With A Kiss

The hovel teeters on the side of a mountain; both dwelling and cliffside are bare and crumbling.  The only access is a narrow path twisting its way through the rocks, barely wider than a child's shoulders at places, and littered with loose rock, scree, and ice so that the footing is impossibly treacherous.  Nevertheless, the path exists, as does the hovel.  Someone lives on the side of this unforgiving mountain; someone has come and gone on the narrow path.

Someone walks up the path now.

He walks slowly but with confidence, hardly glancing at his feet.  His confidence would indicate a familiarity with the path- perhaps he is the one who lives here.  But he stops every once in a while, looking behind him as if unsure whether this is truly the way, or if this is the way whether it will be worth the trouble to take it.

He is a tall young man, probably in his early twenties or late teens.  He is rather stereotypically handsome, dashing, charming; his carriage is confident, arrogant even.  In fact, with his golden hair shining in the weak sunlight, his blue eyes blazing brighter than the sky above him, his richly embroidered tunic, his masterfully forged sword hanging at his side- with all this, he is the perfect picture of a prince.  A prince come to do battle with evil, no doubt; what else besides evil could live in a place such as this?

He reaches the entrance to the hovel and hesitates.  He looks at the door leaning against its frame, then back the way he came.  The way down stretches out for miles, disappearing into other mountains just as rocky as this; he has come a long way to just turn back now.

The door opens at his touch, creaking and shivering with the movement.  Inside the hovel is utterly dark- even the light from outside doesn't penetrate further than an inch or two into the blackness.  The prince no longer hesitates.  He steps into the dark immediately, his hand on his sword, ready for any danger that might swoop down on him.  The door slams behind him, leaving him blind.

Something rustles in the darkness.  The sword rings as he draws it from the sheath.

Melancholy

I still remember that day with perfect clarity, the day I saw the Melancholia in the streets of the Capital.  Not a significant day by any means; it was of course not the first Melancholia I'd seen, though perhaps the first done deliberately.  My mind has encased the memory in ice, perfectly preserving it through the years even as the world around it turns to dust and becomes a new world altogether.  Other things I have forgotten- my favorite toy as a child, what William called me when we were alone- yet for some reason I can recall every detail of that not so significant day.  The cold breeze biting at my neck because I hadn't thought to bring a scarf.  The way the cobblestones slapped my feet through the hard, thin soles of my dress shoes.  The quiver of panic in my gut when I realized I didn't recognize the streets around me.  Determined as I had been to get away from the estate, I had given no thought to where I was going, only to what I was leaving behind.

The estate had bustled that day, I remember.  Preparations for the coronation later that afternoon.  Only the new queen's closest friends were selected to host the royal party at various stages of the procession.  Everyone helped with the preparations- the servants of course, but my parents and siblings too, snatched away from their daily occupations to ensure the name Aisley would remain second only to the royal family's.

Everyone bustling and busy around me.  Meanwhile, I'd waited in the hall, obedient as ever.  Dressed and ready, even though the coronation wouldn't begin for several hours; it was the only thing I could do.  I was eleven years old- too young to be of any use, they told me.  They didn't mean young.  Too... myself, perhaps.  No matter my age, I would never be of any use.

I think that was the first time the thought occurred to me.  When I sat in the hall, my back perfectly straight in case Mother or my sister Emilia came in and saw me waiting, that's when the thought was born.  The thought that I was truly useless, pointless, worthless.  If I ceased to exist, nothing in the world would be different.  Nobody would notice I was gone.  They would merely continue with the preparations.

An hour later, my breath floated around me in white clouds as I looked around the street, desperate to find something I recognized.  The grey stone stared back at me, refusing to reveal the right path.  I had made my way into town, that much was obvious; but there was no telling where I was within the labyrinth of streets and alleys that sprawled before the Queen's Palace.