again, but he called me by my name. It felt real, but I don’’t know. But his name. Samuel. I fall asleep with my face against the desk, and a smile against my face. I feel just a little giddy that I might have a friend, and the rest is worry for my many problems. Life is too fast and yet too slow to know who is your friend and who is an enemy.
I take a deep breath and put the quill down, looking at the face in front of me. It ended not looking like the guard, and more like my father looked when I was younger. A crease in his brow, light brown soft hair, like the color of maple milk. A smile on his face, love in his eyes. A small child’s hand is wrapped around his finger. I imagine he is looking at my mother, before she died, her blonde hair and green eyes beautiful and regal.
The picture is one I have drawn too many times to count. Its lines come easily to my hands, and when I draw it, tears come easily to my eyes. I want to let go of the good times, but I can not. I close my eyes and remember that fateful day when the link between me and my father was severed. Nothing keeps me from thinking of that day at this hour. This is the best time to remember. This is the best time to die again.
The drawbridge is let down, and the carriage is driven further and further away from my view. My small hands, the hands of the child I am, rub against the window, rubbing away a little of the frost on it. Tears stream down my face and my other hand reaches down to tug at my heavy black dress.
“I miss her.” My sister Willow sobs into a maid’s lap. “I miss my mommy.” The tears spread wetness all over my face, making it a flood of loss and pain. I sigh,because she will never know the pain I feel. She will forget the next day. I, however. Will never forget. I run out of the room, leaving behind crying people and a trail of tears.
“Why?!” I scream, a shiver running through my body, as if something is awakening. “Why should I live, if she must die?” A voice comes from the depths of my chest, right next to my heart.
You are alive, it says. Because I gave you the blessing of life. I run into my room and shut the door. I'm sure fear shows on my face, ad I can't have people see me like this. Not when father’s reputation is running away, not with the rumor, untrue as it is, that he killed her. Though I am a young child, I still understand that he needs me to stay strong, for him, for the kingdom.
“Who are you?” I ask, trying to calm the tremor in my voice. “Why do I hear you so closely? How can I hear…You?” I listen carefully, but no more sounds come out from anywhere, inside of me, nor outside. I walk over to my window, pressing a hand to it, trying to steady myself. A shiver runs through my tiny frame again, and The window frame begins turning to glass. I scream and back away. It stops spreading, and I stare at my hands. My breath are quick and scared. I close my eyes, sitting on the very edge of the bed, trying to ground myself . My little hands reach up to my mourning wimple, crumpling it in my hands and holding firmly onto it. In a moment, it feels cold and stale. I move my hands away, and it looks like frosted glass. I rub my fingers against it. It is glass. Solid glass. The voice in my soul comes back, joined by others, so loud I can’t hear what they say. I do my best not to scream. Because a young child screaming will not do well for my father’s reputation.
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