Futile
The day her time came, the Princess arose from her bed, with only a single thought lingering in her mind. Without waiting for her maids, nor her guards, she slid out from under the covers and ran.
Not a word was spoken.
Not a hint given.
She ran.
Bursting through the doors with the force of a storm, she cleared the adjoining hallway in five strides before the knights stationed at the doors could stop her. The clanking of armour behind her told her that they had given chase. She didn’t care. It was calling for her. She had known these walls, each passageway like an old friend. It was easy for her to slip into one and out of the other, vanishing like smoke as soon as someone caught sight of her. The whole palace must be looking for her by now. They all knew what she was going to do.
It was inevitable.
She broke through the main doors of the palace, amidst the cries of all those around her. Hands shot out to try and stop her, bodies crowded in to halt her progress but she, in nightdress and bare feet, would not be stopped. Like water coursing through time worn pathways, she wove in and out of the crowd, her eyes fixed upon her goal.
“It’s her!”
“It’s the Princess!”
“Oh shit!”
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“Is she-!”
“Hurry!”
“Catch her!”
“Stop her!”
But she would not be stopped.
Whenever a blockade would form between houses and shops, she would find a new way. It was as if she had woken up that morning with the route through the city embedded into her brain. Her bare feet hit the paving stones with hard echoing slaps, her arms pumping at her side to urge her on faster, move quicker. Even as stone changed to grass, she didn’t pass to feel the sweet dew between her toes. It was easier now, she slid and fell to the ground. For a moment, she seemed to wake from a dream. Blinking slowly, a babe realising the world around them, she got up and it looked as if she would go back. That she could be saved.
But It would not be dissuaded. It would have her.
It’s intoxicating siren song threaded through her brain. Luring her under again until she was drowning and had started to run once more.
The last one to try, a burly man who worked as a blacksmith, who’d had the privilege of shooing the Princess’ own horse, threw out his arms to grab her as she leapt off the edge. His hands, scarred and thick through the fingers, closed around the hem of her nightdress. But she had already started to fall in, the fabric tearing as he tried to pull her back. But she was gone. Vanished into the deep, dank pit that sat in the centre of the town.
That was it.
It was over.
Everyone came to the pit in the end.
It was futile.
