Chapter Text
i. wanderer
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The kingdom is an enemy to many nations.
And so, mayhap it is a mistake—to leave the windows opened, the balcony doors ajar, to let the moonlight seep into her chambers. Right now, in the dead of the night, when the soldiers are warning of an attack, of an ambush, of the sightings of an assassin, the princess stares with nonchalance.
Stares, as this figure on top of her has a knife to her throat.
Masked, covering all but deep, crystal blue eyes—subtle flecks of green and, perhaps, gold swirling in a cloud of mysteries. The person has her pinned down on her bed, the coldness of the steel blade pressing, sinking, into her skin.
Just a twitch. The slightest movement will draw blood.
Is it possible that this is the way that she goes? Without having experienced anything in her life? All the stories of adventures she has read, of meeting a prince in shining armour, and, dare she dream, of falling in love—are they all out of reach? To escape from a predestined life planned by her father, to never experience what freedom means.
Oh, how unfortunate, she thinks. But if this is her fate, what power does she have to defy it?
She closes her eyes. Waits for her blood to be spilled.
Oddly, the moment never comes.
The princess opens her eyes, only to find that the person is… wavering? The knife to her throat trembles—rather, the hand that holds it does. When the princess looks hard enough, she sees a hesitation, a reluctance. The corners of those crystal blues twitch, and, judging by those thick, long dark lashes, this person is—is she a woman?
Suddenly, the princess is engulfed with curiosity. A need to know.
She does the unthinkable and reaches up.
Dainty fingers come to hover over the assassin’s hand that is holding onto that knife. In one, confident motion, the princess lets their hands touch. Hers on top of the assassin’s gloved one.
They do not move, do not make a sound.
A simple moment of silence—of, might it be, allure, where they study each other.
And when the princess has ascertained that the woman on top has no intention to harm her, she sits up.
The assassin, strange as it may be, does not react beyond moving away. How ironic, being the one with the weapon, being one who has been hired to kill; it is she who appears to be in fear. She backs away, steps off the bed until she is cornered against the wall.
In contrast, the princess finds the courage to approach. The silk of her white nightgown drags as she walks, long, platinum hair falling over her back when she stands. The princess swallows down the involuntary gasp that threatens to escape as her bare feet touch the marble floor. Until, at last, she finds the voice within and asks, “Have you come to take my life?”
No response. The assassin remains standing there, petrified.
She could call the guards. Just the slightest noise—someone will come in, and then this intruder will be subdued. Yet, the princess chooses to remain quiet.
She chooses to take another step forward.
“It is yours to take. I do not care.”
Nothing. Again, nothing at all.
The princess is not a patient person. She takes one more step, close enough to get herself killed if the intruder so wishes to strike, but also enough to assert her own power.
She is, after all, the heiress to the throne. At the passing of a legacy, she will be the one to inherit the kingdom. She will be the one who commands all that belongs to her father the king. A kingdom so powerful and overwhelming that the nations surrounding it are in constant fear.
But the person is adamant in her silence. Rather, it almost seems as though her refusal to speak is due to fear. She has her eyes clenched shut, head turned away, her stance—vulnerable.
Rather unconventional for an assassin, if that is what she is.
“Princess!” Comes a voice from outside her chambers.
The two jump to the call, but the assassin is the first to act. In a flash, she slips from the confined space that the princess has left her in, and leaves through the balcony. She disappears into the night, long before the guards can enter and know of her existence.
“Princess Miorine, it is unwise to leave the windows open.”
Meaningless words.
The assassin has already infiltrated her life. Not that she has any intention to tell anyone, however.
.
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She overhears the conversations. The murmurs amongst the chambermaids, that perhaps the assassin was sent from one of their enemy states. Could it be an attempt to wipe out her father’s bloodline?
Well, it quite was a failed one.
Naturally, the security increases. The princess is instructed to keep all doors and windows locked as usual. Her chamber is located in one of the towers that is of the highest in the castle; there are archers on the rooftops; soldiers stand guard at her entrance, and so by logic, no one may enter. No one may harm her.
Yet, again, on this night where the moonlight befalls her room—seeping through the gossamer curtains and dyeing everything in a brilliant silver, the princess faces the same assassin.
She herself sits on her bed, legs hanging off the side.
The assassin, meanwhile, steps into the space.
It is pointless to lock anything; an adept assassin can easily break through any lock, and by the looks of how easily she enters, the princess concludes that this assassin is not exactly a failure. The question is, however, why she chooses to be one.
“If it is my life you want,” she voices, “Then why do you not take it?”
Her intruder does not react beyond a slight shake of her head. It is as though she is telling the princess— she does not know.
The princess is overtaken by curiosity. Overwhelmed with a need to understand. Just like the previous night, she approaches the assassin. This time much more confidently, much quicker. Every step, every breath that she takes as she comes closer, the beating of her heart becomes heavier. And as she reaches for that black scarf and hood that hide all but the eyes, she prays that the assassin does not move.
I want to see, she hears her mind speak, I want to know.
Slender fingers graze along the fabric.
For a hint of a second, it almost seems as though the assassin welcomes it—like she craves it, as she leans into the princess’ touch. But like waking from a dream, as abruptly as she has stepped into the princess’ room, the assassin shirks. Her mind changes. Without another word, she backs away, passes the threshold of the balcony door, once again disappearing into the night.
It leaves the princess in confusion, no doubt. But above all else, she is rendered fascinated, which is an anomaly in itself, is it not? After all, how strange is it that this stranger—someone who is capable of taking her life—can occupy so much of her mind?
Her heart aches at the mere notion that she does not know.
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The kingdom is an enemy to many states indeed, as the princess awakens to yet another assassination attempt.
This time, however, the intruder is not the same person.
Disguised as one of the guards, he enters her chambers easily. A lance in hand, unlike the assassin from the previous nights, this one is very evidently opting for a more direct approach. Seeing the bodies of corpses lying just beyond the entrance to her room, with the smell of blood permeating the air, the princess comes to believe that this may, very well, be the end.
She is not afraid of death—not one bit, and that is the reason that she chooses to stand still. Close her eyes and await its embrace as the man lunges.
But the moment drags on, and it never arrives.
She opens her eyes, just in time to see blood spilling from the man’s throat, and as he falls to the ground, a familiar masked figure is left standing, with a bloodied knife in hand.
There is no sound, no movement. The pool of blood spreads, its lukewarm sensation touching the princess’ toes, staining the silk of her white nightgown in a crimson. She focuses, keeps her eyes on the masked assassin to read her intent, only to find, upon closer observation, that she is trembling. From her hand that is gripping onto the same knife that she attempted to kill the princess with, up to her shoulders and the rest of her body, this person, clearly inexperienced, is shaking in fear.
The instinct is to go to her. The princess steps across the river of blood, steps over the lifeless body, and stops in front of the taller woman. This time, as she reaches for that scarf that covers her face, there is no hesitation. She pulls it down the scarf that covers her face first and— oh— she is indeed a woman. No, a young girl, perhaps they are of close age.
And this girl, body stiff and blue eyes widened, is in shock.
What can she do?
What can the princess do?
She thinks to do what her mother once did to her when she becomes frightened. A natural instinct. How her mother would comfort her, assure her that everything is alright. She cradles the girl’s face. Makes the girl look her in the eye. And as it happens, she moves one hand down—down that arm, all the way to the hand that is still gripping onto the knife. The princess squeezes its trembling form, and then—
“I-I didn’t…” At last, the girl speaks. Though her voice cuts off, as though she has given up.
So the princess finishes for her, whispering, “You’ve never killed before.”
There is no response, but the silence is enough of a confirmation.
And it is then that she understands.
The princess caresses the girl’s soft cheek with her fingers. She comes close—closer. In truth, she does not know what she is doing. She does not understand this instinct, this urge, to help a complete stranger.
A stranger who is meant to take her life.
But at the feeling of the vulnerability that seeps from the sheer contact, the princess gives in.
“You could’ve just let him kill me,” she says.
The girl’s blue eyes shift to meet her silver ones. An unspoken connection is established. She wishes to speak—the princess knows—but her lips, just like the rest of her body, trembles. Still, she tries. For whatever reason, advantageous to her situation or not, the assassin begins, “I couldn’t.”
A sweet, beautiful sound. A voice belonging to a mere girl—innocent and pure on the surface, but layered with much burden.
“Why?” The princess pushes on.
A mere shake of her head. The assassin answers as they fall deeper into each other’s gaze, “I don’t…”
What a ridiculous answer, if it even is one.
But it is clear that the assassin cannot answer, nor does she have the time or opportunity. There is a commotion outside—the sound of approaching, heavily-armoured footsteps. Have reinforcements arrived at last? Quite pointless by now, if the princess must say. Though, that is not the concern. She draws her touch away, drags the girl towards the balcony.
“Go,” she instructs. “You must go.”
The girl hesitates. For a moment, she glances at the corpse at their feet. She gasps at the blood, now covering a great area of the floor; her eyes once again widened in shock.
The sounds become louder. Calls of the princess’ name are heard. The girl needs to leave, now.
“They’ll kill you,” she says. “Please, just go!” The princess drags the taller girl towards the exit, putting great strength into her efforts. “Leave, or you will die!”
There are so many questions. Both from herself and, perhaps, from the girl. She stares back with much confusion, with many, many words desiring for exchange, but just as the guards arrive at the princess’ doorstep—
“Assassin!” They yell. “Protect the princess!”
—just as they draw their bows to launch a rain of arrows at the girl, she dives into the night, disappearing into the darkness with ease.
.
.
The man who was disguised as one of the castle guards is identified as an assassin sent from a kingdom far north. They are direct in their approach indeed—overtly aggressive, even—and her father is furious that their security could be breached with such ease. Even more so, he grows paranoid over the talks of the masked intruder who escaped.
The number of guards increases, the patrols become more frequent, and the princess does not think it possible for even a fly to enter her chambers at this point.
Yet, on another night where the moonlight pours into her room, the same, stubborn assassin stands at the same spot. With the nightlight shining from behind, she stands as a mere silhouette at the balcony, her gentle shadow stretching right to the princess’ feet at her bed.
For whatever reason, seeing her gives the princess a sense of comfort.
No more hesitation.
She stands from her bed, approaches the girl and only stops when she is at arm’s length. This time, she voices out what she desires. This time, she commands it, “Show me your face.”
A few heartbeats later, the assassin unmasks herself. She removes her hood as well, and the princess believes she is awestruck. Hair as red as the setting sun, tied up in a high bundle; blue eyes as clear as the skies, as stunning as she remembers from the first time she’s seen them—this girl is the embodiment of life itself.
“Why do you keep coming here, assassin?”
There seems to be only one response coming from her. She shakes her head, having no answer.
Princess Miorine sighs and lowers her head. Quite fitting, as an inevitable sense of dread wears her down. “You had every chance to kill me, yet you choose to stand here and do nothing.”
Silence.
“What do you want of me?” She whispers.
“I…” The assassin speaks. “I am not certain, princess.”
She looks up.
Looks up to see a slight smile—one that is so genuinely pure and happy, “But I know that I am content to know you are safe.”
Her breath hitches. The princess stares in awe, as though she has heard something unbelievable, which is not much of a stretch. For nobody has ever spoken to her in such a way. “Why?” She tries, “Why does it matter to you?”
It should be an act of treason—a crime punishable by execution—but the assassin closes their distance. This time, she is the one to reach for the princess. Gently, as if treating untouched snow, the assassin brushes the platinum fringes aside to reveal gleaming, silver eyes, only to have those fringes fall stubbornly back in place. She runs the back of her fingers to the princess’ ear, pushing a long strand of hair behind it, and then that same hand comes to cradle her face.
“Why did it matter to you that the guards were to kill me?” The assassin questions in return.
At that, the princess is left speechless.
“They are supposed to kill me, Your Highness,” she goes on, but just as she does, she comes in, closer than before—shattering all forms of barrier, “Because I was sent to kill you.”
Said barrier includes the princess’ belief of a personal space. It is a threshold, an invisible wall that she has erected to prevent unwanted contact. Yet, here she stands, and here the assassin is, leaning in close. The princess, just as well, tiptoes—gradually closing the distance for reasons unknowable.
“You did not scream,” the assassin whispers, her breath fanning against the princess’ lips. “You did not resist.”
She lets her eyelids fall. She lets the taller girl hold her by the waist. She feels the weakness in her knees, in her good conscience, and in her heart.
But she welcomes it.
“And you are not resisting now, either.”
“I am not,” the princess tells her, finding the need to wrap her arms around the assassin’s neck. She does not know how much longer she can stand without the support she desires. Oh, what has gotten into her? What has possessed her to make her feel in such a way? This uncontrolled, shameless, sinful desire—
“I could take your life right now,” says the assassin, her whispery voice brushing along the princess’ soft lips.
And the princess herself, winded by the gentle tone, allows her eyelids to fall—just halfway—as begs herself to remain conscious. “I truly wish that you do.”
There is a consequential pause. It is one that rings loudly in their ears, it paralyzes them, it freezes time and space. As though nothing else in the world matters, as though all cosmic entities have aligned themselves to allow them this moment.
So, what is she but a mere princess to deny their will?
She pulls the assassin close as she herself steps back until they fall into the bed together. The princess is vulnerable, completely exposed, as the assassin balances herself on top, with either hands next to her head. Platinum hair splayed out like silk, blending in with the white sheets, the princess imagines this to be a surreal sight as she sees pure, unadulterated reverence in the assassin’s eyes.
It is flattering, yes, and it certainly brings a redness up her neck, tinting her cheeks so. But as the princess reaches to touch the girl’s face once more, to ask her, again— “What is your name?” —there is also defiance.
Both in herself and in the assassin’s eyes.
“Suletta.”
The gentle caress of her name, the sound of it as it slips from her tongue—the princess feels a rush shoot down her spine. She spreads her legs, locks her ankles around the girl’s waist, and then she calls to her, “Suletta.”
“Princess.”
Shaking her head, “Don’t,” she tells her. “Just Miorine. Just for tonight.”
The assassin nods. “Miorine.”
The hesitation seen from the first night, the wavering, the fear— everything dissipates. Suletta removes the rest of her clothes, leaving herself even more vulnerable, and with the little light that they have, the princess sees light scratches—scars, perhaps?—scattered all over her body. Are these injuries from her conquests? Or from her training? She wagers it is the latter, as the assassin is clearly inexperienced. This may very well be her first mission.
So it is with incredible irony that such can happen.
She bites her lip as Suletta cups her breast through her nightgown, a finger rolling at the peak through the thin fabric. The princess wants to cover her mouth. She wants to suppress these strange noises, but the assassin is dominant—assertive in what she wants as she grabs hold of her wrists, pinning them above her head.
“You must be quiet, Your Highness.”
Miorine tries to voice her frustration. She does not want to be addressed like so by this girl. She wants something ordinary. She wants normalcy. Just something that can make her forget the prison that defines her. Yet, when she tries to speak, a moan escapes. It is involuntary, it is shameful. She does not know what to do, how to fight it, and so she lets these noises be swallowed by Suletta’s kisses.
The rough thrusts of her tongue, the feeling of their appendages touching in such an obscene manner—all of it accumulate to create a burning sensation between her legs. The princess rolls her hips up, seeking contact, seeking some form of relief. She is thankful, in that Suletta understands. The hand upon her breast glides down, soothing over her flat abdomen to reach the scalding heat. A dampness builds, and Miorine struggles to hide her desire, as the only thought occupying her mind is to have something satiate this discomfort. She whines, mewling into Suletta’s mouth, widening her jaw to allow the girl to come in—thrust deeper—all concurrent with her hips that are performing an involuntary rocking motion.
Suletta moves; in spite of being given no instruction, she knows. Quickly, she hikes up the princess’ skirts with a hand. As challenging as it may be, she succeeds, revealing the princess’ sodden undergarment. Liquids spill from her centre, already trickling down her thighs. For a moment, Suletta releases her, giving her a hint of respite. Miorine takes this as her cue to remove her gown, where she, too, becomes as vulnerable as the assassin.
The princess is aware that her skin, being much paler in comparison, appears ghostlike—haunting, almost—but Suletta revels at the sight. She watches in admiration, a very clear blush spreads over her cheeks, and it makes the princess wonder if she is not the only one who is nervous.
All is confirmed when the assassin moves in. A chaste kiss planted on the princess’ forehead, Suletta kisses her way down to an earlobe, whispering to her, “I could not bring myself to harm you.”
Miorine is laid down once again. She watches intently, listens as her heart pounds in her ears. But still, she must ask, “Why?”
Suletta’s lips trace Miorine’s jawline. She follows the tendons of her neck, the bumps of the princess’ collarbone, down—kisses a nipple—and then comes back up to peck her on the lips. “I’ve never felt so strange.” She pauses, moves a hand down to brush fingers against wet, heated folds, “But when I saw you, I… I just…”
The princess winces. Long, slender digits move along her entrance. Her inner muscles spasm, quiver, as though begging for attention, and she can only spread her legs further, roll her head back to ask the girl to hurry, hurry, “... Hurry," it comes out as a moan. “Touch me.”
One finger. Two fingers.
Miorine welcomes the intrusion—it is sudden and surprising. An initial strike of pain shooting outwards from her core. She wants to scream. Wants to call out the girl’s name. Wants to ascend.
But she just hisses.
Suletta covers her mouth with her free hand. She leans in, eyes sharp and desperate. She is telling her so many things at once without making a sound. Vaguely, Miorine hears shushes, soft whispers telling her to be quiet, to not make a noise. But, gods, it is so difficult. The fingers within are hot, penetrating without mercy, and it is building up a heat. So hot, so hot.
A curling motion. Retracting and coming forth, swiping over a high-strung nerve, making the muscles inside her pulse in a frightening, alarming manner. Miorine feels the rising of a tide, a growing, seething fire that boils in her abdomen. It is uncontrolled; liquids spill from her centre at each thrust. Her muffled cries barely suppressed by Suletta’s palm, she takes hold of the assassin’s slender yet toned body, digging her fingernails into already-marred skin to create more marks, bloodied, violent, aggressive.
She does this, up until she is consumed by the aforementioned tides—up until she drowns, momentarily, forgets to breathe as her lungs burn at the sensation—and then the waves subside. Just as this happens, just as her spasming muscles within slow to gentle twitches, Miorine is at last given the chance to take in everything.
A blinding whiteness engulfs her vision. She can barely keep her eyes open, barely focus, but when she does, she sees Suletta still on top. The girl is licking the residue of her orgasm off her fingers, lapping at it greedily—all the while keeping her eyes on the princess.
Oh, how very sinful indeed.
Miorine ignores the burn in her joints. She ignores the soreness in her centre and flips them around. She grabs onto Suletta’s hand—the same one she used to fuck her with—and begins licking from it. The salty taste of herself, the vulgar, yet again obscene sight to befall that of royalty—it is unimaginable.
But she finds joy. She finds liberation.
The princess feels a tug upon the corner of her lips.
A smirk.
She straddles the assassin. She pushes her down. She captures her lips.
And together, they lose themselves in the dark of the night, in the passing of the clouds that come to block the light of the moon.
.
.
Suletta visits her almost every night since then.
And every night, they explore each other’s bodies. The growing attraction between the two that begins with physicality evolves over time. They communicate through sex, understand each other through their touches, through the contact of their skin. They drown themselves in the soft whispers and moans that come in unison with their climaxes, and it is like passing through a kaleidoscope of colours—it is as though they are warping through time and space with each kiss they share.
Spent and out of breath, the princess lies on top of the girl; it is in moments such as this where she allows her mind to wander—allows herself to ask the question: why does this encounter, so wrong and foolish, feel as though it is the only right decision she has ever made? Is it for this reason that she has grown more than fond of the girl? Miorine buries herself into the lushness of red hair, right on the pillow. Suletta has a distinct scent; it is of woodland spices and waterfalls. Miorine can very much picture the upbringing of the girl.
In the aftermath, basking in post-coital haze, they speak of possibilities. Suletta mentions a dream of living far from the kingdom, far from the organization that she works for. To have the opportunity to have her own farm, a garden, perhaps, and to care for a few animals. It is through these conversations that Miorine comes to understand that the girl was forced to work against her will. She says that those who have raised her want her for her talents—and, yes, she is talented indeed, for she has never once been discovered by the castle guards; she has never been caught either when she climbs to the princess’ chamber. What she lacks is intent. She lacks the purpose of killing.
And so, to draw their attention away from such a depressing topic, Miorine tries to idealize Suletta’s dream, for she, too, wishes to live far away from the kingdom. Perhaps in a cabin deep in the forest? A cottage by the sea? A small house that overlooks a simple village? She would love to know. She would love to visit.
Suletta runs her fingers through platinum strands. Their sweaty bodies still heaving, they remember to speak as quietly as possible, for the fear that the guards outside would hear.
“Princess.”
Miorine breathes out. The assassin is respectful to a fault. “How many times do I have to tell you?” She whispers. “Miorine.”
Suletta’s expression is unchanged. She stares upwards, at the ceiling as her fingers brush idly through the princess’ soft hair. “Miorine.”
She smiles. “What is it?”
Then, a moment of detachment—as though there is a coldness, a stoicism. Suletta’s arm comes to wrap itself around the princess’ tiny form. She stares at her, serious.
It forces the princess to narrow her brows. It forces her to bring a hand up to cradle the girl’s face. “Suletta,” she speaks. “You must not hesitate if you have something to tell me.”
Suletta softens when the princess strokes her cheek. She closes her eyes and lets a smile grace her features. “It’s…” she begins, voice trailing off.
Miorine waits. She listens patiently. But the moment never comes.
Suletta just kisses her again. She kisses her way down, down to the heat that still pulsates between her legs, and the princess bites onto the back of her hand.
Oh, how she wishes she had pushed.
How she wishes she was brave enough to face what she already knows.
.
.
She is pinned, placed atop her vanity. Suletta’s fingers work relentlessly at her centre, lips becoming bruised through harsh kisses.
It is odd, the fact that while most of the time, the girl can be overly gentle, tonight she is aggressive—borderline violent. Is this desperation? Is this mere passion? Or is this something that Miorine will never be able to comprehend?
The princess means to ask. She really does. But she chooses to wrap her arms around the girl’s neck, pulling her in close, closer, encouraging her to do more. More. Whatever the problem is, she doesn’t want to know. She simply wishes to lose herself in everything that is this girl.
This strange, enigmatic girl who has penetrated her life, letting her—for the first time—experience true freedom.
She locks her ankles at the small of Suletta’s back, succumbs to the harshness that those fingers are plunging in. A thumb at her clit, Miorine turns her moans into tiny whimpers. She has learned to be quiet, no matter how powerful these sensations.
Suletta, in contrast, would always push farther. She would always guide Miorine to the edge, testing to see if they can risk more—do more. Tonight, that thumb on the princess’ swollen maidenhood seeks no boundaries; it circles along the wetness. Rough and self-willed, Miorine scratches her nails along Suletta’s back. She tells her, “I-I can’t…”
But the girl stares at her, pleading. Round, blue eyes speaking volumes as her fingers continue to work. “I don’t want to stop,” she whispers. “I want… I want you, Miorine. Please. Please, let me.”
How can she possibly say no?
The princess pulls her in for a tight embrace. She sinks her teeth into Suletta’s shoulder to suppress her moans as the latter brings her to yet another orgasm. Her hips tremble, throbbing in hypersensitivity as her inner muscles clench onto Suletta’s fingers.
Those fingers, ever so talented, go on curling, touching that one spot she loves so much, and at last, Miorine bites so harshly, she draws blood. It is the only way to stop herself from screaming. The fluttering sensation that boils within as she reaches her climaxes can only be channeled in such a way to avoid raising suspicion.
As Miorine collapses, she murmurs apologies, doing her utmost to soothe the places where she’s scratched, clinging tightly onto Suletta as the girl carries her back to her bed.
They would lie asleep together. Miorine would wake to see the girl getting up. She would be able to see Suletta off at dawn.
But tonight, Suletta leaves her with a lingering kiss on the lips. That, and a bizarre question.
“Miorine,” she says into the kiss.
The princess hums, too weak to say anything more.
Suletta sits on the side of the bed, brushing her sweat and hair from her eyes. She wears a beautiful, hopeful smile, and it fills Miorine with life, just as the very presence of Suletta does.
“Would you run away with me?”
What?
“Get away from here, far from the kingdom. Would you do it?”
Miorine is stunned. More than anything, she is unsure how to respond.
From her silence, Suletta immediately falls into melancholy. Brows narrowed with concern, it almost seems as though she is expecting the worst. “No, I… forget I asked—”
“Yes.”
The assassin pauses. Eyes widen, she stares at the princess.
Who simply smiles in return. “Yes,” she says again. “I would. I would go anywhere with you.”
A small chuckle breaks from the assassin. The concern, the fear from earlier is replaced by, shall it be, relief? Happiness. She tries to hide her face, covering herself with a hand, but it is futile. The blush that matches the colour of her hair is evident, and Miorine forces herself to sit up. She forces herself to wrap her sore arms around the girl, hugging her, reinforcing her words.
“I meant it. When I told you that I wanted you to have my life.”
Suletta returns the embrace. A tremor in her breath, she is touched, no doubt, and it is as though she is sobbing.
Miorine draws back, in time to see the girl wiping away tears. But she holds onto Suletta’s wrists, leaning in to kiss the droplets away, moving closer to cradle her face. “So, please,” she tells her. “Take me with you.”
What follows from here should be happiness. Infinite possibilities and the means to, at last, live her life with someone she loves. Miorine accepts the kisses from the girl. She indulges herself in the whispers of affection, of the promise that she will return the next day.
And then, together, they may run away.
.
.
But the next time she sees Suletta is also the last.
As per usual, the assassin enters her chambers from the balcony. Where she would typically come in with elegance, footsteps quiet and graceful, tonight, she stumbles.
She falls into Miorine’s arms, choking on her own blood. The princess softens her landing, cushioning her head in her bosom, and together, they lie on the ground. Face pale, lips purple, Suletta struggles to breathe. Her body heaves, beads of sweat upon her forehead, and she is using every ounce of her strength to keep her eyes open. Yet, she is still somehow smiling, whereas the princess looks on in horror.
“S-Suletta?” Miorine’s voice shakes.
“I’m…” Suletta tries, straining as she does, “... so sorry, princess.”
“Stop talking.” She commands. “I… I need to get you help. I need—”
Suletta takes her hand. She interlaces their fingers together. By the gods, her hand is ice-cold. “Don’t,” she shakes her head. “There is no point.”
“What are you talking about?!” Miorine grips it tight. “I’ll summon the castle physician. T-this is poison, yes? I’ll—”
“Miorine.”
The sound of her weak voice makes the princess’ eyes hot. She clenches them shut, not wanting to listen. Right now, more than anything, she needs to call for help. But, heavens, if she does, the guards will come in, and they will not be forgiving. If she does, it would mean she has to leave Suletta.
She can’t. Not right now.
Gods, what can she do?
“Stay with me.”
The princess opens her eyes. Tears dropping, shattering like tiny crystal shards onto the assassin’s face, she begins to tremble. She hates herself for not being able to do anything.
“I-I cou… couldn’t do it…” Suletta says in broken whispers. “Even though I was given so many chances.”
Miorine bends down. She holds her, brushes red hair out of her face. She understands. There is no reason to explain.
“They told me. E-either you or me.” She goes on, still coughing.
“No…” The princess refuses to believe this. Just shaking her head, hoping that somehow, these words—this whole thing would end— “... I don’t want this.”
Suletta takes hold of the princess’ hand, gripping with all the strength that remains in her. “L-listen to me, please. The third horse in the castle stable. Black coat, black mane. I… I’ve prepared everything. I-if you ride west through the night, y-you can still—”
“I don’t want this!” Miorine yells.
At once, the guards burst in. “Princess!” They call for her, weapons in hand. But at the sight of the two on the ground—where the supposed intruder is evidently injured, they do not attack.
“Get the physician!” She cries, tears still streaming down her flushed cheeks. “Do it right now!”
They hesitate. They do not move, as though her words do not reach them.
“Please…” she sobs, unsure whether it is a plea to the guards or to the Reaper himself. She only knows to hold Suletta closer, more tightly, afraid that if she does not, the girl would slip away.
“Princess.”
Miorine’s heart burns. At every breath, every teardrop, gravity weighs heavier, the atmosphere crushes inwards.
“I’m—” Suletta tries, voice barely audible at this point, “... sorry. I want… wanted to run away wi—with you.”
Miorine tries. “I as well,” she tries her hardest, “You should have asked me sooner, you fool. A-and I—” clenches, “—I should have said something. I should have made you ask.”
Suletta means to giggle, but she ends up coughing up more blood. The grip she has on the princess’ hand weakens.
“No…” Miorine says, taking hold of the falling hand. Eyes widened in horror, she fears that this is the last of the life that she will see in this girl. “Please, Suletta, no.”
A hint of a whisper— “M-Miorine…”
She shakes her head again, as she is certain that words would fail her.
Yet, Suletta pushes on—
“… If not this lifetime, m-maybe we can… we can try the next?”
Leaving her with impossible words and a beautiful smile.
.
.