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She's exhausted.
It’s cold. The bittersweet taste of regret taints her tongue like venom, like no matter how hard she tries to spit it out, it will only leave her crumpled beyond repair.
If only she could rewind, restart, but Father Time isn’t so forgiving, tutting at her like she was a child caught skipping etiquette classes again. Soon, she's falling, lost at sea, the brewing storm cursing loudly in her ears and making her head ring. It’s cold.
There’s a knock on the door.
She blinks back into existence with a gasp before she can allow the feeling of swelling in the pit of her stomach overtake her. Suddenly (thankfully), she's back to her slumped position on her bed. The floor feels cold under her bare feet, and she resists pulling them up to her chest. Light spills into the room from the window, the beating sun at its climax. It reflects off of Zepar, who glares like a burning star.
“What is it?” Her voice shakes.
“Princess,” Saher answers dutifully, “it’s almost time for lunch.” A pause. “You weren’t present for breakfast; perhaps it’d be best if you could at least eat soon.”
“...Yes, Saher. Please, go ahead without me. I need a moment.”
Hesitation. “Yes, princess.” It grows quiet, the sound of retreating footsteps echoing through the halls. It grows quiet, the sound of her beating heart echoing in her ears.
She doesn’t, can’t move for a moment. Head swimming, she ponders on the thought of facing the others, knowing that in her decrepit, pitiful state, she would only attract curiosity and worry. Her stomach lurches.
With lips pressed into a thin line, she heaves herself off the bed, hearing it creak under her weight. She stumbles slightly, nausea grabbing her, choking her before she catches herself. She takes a deep breath, inhaling, exhaling.
The mirror that was pushed up against the wall reflects a pale face, red eyes, and unkempt hair. Her cheek dips where her teeth grind together and she reaches up and combs through her hair with her fingers- a measly attempt. Her hand drops limply and she stares. Dull, magenta hues stare back.
She closes her eyes. For a moment, she collects herself. It had to be kept a secret. A princess like her- she could never let vulnerability reign supreme. She’s learned not to.
She opens her eyes and reaches for Zepar, the faithful companion. Without her pristine armor, which gleamed in negligence in a corner of the room, he makes a muted thump against her hip with her movements.
The hallway is sparse with only a few guards and employees roaming. A spike of relief shoots through her.
She strides down the path to the dining halls, a mask of indifference already set in place with her head held high like she can’t feel the obtrusive glances trying to break down her walls. She marches on, shoulders rolled back, firmly, determinedly.
Her journey is long- not because the dorms are far from the dining halls, but because of her deliberate and slow pace. She relishes in it. Her flats make a quiet sound and she focuses on them and not on the way the walls seem to close in on her.
Still, she reaches the dining halls quicker than she intended and there is a pause when she hesitates to open the door. Her hand quivers, a tremble like the quake of the earth, begging for her to fall on unsteady legs.
And then, a voice speaks.
“Serendine,” Sinbad greets and she almost jolts. The way his baritone voice molded her name like it was made to, like honey, like wine, sends shivers down her spine, making her dizzy. “I see you made it to lunch. That’s good.”
She wants to snap at him, scream at him, punch him, anything really but she holds back.
“I did,” she says.
He steps closer. She can feel his breath on her skin. “Are you alright? Rurumu said you’ve been in your room all day.”
“Thank you for your concern, Sinbad, but I’m fine,” she says. “If this is about work, I can assure you that it’s-“
“Ah, I’m not worried about that,” he says. “You’re very diligent.” He steps beside her, pushing the door open and holding it out for her. His other hand reaches to touch her arm, weighing heavy, like the weight of the world. In the peripheral of her eye, she can see the smile stretched across his face. “After you.”
She doesn’t speak as she brushes past him. A frown pulls at the corners of her lips when the chuckle from his throat, thorough, deep cuts through her ear.
They step into the hall together, but their paths diverge quickly, luckily. He taps her arm again before they part, and she suppresses a shiver. She takes her usual place near her ladies-in-waiting, the loyal women they are. He plops himself down at the head, in between the Sasan knight and the assassin boy. The distance between them is large and she tries not to notice the way his hand lingered for a moment too long before they parted.
Saher and Tamira talk about work, the conversation light, safe. She picks at the food Lady Rurumu prepared- a nicely grilled fish steak. It tastes savory, salty. Delicious.
She glances up and sees Sinbad grinning in her direction. The grip on her fork tightens and her eyes dart back to the streak. She can hear them- murmurs, buzzing, overloading and she knifes through Lady Rurumu’s steak.
Lady Rurumu. That’s right, Lady Rurumu. The daughter of a chief, royalty in her own right, respected not for a crown but for her aptitude, patience, kindness. She is the woman who took her in, the woman who taught her so readily and gave her a home. She wonders if one day, she could live up to her image, if Lady Rurumu would be proud to have a child like her, if one day, she could be like-
“Princess?” A light nudge. She blinks. Saher leans towards her, “Princess, are you alright?”
Her grip on the silverware slackens and she feels the tension in her shoulders dissipate with an exhale. Clearing her throat and straightening her back, she becomes a princess again.
“Yes, I’m fine,” she grits out, a smile plastered onto her face. “I think I need some fresh air.”
“Ah- but princess,” Tamira protests, “your food.”
She stands up. “It was wonderful, but I don’t have much of an appetite today, unfortunately.” She bows slightly, Zepar rattling against her hip. “I apologize for wasting food but I need to go.”
She ambles towards the door quickly, refusing to hear the questioning words that float around the dining hall. The room suddenly feels more humid, clogging her senses uncomfortably, and she walks a step behind a jog down the hall, like she’s walking through a battlefield, an inferno (though, she vaguely thinks that a battlefield would be much more manageable than this). She wipes her clammy hands on the skirt of her dress.
With no clear destination, just desperation fueling her, she finds herself wandering down a familiar path towards the company's garden. The afternoon sunlight greets her like an old friend, a slight breeze combing through her hair intimately. The fragrance of flora wafts in the air as she steps into the grassy area.
Inhale, exhale. Slowly, her heart relaxes.
She takes a step forward and the grass crunches softly in protest, tickling her ankles. Her hand reaches out to poke the violet blooms. The petals shake slightly, and she reels back instinctively, her fingers curling toward her palm. She pauses, and then reaches out again.
It’s serene, just her and the singing birds keeping her company. Euphoria washes over her, and it’s warm. She closes her eyes.
“Seren?”
And suddenly, her paradise, the tranquility shatters, fragmented like broken glass, jagged and dangerous. The rumble of his voice shocks her eyes back open and she lets her arm fall. He steps closer.
“Are you alright?”
She refuses to face him, glaring at the poor flowers instead. “You asked me that earlier, didn’t you?” she snaps rhetorically. “Did you follow me here?”
“Of course,” he says shamelessly.
“Why?”
He sighs. “You looked sick when you left the hall. I was worried.” A pause. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Irritation grips her by the shoulders. “I said I’m fine.” Her words shoot out too harshly, unintentionally. She pauses. He doesn’t say anything. “Really, Sinbad. Thank you for your concern but I promise I’ve never felt better.” She feels her voice waver.
He hums, and it sounds closer than before.
“I suppose I’ll take your word for it.” A moment of silence graces them. “Though, you realize that as the President of the company, it’s only natural that I worry for its employees, right?”
She recalls her own words, shy and shaky when her fingers brushed against his as she shoved his mended clothes at him. Her cheeks flushes a hot pink.
“Yes, I’ve realized,” she says slowly. “What of it?”
“And you realize that as my friend, it’s only natural that I worry about you,” he says with such conviction that it almost knocks her off her feet. She almost would’ve laughed, mockingly, loudly, if the voice in the back of her mind hadn’t whispered in solemn, pitiful, reluctant agreement.
Friend, he says.
She turns around, craning her neck up slightly to see Sinbad's warm amber eyes glittering like gold in the sunlight. His hand reaches out to push her hair back over her shoulder. It feels intimate. Suffocating.
“Tell me,” he says. There is concern in his tone, or maybe something else. “What’s wrong?”
She stares back, fury sparking in her eyes. “I’ve already told you, it’s absolutely nothing-“ A mistake.
She clutches her stomach, the cold sweat blanketing her skin as her eyes darted back and forth. Near the doorway, she spots an empty pot, and unceremoniously, she shoves him out of the way.
Distantly, she hears a shout of surprise. Her hands grip the ceramic rim of the pot, clutching onto it like a lifeline as she empties her stomach of the little food it had. The bile tasted sour in her throat and on her tongue. Something gathers her pink strands out of her face, pulling it back, much to her silent gratitude, as she stays hunched over.
She lets out a few coughs as the ringing in her ear calms down. It sounds pathetic.
After a moment, the hand releases her hair, the wave of pink cascaded down her shoulders limply. A bitter taste lingers in her mouth. Her eyes stray to the grass below her knees as she inhales, exhales.
“You’re not okay.” His words make her cringe, and the shame crawled onto her skin. His arms are crossed, jaw set right with his brows strewn together. “Serendine, tell me what’s wrong.” A pause. “That’s an order.”
She stiffens, standing up on shaky legs. If nothing else, she’s learned to respect authority, voluntarily or not, a lesson instilled in her bones like scars. She mutters, barely above a breath.
Sinbad tilts his head. “Pardon?”
“I’m…” She sucks in a breath. “I’m pregnant.”
She glares at her feet, unable to meet his gaze. Her cheeks flush, and she’s stuck between tears and a smile. Hysteria builds up in her throat but she shoves it down.
A hand reaches up, and she cradles her stomach gingerly, like glass, in her palm. “Five weeks.” Her muscles tense up, “Sinbad, you… you’re the only...” The words get caught in her throat.
No answer greets her. She summons up her worth, taking a glance at his face. His expression is between frozen mortification and pure shock, his jaw unhinged and his eyes wide. It’s silent, too silent.
Disappointment crashes down on her like a wave, cold and abandoned, and suddenly, she’s lost at sea once more. Maybe Lady Rurumu will never be proud to have a child like her.
“You mean…” He trails off.
She remembers the first night they shared and the many nights after, bathed in moonlight and a delicate romance that swallowed her rationale whole. She remembers blushing pink wherever his fingers, lips brushed against, whining, begging desperately to be set on fire. She remembers giving everything up to him, his saccharine seduction, so readily, so wholeheartedly, and taking anything he gave desperately.
She looks down again.
“If you don’t want to help, I understand. knowing you, you’d probably be content staying out of my child’s life, especially when you have so many things to deal with.” Her tone is bittersweet, tinged with regret that clings to her tongue like venom. “I apologize for the mess. I’ll send someone to clean it up.” She purses her lips, bowing politely. Her tongue tastes sour, like a spoiled regret. “Good day, Lord President.”
Without even one last glance, she claws at her skirt, bunching it up in her fists before she strides away, her steps long and swift, Zepar bumping gently like a reminder.
He clutches her carbonized body close, feeling oddly cold, even in the midst of the inferno. It’s heavy, like he’s holding the weight of the world in his arms. His hand brushes up against her stomach, and red stains his palm a horrible shade.
He cries.