Calandra snuck back into her rooms with a sigh. She always enjoyed her small bouts of freedom, and hated when they were finished. Reaching behind her head, she untied the kerchief and shook her long black waves of hair down. She had always wished to cut it short, but she knew her mother would die of heart failure if Cal ever did. Not that she ever sees me, Cal thought bitterly, before banishing the thought from her mind.
Crossing the room, Calandra entered her closet and pulled the dress over her head. Rolling it into a tight ball, she buried it in a hatbox under a pile of old letters and dressed herself in a slightly (yet only slightly) more royal array. Usually her ladies-in-waiting would be standing two feet from her, shaking their heads and urging her to choose a fancier gown.
Her ladies despaired of her; while they wanted her to enter into a profitable marriage, she, the ever practical one, knew that however hard they tried, she would never make such a conquest. Men wanted meek wives; beautiful, soft-spoken women who wanted nothing but to embroider, dance, and gossip all day. She had never fit into those circles, though Aryane did with no difficulty. Her sister saw nothing wrong with fooling others into thinking she was shallower and less intelligent than she actually was. Aryane would make a good marriage; yet Cal, with her dislike of anything frilly and her distance from the throne, would not. Though Calandra had the title of Princess, her mother had an elder brother and sister, who had four children each. She was far enough from the throne that barely any man would look at her twice until her cousins were married.
A knock came on the door. Calandra started, took the book out of the basket, and shoved her wrapped sword under the bed. She called Aryane in.
She bounced through the door; Cal reflected that the five-year age difference between her and thirteen-year-old Aryane seemed huge when the behaved like this.
Aryane walked over to her sister and smiled sweetly. "Calandra," she said, "may I have my present?"
She laughed. Of all the qualities Aryane possessed, she was severely lacking in tact.
"Of course," Cal said as she reached behind her and presented to her younger sister the book of old myths she had bought from the bookseller's.
"Cal! You didn't!" cried Aryane as she opened and flipped through the leather-bound volume. "It's beautiful." She sat on the edge of the bed, already engrossed in reading.
The black-haired princess watched her sister, smiling sadly. She couldn't bear the thought that this might be the last day she ever would see her sister for a very long time—if not forever. A month before, she had decided to leave the city, and maybe even Gondor itself.
She walked to the window and leaned out, looking across the city. For years, she had felt oppressed and out of place. When she was fourteen, her world had begun to shrink uncontrollably around her, leaving her feeling out of control of her own life. Calandra pushed back the long sleeve of her dress and ran her thumb across the white scars on her inner wrist. The city had seemed to small to properly contain her spirit. After a few months, she had finally quit cutting herself, though Minas Tirith still never seemed to grow. Instead, she focused her energies on sneaking out to the market, conversing with the people, bullying (or flirting) boys her age into a sword or archery lesson, and pretending happiness. Her scars never left her, though she had hid them well ever since.
"Cal?" Aryane said, startling her out of her reverie.
"Yes?"
"Thank you."
Calandra pushed her sleeve down, turned, and crossed the room. She swept Aryane into a tight embrace. "I love you, little sister," she whispered, blinking back tears. "You're always welcome."
That night, with her bags completely packed, Calandra sat down to compose what she suspected would be the hardest letter she would ever write.
Dear Aryane, she began. She stopped. What was there to say?
After five drafts, a few ruined by tears smudging the ink, she wrote that she had never been happy in Minas Tirith, and that she was leaving. I don't know where I'm going, she explained. Tell them not to come after me—if I come back, I will decide when. She enclosed the key to her rooms, and ended her letter, saying: Aryane, do not worry for me; I shall be better off away than I ever was here. This has nothing to do with you. For the last four years, you have been the only thing keeping me here. I love you more than you will ever know.
Sealing the envelope closed, she willed herself not to cry and picked up her packs. Calandra slipped the letter under Aryane's door as she walked down the winding halls while everyone else was asleep. Saddling her horse at the stables, she put her things in the saddlebags and galloped down the tiers of the city. Bidding the sleepy guard a good night, she raced out the doors and toward her freedom.