AN: All the reviews so far warm my heart. Just so y'all are aware: this fic will be much longer than my previous one. The setting is a lot larger than just writing about a cabin in the middle of the woods; it's an entirely new freaking universe, and the plot will actually go somewhere rather than just sit stagnant like Bound to You's plot did. Also, there won't be any many time jumps in this; everything is going to seem really slow in the beginning, but everything will eventually pick up momentum.
I refer to the King with a capital 'K' in the same respect that most refer to God with a capital 'G', because the King in this fic is known to his people as a divine figure. (Also, the pronouns referring to the King are capitalized as well, like 'His' and 'He'). The only thing the King in this fic and Mr. Chandler on the show have in common is the fact that they're both Catherine's father. The King is not a good guy.
Catherine has a pretty good mask to hide behind when it comes to unfamiliar people in her life, and most of that has to do with the fact that she must keep up appearances as a member of the royal family. She pretends to be a total bitch to the people who are supposedly lower than her, but she's just pretending.
The princess wrinkled her nose at her new personal guard, who had just settled into his broom cupboard of a room. "You smell like a wet hound," she remarked, "I'd change out of your armor and undergarments before supper if I were you. No use in meeting the King looking like a peasant." A hint of what seemed like bitter sarcasm laced her tone, but Vincent decided not to ask her about it. He nodded, the soaked woolen underclothes beginning to itch at his scarred skin. He was about to strip off his armor in front of her before she stopped him.
"What on earth are you doing, Knight?" She demanded.
"My apologies, m'lady. I haven't had a room to myself in years, or any need for privacy," Vincent sputtered, face flaming as he realized his careless mistake. He dashed inside of his room, almost giddy at the prospect of having a door to close and of having a space to call his own. He was in and out of his room in five minutes, practically throwing his constrictive armor to the floor with a clang and peeling his sopping wool garments off to land next to his armor in a wet heap.
His only other set of clothes consisted of a finely woven tunic his mother had made for him and leather trousers. The princess was not impressed by his wardrobe choices.
"Is that the only thing you have?" She asked.
"Yes m'lady."
She pressed her lips into a thin line. "I'll have to order new clothing for you in the morning. No guard can protect me looking like that."
"Like what, exactly?"
"Like a commoner," she spat.
Vincent couldn't keep himself from retorting: "Not ten minutes ago, you requested that I no longer referred to you by your station. I wish to ask of you for the same courtesy."
The princess advanced upon him, her eyes cold and her face expressionless. "So that we may refer to each other as equals? You are not allowed to even think of me by my given name, let alone propose that you may refer to me as such. I should have you discharged from the King's Army for speaking in such an insolent manner." Something about the way she said this led him to think that even she did not believe in the things she was saying. It was as if she were reciting lines fed to her from an early age.
Vincent bowed his head, swallowing both his pride and his Beast. "My apologies, m'lady."
The princess eyed him warily. "I must also change before supper. Turn around and do not peek at me until I give my explicit permission to turn back." Vincent complied, mentally berating himself for talking back and silently vowing never to do so again. She took a little longer than Vincent did to change, what for he couldn't guess, probably due to the complications in women's clothing.
"You may turn back," she sighed after she was finished. Vincent's pupils dilated as he took her in. Her dress was simple, violet under a lavender cape which was fastened with a silver clasp (the color of the House Chandler), but she was a vision nonetheless. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously at his bewildered gaze before she began to walk from the room.
"M'lady! Where are you going?" Vincent asked, following after her.
"Supper, brave sir Knight, to which you shall accompany me," she replied, not turning to look at him as she exited her bed chamber and headed down the spiral staircase. As night began to fall, the sky outside of the windows provided no more natural light, especially with the rain pattering against the stained glass. The lit torches, hung sporadically on their way down to the main part of the castle, were the only sources of light in the palace's dark corridors.
The princess walked with purpose, her head held high, trusting of Vincent to follow her to the dining hall. Which he did, however begrudgingly, still resenting his Captain for demoting him to such a menial task. At least he didn't have to guard her bitter younger sister, Duchess Heather, of whom he had only heard horror stories from his fellow nights. Duchess Heather was shallow and vindictive, vying for her sister's crown even though Princess Catherine seemed to want nothing to do with it.
When they entered the dining hall, Vincent couldn't contain the amazed gasp from escaping his parched lips. Such a decadent place was this: one forty-foot long table laden with a feast fit for, well, a king. A roasted hog lay in the center, an apple clamped between its jaws, surrounded by boats of gravy, potatoes, broiled greens, candied fruits and bread puddings, goblets of wine, saucers of soup, and baskets of bread. Vincent had never seen so much food before in his life, save the victory feast the Army had provided to its troops after the Battle of Longfellow.
His stomach had never felt so empty before, his throat had never been so dry. Servants skirted past him, giving him sidelong glances as the newcomer. Some twenty chairs surrounded the table, filled with members of the royal family and the King's Councilmen. Princess Catherine had been the last to arrive, only to be seated on the right side of her father and ushered Vincent to follow behind.
All of the other personal guards to the royal family stood ten feet behind where their charges sat, so Vincent followed suit and assumed a resting attention position behind the princess' chair, not before pulling it out for her to sit. From whom he could see, just about every important figure in the kingdom was gathered about the table. The King sat at the head of the table in the largest chair, Princess Catherine was to the right of him and Duchess Heather was sitting to his left, symbolizing her lower status in the immediate family.
The duchess' amber eyes were neither as bright nor as beautiful as Catherine's for some odd reason. Physically, she was much rounder than her sister, her features were much softer. She wore a dark ring of kohl around each of her eyes, rouge stained her cheeks to an unearthly pink, and she had far much more jewelry adorning her dainty frame than the princess. The duchess' guard, who stood at attention behind her, looked both exhausted and absolutely miserable.
The disparity within the royal family itself was evident to the council members as well. Seventeen of them were seated up and down the table, each adorned with cloaks redder than the crimson in every sunrise, showing their status immediately as the King's confidants and advisors. The placement of the two women at the table was merely for show: neither the duchess nor the princess had any say in what went on in the castle.
Most of the meal went without a word from either of the young women: this was a man's world, and the men discussed business over roasted pork and boiled potatoes. Trade routes were being blocked off by floods and forest fires in the southernmost parts of the kingdom, while winter began to rear its ugly head in the far north. It never became cold enough here for it to snow; the capital's idea of winter was a month of hard rains before spring set in again.
The King bragged of His army squandering yet another rebel uprising in the east, a battle Vincent himself had been able to recollect. The way the King described it, the rebels were savages, travelling in hordes of untamed peasants until His royal army had cut them down. Vincent knew that He was bullshitting for the appeasement of His Councilmen, and perhaps even for the appeasement of Himself, trying to maintain the illusion that He, the divine King, still had control over his subjects.
The supper dragged on for two hours before the Councilmen excused themselves, waddling back to their quarters with bellies full to burst. The princess, who had not uttered a word the entire meal, decided to excuse herself as well. It wasn't until then did Vincent notice that Her Majesty's heart raced inside of her chest and her fingers were clenched in shaking fists. She was furious about something.
The King allowed her to leave without even sparing her a second glance, Vincent trailing behind her as they swept from the dining hall. Vincent's stomach growled again as they walked up the spiral staircase into the spire which housed her bed chamber, loud enough that even the princess could hear.
She produced a dinner roll from beneath the folds of her dress and handed it to him. "This should tide you over 'till I retire for the evening." Vincent thanked her and ate it in two bites as they continued their ascent, making sure to be polite enough so she didn't see his lapse in manners. He didn't ask her why she had snuck him any food at all, and instead accepted it as something he would only receive once.
It had stopped raining by now, for the moon cast its silvery glow through the panes of the windows in the spire. Once they reached her bed chambers, Vincent decided he was too exhausted to return downstairs after the princess had retired to bed, and instead would just go to sleep soon after she did. They staggered inside, and only then did Vincent finally speak.
"M'lady, might I ask of you the subject of your distress at supper this evening?" He inquired, still keeping his vow to be respectful to her.
The princess clenched her jaw. "I would rather have my subjects respect me than fear me. Rebellions only come around when subjects have cast aside their fear in desperate hope for a better future. His Majesty the King refuses to see the erroneous and costly mistakes He makes by making His people cower in His shadow of tyranny." She blinked, as if suddenly remembering herself. "But it is no concern of yours, nor is it a concern of mine as to how this kingdom is run."
"But you're to be queen, m'lady," Vincent protested.
She smirked humorlessly. "I shall be the queen in title only. All the decisions will be made by my future husband, and I shall be his doting and loving wife." Vincent could hear her heart slow as she calmed down. "Get some rest, will you? I have many responsibilities to attend to tomorrow, and I cannot afford to drag along my guardsman." Vincent nodded, the exhaustion setting in only after four hours of protecting the princess.
"Rest soundly, m'lady, and do not hesitate to wake me should you feel unsafe from the monsters which tread at night," he said, wishing her well as he closed the door to his closet of the room.
Had he not been who he was, he wouldn't have heard her mutter under her breath, "The monsters who tread in the night are the ones who should feel unsafe." What a curious thing for her to say, considering that she was half Vincent's size. Vincent didn't have time to dwell upon it, though, as he collapsed upon his wooden cot and fell asleep as soon as his head touched down.
XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX
Vincent awoke just as a chink of sunlight broke through the glass in his tiny window. A part of his heart ached for the days that he awoke to the sight of his brothers-in-arms sleeping in the cots next to him. The rest of him ached for something to eat, his large body requiring more sustenance than what he had eaten last night, and he began to regret his laziness for not going to the dining hall after the princess had fallen asleep. Speaking of…
He emerged from his room to find the princess fast asleep, the comforter and sheets encompassing her small body like a cocoon. She clutched her pillow as she slept, eyes racing underneath her eyelids in a response to a dream she was having. He yawned, and quickly caught a familiar, metallic scent through his superhuman sense of smell. Vincent had been around it enough times to instantly recognize it as blood, but it certainly wasn't Catherine's. His eyes flashed yellow for a moment, allowing him to find the source of the blood without a lot of snooping around.
The smell emanated from beneath the princess' bed, so he cautiously bent down to look. There seemed to be something akin to a chest or large box, fumes of blood wafting towards him as clear as day. He was about to reach out to grab it before the princess sat bolt upright in her bed.
"What in the hell are you doing?" She barked, causing Vincent to let out a surprised yelp. Her pulse began to pick up speed, indicative of nervousness or anxiety.
"I-uh, I thought I saw a mouse run across your chamber and hide underneath your bed," Vincent lied, not convincing the princess one bit. "But it was probably just a shadow," he added dismissively.
"A mouse?" She repeated skeptically, but her heart rate slowed back to its normal state, so she seemed to accept his excuse.
Vincent stood. "I didn't know when you wished to be awoken, m'lady. My apologies if I caused you to oversleep."
The princess shook her head and stretched. "I'll wake up when I need to be awake, so that is all that matters." She winced painfully as she rolled her shoulders, her nightdress covering so little of her shoulders that Vincent cast his eyes to the floor. He turned away from her as she dressed herself.
"Don't you have handmaidens to dress you, m'lady?" He asked, trying to keep the silence from getting awkward.
The princess snorted. "Little mongrels stole my jewelry. All I ever allow them to do is clean my chamber pots and fill my baths. You may turn around." He did as he was told and clasped his hands behind his back at resting attention.
"What all must you accomplish today, m'lady?"
The princess sighed as she brushed her hair (the only time he had ever seen it down) and re-braided it into a dark pleat. "This morning, we shall attend criminal hearings. I'm sure you're aware of the King's decree that He shall oversee any justice that goes on in His kingdom." She rolled her eyes in exasperation.
"Do you not agree with all the King does, m'lady?"
The princess glared at him. "You ask too many questions, brave sir Knight. You are lucky that I am so lenient while you are still gaining your footing in this place. My father would have you flogged for speaking without being spoken to."
Vincent grinned. "That's what got me booted from the infantry in the first place, m'lady." He knew he was pushing her boundaries by speaking so freely, especially considering how little he knew her. He made a mental note to get a peek at what was underneath her bed at a later time, but now all he could focus on was his growling stomach.
XxXxXxXxXxXxXxX
After breakfast, where Vincent was able to scarf down some soup and bread, he escorted the princess to the throne room. Once again, he found himself speechless in the presence of such magnificence.
The early morning sun light cast an amber glow through the stained-glass windows (the courtyard in the center of the palace was right next to it), its polished marble arches and high ceilings painted to resembled the heavens made it the second most beautiful place Vincent had ever seen. Hundreds of people were already packed into the room that was the size of an amphitheater, forced to bunch up against the walls, leaving enough space for the throne, three chairs, a platform for which they would sit, and the judging area.
The throne in the center was made of gold-leafed cherry wood, carved into with a skilled hand to form thorns and an insignia of a lion rearing its head. The family crest consisted of the fiercest of the gods' creatures, illustrating the former grace and glory of the House Chandler's might. The tyranny that the King now ruled with made the insignia superfluous, defeating the purpose it used to serve.
The King sat upon the throne, His crown and oaken staff carrying the power and prestige of His position more than that He Himself did not seem to possess. His age was beginning to creep up on Him, His sunken features making Him even crueler and more hollowed in the light of the sunrise. He gripped His staff with white, bony knuckles, refusing to show an ounce of weakness in front of His subjects.
He declared Himself to be the judge in all criminal proceedings, causing people to want to take matters into their own hands in lieu of His harsh punishments. Nevertheless, dozens of people appeared before the King on a weekly basis to plead their case. The princess and duchess sat on either side of His Majesty's throne in chairs not even close to as elegant as His was. Vincent and the rest of the personal guardsman (the King had six) stood either behind or next to their charges.
Magnus, the same Magnus that had led Vincent to the princess, also led the proceedings as well as made record of each plea from his perch at a writing desk directly in front of the King's platform.
"His Majesty, the Head of House Chandler, and the King presiding over the kingdom of Kroy Wen will now hear the first appeal."
A very large, surly man stepped forward with a boy no older than ten. The boy was skinnier than a sword and his wrists were bound, obviously the portly man's young prisoner. Both bowed in the presence of His Majesty before the man spoke.
"I am Gentros, son o' Möchte and Siré. I am the boss o' me bakery in the valley," the man grunted through his thick accent, and gave the boy he had a little shove. "This lil' runt stole some o' me bread. Says he's hungry."
The King leaned forward. "How much bread did he steal?" He asked, peering down at the young boy with a hawk like focus.
"O'er the las' couple o' months, he stol'd eight loaves, Yer Majesty," the man replied.
"And you've only just recently caught him in the act?"
"Yes, Yer Majesty."
"How much is eight loaves worth these days?" The King asked.
"Half a gold piece, Yer Grace."
"You boy, do you have half of a gold piece?" The King barked, the little boy starting with a jump before shaking his head 'no'.
"Then why did you steal this man's bread if you had no intention of compensating him for it?"
The boy swallowed before saying: "I was starving, Sire. I couldn't help myself, my hands sort of acted on their own."
The King's grip on his staff tightened. "Then perhaps your hands should have learned to behave before they robbed this man of his due. Guards," he commanded to the rows of men keeping the several dozen people in order, "One of you should relieve this boy of his sequestering, thieving hands so he may learn that while he may be lazy, others actually work for their way in life." The boy began to cry when a guard dragged him from the throne room and the bakery owner followed after.
The room was silent for a moment after that, the severity and harshness of the punishment stunning them to a standstill. Vincent himself bit back a protest as he watched the bound, weeping boy cry out for help. The princess' heart thundered inside of her chest, distress hidden remarkably well on her lovely face so that was invisible to all except for Vincent. Her sister, Duchess Heather, seemed remarkably uninterested in the proceedings.
It continued on for hours after that: case after case of trivial offenders receiving exorbitantly heinous punishments. One man killed another's horse in order to feed his hungry wife and children, and was sentenced to be castrated so he could no longer produce more mouths to feed. The King was a sadist when it came to punishments, especially when the perpetrator was a woman.
One of the last people to come forward was a middle-aged woman and her teenaged daughters. They had to hire someone to escort their bound attacker to appear in front of the kind. Their attacker was perhaps thirty years of age, with yellow teeth and a disgusting smirk upon his face. His eyes immediately found Princess Catherine from her perch next to her father's throne and brightened too much for Vincent's liking. She seemed to notice as well and turned her head to make sure Vincent was there, just to reassure herself. He nodded to her and she turned back just as fast.
The throne room was nearly empty, save the remaining case, the royal family, and the guardsmen that lined the walls where nearly five dozen subjects had stood only hours before. Vincent felt oddly exposed with nothing between the princess and the menace standing prostrate in front of the King.
"Your Majesty," the middle-aged woman began, "I am Ira, and these are my two daughters Lila and Rosa." Her voice began to shake, "And I stand here to accuse this man of raping me and molesting my children." The princess' grip on the arm of her chair tightened to such an extent that her knuckles turned white.
"And you are?" The King asked, directing His question at the man bound with ropes.
The man grinned toothily. "I am Tomas, son of Gregory and Anya, Your Grace."
"Did you commit the crimes this woman is accusing you of?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Why, pray tell?"
"They owe a debt to me, Your Grace. At least, their mother does. She has refused to pay it back, so I decided to take what is rightfully mine."
The King grunted. "From now on, they no longer owe a debt to you. Do you agree to do this?" The man nodded enthusiastically.
"Is that it?" The woman cried at the King.
The King turned His cold gaze upon her. "I beg your pardon?" His voice was calm, controlled and emotionless, much more terrifying than if He had been shouting.
The daughters stood behind their steadfast mother, who now had tears pouring down her face. "He took my daughters' innocence, their virtue. He humiliated my family. How can you just let him go free for him to do it again?"
"No," Vincent heard the princess whimper, desperate for the woman to stop talking. The princess knew that if the woman continued to speak out of turn at the King, both she and her daughters would be beheaded for questioning His Majesty's authority. The woman probably didn't care at this point: she would rather die than be humiliated by her rapist another day.
The King stood, using His staff to help Himself to his feet. "My ruling is just. You owed to him a debt and refused to pay him his due, so he collected his payment through other means. While I do not condone taking the law into your own hands, I could not think of a better incentive for payment. You, on the other hand, spoke out of turn during His Majesty's criminal proceedings. I am in a good mood today, lucky for you." The woman and her daughters breathed a sigh of relief.
"Instead of having you killed, I shall just have you flogged. Ninety lashes ought to do the trick," the King looked pointedly at the guardsmen closest to the mother. "And if the daughters fight you, give them the same treatment." The woman was aghast, her face contorted with rage as she and her daughters were dragged from the room as their rapist was unbound and allowed to walk free.
"Demon King!" The woman spat, her arms wrenched behind her back by two guardsmen struggling to pull her out of the room. "The rebels will come for you in droves so that you may taste your own brand of justice. I think a castration and a beheading are in order. What about you?" She screamed at Princess Catherine as the soldiers began succeeding in getting her out. "Do you not have anything to say?"
The princess stood and swept out of the room before her father or her sister could say anything else, Vincent trailed behind her. His hands shook and his teeth chattered, his rage shaking and boiling his blood like a teakettle. He had never witnessed so much evil in his life, even in the midst of war on the battlefield, even as blood rained down like a waterfall, he had never seen evil. At least, he had never seen the same brand of evil he had witnessed brewing in the King's eyes.
Once they were in a secluded spot away from the throne room, the princess leaned up against the wall inside of an alcove. Vincent studied her, listening as her heart finally slowed back down. How could she condone this? He asked himself, but might as well as had said it aloud.
"Don't look at me like that," she snapped, her jaw clenched. "There was nothing I could do, so for the love of the gods don't look at me like that." She didn't shed any tears, as much as she looked like she would have wished to. Weakness was something people in the House Chandler did not show. "And no, it does not get any better. It has only gotten worse as he has gotten older."
"M'lady, I'm concerned for you. I saw how that Tomas, the rapist, looked at you. What if he comes after you?"
The princess was livid. "Me? I do not give a horse's arse about what happens to me. What I care about is the fact that those girls will never be able to walk about their own house without feeling unsafe. That Tomas man will go after them, especially after he knows the King doesn't care about rape or molestation. Women are objects to the both of them." She calmed her breathing and looked him square in the eye with the type of renewed strength and resilience most knights took years to obtain. "And I was a fool to believe that today would be any different."
With that, she left the alcove and strode onward, with Vincent following at her heels like a lost puppy. His opinion of her would take a lot more to change now more than ever. To him, she was still too consumed by her own safe little world to know about what really went on outside of these castle walls. Little did he know, but she had broken the boundaries in her small little world a long time ago.
You'll notice that 'Kroy Wen', the name of the kingdom, is actually New York backwards. Reviews and constructive criticism are always appreciated. Love y'all!
