Flying Too Close

 A bandage covered Minta's mouth, another was wrapped around her neck. She wore her thick cloak and white pants with the same color puffy shirt. Behind her Constance's ever moving hands fumbled with Minta's shirt, the reigns, anything within reach as they made their way to the market. The thief had stolen piles of gold, and thus Minta was determined to feed Constance something other than meat.

 Constance wore a yellow sundress with a matching hat. Her makeup was bright. The perfume she wore lead Minta into a trance. It was sweet, flowery, and just light enough to captivate her while tempting her to breathe Constance in, filling her lungs until they burst.

 Behind them the witch followed closely. They had to keep at a slow pace as she had yet to buy a horse. She wore a white dress that she hated but it matched her vale and choker.

 "We need an escape plan," She whispered.

 "Shopping. Not assassining. Calm."

 "That's not a word."

 "Is now."

 "Is not."

 "Is."

 "Not."

 "Is."

 "Not."

 "No treat now."

 "Is."

 "Yes!"

 Constance moved closer. Minta took her friend's hand in her own.

 Entering the city they could see the market just beyond the bridge. Beyond that, past the diamond sector, was where the castle stood tall and proud as it reached to touch the sky. It was said that at nights spirits came to clutch the bars of the gate and weep. Some saw a headless king holding the hand of his queen, wandering the garden their daughter adored. The nights their daughter came to them the citizens would look out their window and watch as she danced under the stars, tears falling from her eyes even as she smiled.

 Minta hopped off of Thunder. She tied him to a post and together her and Constance made their way through the marketplace. They bided their time window shopping as the witch picked out a horse. Once she tied a white mare to the post beside Thunder she joined them. Minta watched as Constance's grin grew. She glowed as she picked out fruits and vegetables from the first stall. She filled two sacks with fruit, vegetables, and baked goods before giving them to the witch to bring home.

 The two walked about the city, picking out candies and trinkets here and there. They stopped in a tavern eventually to rest their feet. The large building smelled of smoke and booze. It was mostly vacant aside from one drunk man sleeping at the bar. They sat down to the opposite end of the light wooden counter to him. Constance ordered a screwdriver with cherry juice and Minta a water with lime. Constance took a long drink, her fingers leaving prints in the icy glass.

 "Thank you for bringing me today."

 "Course."

 Minta pulled a cigarette from her cloak and lit it. The thick cloud pooled against the ceiling, spreading across the stained wood. The tavern felt like a furnace. She downed her water in one long gulp, freezing her throat.

 "Your friendship means a lot to me."

 "Too."

 Constance finished her drink and ordered another before she turned to Minta, "Did you grow up here?"

 "Yes."

 "What was that like?"

 "Bad."

 "You're quite the storyteller," Constance remarked as she sipped her screwdriver.

 "Already drunk."

 "No," Constance dragged the word out, swiping at the air.

 Minta turned on her stool and leaned on the counter. She watched as Constance drank. She brought her cigarette to her lips and blew the smoke toward the floor. It formed curls as it spread past the tables. She watched the smoke dance throughout the room as she thought.

 "Mom widow. Brother, Jack. Mom died. Lost Jack."

 "I'm sorry."

 "It's okay."

 "When did you lose him?"

 Minta turned to her. She tapped twice the base of her throat and Constance nodded in understanding.

 "He's probably in an orphanage."

 "Yes."

 "Maybe I can adopt him?"

 "Single woman. No job. But thank you."

 "I wish I could help you."

 "Do."

 "Not as much as I'd like."

 Minta squeezed Constance's knee. She raised her head to meet Constance's pained gaze.

 "Be here. That's all."

 Constance covered Minta's hand with her own. She finished off her drink and together they walked back out to the town. They were making their way toward Thunder when they stopped in their tracks upon sight of the king's carriage rolling through town. They knelt like all the others, unable to do so without sharing a look of disdain, but they knelt nonetheless.

 Minta raised her head upon the sound of a shriek. The women stood, Minta taking her stance before Constance, drawing her dagger without hesitation.

 "Fucking bastard!" A malnourished man with a long white beard screamed as he drew his sword and sliced the throat of one of the kings guards, "You killed my wife you son of a whore!"

 The man in his hysteria cut down guard after guard that rushed him, collecting slashes and stabs that only fueled his hatred that kept him alive, holding Minta in awe. One guard looked to have been sneaking up behind him. She pretended to shield her face from the sight as she manipulated a body to trip the guard and knock him out on the cobblestone.

 The king exited the carriage. He was a thick, wide set man with a receding hairline and countless wrinkles. He walked around the carriage, making a strange hand sign as he did, a pleased smile twisting his face. Before he could face the man the two of the guards remaining rushed him and held his arms in place. His chest, slick with sweat, heaved. His face burned bright red, his mouth holding a snarl.

 Minta could feel the power she had over the dead. It ached in her fingertips. Still the delicate hands placed on her shoulder and waist warned her of the carnage that would ensue upon his assassination. They would know it was necromancy that killed him. Any survivor would have to slice away their face.

 "Everyone stay where you are!" The king's guttural voice boomed through the market, "Do not avert your gaze, for if you do, I will consider it a surrender of your eyes."

 He came close to the man and Minta racked her brain for anything that could be done.

 "Four guards," The king commented as though scolding a child, "You killed four guards. If they died to you I must have a word with their commander. Now, what is your pathetic issue?"

 "Pathetic issue? You killed-"

 A loud slap boomed through the air, the man's head whipping to the side.

 "Let this be understood; each action I take is for my people. It is impossible to wear a crown that is unstained. I am a king because I have no fear of dirtying my hands. You should be thankful that I take this responsibility so you may sit in your home and worship your own sanctimony."

 Minta placed her hand on the back of Constance's head and held her close, never taking her eyes off the scene. She watched as the king brought the man to the bridge. The man's heart sung a ballad of longing as stones were fastened to his ankles as onlookers watched helplessly. They drew out the act for as long as they could.

 Minta took the time to listen to the man's song. He was once a noble. It wasn't long ago he stood among the privileged but he had looked to be twenty years younger. He was a fat man with laugh lines that sunk down to his bones. Seeing him so happy made Minta's heart grow heavy.

 The man and his wife shared drinks with the king. It was a privilege like no other, or so it had seemed, for the longer they drank the more the king's eyes grew hungry. Above the fireplace stood a portrait of the former queen. She looked just like her daughter, just like the man's wife.

 The dead queen's daughter sat at the feet of the king. She was in her late teens. Her eyes never left her mother except to periodically hold the gaze of the man, her expression forceful as her eyes flicked to the door. A black cloud surrounded her. He wished to speak with her but every time the king caught him simply looking at the child his eyes turned murderous

 The man's wife, Odette, laid down her drink before she slumped into the couch, her head lulling back, her mouth slack.

 "I should take her home," The man stated as he stood, "Thank you for having us. It has been an honor."

The king snapped his fingers and a guard walked forward to lift Odette, "She will stay."

 "May I ask why, your highness?"

 His expression darkened. He stood, "Come."

 They walked past the man hall and down a long set of stairs, past the barracks, past the dungeon, to a wide room where three more guards were waiting.

 The brick room held no windows but was alight from sconces that lined the walls above each wooden coffin. Odette was laid on a wooden table surrounded by candles. When the king began to remove her dress the man was tightly held by two guards, a third coming forth to hold his blade to the man's throat.

 "Please. I beg of you. Kill me if you wish. Torture me. Don't harm her. I beg."

 "She is being given an honor."

 The the former princess sat beside a coffin at the furthest wall. she hugged her knees to her chest, her head resting against the wood. Atop the coffin sat a crown and a rose.

 The king raised his dagger and plunged it into Odette's heart. The man bellowed, emptying his lungs and straining his heart, cutting his throat against the sword. He struggled to free himself but he was never a man of physical strength. His strength had come from Odette, the noble woman who had taken the heart of a street rat and saw within him something invisible to all others. Now he was nothing as she had been his heart, his mind, his bones, and his flesh.

 He watched as the king's tongue slithered out to lick the blade. His fingers dipped into Odette's chest, touching her stagnant heart. He held his hand over her face. Blood dripped from his fingers to pool in her eyes, he roamed his hand over her body, covering it in droplets of ruby that shone under the light of the flames.

 The man's knees gave out. Breathlessly tears poured from his eyes to pool onto the floor and his chest burned. He was unsure if it was insanity or the will of a love so strong it overpowered her grave but he felt her palm cup his cheek. He felt cold lips against his.

 "Live for me, for our daughter, my love. He can't take me from you. You will never be alone."

 He hadn't believed in love until she had debased herself to look onto him. He hadn't believed in the Gods until his unworthy hand felt his daughter wriggle inside his wife's stomach. He hadn't smiled until his lips curved as they spoke the name, Odette. By her behest he feigned acceptance and left the castle. He entered a home that had grown cold and looked onto his daughter who spoke that beautiful name and he fell to his knees before her and he sobbed until his body gave out. 

 Minta stared at the child before the scene faded from her. She knew the girl that rushed to her father, she knew her song.

 The king simply waved his hand as he turned. The guards threw the man into the river, a loud splash rising from the watery grave as the townspeople gasped, covering their mouths to hush themselves.

 "I came into power when this land was ravaged by famine. I have given life to this land. I have given life to you and here you stand, watching in horror, ungrateful, and pathetic. If anyone has any stipulations you may speak to a guard, clearly they need practice."

 The king entered the carriage. The former princess looked out the window, her gaze resting on Minta, hollow yet knowing. The remaining guards rode off with him. Silence permeated the space. Minta watched as guards lifted their fallen brothers and walked off.

 Still holding Constance Minta listened to the king's song, the war drums that raged above the mourning wails.

 She watched the king storm the castle with his men. His uniform was drenched in blood and gore. He could taste iron. It tasted of power, of victory. The king stood against the soon to be former crown. Their swords clashed, their teeth grinded as they fought. After beheading the former king he grabbed the severed head and raised it into the air for all to see. The guards cheered, their battle cries vibrating through the room.

 The king relaxed in the bathhouse as his servants cleaned the castle. He stretched out, the hot water clouding his mind. Suddenly a servant knocked on the door and the king beckoned them inside.

 The servant lead a young girl by the arm. She was small with wide, horrified eyes. Her expanded pupils were ever moving as she was taken to the king. On wobbling knees they stood before the bath.

 "The king's daughter. What will you have done with her?"

 "Begone, but leave her," He waved his hand in dismissal.

 When the servant left the girl fell to her knees in exhaustion. She bowed her head and held her hands together in prayer. The king watched as her lips moved without sound. When she finished she regained the ability to breathe steadily.

"Sit with me," The king demanded as he motioned to the bench beside the door.

 She tentatively brought herself to her feet and sat on the bench. She crossed her legs and held her hands together on her lap, her muscles wound tight.

 "Sit straight."

 The child straightened her back as commanded.

 "Your skills."

 "I-I can cook. I'm a good seamstress. I play the harp, flute, and the lyre. I speak four languages."

 "Your name."

 "Viola."

 "No longer. You will have no need of a name, for you will answer only to me, and you will know when I address you."

 Viola deflated. The king's face hardened. He could see the wisdom that would fester into a burden within her. Somehow, despite her former life of lavish she understood that she was to be seen. She would no longer be a princess but a statement.

 "Many of your former subjects would rejoice in taking your place. You will not attempt to draw pity from me."

 "I would not think you capable of such a thing."

 He chuckled, wearing a side smile. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back. 

 "Why me?"

 "Do not question me."

 "May I ask where my mother is?"

 "She is with your father."

 Silence followed his dry tone before it was replaced by smothered whimpers. The king opened his eyes to look at the girl as she covered her face and sobbed. He watched her cry. Her trembling overtook her and suddenly she was gasping for air.

 He stood and walked to the towels to dry himself. He pulled on clean clothes before he walked to the girl, towering over her. Her red face twisted as she tried to steady her breathing, only for his hand to find its place on the back of her neck, his fingers working against her pressure points. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head and she crumpled. The king gathered her into his arms and took her to his chambers where he laid her down at the foot of his bed. Staring at her brought forth a feeling so alien to him that he questioned reality.