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Rhythmic steps echo through the halls and towards your door, the soft clinking of armour joining each step. Unmistakably Caleb’s.
Your heart flutters, but your thoughts are elsewhere. After all, you’re slated to meet your betrothed today. A man you’ve only seen a handful of times, but of whom you’ve heard tales filled with gallantry, romance, and heroism. There isn’t a princess in the world who wouldn’t be excited at the prospect.
It’s what you attempt to convince yourself of, the words flitting about your mind like a mantra as you apply the final touches of rouge to your warm cheeks.
Then, two raps at the door. A cadence unmatched by anyone else in this castle.
“Enter,” you call.
Helm tucked under the crook of his arm, dark hair perfectly parted, and a hint of something indescribable in the galaxies of his eyes, he does as you bid, shutting the heavy door behind him.
“Princess,” he greets, the corners of his eyes crinkling as his lips curve. It’s almost enough to make you ignore the tension that permeates his body, seemingly holding him up like a taut string.
Caleb has been yours for as long as you can remember. Things were always simple with him. He knows you, to your depths, as you grew up together. Days and nights spent running around the courtyard and the castle’s labyrinthine halls, sneaking off to the gate town as you pretended to be thieving common children and were chased off by merchants.
Things were simple, until they weren’t.
It was a gradual buildup that reinforced the wall that has always separated you, the wall that you became more conscious of every day the world availed itself to you a little bit more. The wall grew taller, as did he. And then the days of play-fighting were over. You spent more time apart. He trained as a squire first, then as a knight. And you were to learn the ways of politics and royal life, as the heiress to a kingdom.
But the shift that pulled you apart also drew you closer, like an oscillating tide. You noticed things about him. The way his musculature developed as he trained more and more. The way his round face hardened over the years, letting way to a sculpted jaw, edges as sharp as the blade he wielded. The way his eyes, once gentle and filled with wonder, were now hardened and dark, with glimpses of the Caleb you knew slipping through from time to time. The way your heart quickened when he held you by the shoulders, the warmth of his body pressed firmly against yours as he would escort you through the common areas. The way his own touch lingered as he would bid you farewell at the end of the night, firmly planted just beyond the threshold of your chambers.
Caleb is yours because your father has decreed it so. ‘In her service shall you live and die,’ are the words you recall, years ago, at his knighting ceremony. They filled you with dread, but also with some insidious sense of something else. Pride, possessiveness, and other follies you’re still afraid to put to name.
Caleb is yours, but you still purse your lips as he stands before you today, restraining the smile that threatens to pull them into a curve. You still your tongue when the words threaten to pour out; flowery words of admiration you’ve used countless times when confiding to your handmaids, to describe the man you’re going to marry. A prince, hailing from a kingdom in the South. Tall. Handsome. A bright smile that’s all charm. He’s even flashed it at you once or twice. You’ve only ever glimpsed him from a distance, but he’s everything a princess could ever dream of.
Your father made sure to ask you if you were satisfied with the arrangement. You knew his question was nothing but a formality, as the alliance was more political than it was for your happiness. But still, you expressed to him that you couldn’t be happier.
And yet, Caleb’s towering presence stifles that elation today. So you greet him simply as you finish up your embellishments, hoping your face appears as stoic as you’ve attempted to set it.
“Are you ready?” he asks, brow ever so slightly raised.
You sigh. Perhaps a bit too energetic. “I think so.”
He offers his plated arm, and you take it.
---
Banquets are terribly crowded and noisy things. You’ve never been partial to the tradition, but today, anticipation carries your feet to your seat at the high table, next to your father, with a lightness to your steps despite the uncomfortable heeled shoes you wear. You hurriedly flatten nonexistent creases in your cascading dress, peaches and pinks layered beautifully upon a tulle skirt. Quickly, before the prince arrives.
A heavy presence settles on the seat besides you as you fiddle with the loose curls that frame your face. It must be him!
You steal a demure glance towards the prince, but you quickly realize that it wouldn’t matter if you planted your face two inches away and stared at him. His attention is elsewhere, or he hasn’t noticed you, or…
No, he must simply be distracted by some concern or another. He leans lazily on the table, hunched form turned away from you, and so you clear your throat as inconspicuously as you can while still pulling his attention. Finally, he turns.
Clad in a white surcoat trimmed with the golds of his kingdom, the prince appears just as you’ve always perceived him. Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself. His hair isn’t as neat as it usually is, the parting confused and dishevelled, greasy ends sticking together. His usually bright eyes are dark and narrowed at you, and the smile that tugs at his lips doesn’t reach them.
Perhaps your nervousness is making you see things, casting an apprehensive filter over your eyes and clouding your perception. Your clammy palms settle on your lap as you scan the hall, almost immediately spotting who you’re looking for.
Caleb stands at the courtyard entrance, the one closest to you, eyes glued to you. A familiar, grounding presence. You ignore his chastising eyes. He’s still there, after all.
You chance a few words, since your betrothed seems to be following his wandering gaze once more.
“It’s good to finally meet you,” you say, voice steadier than you could have hoped, smile beaming.
“Hm?” he replies, mind clearly elsewhere. “Oh, yes.”
He takes a large swig of wine, then stops a servant for seconds before wiping dribbling red droplets from his chin.
“Do you enjoy banquets? I find them…” You try to think of the right words as you sip on your own glass. “…a bit tiresome.”
“Do I enjoy…” he replies, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. Your practised smile doesn’t falter as you grip the silk of your dress harder. “There’s drink, there’s women…” he gesticulates towards the scantily clad dancing troupe. One of them blows a kiss at him. “What is there not to enjoy?”
‘All men are the same’, your handmaid Tara and your greatest confidante often told you. You thought her cynical at the time, but you were starting to believe her.
Still, perhaps all you need is common ground. Or to show him you’re pleasant. You let out a diplomatic laugh. Tara also said that men enjoyed when you laughed at their jokes.
“Well, tell me about yourself, about your father’s castle. Is it as big as this one?” you say, leaning in as if he’s the most interesting thing in the world.
The prince scoffs. “It is. And why does the size of my castle matter?”
Your father’s castle, you refrain from correcting. And just like that, you’ve slipped back into the facade you’ve been trained to display since you were young, like a bed of roses hiding prickly thorns.
“Oh, I mean no offense. I’m simply curious, since I’m to live there after all is said and done.”
He hums. “Hm, yes, you are.” It’s as though he forgot. “Well, you’ll have no concern of space. You’ll have adequate quarters to do… whatever it is you like to do. To bear my heir. To meet my needs. And to leave me be when the time comes. I’ll be busy tending to a kingdom, after all is said and done.”
It’s the way he says it, words colored with dispassion and contempt, that sinks your heart to the bottom of your stomach.
It wasn’t supposed to go like this.
Guilt gnaws at you. For being so naive, so stupid, so vapid as to think that you were marrying the man of your dreams, someone who would see you as a person, someone who you would grow old and die with, happy and grey. No, dreams don’t come true, no matter how badly you try to will them into existence.
The prince is disinterested once more, and this time you don’t try to speak to him again. The room begins to spin, frenzied candlelight shimmering against the crowd, excited voices crooning and exclaiming all around you. To your right, your father is occupied in deep conversation with the prince’s father. You shouldn’t interrupt.
As you try to steady your breathing, your eyes are pulled towards the courtyard entrance once more. And there Caleb stands, gaze still fixed on you.
He’s always there.
---
You walk the dim halls, body flush with Caleb’s. His hold is gentler than usual. His warmth more comforting. You wish you could stay like this forever, but the mere thought sends feelings of shame cascading through your mind. You don’t deserve his kindness, not right now. Perhaps you don’t deserve anyone’s.
Worse even, you know he’s going to ask you how it went. You don’t want to talk about it, but he’ll find a way to make you. Your body tenses, and his hold tightens. After what feels like too short of an instant, you’ve arrived at the threshold of your quarters once more.
But he doesn’t let go. And you don’t move either, instead hanging your head and waiting for the inevitable.
“What happened?” he murmurs into your ear. His soft lips ghost over the skin of your neck, and you bristle slightly.
“Nothing,” you lie pointlessly, staring at your closed door.
He lets out a breathy sigh, part disappointment and part impatience, that compels you to revisit your answer.
“I just… he wasn’t as I imagined.”
Caleb’s arms move to encircle your shoulders from behind, and you’re suddenly taken back to your childhood. Yes, he used to do this whenever you were hurt or sad or crying and didn’t want to face him. “It’s more than that.”
His voice is low and gravelly, as if he’s the one who’s been hurt. The tears you’ve held back all evening threaten to surface, to spill, to undo the facade you’ve worked so hard to build up.
You shouldn’t face him. You don’t deserve to. And yet you do, misty eyes and all. Caleb’s arms relax to let you shift, but he still holds on to you, leather gloves rough against your bare upper back, as though you’ll crumble if he doesn’t. And the look that he returns, concern mixed with a thousand years of hurt, is enough to unfurl your facade.
Tears flowing, you meet his unwavering gaze. I was wrong, you want to say. I’m sorry, you try. It isn’t my fault, but you can’t.
Voice trembling, barely above a whisper, you speak. “I don’t think I want to marry him.”
Then you crumble, hands gripping onto the deep blue cloak at his back, a color you’ve come to resent and hate, because to hell with your duties, and to hell with this marriage, and to hell with your father’s kingdom.
You’ve crumbled, but Caleb’s arms hold you firmly, and so you don’t fall.
Yes, he’s always there to catch you.
---
The prince is dead.
A terrible accident. Skull cracked open at the bottom of the spiraling staircase of the guest towers, last night, on the fifth day of festivities. Discovered by a poor servant late in the night, still reportedly inconsolable.
Word travels fast, so you hear about it mere hours after it has happened. It is Tara who delivers the news, but she expresses no condolences. Not after what you’ve told her.
Word travels fast, but not as fast as rumours. ‘He must have had too much to drink. He did love his swill, after all. It’s a flaw his father has always tried to keep under wraps. No, he was lovesick; the woman of his dreams was a tavern wench who he was fated to never be with. You saw how he ogled her! So he threw himself down the stairs, unable to keep on living without her. Especially since he was set to marry…’
You’re partial to the drunk theory, if the way he knocked back wine and ale that one night was any indication.
You appear as morose and sullen as you can in the face of all the prying eyes that have suddenly shifted towards you in the past day, but you’ve shed no tears.
You hear Caleb’s distinctive steps approach as you’re slipping your mournful black dress off. It rests crumpled at your feet by the time he raps at the door. Quickly, you grab the first dress you can fish out from the pile of clothing that sits on your bed and slip it over your head. It’s a lounging dress, thinner and lighter than you thought when you wore it, but you pay it no mind. You want to see him.
You practically throw the door open and bid him to enter. You notice how his eyes linger on your form, your soft curves barely obscured by the thin silk that frames them. It makes you happy. It makes you more than happy. It sends heat through your cheeks and ears, and it makes your heart flutter. It shouldn’t, but it does.
It’s still early, so sunlight filters in through the large windows of your chambers, resting on Caleb’s gentle features. He shuts the door as he asks, “How are you holding up?”
He knows the answer, but you still entertain him. “Well, you know. I… I should be upset, right?”
Caleb scrutinizes you, his dark purple eyes seemingly peering right through you. You wrap your arms around yourself and opt to stare at the crest on his chest instead, at the glint of golden sun on silver plate. It’s almost blinding. “Yes, you should be,” he replies matter-of-factly.
It lingers in the air, that which remains unspoken.
Of course, you never wished for the prince to die. You simply wished that you would somehow escape the marriage arrangement. That the alliance would fall through, that your father would find that another kingdom’s favour was worth more or less costly. Not that he would die. You never wished that. Not outright.
And now that he is dead, why should you mourn? What should you mourn? A life of being used by a man who would never love you, because he would not even see you as an individual? Of raising his children, of curbing your disdain for them whenever they reminded you of their father?
“I should be. I’m not.”
Your confession is no surprise to Caleb, or if it is, he doesn’t show it. A sympathetic smile spreads across his face. It’s a joyful sort of compassion, and you smile back with a shrug, slightly puzzled. He knows, of course, how you felt about the departed prince. So why does he look…?
“Come here,” he orders. His tone is gentle yet commanding, just as it used to be when you were younger and he really wanted you to do something. You’re still compelled to follow, after all these years.
Caleb waits until you get close, then wraps his strong arms around your bare shoulders. Your cheek rests on the cool steel of his chest, firm and stalwart. Your arms wrap around his back, and you simply stay there for a while.
For days after meeting the prince, you blamed yourself for the naïveté that drove you to weave tales about who he was. For how he sent butterflies through your stomach each time you’d exchanged polite smiles from across vast halls. For ever feeling attracted to him. It made you sick.
Then your thoughts would wander back to Caleb. How he watched you make eyes at the prince each time without ever making a comment, and you knew he had ample subject matter. How he had every right to call you out on the childlike fantasy you projected on a man you’d never met.
How you didn’t deserve him.
Yet here he is, offering you his arms once more. Instead of disparaging remarks, he breathes a sigh into your hair, head resting on yours.
“You knew him, still,” Caleb remarks. Quiet, but not solemn. Inquisitive. “You don’t feel an ounce of sorrow?”
“Sorrow? Not an ounce,” you reply.
“Good. Yes, that’s good. That’s a relief.”
You pull away slightly to meet his gaze. “A relief? You really don’t need to worry about me so much.”
“I know that. And still, I don’t want to hurt you.”
Your eyes narrow, betraying your confusion. “You haven’t hurt me, Caleb. You’ve never…”
You trail. The scent of freshly planted roses wafts from outside, and you suddenly recall weeping in the garden, ten summers ago, on a day as balmy as today. You wept because Caleb had cut down all the roses the gardener had just planted, just for you. Roses had been your favourite flower, after all. But Caleb cut them down all the same, wielding nothing but his training sword, then pulled the remaining roots out one by one.
You wept because even though you’d accidentally cut yourself on the thorns the day before, and you’d cried when it happened, and he’d held you as you cried, you’d never wanted him to rend all the roses out from the soil. To do something so final, so violent. To do something that could never be undone.
You stiffen, and Caleb’s hold on you tightens. Interminable thoughts flood through your racing mind. No, it can’t be. He wouldn’t. He did. I wanted this. I told him. He’s mine. I did this.
I did this.
He lowers his head to gently whisper in your ear, and the ghost of his soft breath lingers on your heated skin. “You didn’t want to marry him. And now you won’t.”
Caleb is yours. He’s always been there for you.
And he always will be.