Synopsis: A botched assassination attempt leaves young Saorsie on the floor, her world crumbling in the midst of a panic attack. What happens next changes the course of her life forever.
She stumbled blindly through the hallways of the palace, a blade far too unwieldy in her hands clutched tight. She stumbled into doorways, frantically pulling at every doorknob as the shouts and clamor of armor behind her grew louder and louder. She ran faster and faster, legs burning and breath rattling in her lungs, until finally she crashed into an unlocked door, blundering through and slamming the door shut behind her. Hands shaking, she quickly locked the door behind her and grabbed a nearby table. Stupid, stupid, she thought, shoving the edge of the table against the door. Didn't see the guard, didn't check the room for the target, didn't stop the alarm from being raised. Useless, stupid girl. She grabbed blindly at something else, anything else, to use to barricade the door, but her hands shook too badly. Fear gripping her lungs and stealing her breath, she staggered back from the door towards the middle of the room before her legs gave out and she was left curled up in the middle of the floor clutching at her chest and tears staining the carpet below her.
Rohan was not having a good night. At all. He spilled his milk on himself before bed that night, so he had to go wash up again and change into another set of clothes as the bed sheets got changed out. And because of his poor performance today on his test, he wasn't even allowed to have another cup. So he had to go to sleep grumpy, hungry, and smelling faintly of cheese. He had tossed and turned angrily in his bed. Who needed math anyways? How was he going to use the quadratic formula in his daily life? Why would he need to know how centrifugal force worked? The worst part was, he had nightmares plaguing him all night about that stupid math test. He awoke with sweat pouring down his face, sticky and hot. His brow furled up as he plunged his face into his hands, steadying his erratic heartbeat. It finally soothed into a steady rhythm, soft and less painful than the pounding that threatened to rip his chest in two. It was at that moment, when his temper eased and his heartbeat evened, that his stomach growled.
He huffed an angry breath and ripped the sheets off of himself. Damn his maids. He would go to the kitchens himself if he needed to. Hell, he'd even go to the barn to milk the damn cows himself if he had to. He paused a moment, considering that, a smirk spreading slowly across his face. The third prince awake before dawn to perform menial tasks. The scandal. He swung his legs over the side of his bed, immersed in the fantasy. His thoughts were then interrupted by a large clamor outside of his room. He paused, waiting for them to pass by, but before they did, a blur of purple bashed its way into the room. Clumsily, a nearby stand was grabbed and dragged in front of the door as a makeshift barricade. Rohan froze, hand over the bell that would summon the guards. It was a girl, about his age. She wore a mask over her face, or perhaps maybe wrapped bandages over it. An assassin? he wondered. No, it couldn't be. She hadn't even noticed him. But then, just as he began to take a closer look at her, she collapsed on the floor, clutching at her chest and her breath becoming heavy and labored.
His feet moved before his mind, and in the next second he was on the floor next to her, lifting her up into his arms. He held her close, assessing her as she clutched at him, weeping into his shoulder. He didn't know why he did what he did. It could've been a ploy to get him closer, to stab him in his vitals. But he knew what it was like to be alone and left crumpled on the ground. He knew what it was like to reach out for even the slightest flicker of warmth and still return empty-handed. So perhaps that's why he held her close and wiped her tears. Perhaps that was why he whispered "You're going to be okay," and, "I've got you, don't worry."
Saorsie hadn’t been held in a long time. She couldn’t remember the last time she had a shoulder to cry on. She should’ve been repulsed, should’ve jolted away, unsheathed her blade, something. But Saorsie was so, so bone-achingly tired. She allowed herself to relax into the arms encircling her, leaning into the hands that smoothed down her hair. After a while, after her sobs quieted and her shoulders stopped shaking, she chanced a look up at the man. As her mouth opened to thank him, she stopped. Her blood ran cold as she recognized the man. The boy. The target. They stared at one another, unable to say a word. Sweat trickled down her brow as she tried and failed to calculate her next move.
"I, uh," he began. But just then came the thump of the guards. They called for him, for "his Highness". Adrenaline spiked in her throat, and she prepared to jump back. Before she could, though, the boy grabbed her and lifted her up. The very next moment, she was deposited in a large wardrobe. It smelled faintly of must, but compared to the night air it was warm. She pushed at his arms, twisting and struggling away from him.
"Hey, he-wait a moment, wait," he said, his grip on her tightening. She looked up at him, confusion and fear etched across her face. But then he smiled, his nervous grin lighting up his face. "Just...I know we just met. I know you have no reason to believe me. But please, just...trust me." She stared, slack-jawed once more and she nodded faintly in response. She wasn't sure what exactly what he'd said, but when she did his eyes brightened, and his grin grew wider. But then the pounding interrupted the moment, and those beautiful eyes were replaced with the shut of the door and anxious silence.
'WHY DID I DO THAT?!' his mind screamed. His hands shook as he fumbled his robe on, scrambling to find an excuse for the guards. He sprinted over to the door, and as he opened barely dodged the poised fist of his bodyguard, Sir Twain. Sir Twain was a large man, older than many on the force. Rohan wished he would have retired an age ago, if only to stop the constant over reactions to things not even consider a security threat. Not only that, but Sir Twain was loud, especially after drinking, which he did often. Even now Rohan could see the slight ruddiness in his cheeks and the crease marks that seemed to be from his pillow. Ugly, he thought.
"Oh, uh, apologies you Highness-" Sir Twain blustered. Rohan simply raised an eyebrow at him.
"Now why, good Sir, do I find you banging down my door at an unholy hour such as this?" The guard spluttered, turning redder by the moment. "I was merely informed of the threat to your person, sire! As you know, it is simply my duty to keep you from harm, I promised your mother-" He continued on, and Rohan leaned against the doorframe, humming along noncommittally and allowing himself to think again of the girl in his closet. She was pretty. He'd never seen eyes of such a brilliant purple, not in this region at least. He was startled out of his thoughts by a large hand waving in front of his face. Rohan smacked it out of the way with a sigh.
"Thank you...sir, for remaining true to your duties. However, as you may see," Rohan twirled in example, "I am unharmed. So please, I beg of you... let me sleep." Sir Twain grumbled, but in due time lumbered away. Rohan shut the door then immediately collapsed against it. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. But as he looked up, he noticed his window opened and his closet opened. He raced to the ledge, and as he came up to it, he noticed a folded piece of paper placed on the inside of the ledge. He rushed to unfold it, and as he smoothed it out, the light of the full moon illuminated two words: "Thank you." He clutched the paper to his chest, searching the courtyard for any sign of the girl. But all he could see was his shadow and the moon.
