Some princesses grow tired of waiting for a knight to rescue them.

Once Upon A Time...


The dragon is roaring again.

A surge of pity wells forth for the poor soul foolish enough to rouse its anger. Within a few long strides I am at the window, gazing down at my whole world.

The knight has gotten far. I am uncertain how he managed to sneak into the inner courtyard undetected — he must be greatly favored by the gods to have such luck.

The dragon swats him like a fly, the enormous paw trapping him between its claws. The impact sends his long broadsword flying out of reach.

Perhaps not.

I watch, wrapping my cloak tighter around myself. The first few times I looked away once it became evident the dragon was winning, but now I force myself to watch to the bitter end. Every deadly blow, every scream, every lick of flame; I see it all. I am not certain why I do this to myself. Honor, I suppose. They die for me, so the least I can do is acknowledge their sacrifice.

Few men remain brave in the face of death, but this one does. I wonder if he would like it that I see him, that I think he is valiant, that he is not alone.

He’d probably like living more.

The dragon roars once more, and then eerie silence descends upon the tower. The wind blows smoke in my eyes, carrying the stench of burned flesh. I suppress a retch, blinking against the sting in my eyes.

I do not cry.


***


I huff in exhaustion, wiping dirty hands on my stained dress. Tomorrow, I will wake to flawless, clean silks, this I know. My dust-caked hair will be soft and shiny, framing my pretty face in elegant ringlets. It has been thus ever since I’ve been imprisoned here — my beauty may be stained for a few fleeting hours, but never fully tarnished.

I arch my back, tired bones cracking, and allow myself to revel in a hard day’s work for a moment. It is unbecoming of a princess, but that is precisely what appeals to me. If my flawless beauty is so important to my captors that they would place such spells upon me, then I will roll around in mud and filth just to spite them.

Childish, perhaps, but petty acts of rebellion are all I have.

There is nothing petty about what I am currently doing, though. The knight — gods, but I wish I knew their names — cannot be left in the courtyard to rot. He deserves better. My lips thin. And I deserve better than to spend my days digging graves.


***


The brave knight chose to wear plate armor. I grimace as I struggle to drag him, stumbling when his weight proves too much. Why do these fools always choose to wear armor?

Fire heats metal. One would think aspiring dragonslayers would draw the obvious conclusion. One would be wrong. The dragon needs but to breathe in their general direction and the metal turns searing hot, melting and twisting and seeping into skin. The knights burn long before the dragon even touches them.

Not being able to take the armor off makes them heavy.

It also, thankfully, makes them look barely human. Just a lifeless half-molten suit of armor, and I can bear carrying that much better than those who are smart and face the dragon in leathers.

I collapse on the floor, breathing hard. I angle my head, gazing at how far I’ve managed to drag him, then let my head fall back with a thump. Only a handful of yards. Curse this weak body of mine.

There’s a glimmer out of the corner of my eyes.

I tilt my head up, searching for its source. My lips part and I scramble to get up, almost tripping over my long gown as I stand up.

The claymore’s silver blade shines in the afternoon sun, and the runes etched along its length almost seem to glow. I have never seen a sword this fine. Most importantly, I have not seen a sword this unbroken since my imprisonment began. The dragon’s flame melts them just as surely as it does the armor.

So beautiful.

So deadly.

At last, I have a weapon of my own.

“I’m sorry, friend,” I say to the knight as I gingerly wrap my fingers around the hilt. Normally, I bury the fallen alongside their weapons as warriors deserve, but I need this far more than he does. “I will be keeping this.”

I stagger when I lift the blade; it is almost as big as I am tall. My muscles ache with the effort of merely holding it. That, more than anything, brings tears back to my eyes. I will never be able to swing it. I am weak. I am never getting out of here.

A shadow passes over the sun and I tense, the beat of gigantic wings heralding its arrival.

The dragon.

Eyes as big as my head stare at me, unblinking, shining with feral intelligence. The pupils narrow to a slit and I take a step back, whimpering.

I know it won’t hurt me. It never does. The only time it ever attacked me was when I tried to leave the castle grounds. It dragged me back while I kicked and screamed. I remember its claws raking along my flesh, and it chills me. Like any other blemish to my beauty, the wounds were gone in the morning.

I never tried to run again.

Does it sense my new rebellion? I wonder and clutch my sword tightly. Mine. I may not be able to wield it but it’s mine now, and I’m not giving it up.

The dragon makes a deep rumbling sound in the back of its throat, not quite a growl. Absurdly, it reminds me of the purring of a cat. Then, with a deafening roar it spreads its wings, and flies away.

I sink to my knees, the blade slipping from my fingertips.


***


The sword is enchanted, I am sure of it.

Night has fallen, and the glowing runes have revealed themselves to not be a trick of the light at all. I trace their shape with my fingers, quivering when I sense something vast, and foreboding, and powerful.

Perhaps the knight was not as foolish as I thought, bringing a magical blade to slay a magical beast. It would certainly explain why it did not get damaged. It has the look of being freshly forged, yet knowing that it is magically reinforced — it makes me wonder if it is not ancient. I certainly have never seen runes like these before, and I’ve had the best tutors in all the land.

I debate whether I should keep it. Magic is said to be unstable and fickle, just as likely to turn on its wielder as it is to aid them. The knight had certainly thought the blade was strong enough to face a dragon with, and he’d gotten farther than any of the others. Then again, the knight was dead.

But it’s all I have.

Am I to sit here and wait for the next knight to try and rescue me? Watch him die before my eyes?

No.

I am a princess. A future queen. I am not this meek and scared creature this prison has turned me into.

I raise the hilt, mimicking the stance I’d seen warriors assume many times. My arms tremble at the effort and I grit my teeth, bringing the blade down, slashing through the air.

It’s slow and clumsy. I know little of swordplay and even I can tell that was pathetic.

So I slash again, harder. And again. And again. My muscles are screaming at me to stop.

But I keep going.

I’d been strong once, hadn’t I? When I was a girl, I was bold and brave. I’d get into fights with other children my age, the sons of Lords and Ladies, and I would win. I had adventures in the woods, exploring and climbing the highest trees I could find. My pony was a proud warhorse, a noble stallion with which I charged into many imaginary battles. Victoriously, of course.

But then something changed. The boys I’d been so handily beating grew strong and tall while I grew petite and soft. They started subduing me with barely any effort, until they refused to play with me at all. It was, after all, not chivalrous to fight a lady.

I have grown to resent that word. Lady. People loved to remind me that I am one more and more as I grew older, and being one suddenly meant an ever-growing list of things I was not allowed to do.

I yell as I bring the sword down and it slips from my grasp, crashing into the nearby nightstand. Wood splinters and I wince. I retrieve it, but do not raise it again. My arms are tired and my momentum is gone.

I sit down on the bed and lay the glowing sword in my lap.

“What secrets do you hold?” I murmur, running my finger along the sharp edge. I draw blood and withdraw my hand, barely feeling the sting of the thin cut. “Can you make me strong? Strong enough to wield you?” I swallow, and longingly look to the window. “Strong enough to slay a dragon?”


***


I yawn, stretching — and jump when my hand brushes something cold like ice. Steel. I’d fallen asleep with the sword by my side. I smile, relieved. I’d feared the spells that permeate this place might have taken it from me overnight.

I slip out of bed, glancing at the beautiful blue silk gown waiting for me folded on the chair. Next to it on the table is a steaming bowl of soup. My stomach growls at the delicious smell.

I’ve long since stopped questioning where these things come from. They just are. Sometimes, books appear, too. These little absurdities form the backdrop to my imprisonment — as if my captors care so much for my wellbeing that they don’t want me to be bored.

I haven’t spoken to another human being in two years. I am well beyond mindnumbing boredom.


***


“HA!”

The sword slashes the air, my high-pitched yell echoing through the empty hall. I think people lived in this castle once, but their banners are torn and faded. I flick my wrist and the blade cuts upward. I’ve tried exploring, but many of the paths are cut off by debris. The sword thrusts forward as I stab an imaginary foe.

The sword seems lighter today. Perhaps because I am not exhausted from dragging its previous owner to his grave. Whatever the cause, my movements are less clumsy, almost graceful.

I pause at that thought. I don’t need graceful. I need deadly.

I wish I had formal training. All I have to work with are vague memories of the squires and knights I’ve watched spar in our court. Dim recollections of them yelling insults at each other, mixed with the occasional genuine piece of advice.

Stance. They’ve always gone on and on about having the proper stance.

I try to stand with my legs spread wide the way they did, but my gown is too tight, too constricting. Frustrated, I slice it open, creating a slit that allows me to move more freely. I need trousers or some such. I certainly cannot afford to trip over my frock when charging the dragon.

The mental image makes me smile bitterly.

Before I can even think of charging dragons, I need to be marginally competent with the blade.


***


I bring the sword down once more, breathing heavily. One hundred. Done at last.

I set the blade aside, beaming with pride even though I am shaking with fatigue. Every day for the last week I have trained, a hundred swings in the morning, and a hundred in the evening. My arms have become used to the weight.

Perhaps I might grow to be a warrior woman yet.

I’ve only ever met a handful, and I only remember one of them with perfect clarity. An archer. The Archer, as they called her in hushed voices. Her skill with the bow is unrivaled in the five kingdoms. It is said that she can shoot men in the eye at a hundred paces. I smile, remembering our first meeting.


***


“He’s the stupid one,” I growl, throwing the flower he’s gifted me into the dirt. My witless insult only serves to make me feel more foolish, so I grind my heel into the flower until it’s nothing but petals. Then I grind some more.

I hate the games at court. I hate the way the nobles can smile and give me double-edged compliments that cut deeper than any knife. I hate that I can’t deliver one back at them. I fumble with words, insults rising to my lips easily, but I cannot cloak the steel beneath pretty silk the way the other ladies can.

Father calls me honest, but at court that’s just another word for blunt and uncouth. More and more I heed mother’s advice and just keep my mouth shut whilst fluttering my eyelashes prettily. The right look at the right time can kill, she says. If that were true, I’d have murdered half the noblemen by now.

The twang of an arrow loosened from its bow wakes me from my dark reverie.

I blink, looking around. In my haste to get away I’ve somehow made my way to the training grounds. It’s almost entirely deserted except for the solitary archer who is now nocking his next arrow, taking aim.

He hits the target dead-center and lets out a soft laugh.

My eyes widen. A woman’s laugh.

“Child, has no one told you it’s dangerous to approach the archery grounds from that direction?” she calls to me. “You may end up with an arrow in your belly.”

Any other day I might have bristled at being called a child — I have seen 13 winters, I’m almost a woman grown! — but the woman archer is intriguing. I gather up my skirts and run up to her. “Are you Lady Fairfax?” I breathe, awed.

That makes her guffaw. “I am no lady, child.” She absently strums her bowstring. “I am a knight.”

“But you are the archer Fairfax?” I stubbornly insist.

“Perhaps.” Her eyes twinkle as she looks down at me with indulgence. She is tall, tall as any man, slender and fair. Up close I can see that she is not much older than I, only a few years. I had not realized she was so young. Her pretty red curls are tied into a braid. I get the mad urge to undo it, to see what it looks like when her hair flows over her shoulders.

“I’ve heard tales of you,” I say, wide-eyed. “Could you… could you hit the target again?”

She chuckles and with a fluid motion, she’s strung her bow, letting loose another arrow. It splits the original one in half. “I’ve heard tales of you, too, princess,” she says kindly. “You truly are as beautiful as they say.”

I cast my eyes down at that. Many men think me comely, but I do not see it. I am short, and my delicate body is far too curvy. Still, hearing it from her heats my cheeks. I shyly cast my gaze up at her. Hers is a beautiful body, so strong and lean and tall. A warrior’s body. Why could I not have that?

She cocks her head at my reaction and asks if I would like to know how to shoot an arrow. My face brightens and I nod eagerly.

We while away the rest of the afternoon with her teaching me the basics of archery. She leans in often, gently pushing and tugging to adjust my stance, and every time she does it, heat curls in my belly. I think it is jealousy at her beauty — true beauty — and it shames me.


***


I have an aversion to mirrors. I’ve grown tired of seeing myself as the pretty little doll the spell makes of me, my hair perfectly coiffed, my complexion fair and my dress so very fine. But I do look into the mirror now, slipping out of the silk and letting it fall to the floor.

My arms are thicker than they used to be and when I tense them, I can see muscles shifting beneath the skin. They remind me of the archer’s strong arms and it pleases me. Now if only I could have her height… I stand on my toes, and then fall back on my heels, chuckling softly. My voice cracks, scratchy and rough from disuse.

I tug at one of my locks and it bounces back into place right away. I sigh. My hair reaches well past my shoulders and gets in my eyes all the time during my training, obscuring my vision. It also catches and tangles on near every piece of furniture I pass. I’ve tried hacking it off, but it just grows back. It needs to be dealt with somehow.

After a moment’s hesitation, I run my fingers through the locks and start weaving them.

A warrior’s braid, the way my father’s men wear it.


***


I dream of the archer that night.

She has her arms wrapped around me, adjusting the way I hold the bow. I can feel her breath on my cheek.

“Why are you not married?” I hear myself ask, and all I can think of is the way her body presses against mine.

“Men dislike women who best them.”

“I don’t dislike you.”

Her soft musical laughter makes me shiver. “You are not a man.” That stings, and I do not know why. She must have noticed, for she kisses my brow. “But few women like me better, so do not think I do not value your friendship.”

“Are we friends?” I ask hopefully.

“I should like to think so, princess.”

I wake with a terrible ache between my legs, twisting and turning and panting. My hand slips lower of its own accord, to that part of me which I know I must save for my husband until my wedding night. But gods, it is begging to be touched and I cannot resist. Why should I? I may never have a husband at all.

I know the old ways; whatever knight manages to rescue me shall surely be given my hand in marriage. The thought of having one of those roll around atop of me is nauseating. If I manage to escape on my own, mayhap I can choose my suitor freely. Or choose none at all.

Or choose an archer.

I gasp, waves of pleasure crashing over me.


***


Forward slash. Sidestep. Adjust the angle, and let the blade whirl in an arc once more. Fall back to parry.

Parry?

I frown down at my hands, tightly gripping the sword hilt. I know that I must hold it just so, else it might get knocked out of my hand by a strong blow. How do I know that? I have never faced anyone in battle.

The runes’ white glow pulses and my breath leaves me.

I should be scared, knowing that there is magic at work, yet it does not bother me — I need to know these things. I welcome my new strength, my intuitive understanding of how to wield my claymore, the way it feels almost like an extension of myself.

I drop back into the basic Pflug stance, peering down at myself. Every morning I cut away the long sleeves of my dress and for the first time I notice the fine golden hairs covering my arms.


***


The dragon roars and the castle trembles.

I watch.

I learn.

I pay close attention to the way the dragon fights, the way it swipes and snaps and growls. The knight is clever — one of the few clever enough to leave his armor at home — and moves nimbly, evading the great beast with ease.

He does not press his advantage, though. He dodges and rolls and never attacks, until he grows tired and the dragon, which has been moving deceptively slow, suddenly lunges and swallows him whole.

There is nothing left for me to bury.

The dragon’s tail twitches, still agitated, and it swivels its great reptilian head back and forth until its terrible gaze falls on me. I raise my chin and smile grimly. A low growl reverberates through the castle but I do not flinch.

I will kill you.

Around the dragon’s long neck is a steel collar. There is no chain that I can see, but I think it binds the creature to this place. It’s as much a prisoner as I am. Perhaps that is what makes it so vicious.

I will kill you and free us both.


***


My dreams of the archer grow frequent.

For a princess to have such desires is depraved, I know. But my shame cannot touch me in the night, when I moan and squirm and wake up drenched in sweat. I open my eyes, breathing heavily, my rough, callused hand already buried between my thighs.

It’s… different. Something is different. The ache is stronger, more urgent, relentlessly driving me to my peak.

I close my eyes, groaning at my newfound sensitivity. Dimly I realize what I am becoming, what shape that thing between my fingers is beginning to resemble, but I cannot think about that now.

There is only need.


***


I throw my shoulder against the heavy door, but it refuses to budge. Debris blocks my path on the other side. The entire castle is veined with fissures and cracks in the ceiling, damaged beyond repair by the dragon’s wild rampages. I grit my teeth and push harder. With an agonizing creak the door starts moving, inch by inch, until the small boulder gives way and topples over.

I gasp, losing my balance, then straighten my back. I want to shout for joy but restrain myself — the dragon has begun staring at me with malice in its eyes. I’ve taken to avoiding its attention.

I carefully ease into the small opening I have created, pressing myself flat against the wall. It’s difficult; I am no longer as slight as I once was. The changes in my body both frighten and delight me. I realize now that once I escape I will not be able to go back to my old life. I don’t think I want to, anymore.

My mother always said that in chess, as in life, the Queen is the most powerful piece on the board. I believed her. Now I know that the Queen may have some measure of power, but in the end she is still just a piece to be moved and sacrificed to the whims of others.

Nothing makes a lesson more memorable than being traded as a political hostage.

I inhale sharply, somehow squeezing myself past the final stretch of narrow tunnel, the rocks scraping my already sore chest. Thank the gods my bosom is not nearly as ample as it used to be.

I twirl my sword, using its glowing runes as a sort of substitute torch. The uncanny light illuminates what looks to be a long abandoned wing, a thick layer of dust coating the cold stone floor and wide cracks running along the walls like a spider web. I ought not linger for long; this looks ready to cave in at a moment’s notice.

But then, no part of the castle has collapsed in the long years I have been trapped here. I suspect that magic is all that keeps this decrepit ruin together.

Nonetheless, I stride along the floors in a hurry, gazing around with interest. I am not certain what I hope to find — the armory, perhaps. Anything at all that might aid me in fighting the beast. Siege weapons would be nice.

I find a winding staircase and descend slowly, carefully testing each step. If I must die, I will die to the dragon, not to poorly maintained stairs.

I hiss in a sharp breath at the sight that greets me.

The treasury.

As a princess of the realm I have grown up in the lap of luxury — and yet, these riches take even my breath away. I lean down and pick up one of the many jeweled necklaces. Its rubies glitter in the pale light, and I half-fight the urge to put it on. It would look pretty.

I pause, glancing down at myself.

My chest is almost flat, stretching the old tunic I have found in one of the other forgotten corners of the castle. Where my body was once soft and pliant, it’s now hard and sinewy. My lips curve into a smirk. No, my days of wearing jewelry are over.

Still… I gaze at the necklace. It’s likely worth a lot. With a jolt of surprise I realize that I will need to rely on my own wealth from now on. I raise my head and turn slowly, taking in the rest of the gold-filled chamber.

It’s a start.


***


The ballista creaks loudly as I push it. I grunt with effort, praying to all the gods, known and unknown, that the noise does not wake the dragon. It’s stared at me long and hard today, licking its muzzle, and I know that whatever protection spell has kept me save so far is about to break. I wager it no longer recognizes me as the princess it is meant to guard.

My hands are shaking — I am not ready! I want to yell in frustration, rage at the injustice that has put me into this untenable situation, but I do not. Knights are supposed to be stoic in the face of certain death.

You’re not a knight, whispers a voice in my head. You’re not even a man. You’re just a scared little princess pretending to be stronger than she really is.

I give the siege engine one more push, and then sink to my knees beside it, breathing heavily and closing my eyes.

No.

I have worked too hard to give up now.

I raise my head, gazing at the tall spire looming ominously above. Curled around the tower’s peak lies the dragon, its scales shining like stars in the pale moonlight. I have studied its sleeping patterns, and it appears to be wholly diurnal; at night it grows slow and sluggish. Mayhap it drinks the sun’s rays to heat its fire. The night is past its zenith; it will never be weaker than it is now.

I run my hand over my mouth, stubble scraping my hand, and remind myself to have courage.

The chains I found in the dungeons rattle loudly as I securely attach them to the bolts, twice making sure that they will hold. Then I load the ballista with one of the projectiles, taking aim.

The first bolt pierces the tower wall, just below the slumbering beast. The chain it drags behind runs from the high tower to the pillar some distance behind me. I grit my teeth, and fire the next bolt. Another chain is pulled taut, crossing the first below.

The last bolt’s chain is far shorter than the others, wrapped around a small boulder to give it stability in flight. I take aim for the last time, hesitating for a long moment.

There is no turning back.

I fire.

The dragon screeches when the bolt pierces its wing, rearing up and flapping its wings. The chain grows taut, and the beat of the wing snaps back the boulder. It swings like a pendulum, wrapping itself around the beast’s torso, constricting tightly. Its claws dig deeply into the tower’s walls as it madly scrambles to keep its balance, but its thrashing tail catches on the two chains I’ve hung below, hopelessly entangling it.

It roars, enraged, and falls.

The heavy impact shakes the ground.

Its screams hurt my ears and I grab my sword, jumping over the nearby railing to run toward the fallen creature. The dragon lies crushed and trapped in chains at the base of the tower, feebly beating its wings. Part of the broken wall has pierced its leg, creating a horrific looking gash.

Fire lights up the night sky.

It’s turned its infernal breath against the chains, trying to free itself. The metal twists and bends, glowing bright red in the flame. The monster is far more intelligent than I anticipated. I run faster, desperate to reach it before…

The chains fall away with a sizzling hiss and the dragon draws itself up to its impressive height, towering over me. One of its wings is shattered, jutting out at an awkward angle. It slithers toward me with a pronounced limp. Leathery lips draw back in a snarl, revealing rows of sharp teeth longer than daggers

Just standing in its vicinity is like standing too close to a fire. The stench of sulfur chokes me.

A claw bears down on me and I roll to the side, my sword whirling. It rears back, roaring in pain. My claymore glows brighter than I’ve ever seen it, cutting through the diamond scales like they are nothing. I’ve seen lesser blades splinter on impact.

Weak spots. Eyes. Joints. Belly. I raise my chin, tightening my grip on the hilt. Neck.

It swipes at me and I evade once more. I carefully stay at a distance, just out of reach, while it growls and lashes out. I know this dance. I have seen it with the other knight. Most importantly, I know how it ends.

I slow down, my movements turning sluggish. The tip of my blade drags along the ground as if I could scarcely bear to hold its weight any longer. The dragon watches, eyes shining with that inhuman intelligence — and its maw lunges forward, as I knew it would.

I sidestep the attack and bring down the sword on the long neck with all my might. There’s a pitiful shriek and I slash again, putting all my weight behind the blow. Dark, thick blood gushes, pooling around my legs. The dragon twitches, once, twice, so I swing again, and again, until it stops moving.

Dead.

I drop the sword, and it clatters to the ground while I stumble back.

It’s dead.

I stare in wide eyed shock, barely believing what I’ve done.

I’m free.

A chuckle echoes through the courtyard, and it takes me a moment to realize that the low, deep laugh is my own.

I’m free.

All my life I’ve been on a path others told me I could not deviate from.

I’m free and I can choose any path I damn well please.

My lips slowly curve into a smile.

I should very much like to cross paths with a certain archer.