Scars of The Throne

Only at night can one truly be free when those who judge are as sound asleep as the corpses beneath the city in the catacombs. At this time, anyone can either close or open their eyes to dream, to get away from the melancholy of the common World and see it anew. For those who close their eyes, they can imagine anything they desire, but those who open their eyes see a world they may not have been able to create on their own.

For me, it’s a matter of both to spark my imagination. I first peer at the shimmering city, the moonlit roofs soft as silk, like sheets of flawless glass. I take in the sweet chill of the night air, the aroma of the rose gardens down below, inhale it, dark blue and red swelling in my lungs. I hear the faint music from the taverns across the ivy-covered cinder wall, the thrum of strings and pound of drums, twirling with the night larks’ song, perched atop the silvery cinder. I feel the sway of the chiffon curtain, lapping at my face and bare feet as I sit, knees hugged to my chest, in the open dormer. The breeze tickles my freckled legs and plays with the red curls fallen from my braid. Like the hands of a caring mother, it caresses me and I close my eyes, my senses swarming.

I see it all then, vibrant, a new world I create where I can escape. The oriental rug beneath my toes and stone wall behind my back fade away. The lace nightgown I wear changes its form, spilling into a glimmering gown of every color, swirling around me with warmth and cradling arms. I smile and sigh.

I do this every night—drift from my body and the palace that shackles my feet. I know it’s a coping mechanism to create a fictitious world where not a thing is wrong, to think for a moment I can be anywhere other than inside the gray stone walls, cold and_ sunless. Venturing away gives me the faintest hint of hope that one day, I may stay away forever.

I feel no obligation here. There are no responsibilities to attend to after the sun sets. I have no public image or expectation to uphold. My title, Princess, means nothing, though it hardly means anything during the day either. I am myself, my soul, my ghost. A storyteller, an adventurer who wanders the far reaches of the World. I rule here—the stars, the moon, the wavering clouds. It is mine to command till the sun returns.

Tonight is different though. The stars twinkle in a different manner and the wind has a sudden bite, their anger reflects my own. Tomorrow, I turn eighteen, another year slipping away from me, through my fingers, out of my grasp. It will sail away with the strike of midnight.

I make my wish, the same wish I’ve made since I was ten.

I wish for freedom like the eagle that soars. I wish for happiness like the sun bright. I wish for a future like the buds that sprout up in spring and ascend to mighty trees. I wish for love as strong as the walls that hold me in. All I have is dwindling love, so please grant me at least one of these.

Every year, it becomes more and more ridiculous, like some family tradition that has lost its meaning through generations, but I continue to do it because it’s become habit, it’s become part of me, a shade of who I am and who I used to be before my freedom was stripped away.

I’ve changed the wording as the years go by, carving the wish into something more meaningful each year. However, I like this one. It’s like a river when you say it, flowing steadily, its bed dropping and rising.

I think I’ll keep this wording for the next year as well.

Once my wish is made, I leave my dormer, the curtains waving goodbye. The night lark takes flight and the music fades as I pad across the stone floor to the four poster bed adorned with folds of azure chiffon same as the white curtains whisking in the window.

I draw back the thick blanket matching in color, and slide my feet beneath the covers, cool silky sheets comforting my feet. My head sinks into the azure feather pillow, my body consumed by the soft mattress beneath me. The blankets I pull to my chin, shifting to my side, away from the lonely window that still whispers my name.

I close my eyes, a yawn emanating through my body and out my mouth. A sigh follows as I disconnect from the world again and plummeting into Utopia.

“Princess Alea, it’s time to rise.”

Burning gold seeps in and I turn my face away from the open window, a dull moan slipping through my dry lips. A crack of an eyelid is all I can manage as I scan the room for May, my personal servant. The clack of her shoes indicates she’s at the foot of my bed about to

The blanket is drawn back swiftly, violently. I fold into a ball, toes tucked into my nightgown and head buried in my pillow. I’m still too tired for this.

“May!” I grumble, my voice muffled from the feather pillow.

“It looks like it will be a lovely birthday,” May says. “The sun is shining.”

“The sun shines everyday,” I retort. “Whether we see it or not is a different story.”

“And one you would like to tell while I get you ready?” She asks.

I sigh, heavy as a soaked sheet. I wish I could evaporate into thin air and sail to the clouds. Rain me down somewhere else.

“No,” I say.

Slowly, almost painfully, I open both eyes, the blue hues of the shadowed pillow too comforting, but I have to get up before May drags me by my ankles off the mattress, like she’s done since I was a child. The sunlight is splintering, but I face it, bolts of frozen blue crossing through my eyes.