I wanted to make this a one shot but that's not going to happen. The story is set in the nation of Victory.
The sound of the heavy metal cells doors echoed sporadically as the clock on the wall ticked away catching on the minute hand over the six. The guards mouth stretched wide as he yawned, slowly drifting off to sleep.
The jingle of hand cuffs and a sharp sigh jarred him awake, reminding him that he had a prisoner to watch. The young woman filled her cheeks with air again then released it as she drummed her index finger in the table.
"When is that journalist going to get here; she's going to make me miss my last meal."
The guard wiped his eyes roughly and eyed the clock. "Have you considered pleading?" He asked. "I mean a firing squad is no way to—
"It has been deiced." The young woman said. "Besides, I would not plead so much as a look from my brother." The guard fiddled with his cap.
"I'm sorry Duchess." He said.
"Do not call me that, please." The young woman said. The guard seemed taking back. "But you are—
"Was!" The young woman said. "If I were a princess I would not be here." Voices sounded form outside the room and the guard leaned forward.
"But once, people called you The Duchess of Victory, the bride of the nation. Once you sang in your father's court before tens of aristocrats." The young woman raised one brow slightly.
"Once? Once upon a time my father liked Silas; once upon a time he lived, but not anymore."
As she finished her sentence the heavy door behind her opened and a woman with long blond hair and glasses entered. The guard stood and gave her he's seat. The woman set up her things on the table, a recorder a diary and a notebook.
"I'm sorry I'm late, I ran into traffic." She said as she tucked her hair behind her ear.
"Traffic?" The princess questioned, "I miss traffic." The reporter noticed the far off look that came to the young woman's face. "Pounding horns, exhaust, the lost time you can't ever get back." She looked at the reporter and smiled. With a heavy sigh she rested her hands on the table and leaned forward.
"So what deep dark secrets do you want to know?" She asked. The reporter pressed record then picked up the diary.
"Why, I want to know about you Hortense Ruth." The reporter replied. Hortense scuffed as the reporter filed through her things. "The famous Duchess of Victory!"
"You mean infamous." Hortense said. She stole a look at the guard. "Is this going to take long…
"Baker," The reporter said. "Joyce Baker." Hortense nodded her head and looked down in thought. "I'll begin." Joyce said politely and Hortense bobbed her head. Joyce cleared her throat.
"I was looking through this diary, the one that your sister gave me—
"Dianna is behind this?" Hortense interrupted, "why do my siblings insist on betraying me?" She asked sarcastically.
"Princess please," Joyce said. Hortense relaxed and Joyce continued. "I was looking through this diary and I couldn't help but notice how much it reminded me of the nursery rhyme, about the father and the gun and his son…I can't remember what it's called." She snapped her fingers trying to remember, unaware that Hortense was in deep thought.
"Sons and Daughters ." She said. The reporter stopped and looked up.
"You're familiar with it?" She asked. Hortense scoffed and leaned back in her chair.
"Familiar with it? My father made me sing it before 20 odd people. I kept missing the high notes, but when you're a child your feelings really don't matter." She paused and grabbed hold of her two thick childish braids with white ribbons at the ends.
"In fact," She said looking up. "That's a good place to start."
And all the young sons fight the wars of their fathers
All of the fathers give them their guns
Yet at the same time the fathers surrender their daughters
To whatever circumstances may come