“Presenting her royal highness, Princess Adelaide from the royal house of Beauchemin.” The crowds all turn towards the front and see a figure emerge from the doorway. She’s slender and slightly tall, with radiant skin. She’s wearing an illustrious tight woven gown that weaves around her body, showcasing her best features. The gown displays a noticeable slit that runs up along the right side of her leg, giving the guests a small peak of what lies underneath. But what is most notable of all is the princess’s face; her long golden blonde hair covers the left side of her face all the way from the top of her forehead down to her jawline. It makes her look like the phantom of the opera, just without the mask.
“Why is half her face covered up?” I turned towards my friend, curious about what I’d just seen.
“Now that is a story”. My friend turns his face towards me and speaks to me so that nobody but the two of us can hear.
“Years ago when the princess was no more than eight years old. Her mother came into her bedroom at midnight, with a kitchen knife in her hand. No one knows what possessed the queen that night to end the life of her daughter. But for some reason the queen walked into the princess’ room, raised the knife in the air and prepared to land the knife right in her daughter’s chest”. He demonstrated the act with his hands, raising them up high towards the sky as if he is holding his own knife in hand, waiting to thrust it into his own chest. But just as he’s about to plunge the fistful of air into his chest, he abruptly stops this forceful motion, moments before his hand descends.
“However…” He continues. “The princess awoke from her slumber and used all the force her small form could muster to tackle her mother to the floor. The two of them wrestled for hours, mother and daughter fighting to claim ownership over the knife. However, such a small girl could not overpower her mother. Eventually, her mother grabs the knife in her hands and swings the blade into the air”. He pauses for dramatic effect, hoping that I would flinch. But I patiently wait for him to continue with the story. He breathes in a sigh, displeased with my null reaction, before continuing where he left off.
“That night the queen came in expecting to kill her daughter, but all she did was leave the princess a permanent reminder. A scar that extends from the top of her eyebrow all the way to the bottom of her cheek, taking her eye out in the process”. He slowly moves his finger along the side of his face showcasing where the scar would be.
“An ugly thing her mother did”.
“What happened to her mother?” I ask, slightly afraid of the answer I’ll get. I reckon it was nothing pleasant. They probably made the queen suffer, by either hanging her or cutting off her head, very much in line with the old king’s tendencies when it comes to acts of treason. However, I hope given the title of queen, she was allowed to remain out her days in a mental asylum to get help.
He exhales deeply.
“Eventually the guards hear the commotion and come rushing towards the princess’s room. However, they were too late. You see, the queen had disappeared and all that remained in the room was a blood soaked knife and a one-eyed princess”.
“I’ve heard since that night, the princess has always covered up the scar. Never allowing anyone in private or public to catch a glimpse of her deformity. Apparently, the maids have to wear blindfolds to cover their eyes before walking into the princess’s bedroom, before helping her get ready”.
I don’t believe his last remark, but I find it so strange that the princess is ashamed of her scar. If it were me I would proudly display the mark and let onlookers stare at it. Being evidence that I survived my own mother’s assassination attempt at the young age of eight.
I turned towards my friend.
“Why is she so ashamed? If it were me, I would proudly display the scar with pride”.
My friend looks at me and chuckles.
“My dear friend, that is because you are not in the same position as her. You are merely a soldier, accustomed to the battle scars that come with war. You and your fellow soldiers might showcase your scars with pride and honor, but she is a woman, and part of a powerful system that demands quality and perfection. Think of all the reigning monarchs, did any of them display any deformities? Any lack of perfection that was noticeable to the public?”
I open my mouth to respond, but my friend raises his hand to stop me.
“You would think that the world would be welcoming towards her, enlightened by the knowledge that even royalty is damaged and imperfect. However,t do you think that the system would allow her to showcase such flaws? Such lack of beauty? No, they would make her cover it up and make sure that she never remembers the day her mother tried to kill her in her sleep”.
It strikes me how little I own of the system and that of the royal family. All I am is a retired soldier looking for decent money and a steady job. Yet here I am, walking into a world with completely unfamiliar rules. I don’t know what the protocols are, and much less if I am able to meet the demands of the system placed before me. I don’t want to buckle under the pressure, but it’s hard not to wonder if I should have said no to the job in the first place.
“Good Evening Gentlemen, I hope that you are enjoying your night”. I hear a silky, smooth voice and look out of the corner of my eye to see the princess standing before us. She’s more beautiful up close than I could possibly imagine, with her long flowing hair and a wide smile brightly plastered to her face. I can imagine that she’s the type of person that artists get their muse from, their inspiration to paint their own personal Aphrodite. I take note of the eye that isn’t covered by her hair and see that it is hazel. A blend of browns and greens creating the perfect combination within her iris. I’m mostly impressed by her confidence for a woman of her age.The pressure doesn’t get to her, she owns being the star attraction. Gracefully handling the pressure of the world’s eyes on her shoulders, watching her every move, waiting for her to slip up.
Being awestruck by her, I don’t notice that my silence is met with displeasure by the princess. Though she is patiently waiting for either of us to make a response to her comment, I note that the silence bothers her. She isn’t accustomed to silence, being used to people answering her immediately or hogging her ears with bland conversation. She finds it unnatural for there to be silence in her presence.
My friend takes the princess’ hand and places a soft kiss upon it.
“Thank you princess, it has been a most wonderful evening and it hasn’t even started yet”.
“Well I’m glad to hear that at least someone is enjoying the festivities,” she says with her silky voice. It’s a beautiful voice, comparable to a siren. Though she isn’t singing any songs, sailors would still throw themselves from their ships just to hear her all the same.
Her gaze turns from my friend towards me.
“Who are you, mister? I’ve noticed my father has shared some words with you, so you must be someone worth talking to”.
“Wyatt, your royal highness.” I begin to take a bow.
“You don’t have a last name, Mr. Wyatt?”
“Not a last name worth noting, your highness”. I speak frankly.
“On the contrary, everyone is worth noting”. She hears someone calling her name and turns toward the direction of the commotion.
“If you excuse me gentlemen, I have to make my rounds”. She gracefully walks over to the other side of the room, and proceeds to converse with the other guests. Smiling with each introduction and laughing along with their jokes.
“Why do you think her mother did it?” I turn towards my friend. He takes a sigh and looks at me with sadness in his eyes. “Mothers create life, but they can also take that life away. I think that when a mother finds something at fault with her own creation, she finds the need to take care of the problem herself. She created life and it’s her job to end her own creation. It’s a mother’s mercy if you will”.
“There is nothing merciful about a mother who wants to end the life of her child”. I snarl.
“No there isn’t, and yet I find it interesting nonetheless. Mothers have such adoration for their children. I think we tend to forget what happens when that love is no longer there”.
I don’t say anything in response. I see this intriguing woman, and I can’t possibly fathom how her mother could come to hate her at the tender age of eight. It doesn’t make sense, but maybe he’s right. Maybe as much as a mother can love, she can also come to hate. In this case, I believe hate overcame love.