The apology slips from my mouth

before I can stop it.

I bite my bottom lip with frustration.

I'm not sorry.

Yet I have this inherent need

to tell you I am. Because you

can't dislike me. Or think I'm crazy.

Crazy. The crazy scale.

Where I feature at about a 7 out of 10....

self proclaimed.

But what makes me crazy?

A deep-routed need for validation.

Is that crazy? Or just circumstance.

Just a need for you to understand me.

Tell me straight. No games.

I've been lost in this maze for too long.

I'm tired of wandering.

Wondering.

She was in air for a fitful moment, but gravity soon interrupted.  A vision of legs and lavender fabric collided with earth -

        “humph”

The noise escaped her with the impact, a betrayal of her pride by her body. Her arms followed her legs in a manner equally unceremonious - flailing for orientation.

At once she was still, slapped breathless by the fall. A cloud of dirt held the air above her, and she had every appearance of being dead. The group of men that surrounded her waited curiously, the possibility of her expiration being of little consequence to them. They fidgeted quietly, sleepy-eyed and indifferent.

Lilith was not however, dead; and as her lungs expanded and reclaimed her chest, she coughed fitfully for the dust. She sat up. The men in the circle did not move save for the occasional curious glance at the figure responsible for Lilith’s condition. King Henrick Kane, Lord of this realm, such as it was - continued his surly observation from the deck. He had not moved since launching Lilith off the porch by two fistfuls of her dress.   

This King had a penchant for rattling cages. Cruelty - impervious to any counter, a royal indulgence. Preening in self admiration, he ran his palms across his temples and back over an oily sheen of black hair.   

Henrick’s henchman - though that term seemed generous - were silent still, some swaying slightly in the breeze of the morning. The collective of their odors was representative of an excess in spirits, and an absence of hygiene. This could be said of their appearance as well, each man looking more like a criminal caricature than the last. They seemed bored by this midmorning drama.

Lilith pulled her legs and dress beneath her - concerned more with hiding her weapon than protecting her modesty. Her dignity, though valuable to Lilith - had proven less useful as of late. It was then that she saw the broken body in the dirt beside her. A familiar man, dead - a bloody broken head. The diplomat!

Her eyes widened,

“What have you done?”

Her voice was hollow, and she paused at the weight of this discovery. The man was a barbarian, and his life was of no sentimental value to her - but he was the political face of a tribe sick with bloodlust. The entire village would answer for this transgression. She stood to face the King, who smiled at her -

       “I have done nothing.”

Something in his tone alarmed her. King Henrick continued,

       “He was poisoned, some sort of hag’s brew I’m sure. Perhaps in his coffee, I don’t know your methods precisely.”

Her mouth fell open at the lie, and his smile grew wider, delighted by his own performance,

       “He fell off his horse once it took effect, and his head was smashed upon a rock. I saw it myself.”

But it wasn’t true, the diplomat was firmly on his horse before Henrick had struck him with the bottle. Half of the hunting party had seen it, and they snickered now from within the ranks. They - much like Henrick, had a penchant for inflicting misery.

       “The village already knows you killed one man, what’s another?”

Lilith was breathless - stunned. Though Henrick had unfairly summarized her crime, it was true that many in the village would accept his lie happily - rumors and reputations as they were. The ringing in her ears grew louder, and she shook her head.

       “You can’t --”

       “Silence, witch. I am still speaking.”

His need for control was palpable.

       “You have served me well in your time here, and thus I will allow you one hour.”

She opened her mouth to speak again, and he raised a silencing finger.

       “Confess your crime to his people, or I will add the charge of witchcraft. If you do not confess within the hour, you will face justice by my hand.”

His hand would show no mercy, of that she was certain. The king pointed then, gesturing to the forest across the lawn behind Lilith and his men. She turned - wordless, as words would be of no use to her now - and began across the lawn, gathering the front of her dress in hand. Her heart raced in preparation for flight, but Lilith did not want to give him the satisfaction of seeing her bolt in terror. She fought the storm of adrenaline within her.

It was only moments after that there was a shrill whistle - followed by raucous laughter from the fools behind her. A low sound in the distance grew louder, recognition stopped her heart cold - a howl. A damning sound. Instinct took over, and she began to run, her bare feet padding the grass with increasing pace.

The king threw a final taunt before she disappeared into the trees -

       “It would seem my hounds cannot measure an hour!”

A cacophony of clatters and thuds resonated off of the castle walls and made its way to Alderch’s ears as he sat silently at the top of the main staircase. His father Henrig, the supreme commander of the Treath Empire, raged downstairs in the throne room with the sole audience of his wife and co-ruler Ulla. As usual his discontent manifested in the breaking of priceless glass and ceramic wares. A letter just arrived from abroad and anger flooded Henrig’s veins; an alliance with the Magra Empire through marriage was off the table.

“How dare she deny this?” His voice thundered throughout the castle. “When I’ve been so generous as to negotiate and hold off a siege until now? Try diplomacy,” he said with a huff. “Never again!” He picked up a half empty wine glass and threw it against the rough stone wall, adding to the mess the servants would be cleaning up after their rulers drank themselves to sleep.

“I sensed she was disingenuous,” Alderch’s mother Ulla inserted calmly from her high throne, as she took a delicate sip out of her own wine glass. “You told me of her proposal at the last summit and I never believed one word.” Ulla shook her head with a faint smirk and looked down the room at her husband.

The sounds of destruction ceased after Ulla began speaking, though Henrig ignored her and continued walking up and down the center of the room. A few moments passed in strained silence, then he went back and sat down next to Ulla on his throne. He continued his rant, “one chance and she turns her back on Treath!” He pounded his fists on the mahogany armrests.

“Is it such a problem, my love?” Ulla said sweetly, placing her gloved hand on his tensed arm, trying to ease him out of his negativity. “Now we get to go to war, with Magra no less. It is our chance to claim the land and it is what you do best.”

“But what of Alderch? What advantageous match can we make for him now?”

Alderch stiffened at the top of the stairs. It wasn’t that his destiny being out of his hands was a new concept; it was just the anxiety of wanting to know. He was ready. Ready to get married and start a family. Ready to start anew and move out of the capital to raise his children with fresh ideals, morals and priorities. Ready for a piece of quiet while awaiting his parents’ eventual death. While awaiting the time he could wash clean the blackened, brutish Treathian Empire and bring forth an age of light.

“It shall come, my dear,” Ulla said tranquilly, still attempting to lighten the burden in her hot-tempered husband’s mind. “I have faith in it. We will find a bold woman of Treathian blood and muscle to bolster this house.”

“By his age I had won the heart of dozens,” Henrig boasted, straightening up in his chair. “Nearly twenty three and the only thing he’s had his nose in is a book!” He grabbed an unbroken glass from the table at his side and took a swig of wine.

Alderch flinched at the words and fought back the urge to barge in and speak his mind. Alas, that would only prove painful and bloody on his part. At the thought he reflexively touched his fingertips to an old scar on his temple. Henrig always claimed to not enjoy beating his son, but that didn’t stop him from doing so.

“Yes, you have won the hearts of many with your agility and prowess on the battlefield, but we cannot hope for such a life for Alderch.” Ulla sighed, “You have tested him on the field in all manners of might, but he is a quiet boy. A studious boy…”

“Soft and weak!” Henrig interrupted and again slammed his fists. Rising from his chair, he began to pace the room once more. “The meekest in our blood line for ten generations, unheard of!” He downed the last of his wine, and added, “I shudder to think what will become of Treath after our death. How will the empire hold without a strong leader behind these walls?”

Alderch was used to his father’s hatred of him, but that didn’t make it easier hearing the words and not hearing his mother stand up for him. So he got up slowly from his perch on the staircase and turned to make his way down the corridor to his chambers. He didn’t hear his mother’s next comment on the matter.

“He has the heart of a warrior, my love,” Ulla said, gazing off airily into an unseen distance, no doubt ‘seeing’ the future as she often did. “I feel it.”