The Hollow Crown

[AMAL POV]

I started talking to myself, long rambling conversations with the woman I used to be. I would sit by the window and explain to her how naive she had been, how foolish to believe in love, how stupid to think that kindness meant anything more than expedience.

"You thought you knew sorrow," I would tell her reflection in the glass, my voice a raspy whisper that barely sounded human anymore. "You thought losing one child was the depth of despair. But you were blessed then. Blessed! You had his love, his attention, his gentle words. You were cherished, protected, valued. And you threw it all away for what? For some woman's poison whispered in your ear? For jealousy over a mistress who probably meant nothing to him?"

The reflection never answered, but I could see the accusation in those hollow eyes. This was my fault. All of it. I had been the one to climb onto that horse, to make the choice that destroyed everything. I had been the one to listen to the bitter words of women who saw my happiness and couldn't bear it.

Before, I had thought I understood suffering. I had believed that losing my child was the worst pain imaginable. How blind I had been! How utterly, laughably blind! That grief had been pure, clean, shared. Idris had held me then, mourned with me, loved me through the darkness. I had been surrounded by sympathy, by gentle hands and kind words.

Now I understood what true suffering was. It was not the sharp, clean break of tragedy—it was the slow, grinding erosion of everything that made life worth living. It was being dead while still breathing, being hungry while well-fed, being alone while never truly alone.

The days blurred together in a haze of routine and despair. Wake, eat, submit to his nightly visits, sleep, repeat. The only variation was the slow passage of time, marked by the changing light through my windows and the gradual return of strength to my body—strength that was not mine, but belonged to the kingdom, to the future heir I would produce.

But my mind... my mind was fragmenting, splitting into pieces that no longer fit together properly. I would find myself in the middle of conversations I didn't remember starting, or wake up on the floor with no memory of how I got there. Sometimes I would catch myself laughing at nothing, or weeping over memories that might not even be real.

Mira tried to help, bringing me books and small luxuries, attempting to engage me in conversation. But I could see the fear in her eyes, the way she watched me like I might explode at any moment. The way she would glance toward the door, calculating her escape route.

"Your Highness," she said one afternoon, her voice carefully neutral, "perhaps you might enjoy some embroidery? It might help pass the time."

"Yes," I said, my voice flat and lifeless as still water. "Embroidery would be... nice."

"These are your chambers, Your Highness. Your home."

"Yes." I stared at the wall, not really seeing it. "My home."

She seemed encouraged by my compliance, pressing on. "You're still the Princess. Still—"

"Yes," I interrupted softly, still not looking at her. "Still the Princess."

I could feel her studying my face, searching for some spark of the woman I used to be. But there was nothing there anymore, just hollow agreement and the mechanical responses of someone who had learned that resistance was pointless. She shifted uncomfortably, perhaps unsettled by my empty acquiescence more than she would have been by anger or tears.

Time became elastic, meaningless. Days might have been weeks, weeks might have been hours. The only constant was the nightly ritual, the mechanical coupling that was slowly, methodically, rebuilding what I had destroyed.

I began to feel the changes in my body—the familiar nausea, the tender breasts, the strange metallic taste in my mouth. But this time, there was no joy, no wonder, no dreams of the future. There was only the cold satisfaction of a job being done correctly, and the terrible irony that my body could create life while my spirit lay in ruins.

When I finally told him, two months after he had begun his campaign, his reaction was as controlled as everything else about him now.

"Good," he said, straightening his robes. "This time, you'll do it right."

"Yes, Your Highness" I whispered, my eyes fixed on the floor. "I will."

He paused at the door, perhaps expecting more—some sign of the woman who used to challenge him, who used to have opinions and desires. But I had nothing left to give except compliance.

I placed my hand on my still-flat belly, feeling the life that was beginning to grow there, and wondered if this child would be luckier than his predecessor.

Or if he would simply be another casualty in the war between what I was and what I was supposed to be.

Outside my window, the palace carried on its daily routines, oblivious to the broken woman in the tower room. The kingdom needed an heir, and I would provide one. It was, after all, the only thing I was good for.

The only thing I had ever been good for.

The Hollow Crown

The months passed like stones dropping into still water—each day sinking without a ripple into the next. My body swelled as nature intended, accommodating the life growing within me with mechanical precision. The physicians proclaimed me healthy, robust, a perfect vessel for the kingdom's future. They spoke of me as if I weren't in the room, and I preferred it that way.

Idris visited less frequently now that his seed had taken root. When he did come, it was to inspect rather than to use—checking my progress like a farmer examining his prize livestock. He would place his hand on my rounded belly, feeling for movement, his touch clinical and detached. I would stand perfectly still, staring at a point on the wall behind his shoulder, waiting for the examination to end.

"The child is strong," he would say, more to himself than to me. "Good."

"Yes," I would reply, because that was what was expected. "Good."

He never asked how I felt. Never inquired about my dreams or fears or hopes for the child. And I was grateful for that, because I had no answers to give. I felt nothing. Nothing at all.

The woman who had once loved him—desperately, foolishly, completely—was as dead as the child I had lost. In her place was something else, something that breathed and ate and grew heavy with child but felt nothing more substantial than shadow. Sometimes I would catch glimpses of that former woman in reflections, superimposed over my current form like a ghost photograph. She would look at me with such pity, such disappointment, that I would turn away.

The servants had grown accustomed to my silence, my compliance. They dressed me in increasingly elaborate gowns to accommodate my changing shape, arranged my hair in styles befitting a pregnant princess, applied rouge to my hollow cheeks to simulate the glow of motherhood. I was a doll in their hands, allowing them to position me as they wished.

"Your Highness looks radiant today," they would say, and I would nod.

"The Prince will be pleased to see you so well," they would add, and I would nod again.

But when Idris looked at me, I saw something in his eyes that might have been regret. Or perhaps it was simply the disappointment of a man who had broken his favorite toy and found that all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put it back together again.

The irony wasn't lost on me. He had everything he wanted now—a compliant wife, a growing heir, a kingdom that ran smoothly without my interference. Yet sometimes I would catch him studying me with a frown, as if he were trying to solve a puzzle he didn't remember creating.

During one of his visits, as autumn painted the world beyond my windows in shades of gold and crimson, he lingered longer than usual. I stood in my customary position by the window, my hands folded over my swollen belly, watching the leaves fall like tears.

"You're very quiet these days," he said.

"Yes."

"Are you... content?"

The question hung in the air like incense, heavy and cloying. Content. What a strange word to use. I turned it over in my mind, examining it from different angles like a jeweler appraising a stone.

"Yes," I said finally, because it was easier than the truth. The truth was that contentment required feeling, and I had none left to spare.

He moved closer, close enough that I could smell his familiar scent—leather and sandalwood and the faint metallic tang of authority. Once, that smell had made my heart race. Now it was simply another sensation to catalog and dismiss.

"I know this has been... difficult," he said, his voice carefully measured. "But you're doing well. The physicians say the child is healthy, strong. You've done everything right this time."

This time. As if my previous pregnancy had been a performance I'd botched, a role I'd played poorly. Perhaps that was exactly what it had been.

"Yes," I agreed. "Everything right."

He reached out as if to touch my face, then seemed to think better of it. His hand dropped to his side, fingers curling into a fist. "After the child is born, things will be... different. Better."

"Yes."

"You'll have your place back. Your position. The respect you deserve."

I almost laughed at that. Respect. Another word that had lost all meaning. What was respect to a woman who had been reduced to her biological functions? What was position to someone who had forgotten what it meant to want anything at all?

"Yes," I said, because that was what he needed to hear.

He stood there for a long moment, perhaps waiting for something more. A smile, a thank you, some spark of the woman who had once hung on his every word. But I had nothing more to give. The well was dry, the coffers empty.

Finally, he turned to leave. At the door, he paused. "Amal?"

I looked at him, noting the way the afternoon light caught the silver threads in his dark hair, the new lines around his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights. He was still handsome, still commanding, still every inch the prince I had once adored. And I felt nothing. Nothing at all.

"Do you..." he started, then stopped. Shook his head. "Never mind. Rest well."

"Yes."

The door closed behind him with a soft click, and I turned back to the window. The leaves continued their endless dance, spiraling down to join their fallen brethren on the ground below. In the distance, I could see the gardens where I had once walked with such joy, the paths where I had once imagined teaching my children to ride, to laugh, to love.

That woman had been a fool, but at least she had been alive. At least she had felt something, even if it was pain.

I placed my hand on my belly, feeling the child move within me. He was strong, as Idris had said. Strong and healthy and utterly innocent of the circumstances that had brought him into being. He would be born into a world where his mother was a ghost, his father a stranger, and love was just another word for duty.

Perhaps that was for the best. Perhaps feelings were a luxury that royalty couldn't afford.

The sun set behind the mountains, painting the sky in shades of blood and gold. Soon, Mira would come to help me prepare for bed. She would brush my hair and help me into my nightgown and speak of pleasant, meaningless things. I would nod and agree and smile when appropriate, playing the part of the recovering princess with the skill of a seasoned actress.

And tomorrow would be exactly the same as today, and the day after that, and the day after that, until the child was born and I could finally fulfill my purpose.

In the growing darkness, I felt the baby kick—a strong, insistent movement that spoke of life and possibility and all the things I could no longer remember how to feel. I pressed my hand against the spot, trying to summon some maternal instinct, some flicker of anticipation or love or even curiosity about the person growing inside me.

But there was nothing.

Nothing at all.

And somehow, that felt exactly right.

The water had long since turned cold, but I remained in the marble bath, my swollen body submerged in what had once been warmth. The servants had filled it for me hours ago—or perhaps it had been minutes. Time moved strangely in this place between sleeping and waking, between existing and not existing.

My fingers had pruned into pale, wrinkled things that looked like they belonged to someone else. Someone old and forgotten. The water lapped gently against my rounded belly with each shallow breath, a rhythm as meaningless as everything else in my world.

I stared at the ceiling, counting the painted cherubs that danced across the frescoed dome. One, two, three... their rosy cheeks and golden wings blurred together into a mockery of innocence. They had been there when I was happy, when I was whole, when I believed in love and joy and all the sweet lies that made life bearable.

Now they were simply shapes. Meaningless decorations in a meaningless room.

The knock came like thunder in the silence.

"Amal?" Idris's voice, muffled by the thick wooden door. "Are you well?"

I should answer. I knew I should answer. But the words felt too heavy, too complicated. Instead, I continued my count. Four, five, six...

"Amal!" More insistent now, edged with something that might have been concern. "I've been waiting for over an hour. What are you doing in there?"

The door handle rattled. Locked, of course. Even in my emptiness, I had retained enough instinct to preserve what little privacy remained to me.

"I'm coming in," he said, and I heard the scrape of a key in the lock.

The door swung open with a creak that seemed to echo through eternity. His footsteps were sharp against the marble floor, quick and purposeful until they stopped abruptly.

"Oh Allah," he breathed.