Heartless

“Yes, I trust him,” Una said. “And without proof! That’s what trust is, isn’t it? Believing without seeing?”


“Wrong,” her father growled. “That isn’t trust; that’s foolishness! If a man has to ask for your trust, it’s a sure sign you should not give it. Trust should be earned inherently, without any verbal demands. Trust is knowing a man’s character, knowing truth, and relying on that character and truth even when the odds seem against you. That is trust, my dear, not this leap in the dark for a man whose character you don’t – ”

“Perhaps I do!”

“Perhaps you think you do! Perhaps you don’t.”

Una’s eyes overflowed with tears. But these weren’t the passionate tears she’d been crying the last few days. These were steady, throbbing tears, hot on her face. She turned her back on her father.

Fidel sighed and placed his hands on her shoulders, but she shook them away. “Child,” the king said more gently, “if you had told me that you had promised to wait for Prince Aethelbald – ”

“I despise him!”

“Despise him or not, if you had told me that you promised to wait for him, I would rejoice. I know his character and trust his word and would be glad to see you trust him as well.”

“I trust Leonard – Lionheart.”

“You do not even know which is his true name.”

“I do!” Una shook her head sharply. “He is Lionheart! He’s been obliged to live in disguise, but that is no reason to distrust him. Sometimes people have to do things they do not want to do, such as hide their true names, hide their true selves. But I believe he is who he said he is.”

“Which one? The jester or the prince?”

“Both! He’s both, Father. I know he is, and I will trust him till I die!”

A heavy silence followed, and Fidel took the time to stifle his anger. After all, it was not Una’s neck he wished to strangle at the moment. When he spoke again, he managed to keep his voice gentle.

“Una, maybe this fantastic story of his is true. Maybe he will ride back on his white horse in triumph, a crown on his brow and a dragon’s head in his sack. Maybe he will prove himself a true prince someday, a worthy husband for my daughter.” Fidel took the princess by the shoulders, turning her to face him. He wiped a tear from her cheek. “But until then, Una, do not trust him. Let him prove himself trustworthy first. Please, Una, don’t give him your heart.”

She set her jaw, though the skin of her chin wrinkled in an effort to keep from trembling. “He loves me, Father. I just know it. That’s proof enough for me. I’ve given him my heart. I’ll wait for him.” The tears streamed silently down her face, dampening her collar, but her voice was steady. “I’ll wait for him, and I’ll not have another.”

Fidel shook his head and drew his daughter close. “Then I can only pray he will prove worthy.”

–––––––

Days passed, each a small eternity.

But the nights were worse.

Una woke every morning feeling as though she had scarcely slept at all and dreading even the smallest daily activities. Sometimes now she remembered snatches of her dreams, but even those memories faded after a day or two. All that remained was the heaviness, the exhaustion, and behind that a deep, nagging worry.

Few things changed over those months. Felix had his fourteenth birthday celebrated with much pomp. Monster had a less official birthday, celebrated with less pomp. Una saw and declined two more suitors, neither of whom left lasting impressions on her mind. Hours were forever, and she not once received word of her jester-prince. He did not so much as appear in her dreams.

Until one cold night, just at the onset of winter.

Una lay wrapped in quilts, holding still because the less she moved, the warmer she kept. Monster was burrowed somewhere deep, a furry lump at her feet, as near to the bed warmer as he could safely sleep. His purr had long since worn out, and silence held her room in a frosty grip.

She pretended she slept but couldn’t fool herself. Her nose was frozen, but Una was too tired and too cold to lift the blankets to cover it, so she pretended it wasn’t cold and failed at that as well. She wondered if the faerie-tale princesses who fell into enchanted sleeps felt like this as they lay for a hundred years, frozen in time. How boring it must be for them after a decade or two. Truly it must be –

An image flashed through her mind.

Quickly as that, the dream came and went. A face of white bone surrounded by black hair, lying upon a golden altar, frozen and still with sleep. Suddenly its eyes were open, filled with fire and gazing at her, burning to her core. As though from a great distance, she heard Leonard’s voice, or perhaps a mere memory of his voice.

“It’s yours! Take it!”

She gasped; her eyes flew open.

Even as she stared up at the familiar embroidered faces of the sun and the moon on her canopy, the vision hung suspended in her mind’s eye, the sound of Leonard’s voice filled her ears.

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