Synopsis:
A farm boy saves his princess, and their relationship deepens.
Author's Note:
A story I wrote for a client. Enjoy! Let me know what you think. This story was a bit more of a struggle to write than usual.
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THE KISS OF PRINCESS JESSICA
Section I.
The Princess lay sprawled in the mud, her dress torn and blotched with blood. A young man cried out angrily, his eyes scanning the darkness. And an assassin hid in that darkness, waiting for a second chance to strike.
"COME OUT AND FIGHT ME YOU BLOODY COWARD!"
The young man was Ryan of the River Rhondor.
Icy rain stung at Ryan's eyes like shards of broken glass. When a sudden crash of lightning split the thunderhead looming above, Ryan finally glimpsed the flash of silver in the assassin's hands. Though hooded and cloaked in black, his wicked grin was unmistakable.
Ryan could feel his fear tearing a hole in his stomach. But with the life of the girl he loved at stake, he could not afford to hesitate.
Ryan blinked. And in that second the assailant bolted forward and shoved him roughly into the mud. Straddling him, the assassin swung the dagger straight across Ryan's neck.
"Guh...!"
He stopped it.
Blood trickled through the young man's fingers as he grabbed the blade just short of cutting him. With a great snarl, Ryan summoned all of his rage and hate and kicked his attacker off of him.
Granting his enemy no quarter, Ryan leaped to his feet and hurled himself at the assailant. He ploughed into him, shoving the hooded man into the mud with a resounding splash. Ryan reached for his opponent's dagger, snarling with pain as he felt the assassin slice his shoulder. But the young man yet persisted. And when at last he pried the knife from his opponent's fingers and flung it away, Ryan swung his fist and struck the assassin a decisive blow on the jaw.
"Guh!"
Again and again, Ryan beat and gored at the hooded man's face until smatterings of fresh blood painted his hands a grisly red. When at last the assailant's body became limp and still, Ryan finally caught himself and realized he had won.
The Princess stirred. Her wavy, chestnut hair had become undone. Her royal green dress had been torn at the shoulder, and her arm had been cut. But to Ryan's relief, she was alive.
"Ryan! You're hurt!" She cried out.
Ryan winced, clutching his shoulder.
"I-I'm alright," he replied.
"No, you are not alright! I'll call for the chirurgeons! Guards! Marcus! Anyone! Help!"
The young man Ryan had never experienced such anger--such hatred--in all of his years of living. As a skilled fisherman and farmhand who embraced peace and condemned all temptations of violence, he thought himself above such feelings. But when he realized the imminent danger--that an assassin of all people had breached the castle grounds and intended to do harm upon the Princess--all strings of logic snapped in twain, and the soul of a berserker erupted from the depths of his heart.
The dream ended. And Ryan opened his eyes to a silent morning and his own empty bedroom. The robins and the doves sung and chirped outside his window. He blinked groggily and stole a glance around: there were the walls of treated red mahogany; bottles of vinegared vegetables and fish lined the shelves; and tools--lots of tools--fishing rods, nets, and shovels were stacked in the corner. His bed gently rocked to-and-fro, a characteristic exclusive to moored houseboats.
Yes, this was the home of a fisherman and farmhand.
Ryan's struggle with death had now become a recurring dream he now could not forget even if he wanted to. With a sigh, he threw his blanket back over himself, hoping to fall back to sleep, until he heard a familiar voice calling for him from outside his door.
"Ryan! Ryan, are you there?"
The voice was deep and rattly, like a mess of coins in a metal bowl. Ryan groaned under his sheets.
It was the Captain of the Guard himself, Sir Marcus of Blain--Ryan's Guardian.
"Ryan, you're there, aren't you?" He called out once more.
"Wh-what is it, Marcus?" Ryan mumbled. "I'm resting today."
"Ryan? I can't hear you! Open this door!"
The young man groaned, somehow pulling himself together despite the frigid morning. The fresh bandage he applied last night was tinged with blotches of red, but the searing pain on his shoulder was finally beginning to fade. Nonetheless, Ryan was more lethargic than usual. He slowly stood and slipped on a pair of torn trousers before briefly glancing at the green-eyed reflection of himself in a bottle of spirits.
This was Ryan of the River Rhondor, 19-years-old, and a young man whom had seen little of the world, but nonetheless scorned it for taking away more than it gave. He was low-born, raised in a houseboat under the bridge leading into the castle. His mother died when he was three. And his father Leigh from whom he had learned most of his trade had been drafted into the war. Three years had passed since then with no word of his father's return. Some said he had died in battle. Others claimed he had deserted in search of a better life.
The one shining light in Ryan's life was the Princess Jessica. She had been flirting with him and teasing him since they were sixteen, and while he didn't show it, after a time he began to harbor certain feelings for her. Before long, Princess Jessica began sneaking out of the castle on random evenings to visit him in his boat under the bridge just to see what he was up to.
It wasn't until the night of the assassination that Ryan realized how much he had grown to love her.
That night, Jessica had--as she had always done--slipped out of the castle's underbelly in the cover of night for a visit. Through some twist of fate, a Welmish assassin meant to take her life on that night. And had she not been assailed right outside Ryan's houseboat, the assassin might have slit her throat right then.
"Ryan, are you up, boy?"
"Y-yes, I'm coming!"
Ryan slipped on a pale-green tunic and brown trousers. Then he briefly combed his curly, brown hair with his fingers. He was a rather shy sort and not particularly proud of his appearance. His face and body had been bronzed by the sun from his years in the fields. His sullen cheeks were dotted with sun-kissed freckles. And dense, corded muscles rippled throughout his young body, earned through years of pulling fish nets out of the Rhondor River.
Taking a deep breath, Ryan opened the door.
"Good morning, sir," he said.
"There you are boy!" Marcus bellowed. "How is your shoulder?"
"It's--" He paused. "--a little better."
"Good. Wash your face. Put on your best smile. And perhaps--" He glanced down at Ryan's bare feet. "--put on some shoes?"
"Might I ask for what occasion?"
"An occasion of great importance, boy. The King has summoned you."
Section II.
Ryan rarely entered the Castle of Redhorn.
For centuries it stood against invaders from the lands to the West and the islands to the East, having been built on a bluff by the Sapphire Sea. When King Redhorn I took power after a long and bloody civil war, the Kingdom finally entered a lasting period of peace.
King Redhorn sired a son. And that son became King Redhorn II. With the Desert Princess of Tartaraan, he sired three daughters, the eldest of whom they christened Princess Jessica--the very same Princess that Ryan knew so well.
The doors of the throne room swung open, and Ryan entered with Sir Marcus at his side.
Banners of red and gold spilled like drapes over the walls and stained-glass windows. Flaming braziers hung by iron chains weaving across the cavernous, dome-shaped ceiling. A red carpet stretched on for dozens of feet from the entrance all the way to the man sitting on the throne.
King Redhorn II was in his late 50s now, more rotund than he was in his youth. His brown beard was now striped with grey. Draped in purple robes and gold bangles, he was a man of power and control who deeply valued his family.
Ryan was intimidated by him.
