Vows

The palace's dungeon presented a stark contrast to the splendor above. Chilly, moist stone walls bordered the tight passageways, the air laden with the odors of rot and mildew. Flickering torches affixed to the walls provided the sole illumination, casting sinister shadows that flitted across the uneven floor. Soft clinks of chains resonated in the distance, their echoes contributing to the feeling of desolation. Each cell was a gloomy, forbidding hole, secured with corroded iron, where the echoes of past prisoners' screams seemed to be captured by the old stones. A diminutive rat scuttled over the frigid stone floor in the dungeon's faint light. Its small, bright eyes shone with cunning as it weaved through the shadows, its claws making a gentle clicking noise on the stone. The animal moved with adept swiftness, avoiding the clutter and rubbish strewn about the dungeon. It briefly stopped, its fur tainted with the pungent smell of mold and decay, sniffing the air for any sign of food or peril. In the heavy quiet, the rat's existence served as a subtle, unwelcome reminder of the dungeon's bleak and neglected nooks.

"What!" Lady Celia exclaimed sharply, panic lacing her voice as it reverberated against the dungeon's cold stone walls. Catching sight of the rats scurrying about, she instinctively recoiled, her elegant dress rustling in her hasty retreat. Her complexion turned ashen, and she clutched at her chest, trying to quell the wave of revulsion washing over her. The presence of the vile creatures in the dim light was overwhelming, sending a shiver of horror through her.

"Send that insolent one to the cage for three days, so she learns respect and behaves as the kulak she is," Lokai roared in anger, resolute in his decision to imprison Bluebell. In the dungeon's corner, a rusted iron cage stood ominously, its bars thick and unforgiving. Encrusted with years of grime and cobwebs, the metal bore the marks of neglect. An old, corroded lock dangled from the cage door, and inside, the floor was a grimy blend of dirt and discarded rags, bearing witness to the long-forgotten prisoners once held captive there. Chains hung from the ceiling, clinking gently as they moved with the faint stir of air. They were hefty and somber, secured to the walls by robust iron rings. These chains threw elongated, contorted shadows that appeared to squirm and throb in the dim, oscillating torchlight, contributing to the ominous aura that filled the dungeon.

"Tsk," Lord Edwin was the one who elicited the sound, drawing the cousins' attention to himself. "You have teleported us here for what you perceive as justice, which you yourself lack. Clearly, you are the one who should be sent to the dungeon for teleporting both the king and the queen to such a place. Have you lost your senses? She may be the homespun woman you deride, but she is far more than you." His says pointing at Bluebell before putting back his has on his pocket. His words were spoken with chilling calmness, his tone smooth and measured as he delivered the insult. Each word was intentional, cloaked in a veneer of polite restraint that sharpened the sting of his words. His gaze was steady, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing at the corners of his lips as he observed the effect of his words. The absence of visible anger only intensified his contempt, leaving no doubt about his disdain.

 As the scene unfolded before me, I held my breath, the air thick with tension. Abruptly, a flicker of movement caught my attention—a rat, charging in my direction. My heart missed a beat as the grimy vermin approached, its tiny eyes fixated on me. Instinctively, I retreated, my heartbeat accelerating, a wave of disgust washing over me. As panic started to set in, the king's firm grip gently enclosed my arm. Observing the fear in my eyes, his face somehow softened with affection or is it pity? Silently, he lifted me with ease into his arms, holding me in a princess carry. His hold was secure yet gentle, and as he cradled me, the fear that had seized me slowly dissipated, supplanted by the comfort and security of his proximity. As the king hoisted me into his embrace, I stole a quick glance at the onlookers. Bluebell's eyes grew wide with astonishment, her hand covering her mouth as she emitted a soft gasp, her expression a blend of worry and wonder. Lord Lokai arched an inquisitive eyebrow, his mouth set in a firm line. He observed the scene with a detached coolness, though a shadow of disapproval flickered across his face. In stark contrast, Lord Edwin, that I already know for his biting humor and mercurial moods, released a subdued, amused snort turning his full attention to us. His eyes sparkled with mischief, as though he found the whole affair more amusing than alarming. Lady Celia, on the other hand, appeared deeply disturbed. She drew back, her fingers tightening on her gown's fabric, attempting to conceal her discomfort. Her complexion was ashen, and she turned away her gaze, evidently disconcerted by the king's impromptu gesture of tenderness amid the recent turmoil. My pulse quickened as I found myself nestled in the king's sturdy embrace, the heat of his hold both soothing and intense. The gaze of the crowd upon us weighed heavily, igniting a deep flush across my cheeks.

"Please... I would like to be set down," I murmured, my voice a faint whisper. I shunned his gaze, my fingers anxiously twirling the fabric of my sleeve. The timidity in my voice was clear, and I felt a twinge of embarrassment for making the request, but the fervor of the moment was overwhelming. My only hope was that he would not be offended by my plea. Without looking at me, he says,

"There is no need for you to be on the ground. Stay relaxed and hold me tight; we do not want you falling," he whispered back, his words firm, commanding me not to ask any more questions. But I was too comfortable to feel at ease, and the gazes around me were not helping. Bluebell's palm still covered her mouth, her eyes wide, darting from me to the king and back to his hands on my waist, which only increased the heat on my face.

"But..." I try again. He turns, his hazel eyes suddenly flashing emerald. Before I can cover my mouth in shock, in the blink of an eye, we are in his study, and his eyes shift back to hazel.

"You can sit, Bluebell," he tells her, and with that, I became aware of her presence in the room, which I had previously ignored due to the king. What just happened? First, Lord Lokia did something, and suddenly we were in a dungeon, and then the king did the very same thing. These dreams are the longest I've ever had, but this feels so real, as if I'm awake. I don't even recall going back to my room after dinner, or did I pass out again? What is happening to me? Is it the palace ghost haunting me, or am I possessed? I thought, my eyes widening at the realization that those witches might have sensed my interest in them and sent someone to take over my soul. As if hearing my wild thoughts, the king let out a scoff of a laugh and walked with me to his chair shaking his head. He doesn't even know what that laugh just provoked in me.

"I can sit on one of the chairs, Your Majesty," I exclaim, but he seems not to listen as he attempts to drag his chair. Suddenly, Bluebell appears out of nowhere and drags it for him. As we wait to sit, she sends a wink my way and whispers "good job," giving me a thumbs up. Once we are seated, she dashes back to her seat, barely containing her excitement—a stark contrast to what I assumed was mutual disdain between them.

"How can we begin this without any damage?" The king broke the silence, diverting Bluebell's gaze from me to himself. Despite this, she still let out the tiny squeal that came every time she looked at us. After a moment of excitement, she met the king's serene gaze, pulled out a paper and a quill, and nudged the ink closer to her.

"You ask, and I try to write it in ink as best I could to inform you, my king. If the pain surges, I will not answer, and if the pain is bearable, I will continue," she says, now gazing at me with all seriousness. "But for my lady, I can sacrifice my life just to give her what belongs to her, and it doesn't matter if I leave this earth," she declares, and I can't help but feel that what she is about to say will not be easy. "You do not need to concern yourself with me, my lady, for I am not dead yet."

"Bluebell!" My voice was just audible enough to capture the king's attention, prompting a raised eyebrow as his grip on me tightened. In his strong hands, I felt as insubstantial as a weightless towel. "You can't speak of such things; if it's that dangerous, then silence is best. Remember, I have lived my entire life without it and..."

"But you weren't a queen back then, my lady," she retorts, starting from the truth that indeed I wasn't, but her life is still something I can't trade for anything. "Saltanat," she calls out to the king, who is surprised at the mention of my name but recovers quickly. "I will not die; the king is just going to ask me questions, and that will be it. Relax in those strong arms and let us begin."

"But you said it would hurt you; how could you..."

"Saltanat, I was jesting, and to tell you the truth, I don't really know the consequences of what I'm about to convey here. But just know, it's for our own good—yours and mine, but mostly yours. After this, perhaps the king could assist you," she said, her voice trembling with the weight of regret. The words left a bitter taste in my ears and somehow tongue, reminiscent of the aftermath of an irrevocable bad decision. I could sense the guilt gnawing at her, a relentless ache that refused to subside.

"I promise to help you both with this matter. I sensed something was amiss initially, but I assumed it was merely concealing magic. Now, with what I've come to understand, it appears far more complex than I had imagined. We owe a debt of gratitude to those fools of cousins, for bringing this to my attention. So, let's begin." These were the most words the king had ever spoken since our wedding day. I was astounded, his voice still resonating in my mind, as if each word had etched a trail through the usual silence between us. It was as though I was listening to a stranger, yet it was him—my husband, the man who had seldom spoken more than a few words to me throughout our union.

"Call them, my king," Bluebell urged. I released a weary sigh and leaned back against the king's chest, the strength I had been holding onto in an attempt to convince them to cease finally ebbing away. Defeat draped over me like a heavy blanket, stifling the remnants of my resistance. His warmth offered the sole comfort in that moment, a poignant reminder of all that was unchangeable. I sensed his steady heartbeat against my back, a persistent rhythm contrasting with the chaos within me. I had no fight left. He pulls me closer, and my hand accidentally lands on his chest. He emits a sound that causes me to gaze at him through my lashes. Sensing my stare, he looks down at me with a raised eyebrow. I shake my head, dismissing the moment, but our interaction is interrupted by Bluebell's cough and her dramatic exclamation.

"We just spoke about my possible demise, but I foresee that people will easily forget me once I'm gone, poor bluebell," she declares dramatically, placing her hand over her forehead and shaking it vehemently from side to side. "The bluebell flower is a delicate, bell-shaped bloom that often symbolizes humility, gratitude, and everlasting love across various cultures. The flower's association with humility might resonate with a character who is modest or understated, while its connection to everlasting love..." She sighs, dips the quill into the ink, and draws a heart on the paper with another exasperated sigh. "I was destined to have you meet the king, your true love," she speaks as if reciting a poem, while the king listens to her as if he could understand her pain. "And now, I will have to depart after my mission is complete," she concludes, slumping back in her chair and feigning tears.

"Bluebell!" I call out, shifting on my newfound seat. He groans at the sudden movement, making me stay put, afraid that I was causing harm. I retract back cautiously.

"Miss Bluebell, can we?" he asks, and Bluebell nods in response.

"Oh yes, my king, you may call me Bluebell, but that doesn't mean you have gained my trust, Your Majesty. We are merely assisting the lady, not becoming friends. I cannot forget what you did to her during our travels; it was heart-wrenching," she whispered fiercely with a pout. To her surprise, the king smiled at her words, then pulled her closer to him, reclining in his seat, placing her legs on the armrest, and drawing her gown up to her ankles.

"Regarding that particular event, Bluebell, I must ask for your forgiveness. There were reports of numerous rogues in the area, and I couldn't jeopardize her safety. However, my error was confining her for protection without first considering her fears," he explained, drawing me closer. His hand traced invisible patterns on my ankles, sending shivers through me. The electric sensation was undeniable, compelling me to emit a sound inadvertently. Thankfully, Bluebell didn't notice, but the king, with his keen eyes, did. Raising my head, I met his gaze. Overcome with shyness, I buried my face in his chest, which Bluebell seemed to approve of.

"Oh," she exclaimed, her face alight with pure joy, her eyes sparkling like the morning sun reflecting off dew-covered flowers. Her smile, wide and radiant, seemed to illuminate the entire room. Her happiness was the infectious kind, emanating from deep within and spreading warmth to even causing the king to crack a smile as I glanced his way. "Okay, my king is forgiving, but that will be a tale for another time. If you wish, I can share more about my lady," she said, her lips twisted into a mischievous grin, her eyes gleaming with playful mischief. With a swift, playful wink, she infused the moment with a sense of whimsy.

"That will greatly be of help, Bluebell," he replies, his voice dancing with amusement. "..."

"Oh, we can start now, my king," Bluebell utters with a heavy sigh, a bead of sweat rolling down her brow in anticipation of the first question. I do not understand why they keep pushing further. I can take everything, but her sudden disappearance in the name of helping me is something I would rather do without...

"What is the reason you cannot speak of yourself and Sultanat Ignis?" he begins, and Bluebell seems to have anticipated the question as she quickly inks the paper and holds it up. "O.R.L.E," the king reads, his face a mix of confusion and intrigue as he examines the scrambled sheet. "Lore?" he asks, and she nods with her eyes closed. "You made a vow to the Lore?" he continues, and she nods again. "Interesting," he exclaims, taking another sheet of paper with a quill and ink to write on it.

"I can sit on the couch so you can write without any obstacles," I tell him. I know he finds it difficult to write with me on top of him, and I wonder why he's even carrying me when I can walk, speak, and breath on my own. I make an attempt to stand but his hold on me grows not leaving and when I try to resist.

"No," both he and Bluebell uttered in unison, startling me. They answered together, their voices overlapping with an almost eerie synchronicity. It was as if the same thought had struck them simultaneously, compelling the words from their mouths without hesitation. The room fell silent, taken aback by the unexpected harmony of their response. Their eyes met, a flicker of surprise reflected in both, yet neither acknowledged it openly. The shared answer carried a weight, an unspoken connection that seemed to puzzle me, including themselves. For a fleeting moment, I think I saw a flicker of amusement in the king eyes and bluebell turn her face away from us and I saw he face shaking. I know she is laughing but why?

"I don't have such a thing, and you're not that heavy. You also need to listen to what she's saying since it concerns you as well."

"But I can sit..."

"Stop complaining and let us work in peace. We need to finish this as quickly as possible, so do as I say and relax," she scolded with mock sternness, wagging her finger at me. A playful smile tugged at her lips as she chided, her tone light and laced with amusement. Though her words were meant to scold, the twinkle in her eyes and the soft laughter in her voice made it clear she was more entertained than upset. "Let's move forward, my king, and hold her tight; we don't want her to escape," she teases, and the king nods in agreement with her words.

"Was the person responsible for the vow someone close to you and Saltanat?" he continues with the interrogation, and Bluebell returns to her paper to scrawl a 'YES.' He nods in agreement but doesn't write anything himself. Yet, there's this burning question at the back of my mind, fighting to be set free, and I eventually ask,

"What is a vow?" I uttered, my voice trembling, just above a whisper, each syllable laced with timidity and apprehension. Speaking felt like an act of bravery; the sound so delicate it appeared to dissolve before it could reach another's ears. As I spoke, my heart pounded, silently pleading that my words would suffice. Bluebell looks at the king, who smiles and answers.