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sigridharemThe prince, they said, knew nothing.
They kept him in a gilded cage behind castle walls, with all the comforts he could ever hope for and far, far away from the actual business of ruling. He was only seen at royal celebrations, from which Sigrid had managed to gather passable descriptions and sketches with which to identify him.
But one man had told her the prince liked flowers.
So Sigrid went through the woods, praying her memories of the loose stones near the bluebells were accurate, and that no one had gone through and repaired the walls in the intervening years.
When she saw the broken down stone wall, she very nearly wept.
And then she saw a hand emerge over the top, gripping the stone tightly.
Quickly, Sigrid dodged behind a thick tree, hearing the unmistakable sounds of someone climbing over the wall.
Could it be?
Could fate be this kind to me, for once?
She heard a thump, and a muffled pained noise, and peered out from behind the tree.
A fair-haired slender young man sat in the dirt, rubbing his ankle ruefully and glancing back at the wall. He wore the sort of clothing that suggested a very wealthy person’s idea of common dress: soft leather trousers, a vest with minimal embroidery, a fine white shirt underneath without stain or blemish, and freshly blacked boots.
She watched him try to stand, saw him wincing as he put weight on his foot. Had this beautiful idiot really twisted his ankle trying to escape the castle gardens?
He glanced back at the wall, then turned his gaze forward, determined, and began to limp towards Sigrid.
So she stepped out in front of him, her weapons hidden beneath her cloak.
He started at the sight of her. “Who are you?”
“You don’t need to know that yet, but you will.” Sigrid smiled. “Where are you going?”
“O-out.” His green eyes shifted.
“I saw you climb over the wall. Do you live in there?”
“…Yes.” He frowned. “What are you doing here? Trying to get inside?”
“No.” Not anymore. Sigrid smiled. “What’s your name?”
“Sasha.” He took a step on his bad ankle, apparently having forgotten it, then winced. “Ow!”
The prince was called Alexander, but she had heard he was called Sasha by his parents.
“I can help you with that.”
“Really?” Sasha let out a relieved sigh. “Because I don’t want to go back because of a stupid little thing like this… not yet, anyway. What’s your name?”
“Sigrid.” Perhaps she should have lied. Still, no recognition lit in his eyes, which suggested he was as ignorant as they said. “Come closer and I’ll take a look at your ankle.”
“All right.” He hobbled over to her, his earlier wariness seemingly forgotten.
He yelped when she pulled him close, bracketing in his arms with one arm and putting a chemical-soaked rag over his nose and mouth with the other hand.
“Good night, sweet prince,” she whispered, as he slumped against her.
They kept him in a gilded cage behind castle walls, with all the comforts he could ever hope for and far, far away from the actual business of ruling. He was only seen at royal celebrations, from which Sigrid had managed to gather passable descriptions and sketches with which to identify him.
But one man had told her the prince liked flowers.
So Sigrid went through the woods, praying her memories of the loose stones near the bluebells were accurate, and that no one had gone through and repaired the walls in the intervening years.
When she saw the broken down stone wall, she very nearly wept.
And then she saw a hand emerge over the top, gripping the stone tightly.
Quickly, Sigrid dodged behind a thick tree, hearing the unmistakable sounds of someone climbing over the wall.
Could it be?
Could fate be this kind to me, for once?
She heard a thump, and a muffled pained noise, and peered out from behind the tree.
A fair-haired slender young man sat in the dirt, rubbing his ankle ruefully and glancing back at the wall. He wore the sort of clothing that suggested a very wealthy person’s idea of common dress: soft leather trousers, a vest with minimal embroidery, a fine white shirt underneath without stain or blemish, and freshly blacked boots.
She watched him try to stand, saw him wincing as he put weight on his foot. Had this beautiful idiot really twisted his ankle trying to escape the castle gardens?
He glanced back at the wall, then turned his gaze forward, determined, and began to limp towards Sigrid.
So she stepped out in front of him, her weapons hidden beneath her cloak.
He started at the sight of her. “Who are you?”
“You don’t need to know that yet, but you will.” Sigrid smiled. “Where are you going?”
“O-out.” His green eyes shifted.
“I saw you climb over the wall. Do you live in there?”
“…Yes.” He frowned. “What are you doing here? Trying to get inside?”
“No.” Not anymore. Sigrid smiled. “What’s your name?”
“Sasha.” He took a step on his bad ankle, apparently having forgotten it, then winced. “Ow!”
The prince was called Alexander, but she had heard he was called Sasha by his parents.
“I can help you with that.”
“Really?” Sasha let out a relieved sigh. “Because I don’t want to go back because of a stupid little thing like this… not yet, anyway. What’s your name?”
“Sigrid.” Perhaps she should have lied. Still, no recognition lit in his eyes, which suggested he was as ignorant as they said. “Come closer and I’ll take a look at your ankle.”
“All right.” He hobbled over to her, his earlier wariness seemingly forgotten.
He yelped when she pulled him close, bracketing in his arms with one arm and putting a chemical-soaked rag over his nose and mouth with the other hand.
“Good night, sweet prince,” she whispered, as he slumped against her.
