Be happy…
Her brother's final words echoed within her. That day, the sight of Marcus lying broken cemented her disapproval of their father's choices. The Emperor had grown too proud, his thirst for expansion and riches too greedy, and the devastating consequence became the loss of his precious heir, Crown Prince Marcus. Penelope, being a female, was strictly not entitled to the throne, as the ancient traditions and stringent laws of Esterlend stated. She was, however, the perfect, humiliating consolidation prize for a lost war, a living treaty offered up to the victorious kingdom.
Not a week after Marcus’ rushed, somber funeral, before the mourning period was even remotely moved, she was roughly whisked into the heavy, black carriage that would take her to her new home, the enemy's capital. She was forced to begin her journey immediately, as the border between the two kingdoms required two to three weeks of travel across war-torn roads. She carried nothing with her save for a few small, deeply sentimental trinkets that fit into a single, worn leather bag strapped onto the top of the carriage. Her two maids in waiting, Giselle and Clara, went with her, a small comfort. And though she was profoundly thankful for their familiar company, their incessant, well-meaning attempts to lighten the grim situation only grated on Penelope's nerves and annoyed her silent grief.
“Can we cease this conversation, please?” Penelope asked Giselle, her voice strained with thinly veiled impatience. Giselle, bless her optimistic heart, had, for the tenth time in the past hour, been gushing over the supposed virtues and handsome appearance of Penelope's betrothed, the second prince of Sethlend, or as Penelope knew him, the man who slew Marcus.
“Apologies, Your Highness. I meant no disrespect,” Giselle said, her own face falling. Penelope sighed heavily, the sound of a ragged breath caught in the velvet-lined space.
“You know very well to call me Penny,” Penelope told her, her tone softening slightly. “Especially right now. The fewer formalities, the better.”
Giselle's large, black eyes instantly sparkled with unshed tears. “I know, we know, Penny.” She gestured with a small hand to the other maid in waiting sitting beside her, Clara, a sensible brunette with warm brown eyes. “Penny, this situation is desperately hard. But it isn't bad to try and think otherwise.”
Penelope shot her a sharp, icy glare that immediately silenced the girl. “Marrying the man who ran my brother through with his sword isn't a situation to think of positively. This entire arrangement is a calculated power move designed to humiliate me and utterly desecrate the memory of my brother, nothing more and nothing less.”
She had been there, on the fringe of the horrific battle, when Marcus battled the Second Prince of Sethlend, the man she was now being forced to marry. She had watched, paralyzed, as their raging swords clashed and rang out through harsh sunrises and sunsets, through the chaos of surrounding death, and through the desperate clamor of the battles around them. Her brother had been absolutely adamant that she not join the battlefield, that she remain safely behind the walls. But against his most dire wishes, Penelope had secretly snuck in, disguising herself crudely as a mud-caked stable boy, desperate to be near him. When Marcus finally fell, she rushed to his side, tearing through the carnage, hot tears streaming down her soot-streaked face. He had looked up at her with a calm, knowing look, his eyes already clouding. Of course, her brother had known the moment she went against his orders and came to the battle; he knew her too well. But in his final, dying moments, he did not admonish Penelope. Rather, his heavy eyes held a fierce, unwavering pride within their depths. She remembered his blood-slicked hand weakly reaching for her cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear, and his final two words before the cold grip of death took him from her forever.
Be happy.
“Penny?” Giselle's soft, hesitant voice brought Penelope sharply back to the cramped carriage and the grim reality of the situation at hand.
“Sorry, I just... I was remembering my brother,” she confessed, the grief washing over the space again, and the mood instantly turned somber and thick. Giselle and Clara exchanged a quick, worried glance before returning their concerned gazes to their mistress, whose face was pale and drawn.
“Why don't we try and have a game?” Clara, the more practical of the two maids, suggested gently.
“Anything but chess!” Giselle groaned. “Cards! Let's have a simple card game! Anything to pass the time.”
Penelope chuckled, a light, melodious sound. “You are just mad that I beat you in chess every turn.”
“That and Giselle can't stop herself when it comes to games of gamble,” Clara said, her voice dryly amused. “It's a genuine sickness.”
Giselle just grinned, her eyes sparkling with unrepentant mischief.
“What can I say? I like a little stakes in my games! The adrenaline is half the fun, isn't it?” Giselle said.
Abruptly, the carriage stopped, the sudden jolt rattling the women against the plush velvet seats. Looking out the window, Penelope noticed the deep, foreboding shadows of the forest terrain. One of their escorts, a man named Rylan, appeared in the window, gave her an all-knowing signal, a quick, sharp nod that spoke volumes. She looked at her maids in waiting, who were already reaching for their hidden weapons with practiced ease and unsettling calm. Giselle's retractable staff, a sleek, black length of steel, rested between her fingers, ready to lengthen with a soft hiss when the time called for it. A flick of her wrists and in Clara's hands came a pair of gleaming silver daggers, their points wickedly sharp, ready to strike. Penelope reached for her own personal weapon hidden in the folds of her pale lavender dress, an elegant, silver-chased dagger she cherished more than her own life.
Though the bandits, rough men smelling of stale sweat and cheap liquor, believed they held the upper hand, they were shocked to discover otherwise. The first shout had the women spilling from the carriage with remarkable speed, joining the escorts. Esterlend women were brought up to protect themselves, regardless of their station. They would not sit back while their sons, husbands, and brothers risked their lives, choosing to stand beside them, their resolve as sharp as any blade. Penelope and her maids were no different in this regard. They fought alongside their escorts, moving with a grace that belied their delicate attire. The bandits were surprised by the vision of frilly-dressed women knocking over heads with brutal efficiency and slicing throats with cold precision. The remaining bandits fled, scattering into the trees, not wishing to risk life or limb against such unexpected ferocity. Penelope and her maids returned to their cramped quarters, dusting off their gowns and smoothing their skirts.
“I had this polished just last week,” Giselle scoffed, her brow furrowed while glancing at the state of her weapon, its surface now smeared with grime and a sticky crimson residue. She had to clean it
thoroughly before re-entering the carriage, for its extended length would not fit inside the small space.
“My blades are probably angry they had to bleed such weak men,” Clara said, her voice laced with aristocratic disdain. With a delicate, embroidered handkerchief, she wiped off the remaining blood from her precious knives, handling them with the tenderness of a mother tending a child.
Giselle and Clara were chosen specifically because of their extensive training and natural aptitude for combat. They were hard-bred warrior women whose enjoyment was equally derived from the thrill of battle and the peaceful ritual of tea time. Penelope, on the other hand, saw her training as no more than a means to protect herself and fulfill her duty. Unlike most Esterlend women, who wielded short-range weaponry, Penelope preferred long-range weapons like crossbows or slings. Even with her preference for long-range weaponry, Penelope was remarkably good with daggers or a very special weapon called sais, blunt-pronged defensive weapons that were versatile by design.
“I can't believe that one tried to even come near you!” Giselle exclaimed. “Of all the nerve! That guy wasn't looking at royalty, he was looking at a piece of meat!”
Penelope rolled her eyes, a small, weary gesture. “I highly doubt that, Giselle. They were after the royal coffers, not my virtue.”
“Here, use my mirror,” Clara said, her expression softening with genuine concern, though her tone remained brisk. She handed Penelope a golden-plated hand mirror, the back intricately engraved with a family crest. “Your hair is so out of place right now that it's atrocious.”
Penelope paused while taking the mirror, her fingers brushing Clara's. Realizing her mistake, the ingrained habit of a lady's maid tending to a princess, Clara immediately pulled the mirror away, returning it to her deep pocket with a mortified flush creeping up her neck.
“I am so sorry, Penny!” She gasped, her hands flying to her mouth in dismay.
“It's alright.” Penelope sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. “I'm fine, really.” She rolled her eyes at their intense, worried stares. “Good grief! I said I was fine!”
“Okay, okay, geez,” Giselle said, holding up her hands in surrender. “We can't help it.” Her eyes softened, filled with genuine concern. “After you came back from, well, your captivity, you haven't been the same. We worry about you, Penny.”
“Maybe this marriage is a fresh start,” Clara reasoned gently, trying to inject a note of optimism into the heavy atmosphere.
“It's just a way to get rid of broken things,” Penelope countered bitterly, the words heavy with self-pity. “After all, who would willingly marry a scarred woman?” She turned her gaze to the window, the late afternoon sun illuminating her reflection in the glass, a reflection that cruelly revealed the deep, jagged scar that started just above the left side of her dark hairline, journeyed mercilessly between her amethyst eyes, across the bridge of her nose, and through her cheek. It was the only reflection she couldn't control, a jagged, silver streak that felt less like an injury and more like a brand, a permanent, undeniable record of a past ordeal.
“Is it time for the salve?” Clara asked, her voice hushed. “I made sure to bring some for at least a year. It might help with the tightness.”
“I'm fine right now,” Penelope said, a faint shadow passing over her face. “It doesn't hurt.”
“Okay, I think we need to get that card game going,” Giselle declared, her voice bright and deliberately forceful as she redirected the conversation. She grinned mischievously as she pulled out a worn, colorful stack of cards. “Come on, Penny, you know you want to. A little game of Five Crowns will do us all good.”
Penelope regarded her two maids in waiting, her dearest friends, the only people who truly understood the weight she carried. A genuine grin of enjoyment quickly replaced the sadness and bitterness in her eyes.
“Sure,” she said, a hint of her old self returning. “But no cheating this time, Giselle.”
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