Sleeping Princess On the Hill

"They say she is the fairest in the land," the prince says as James grabs the last of the ropes and his hammer to ensure the tent will not collapse in the night. The prince lounges against a tree, worn map bent over his knees, the yellowed parchment crinkling and tearing at the ancient fold lines.

"Of course, sire. But do keep in mind they say that about every princess and every maid covered in ashes."

The prince is not listening, trailing his fingers over their route through the mountains to the castle of yet another cursed lady. James did not expect a different reaction; a servant's job is to become used to being ignored. He straightens the spike, balances it between two stones, and swings the heavy hammer down. He misses, and slams into the rocks, chipping one and cracking the other straight in half.

"They say her hair is spun of shimmering gold and her eyes sparkle like the sea under the setting sun, set with stars," the prince murmurs, tilting his head back. Green shadows trickle through the leaves overhead and splay themselves across his face. James brushes aside a curtain of dying, long grass and finds a stone big enough to do the job. "They say she has a melodic voice that brought Word herself to tears, and her tinkling laughter could topple empires."

James adjusts the spike again and slams the hammer into it. The spike and rope sink into the dry ground. "Sire, your tent is ready."

The prince looks at him, his expression vague, eyes almost cloudy. His gaze drifts down to the map, then back up, and suddenly his face clears. "Ah. Thank you, James. I shall take a brief rest while you prepare our meal for the night."

James' arms ache from hauling supplies and setting up camp, his legs are sore from days upon days of riding to a country haunted by the ghost of a princess lost to a deep sleep. He bows, touches a weary hand to his forehead. "Of course, your majesty," and pulls the tent flap aside to allow the prince inside the tent.

...

They encounter the first people of the land of the sleeping princess the day after. Peasants, for no one but the very poor and downtrodden would live at the edge of such a thick wood, inhabited with cruel red eyes and shadows that might or might not have claws. The rough hut perches on a hill in a meadow where the trees have thinned and the things that go thump in the night have become less and less common.

James approaches the graying woman with a kerchief wound around her explosion of frizzy, dirty brown curls who is beating a tattered rug hung over the door to beg a refill of their water skeines. The prince stays well away, peering at the hut like he cannot believe someone would consent to live in such a hovel.

"Prince and his manservant?" the woman asks, leaning against her stick. Clouds of dust drift off the abused fabric, coating the ground. James nods, tense and terse.

"We are here to rescue the princess," he says.

The woman's haggard face and jaded eyes suddenly relax, smooth. James is almost alarmed with the rapidity as the years drip off, melting to the floor like the dust from the beaten rug. Her eyes almost seem to see into a place James cannot, and her voice is dreamy as she says, "Ah, the lovely princess. The sleeping princess on the hill. So sad, yet so fair…" she trails off, sighs longingly. "She is the life and love of this land."

James opens his mouth to say something, then his gaze drops back to the water skeins. He swallows, and clears his throat. "Yes, which is lovely and why we are attempting to save her. May we have some water, please?"

The woman takes the skeins from him. She has not blinked in the long moments since James first mentioned their mission, and her eyes are foggy and almost gray. She leads him into the house, past a little girl with ratty braids who is mending a shirt by the crackling fire, a skinny baby scrambling around between her legs. The little girl glances up as James ducks his head and steps into the dingy, gloomy room. Her eyes are brown and very solemn as she studies him.

"He's here for the princess, our lovely sleeping princess on the hill," the woman tells the girl, and the girl's face suddenly splits with a grin, revealing yellowing teeth covered with black splotches as her eyes slide from deep, rich brown to foggy gray.

"Aye, the princess is the fairest in all the world!" the little girl says, nodding her head so hard she nearly slips off her stool and into the roaring fire. "Will you be rescuing her, good sir?"

"Not I," James says awkwardly as the peasant woman snatches the water skeins from him and starts filling them from a bucket hidden in an alcove beneath the only window. "My master shall. I am only his manservant."

The girl has not yet ceased nodding. James thinks of his sister's dolls that she had possessed in the long ago days of childhood – little figurines, with glass for eyes and porcelain for a soul. The baby has stopped crawling and sits in the corner as still as a stone, eyes like the painted, dull gazes of the dolls his sister lined up on her shelves. "Your prince should be so lucky as to have our lady princess as his bride," the girl says, and her words sound almost like worship. "He will have to be her True Love, of course. Many have come to tried to win her hand and wake her from her sleep, but none of them have given her the kiss that can break the curse."

"What happens to those who came before?" James asks, taking one of the bulging skins, water running in thin, winding rivers over the sides and dripping to the dusty floor.

The woman chortles, a startlingly raspy, dry sound for such a woman – it sounds more like a corpse's laughter than that of a living being. "They died, of course. Weren't good enough for our fair lady." She fills the other skein with carefully hands, even though her doll's eyes are fixed on a point that James cannot see, staring out into something that clouds her features and sucks the soul away from her eyes. "Don't you know anything about happy endings? Someone's always got to pay the price."

A shiver winds its way up James's spine, and he is ashamed of how visibly he shudders. The woman smiles her bland smile, the little girl nods and nods and nods and the baby doll sits and stares with her eyes like painted porcelain. The woman hands the skein over and James nearly knocks it from her grasp in his rush to grasp it, his hands slipping on the slick surface. "I thank you," he says, even as he edges towards the exited. He digs in his pocket with the sweaty, shaking hand not occupied with the skeins and manages to locate one of his few golden coins remaining. He almost throws it in the woman's face as he backs towards the door. The coin clatters to the floor with a solid thunk for so small an object and rolls, wobbling, towards the wall. "For you, as a token of gratitude."

"The princess," the little girl sighs, nodding and nodding and nodding, her eyes blank and gray, "So fair is she. Our sleeping princess on the hill, closer to heaven than any of us. So fair is she."

James shuts the door behind him, clutching the sweating skeins to his chest, and inhales the scent of rot, of despair, and of a wicked, wicked magic that is curling its talons into the hearts of all around him. He considers fleeing for a moment – taking his horse and bolting through the forest, running until he reaches home and refusing to ever leave it again. But oaths are fickle things, and James has sworn one of loyalty to his prince.

So he returns to the horses and they set out again, along the winding trail.

...

Thatched, cracking houses are becoming more frequent, dotting the hill like freckles on his sister's cheeks, or the spots on the faces of more than a few of the villagers they pass. James learns that mentioning their quest leads to the clouding of the eyes, the enthusiastic reassurances of the princess's beauty. It unnerves James, frightens him to his core, is more than enough to convince him that this is a terrible idea – and yet the prince seems to notice none of it as they work their way closer and closer to
the palace of the sleeping princess on the hill.

They are so close now that James can see the spires of the golden and marble tipped towers, shining in the distance and piercing the clouds with their points. As they wind through the thick forest, pausing for rest in the empty clearings through which sparkling brooks run and birds sing, the walls of the palace reveal themselves – smooth and white, pristine and lovely. James knows it will not be long now until they reach the palace, and the bitter tang of a curse than lingers on the breeze grows day by day, until James is forced to tie a cloth around his nose to attempt to filter out the reek.

The prince gazes at the palace with longing and desire bright in his eyes when they pause for rest and James tends to the cooking. He strikes the poses of heartsick lovers, lounging against trees as if he does not have the strength to continue without a kiss from his beloved, and stares at spires that pierce the sky.

James knows that his protests about the feeling he has, the tension that hangs on the air like a dead man from the executioner's noose, will be ignored, so he bites his lip until it trickles hot blood into his mouth. The sharpness of iron is welcome after the odor of bad magics, and it reminds James to keep his tongue.

It is night by the time they gallop up to the palace, dusty and filthy from a day of tearing through the last view villages that surround the hill upon which the sleeping princess awaits. The hill is a gentle bump on the earth, hardly more than a mound, but it is the tallest feature they have encountered in this oddly flat land. They pause at the gates, their horses dancing along the thick planks of the drawbridge.

"I come to save your princess!" the prince shouts, tilting his head back so the limited light from the silver of a moon can catch at the gold in his hair, the hint of steel in his eyes. "I will kiss the fair lady and rescue her from a fate worse than death!"

The gate creaks open on rusty hinges that squeal like stuck pigs – violent noises, for such a lovely night, that violate the serenity and peace of the wooded countryside graced with the glow of the stars. A armed guard marches out to meet them, his eyes as gray as storm clouds and as lost as the Wandering Gods James's kin worship.

"You are here for the fair princess?" he queries, but his tone is better suited to a dream than a question. "Our fair, fair princess, here in the palace upon the hill?"

"Yes, I should think so. Much has been spoken of her beauty," the prince responds. James cannot see his eyes from his position behind his master, but he imagines that they are as gray as stone, gray as steel, gray as the silence that will come at the end of the world.

"I would hope so. A princess as lovely as ours does not deserve to be banished to mere legend," the guard says, and bows so deeply that his plumed helmet very nearly slips from his dark curls. "My lord. Come in."

They parade inside, horses high stepping with careful agility, the prince on display as much as his mount. Trumpets blare as they pass through the courtyard, the echo bouncing off the marble walls.

"Our King and Queen shall await you in the throne room," the guard announces, leading them towards enormous gilded doors, sparkling with elven runes of protection and dwarven blessings of endurance, that take up nearly the entirety of the front of the palace. It takes three men to each side to haul the monstrosity open.

The prince dismounts with grace, flicking his cape over his shoulder with an elegance only the nobility have the time to master and strides off, head high. James is left to gather the worn leather packs and stumble after, his footsteps slow and his breathing unsteady. Here, the reek of the curse that lies upon this land is so powerful that his head is spinning and his vision fades to black at the edges. It smells of despair and hopelessness and flowers lying on a freshly dug grave, of grief that is so strong that those left behind are unable to let go.

James shuffles in, weighed down by bags and the odor that is seeping into his skin, digging itself into his bones, and stops a respectful distance behind the prince.

His prince is kneeling before the raised dais that elevates the King and Queen of the palace on the hill and this fading, dying land. James has heard it said that the princess fell into her unending sleep twenty years past – yet time is often not a worry for those under spells such as the one imprisoning the princess on the hill.

Yet the Queen looks to be not a day over thirty, her hair thick and dark, heavy curls tumbling about her, her head not bowing under the weight of her jeweled crown that sits upon her brow. No lines are worn into the skin by her fog gray eyes, and the backs of her hands are as smooth as the marble of the palace walls. The King as well – his hair is still gleaming gold, his form still strong. When the Queen stands to speak, her voice has the self assured timber of a relative youth instead of the quaver of age.

"You are here to rescue our fair daughter, who has these long years been cursed to sleep?"

The prince nods, and the Queen nods sharply. The prince stands with fluid movements, and bends low again in a sweeping bow. "If it pleases your Majesties. I have heard much of the sleeping princess on the hill, and in my heart I have known she is my one and only – the one the Wandering Gods have destined for me to roam and rule with. Rest assured, I desire her safety and return to the world of the living as much as you."

The King rises with more grace than a man his age should possess. His eyes are as gray and cloudy as an ill river at dusk. "Our daughter, loveliest of all…do you think you are truly the one for her?" he asks, and his voice breaks, shatters, cracks on the last word. He clutches at his wife's shoulder for support, unseeing eyes fixed on a point just over the prince's head.

"I believe so," the prince says. "I believe I am meant for her and she for me."

"Well," the Queen says, laying her hand over the eerily smooth one of her husband, tangling their fingers together. "There is no time to waste, then. Follow us." She turns, and glides down the steps of the dais, her gait even and strong as the King supports her with his unnaturally youthful. The prince strides after the royal couple, cape flapping impressively about his feet.

James shuffles behind, seeing no other option. He follows his master and the King and Queen through the golden hallways – past ornate windows hung with sheer, fine curtains, through hallways that have the history of their world painted upon the walls in vivid colors – past the story Queen Red Riding Hood and her downfall through her carnal knowledge of the demon Wolfe, past the tale of Snow White, Queen of the Dwarves and Light Under the High Mountains, past the myth of creation, wherein the goddess Word sat upon her throne fashioned from the blood and bones of bards and poets and set about writing herself a world. They past through rooms through which the heavens above can be seen, sparkling like diamonds, and rooms filled with glasses that capture the faint moonlight and ferment it into the finest wine known to Man, Elves, Fae or Dwarves.

The staircase they reach winds around and around, stretching up and up so James cannot see the top. Guards stand on either side, their armor glowing with powerful spells of strength and courage.

"We placed her in the tallest spire the palace has," the King explains, his voice gravely with grief, "So she could be closer to the Wandering Gods, and so they could watch over her in her sleep." The staircase is dark, but a gesture from the Queen and one of the guards procures a torch out of almost thin air, its flames flickering in the gloom. He touches it to a niche carved into the wall and light flares, racing around in spirals as it burns upwards, casting light down onto the stairs.

"Shall we?" the Queen asks, and gestures for the prince to go before them.

The reek of rotting flowers is overwhelming here, and the air is frighteningly cool. It feels more like Lady Death's work here than that of Lord Sleep and his faithful companion Morphea. James's skin is itching with distaste, crawling with an urgent need to flee, but he has no option but to follow his prince up the staircase.

They climb, up and up. James's legs ache. The light from the fire can only burn away so much of the darkness, and James cannot feel the presence of the Wandering Gods here. Maybe they have felt the same sensation plaguing him now and have fled long ago.

The King and Queen jerk to a stop just in front of him, and James barely manages to not run into them."There she is," the Queen says, her voice heavy with adoration and breaking with the strain of her love. "There she lies, our fair, fair lady – a blessing from the Wandering Gods – nay, from Word herself!"

"She is as lovely as the stories say," the prince says, and he sounds close to tears. The King and the Queen step forward into the little room in the top of the highest spire of the palace on the hill, and James can peer in.

A bed occupies much of the small space available – a regal bed, draped with silken fabric woven by elves, with inlaid designs on the posts set there by dwarves. Fae magic keeps balls of cool stars flickering on the ceiling. Blossoms grown by the nymphs, the best gardeners in all of their world, are strewn liberally about, blessed to forever stay fresh and fragment. It is a room fit for a princess, but James sees no princess here.

A corpse, yes. A dried, withered corpse – flesh rotting off of it, teeth exposed and gleaming white through the gaping holes of its cheeks. A corpse with brittle bones visible through parchment yellow, leather flesh, a corpse with long, stringy yellow strands of hair attached to its molding scalp. A corpse with its eyeballs half devoured by a combination of creatures and time, a corpse that in no way can be the fair sleeping princess on the hill.

"Our pride and joy," the Queen murmurs, stepping forward and trailing her fingers along the sunken, ruined cheek. Her sleeve brushes against the exposed teeth, and James feels bile rush up, bitter and sharp. He is gagging, unable to breath – it feels as if all the oxygen has been sucked from the room, as if he has been left here to suffocate in the corrupt presence of the dead princess on the hill.

"Our heir and love," the King adds, joining his wife to stare down upon the decomposing body of his daughter with only affection to be seen in his foggy gaze. He turns to the prince, his eyes far away. "You must promise, if you are truly her one and only, to be a good husband – to never cheat, to never grow angry."

"How could I love another after the sight of such a beauty?" the prince demands, offended by the implications. "How could anyone's smile be as sweet as hers? I believe we have more to worry about her being a good wife for myself."

"She shall be so," the Queen promises, blinking slowly, as if in a dream she cannot quite escape. "She was blessed with charity and kindness, with humor and grace." She pulls back, and tugs some of the gauzy curtains away from the bed, revealing more of the rotten, stinking corpse upon the bed.

James's eyes are watering, and he falls to his knees, presses his forehead into the cool stones that smell of dying flowers. "Oh Wandering Gods, dispel this curse," he begs, "And save these people from themselves. Oh Wandering Gods, oh Word, write this tale out of living memory and consign it to memory. Oh Wandering Gods-"

A sudden, sharp kick from the King to his side winds him, but James gasps for breath and shouts, "Wandering Gods, take away this corrupt creature!"

"Shut up! You have no right to say such hateful things about our princess!" the Queen screams, and the King slams his foot into James's stomach again, and again, until James is sobbing and retching, curled into a ball on the floor. The royals gather about him, contempt in their eyes.

"For such words, I demand he be put to death," the King says, and his voice is shaking with his fury. "It is near treason, to speak of the princess in such a manner."

"He deserves nothing but death for such an offense," the prince replies, and his words are colder and sharper than any James has ever heard before. "James, you were once upon a time a good man. But for such words against the lovely sleeping princess…I have to agree with the judgment of the King upon the Hill."

"She's dead," James gasps out, his arms trembling as he tries to push himself up, to drag himself towards the stairs, away from the empty, rotten gaze of the dead princess. "She's dead, your Highness. She's nothing more than a shell, and a long gone one at that!"

"LIES!" the King roars, and his foot meets James's side again and again and again, until James can taste blood upon his tongue. He beats him until James can barely draw breath enough to fill his lungs, and only then is the King satisfied. The prince watches with gray eyes and says nothing, disgust and rage burning him from the inside out. James is left in the doorway, hardly able to breathe, and the royals turn their back.

"Kiss her," the Queen urges, guiding the prince towards the bed. "Kiss her, bring her to life. Prove your treacherous manservant wrong."

The prince steps forward, and falls to his knees at the princess's side. From his spot on the floor, even as black stars explode in his vision, James can see the prince caressing the cracking, yellowed teeth, slipping his fingers in between the exposed bones of the corpse's hand, pressing a kiss to the ruined remains of a nose.

"My lady," the prince whispers, and presses his lips to the dried flesh of the princess.

There are no fireworks, no lights. There is no music, no explosion of heavenly trumpets. There is no magical restoration of the sleeping princess on the hill, transforming her from dead to alive, because Lady Death rather likes the company of the souls she collects.

Instead, the prince's eyes slip close, and he falls to the side.

He does not move.

"Another one failed," the Queen murmurs, pressing her hands to her chest. The King bows his head, and they stare down at the prince's body with regret in their eyes. "No one is right for our lovely daughter," the Queen says. "No one pure enough, no one good enough. That is why they die."

They turn about, and head towards the stairs, stepping over James as if he is not there. They slip out of sight as they walk down the stairs, leaving James where he lies.

The room is silent, and James cannot move from the sharp pain that tears through him like a forest fire if he so much as flinches.

And then he hears a rustling. The corpse is sitting up, empty gaze searching, searching, rotting flesh dripping from the bones as it turns its head.

It finds James. A broken creature, its soul trapped inside an empty shell, still dressed in the finest of gowns, with diamonds about its throat and sapphires in its hair, little silken slippers on its feet.

It finds James, and whispers in its tattered, torn voice, "You're next."