The Prince...
She spoke truth, the tiny half-breed slave who stared at him with a conviction borne of years of neglect and pain. She had to be starved for human emotion, for company, for justice. He watched as she watched him, eyeing him in a manner that he had often seen in smaller animals when they were wary of a predator. He smiled slowly, admiration flooding his limbs as he watched the people around the courtyard leer at her, watched as she endured the verbal beating with a rigid spine and high head. She wasn't about to allow anyone to infuse her with self-doubt. The hatred she was subjected to caused him to burn with fury. He was, after all the Prince of Ridgeland, and he was also an adamant believer in equal rights among the breeds. And yet he couldn't help but play with the fiery red-head, watching as her green eyes glowed with defiance. She fascinated him suddenly.
"You don't believe freedom should be earned then?" He asked her with a shrug as he circled her and the guards. He knew he was intimidating, knew he had developed a reputation he both deserved and didn't. That was the thing about myths. They grew out of seeds into trees with roots that were impossible to cut down. The guards stumbled as he smiled with feral condemnation at them, moving away as quickly as they could once the last chain fell to the ground with a 'clink.' The young woman seemed unsure of how to proceed—gazing first at her ankles and then at her wrists before rubbing them unconsciously. She frowned.
"Earned?" She spat out sourly, almost cautiously as she seemed to realize she was speaking to royalty. And yet, she never backed down.
"Freedom should never have to be earned, only in a case where it has first been abused." She finally answered solemnly, her green eyes boring into his unblinkingly with a resolve that caused him to raise one of his brows slowly. She impressed him, this little imprisoned wildcat, and he suddenly found himself wondering what she was truly like when her claws were unsheathed. He had heard stories pertaining to the fact that Lord Horton harbored a female slave he beat for his daughter's willfulness—had heard the tales pertaining to her capture, of how she had fought desperately against the men who had come for her. It was said that she could hit a falling raindrop with an arrow sent unerring from her bow—that, with a sword, she had felled five men before finally being chained and dragged to the Lord's fortress. Much of that, the prince mused, was more than likely an exaggeration. But looking at her now, he could imagine her capable of putting up a good fight—of giving all that she had to ensure her own freedom. If the stories were true, he wondered now who had taught her to handle a sword. She was, after all, a half-breed and, as much as the prince detested the prejudice, the breeds were generally neglected and avoided. The prince was most shocked, however, that the rumors of Lord Horton's 'whipping girl' were true. The fact infuriated him to no end. No one should ever have to be punished for the sins of another. He let these thoughts swirl through his head as he circled her, stopping resolutely in front of her before kicking the chains away from her feet.
"And you have not abused your freedom? Have not committed any crimes?" He asked her firmly, his tone taking on the same resolve he used in interrogation. He saw the fire ignite in the little sprite's eyes and he fought back a grin. He was enjoying this entirely way too much.
"I have committed no crimes, sire, except to live. Everyday I wonder if living has, over time, become my crime and thus my punishment." She voiced with self-assurance as the prince moved still closer to her, close enough he noticed the minute tangles in her hair, the rips in the shoulder of her dress that had been raggedly mended, and the way her body trembled only slightly—belying the confidence she was determined to exhibit. The prince glanced around him before suddenly waving his hand in authority.
"Leave us!" He bellowed to the startled jump of both the crowd and the girl in front of him. The crowd murmured in agitation and uncertainty as they began to exit the courtyard, although the prince ignored them as he swayed nearer to the former prisoner.
"Your name, my lady?" He asked her almost in a whisper as she stared at the ground imploringly. He realized then that she was afraid, afraid it seemed of what he would do to her once they were alone, assuming, more than likely, that as a prince, he was above the law. How wrong she was.
"Bella." She murmured finally as the last person inside the bailey exited into the interior of the murky fortress. The prince nodded before taking a few steps back, allowing Bella the space she needed to feel secure. She seemed to note his gesture for she looked up in appreciation.
"And your name, sire?" She asked meekly as the prince stared at her agape. There was no possible way that she was unaware of his name. By the mage, she was! Damn, she had been cruelly sheltered!
His expression seemed to alert her to his shock because she looked away again, as if hurt by the pity she saw burning now in her eyes. She hated pity, fed off of its loathsome nature to make her stronger. She took in a deep, firm breath, her meekness having now fled.
"Whenever you were spoken of in the castle, even by your betrothed, you were always referred to as 'the Beast.'" She explained as he let his brows raise in irritation. His betrothed and his betrothal were both a joke.
"My given name is Connor." He told her lightly before motioning to the ground in front of him, in the formal gesture used to inform a lady that he intended to escort her. She swallowed hard before shaking her head resolutely.
"I'm not allowed in the castle without…" She began as Connor held up his hand to signal her silence. She obeyed reluctantly.
"You are now, Lady Bella. Slavery is a practice that I abhor. I will not permit it here. You should fear nothing." He commanded as she gazed over at him doubtfully. He realized suddenly that she had probably never trusted anyone before. Trust was dangerous.