Sun was streaming in past the ramparts as the guardsman marched Gwen through the castle. Each beam they passed through was like the parting touch of a lover, an all-too-fleeting reminder of what she would soon lose if her step-father had his way.
Not that she intended to give in that easily.
"Honestly, Lady Gwendolyn," the guardsman huffed. What was his name again? Rufus-something? Gwen could never keep the King's lackeys straight. "Is this any way for a princess to behave? And mere days before your future-husband arrives!"
"Hmph," Gwen turned her nose up at the sky. "I think any lady who doesn't enjoy a summer's swim is a fool, and her husband a fool for marrying her."
Rufus-something bristled. "Enjoying nature's bounty is one thing, but to make a wanton, shameless display of yourself in front of the peasantry—how can you expect to rule them if they see you in such a state?"
"Maybe I don't want to rule them," Gwen stuck out her tongue. "Maybe I'd much rather be a farmer with my own land and my own dreams instead of the prize breeding stock of some stranger who purchased me from my father."
The guardsman flinched as though he had been struck, the visor from his helmet nearly falling in front of his eyes. "I will pretend I didn't hear that," he said. "For both you and your father's sake."
Gwen rolled her eyes. She never understood how people could act so scandalized by the truth. Ever since the King had married her mother, it was obvious he had made a fairly robust trade out of marrying off Gwen's many sisters for political and monetary gain.
At first, Gwen and the other princesses had pleaded with their mother to see the King for what he was, but she was apparently too love-struck to comprehend their warnings. Then, one by one, the many sisters had been sold off. Curiously, for all their late-night talks of refusal and rebellion, Gwen always saw them smiling on their wedding day, and watched with mounting disgust as they cheerfully submitted to their new husband's whims. Some of the princesses didn't even wait until the altar to have a change of heart: they would come to Gwen in the night singing songs of praise for their soon-to-be-captors, extolling the virtues of a marriage despite despising it only a morning prior.
But not Gwen. Her spirit was a fire that would never go out. She terrorized the guards and other maidens in the castle, running wild in the fields and letting critters loose in the ladies' quarters. She did everything possible to make sure no passing suitor would even THINK of her as a potential bride, much less attempt to win her over. Her bright golden hair was frequently strewn with the twigs and leaves of the woods; her cream-colored skin often marked with the dirt and dust of her adventures; her fine dresses she forwent in favor of a crude brown tunic, which was currently soaking and clinging to her hips and breasts, a most honorable mark of her recent escapade. From top to bottom, Gwen made sure she seemed not so much a princess as a nuisance, and had thus evaded betrothal all the way to her eighteenth birthday.
Alas, she should've realized nothing good never lasted in her step-father's kingdom. And so it was that he finally managed to find a suitor for her: a hulking, nomadic warlord from the mountains, who cared little for courtly decorum so long as his wife would serve as his eager, frequent carrier of his seed. Gwen couldn't think of anything less appealing. At least her sisters got a proper castle out of the deal.
Yet here she was, her barbaric betrothed on his way to the castle to claim her, and she on her way to her prenuptial health exam. It was a humiliating exercise, a tradition by which the princesses were poked and prodded to ensure their good health before marriage. All her sisters had gone through it and, though none of them complained afterwards, Gwen still didn't plan on going quietly.
"Doctor Whitlock!" the guardsman called, banging on the dark red door that lead to the Royal Physician's chambers. "I've brought your charge." He shot an annoyed look at Gwen, who returned it with a sneer of her own.
The door creaked open, revealing a man of tall stature, with tanned skin, twinkling eyes, and dark, disheveled hair. "Ah, Lady Gwendolyn," he said as he stepped aside with a sweep of his robes. "Do come in."
"Hey!" Gwen jolted as Rufus shoved her into the room. "Watch it!"
"She's your problem now," the guardsman huffed.
Whitlock smiled. "I'm not sure I see it that way, but thank you."
Gwen glared at the guardsman as the door shut, rubbing the spot on her back where his rough gauntlet had pushed her. "I certainly hope you have a finer touch," she growled to the doctor. "Otherwise they'll be needing another physician for what's left of you.
"Hopefully it won't come to that," Whitlock held his palms up. "I'm just going to ascertain your health prior to the wedding. It should be a painless procedure."
Gwen harrumphed, crossing her arms and pacing uneasily around the room. It was a curious space, befitting of a curious man: a circular chamber at the top of the west-most tower, filled with potted plants, overstuffed bookshelves, and odd instruments of glass and iron. It shed little clarity on its resident, whose physique, mannerisms, and lack of lineage made it impossible to discern even his age or origin, both of which were subject of much gossip among the courtly ladies.
Well, whoever he was and wherever he came from, he was her step-father's man, and that made him the enemy, Gwen decided. Even if his wide, arched windows indicated a similar appreciation for sunlight as hers.
"Now then." Whitlock approached her. "If we want this to go quickly, I'm going to have to ask you to disrobe please."
Ssst.
Gwen spat at his feet in response, halting the doctor in his tracks. To her surprise, he didn't rear back in disgust or admonish her for her crudeness. Instead, he paused only a moment before continuing forward, his eyes drawn to something in her hair.
"Oh my," he said, plucking a small, soaking leaf from her head before she could react. "I see you too are a frequent guest of Lake Dundee's waters."
Gwen blinked. "How did you know?" she asked. The guardsman had only just pulled her ashore this morning—there was no way news of it could've reached the doctor so quickly.
"This water-clover," Whitlock answered, holding up the plant in question. "It only grows on those banks. Besides, it is no doubt the prettiest spot for a quick dip, wouldn't you say?"
The suggestion of a smile tickled Gwen's lips, but she quickly suppressed it. "I didn't take you for much of a swimmer," she retorted. "You seem more like a caged dog than a fish."
"Ah well, the King does keep me busy." The doctor shrugged. "But I am first and foremost an avid student of nature. Much like yourself, I'm sure. Tell me," he paused, as if following a thought that had just occurred to him. "Are you fond of flower-gathering by any chance?"
Gwen scoffed. "What, because I'm a lady? Please. I would never waste my time with such a useless occupation."
"Oh, I can't agree." Whitlock shook his head. "I think it is a fascinating practice, one that can yield many surprising revelations. For example..." He sifted through a nearby shelf before lifting a small potted plant. "Consider this specimen."
Gwen stared at the flower he held before her. It was a weak-looking thing, a thin stem of green that curled into a pea-sized bud, petals of lavender barely visible within. "Looks rather ordinary to me," she stated.
"Indeed. At first blush, perhaps." The doctor reached into his robes. "But watch closely at what happens when I add a few specks of pollen." He withdrew a tiny vial, and sprinkled some yellow dust on the plant.
Instantly, the flower sprung open, a cloud of fragrance slamming into Gwen's face. Her nose twitched, and she sneezed, the world around her seeming to shudder from the force. She shook her head to clear it, but the aroma clung to the inside of her nostrils, each breath filling her with its strange, overpowering sensation.
"Um..." she mumbled, staggering. The world hadn't stopped swimming after the sneeze—if anything, it felt even less stable the harder she fought for balance. "I think...something's..."
"It's a powerful scent, no?" the doctor said with a teasing smile. Was it just her, or did his voice sound different? "It's perfectly normal for you to feel a little off-kilter. Here, why don't you have a seat?"
"Y-yes," Gwen sat heavily in the chair he offered her. She was right: there
was
something strange about his words now. Each syllable seemed to carry a subtle echo underneath, as though her mind were still processing what he had just said moments after he said it.
"There we go," Whitlock continued as Gwen tried to keep her head from lolling to the side. "The effects should dissipate if you let them. Just take a few nice, deep breaths and relax."
At a loss, Gwen instinctively obeyed, taking nice, deep breaths as the doctor demonstrated. Still, that strange scent remained in her head, a fragrant fog billowing between her thoughts. After the third exhale, she couldn't tell if the aroma was getting weaker, or if she was just getting used to its presence.
She did feel relaxed though. Very, very relaxed.
"There, that's better, isn't it?" Whitlock asked, stepping behind her as she nodded dimly. "You were so tense when you walked in here. Do I frighten you, princess?"
"N-no..." she exhaled, trying to work her heavy eyelids into a defiant glare. "I'm not...scared of you."
"It's perfectly normal," the doctor continued, resting his hands gently on her shoulders. "Most people are nervous when they first step into my chambers. They're often more worried about my treatments then the ailment I'm trying to fix. Isn't that funny?" he laughed.
Gwen's lips quirked into a smile before she could stop them this time, a faint chuckle escaping her. It was as if her body had given up waiting for her mind to decide on a suitable reaction, and was simply acting on the prompts it was provided. A part of her knew she should be aggravated by this realization but...
She drew in another deep breath, sending a fresh cloud of sweetness into her brain. It smelled nice, she finally decided, forgetting her concern in an instant.
"But you're different, aren't you, Lady Gwendolyn?" Whitlock asked, his fingers gently massaging her skin as they glided up her shoulders and neck before working their way back down again. "You know that, as a physician, my duty is to my patients' health and happiness, right?"
"Mhm," Gwen hummed in assent, her back straightening slightly to accommodate the doctor's touch.
"I knew you would understand. You trust me, don't you, Gwen?"
"Y—" Gwen hesitated. Wait, did she trust him? He had been pleasant to her so far, but...something was off. He was the King's Royal Physician after all—she should be suspicious of his every move. Even if his words dripped with honey, even if his hands were working wonders on her aching muscles...he was still...she was still...
"Come now, princess," Whitlock gently chided. "I'm a doctor, remember? How could I retain my title if I was untrustworthy?"
Gwen tried to answer his question, but it was hard for her to think through the haze enveloping her. His touch felt so good—firm, yet delicate, as though he were coaxing the tension out of her. It slowed her already lethargic breathing to a crawl, ensuring each inhale came with a deep dose of intoxicating scent.
"I'm a doctor." Whitlock repeated. "That means I make people feel better. And I'm making you feel better, aren't I?"
"Yes..." That much she knew was true.
"That's because you are my patient. And doctors care for their patients. And I care for you deeply, Gwen. Don't you believe me?" The doctor's voice quavered a little, as he feared Gwen really would reject him.
"I..." Despite herself, Gwen felt a stab of guilt pierce the pleasant cloud surrounding her. "I believe you." She answered.
"Oh, praise the gods," he responded. "So surely that means you can trust me, right?" the doctor pressed.
