The Queen’s Daughter
                                                                                                                     By
                                                                                                           Logan Giannini
 
Act I:
 
Princess Leona picked her way along the stream carefully, her dress hiked up past her knees in a very un-royal manner. She was glad that the queen, always so particular in the way her daughter presented herself, was not present to suggest, criticize, and ultimately order Leona to smooth out her gown and find a more suitable place to pass her time.
            As it was, the queen had already forbidden Leona from visiting the mill—a creaking, abandoned affair that was purported to be haunted. Also out-of-bounds were the village, most of the surrounding farms, the castle barracks, scullery, dungeon, and observation tower. It was only by Leona’s ceaseless vigilance that she’d kept the pond a secret this long from the queen, who insisted that a lady should attend balls in neighboring kingdoms if she wanted to find a suitable husband, which sounded like a dreadfully boring pursuit.
            She was now cresting a small rise through which the trickle of water cut its way, and beyond spread out her last, murky sanctuary from the exhausting responsibilities of being royal, responsibilities that the queen never failed to impress upon her in any way possible. Nearby stood two white birches, the only remnants of what had once been a full grove, one standing slightly taller than the other, diffusing the bright hot sun that bore down upon their unprotected branches.
            Once, years ago while Leona’s father was still only a prince, the pond had been larger, abounding with fish, crayfish, otters, ducks, voles, and even the occasional crane, but now the only signs of that verdant era were the long-dead and mostly submerged logs around the edges that approximated where other birches had once formed a perfect shield around the pool. Swarms of bugs had long-since taken over, arriving as the lumbermen departed, making their home in the now-torpid water. However, these distractions were petty when compared to the queen, and so now Leona made her way over the rise and down to the water’s edge, slipping off her shoes to release her toes, allowing them to lap thirstily at the shallows.
            From an inside pocket (well-hidden to prying eyes) Leona produced a tiny, leather volume borrowed from the castle library, and which detailed a highly-fictionalized rendition of Hannibal’s arduous crossing of the Alps. The queen felt that reading was unladylike, and so Leona read with a passion spurred on by rebellion, sneaking books from the library in carefully-sewn pockets on the insides of her dresses.
            Gradually, as her toes began to wrinkle and the elephants of Carthage began to die, Leona became aware of a presence and, looking suddenly up, she saw a young man sitting on the other side of the pond, just a stone’s throw away. The boy—for he hardly looked older than Leona, although she was, herself, nearly seventeen—stared broodingly down at the brackish water, making no sign that he was aware of her presence. She wondered how long he had been there, for certainly she hadn’t seen him when she arrived, yet, nor had she heard him coming through the thorny brambles that circled the glade.
            She coughed, a quiet thing that the queen had taught her was the way to make someone notice you without soliciting their attention like a whore—at least, that was how she’d explained it. Now, however, it hardly seemed to carry more than a few feet before dying, sinking into the soupy-brown water like the logs around it. Still staring mournfully at the water, the boy made no sound or indication that he had heard.
            Returning the book to the hidden depths of her clothing she rose, brushing the dress smooth in a deft motion that would have made the queen proud.
            “Hello,” she called, beginning to make her way around the pond. At her call the young man finally looked up, blinking uncertainly. Seeing that she was coming towards him, he hastily stood, his limbs unfolding awkwardly and proving to be much too long for his body. Despite this, however, he was a good-looking young man; particularly striking was the shock of brown hair that hung, apart from the rest of the well-combed locks, down across his forehead. It was this feature that had the power to catch the eye of any and every young woman close enough to see his brow.
            Even Leona, not typically drawn to most young men, felt something inside her stir at the sight of this one, standing listlessly by the dead pool, waiting for her to reach him. She wasn’t sure if it was a maternal feeling—for he looked rather wretched—or a more amorous emotion that now rose within her chest, building its way to her throat and finally escaping in the strained words “Are you all right?” as Leona drew close enough to speak in a normal tone.
            A wistful smile passed over the man’s face, rippling his features like grass. “Right enough. Was I disturbing you?” There was, oddly, no sarcasm in his tone, his question genuine, although it was only by chance that she’d looked up and become aware of his presence at all.
            “I’ve never seen you here before.” She winced at her words, which made the stagnant little pond sound much more like a tavern or the long banquet hall where she’d spent so many long evenings avoiding the attentions of young men twice as good-looking and thrice-more vapid than the specimen before her now.
            “I used to live here, but you wouldn’t know it now.” His gaze skimmed around the skeletal grove, stumps long since harvested. “I’ve been gone.”
            Now that she looked, it did appear that the man had been traveling: his clothes were worn, but not quite tattered, and several pale toes showed through his shoes. Leona caught herself staring and looked back to the man’s eyes, meeting his gaze and then looking just as quickly away again, embarrassed by the gravity of their look.
            “Have you family in this area?”
            He shrugged, quirking an eyebrow at Leona and something inside her, long-dormant, stirred, uncoiling itself slowly within her.
            Leaning closer conspiratorially, the odor of many days’ sweat burning Leona’s nostrils, he began “My father…” then stopped stopped, pursing his lips, his face suddenly grim. “I’d better not.” He shook his head, straightening his back and crossing his arms dramatically with an infuriatingly stoic look settling on his features.
            “Please,” Leona begged, her curiosity thoroughly piqued.
            “Your parents—”
            “I promise.”
            A sudden gust of wind sent the two birches swaying, culling the already thin leaves and sending those that couldn’t hang on swirling downwards.
            Leona brushed off a leaf that had landed on her shoulder and looked at the young man, who had several clinging to his tatty shirt, but who stood staring thoughtfully at Leona.
            “I suppose,” he said finally, reaching up with slow deliberation and removing a leaf from his back. He considered it a moment before pulling it into two pieces along the mid rib. He let the pieces drop and finished. “I could show you.”
            Leona hesitated, glancing towards the falling sun. It was nearly hidden behind the two trees, and when it met the horizon it would be time for her to return to the castle. She looked back at her friend and her heart constricted. “Yes,” she said, then frowned.
            “What?”
            Leona bit her lip. “I’m the king’s daughter.”
            “And the queen’s?” His tone was light, but Leona didn’t smile.
            “Yes. If I’m seen with you, dressed like that, smelling like that,” she was shocked by her own audacity, but he smiled, indicating the murky pond with a nod of his head.
            “I can wash.”
“Hmm, yes.” Leona pursed her lips, her hands instinctively finding their way to her hips until she stood, looking very much like a younger version of the queen, sizing up the boy whose name she still didn’t know.
 “Do you have any other clothes?” Leona stopped, embarrassed, but the young man smiled suddenly. “I think I know where I can ‘borrow’ some finery.”
            “And I’ll see if I can steal some soap,” Leona hastily added, her eyes drifting once more toward his feet. This was a bit of a lie, for as princess she knew she had only to ask of the first person she found and she would be provided with whatever she pleased. However, the audacity of this young man on her behalf seemed to necessitate equal daring of her.
            Leona’s task was considerably shorter, and she returned to the pool to wait, imagining the perfect reception by the king and queen, who she’d decided would never meet this boy. Already she had begun to formulate different stories, tales of bravery and heroics on the part of her guest that would compel the royal couple to be welcoming and amenable. The longer she sat, the nearer these stories came to those in the jewel-encrusted volume of fairy tales that sat in the library, which she’d only ventured to look at twice as, lamentably, it was far too large to be easily smuggled from the library. 
            By the time the sound of footsteps reached her ear, the anonymous gentlemen had rescued her from not only a fire-breathing, virgin-eating dragon, but also a full half-dozen of the fiercest mountain giants to be found in all the land. Parting grass revealed her savior, his brow sweaty from running, returning with the fruits of his errand draped over one shoulder.
            “Clothes off,” ordered Leona in a tone inherited directly from the queen. “And tell me your name.”
            He began to strip. The clothes he wore were cast aside, revealing themselves to be the cause of his gangly appearance. Naked, this mis-proportion fell away, showing him to be much more handsome than he’d at first appeared.
            Leona dithered momentarily—having never seen a young man naked before she was searching for some appropriate response. She found none.
            “Y-your name,” she stammered, trying to keep her eyes on his, or at least above his naval. It was difficult. His arms were akimbo, his hands perched on his sharp hips.
            “Jason,” he said simply, lifting the soap from her hands and slipping into the water.
            Clean, dressed, and smelling much more like a gentleman, Jason bounced to his feet, ringlets of dark water tumbling from his skin, and his wet hair making a slapping noise against the nape of his neck.
Leona looked from his face to his feet and then back again, and finally giggled. He wiggled his tongue at her. His features, which had looked awkward and out-of-place in the ragged garb of a traveler, had settled into the finery like they were destined for it.
Lapsing into a simple grin, Jason looped his arm into Leona’s; she gasped, her skin tingling in a manner that was in no way maternal.
“This way, mademoiselle,” he said, and began to lead her on.
 
 
 Act II:
 
On the near side of the moat stood a humble little guard building, a solitary palisade that looked as though it had been broken off from the wall of the castle and placed here against its will, to stand watch as some sort of punishment. Inside was the human counterpart, an aging soldier named Henry whose best years were so far behind him that he’d begun to suspect they’d never happened at all and that only the misfortunes of the recent past were, in fact, true. Much of his face was hidden by the beard he’d worn since before Leona was born, although it had long since lost any color but the ivory of old age.
Silence was the only sound he made as, with the last rays of light vanishing over the distant horizon, the princess hurried across the bridge, nearly breaking into a run as she passed under the raised portcullis. Henry watched, mused, and remembered the last time the portcullis had been lowered. A cold shiver went down his spine and he turned towards the road again. In the sun’s dying illumination Henry thought he saw a figure, tall and thin, somewhere off down the path, but shadows were beginning to rise and on a second look there was nothing.
            Inside the castle Leona hurried through the passages and corridors that led to the dining hall. Her steps echoed hollowly in the stone hallway, carrying her back to the cavernous interior of the mill, the hazy upstairs room that smelled of wheat and mildew. The introduction to Jason’s father had been brief, and was followed by the tour of the building. It was a grand old affair, having once ground all the grain for miles around. By the time Leona chanced to look out a window the sun had already sunk nearly out of view, showing only a thin, orange sliver.
            “Daughter.” The king’s voice seemed to swell and billow to fill the enormous hall, sounding to Leona like he was standing right next to her. The chamber was empty save for the royal couple, two small figures lost in the sheer grandeur of the room.
            “Where have you been?” The king punched his words, firing ‘where’ and ‘been’ at his daughter like javelins.
            Leona looked at the queen. She sat in cold silence at the table, watching her daughter with the oppressive gaze of a falcon. “I walked in the pastures and fell asleep. I awoke late and hurried back.” Leona’s voice was low.
            “You must take care,” the king’s tone was normal now, his deep voice moderated to a level not entirely deafening. “Not all is safe.”          
“Yes, father,” said Leona, looking towards the queen, trying to read her face. She could not.
            “Sit. Eat.” The king gestured to a place that had been set for Leona and she obeyed, smothering the victorious smirk that was fighting for a place on her lips.
            During the meal she thought of the events of the day—of Jason—and tried to form his face in her mind. She looked at the queen, whose eyes were momentarily on the king, and worked harder to conjure up an image of Jason. A corner of her mouth twitched up as, with only a little coaxing, the image of Jason standing naked by the pond appeared in her mind’s eye.
            She looked at the queen and thought of the touch of Jason’s arm against her own. The queen took a dainty bite of fowl; Jason laid his hand warmly on Leona’s back as she peered into the empty grain room. She sipped her wine; He poured a flagon of ale. She looked sharply at Leona; He looked with eyes that sparkled, alive, hiding more than they showed.
            “You’re not to go out tomorrow.”
            Leona stared mutely at the queen for a full minute hearing the words and a moment longer before grasping their meaning.
“What field were you in today?”
            Leona dithered. “The wheat field to the east,” she said. It was the first field she could think of, and by far the largest. In past she had, in fact, spent time in the wheat fields, sitting amid the golden stalks and reading.
            The queen turned back to her food, the conversation ended.
            Leona sat in her room that night nursing feelings of despair, frustration, and plain, bitter hatred. She walked to her window and stared out over the landscape, in the direction of the mill. In the daytime she could see it from her chamber, a single piece in an expansive panorama, but at night nothing was visible save for a few flickering lights in the direction of the village.
            For a moment she calmed, remembering the mill again and, in turn, Jason. When she turned from the window, however, she was faced with her room, the castle, and the cold, stone reality of the queen’s decree, and once more she stoked the flames of fury that burned within her breast.
            She threw herself violently onto her bed, immediately regretting it. Rubbing her now-bruised shoulder indignantly, she sat up, pouting and looking for something to throw. Footsteps sounded outside her door, coming closer, and she leaned forward, listening.
             “Leona.” It was the queen, and Leona fell back onto her bed, disappointed, having halfway expected Jason to have come for her.
            “Leona,” the queen called again, a little louder, then she fell silent. Leona closed her eyes, visualizing the queen in the hallway; forcing her mind fiercely, Leona wrenched her thoughts to the doorway of the mill where Jason bid her enter, posing and bowing like the prince he was dressed as. He seemed about to kiss her and she’d poised herself for the moment, but in the end he veered aside, planting his lips on her cheek. A lazy smile crept across her face, the queen’s presence relegated to the cold, forgotten truth of the hallway.
            “We live here,” Jason had balanced precariously on one of the beams in the mill as he spoke. It no longer turned, but the wood was good and hadn’t rotted. Leona followed along beneath him, watching enraptured and only looking away when he dislodged an especially large amount of dust. “My father and I.” Picking up an old bolt he considered it a moment in his palm before wrapping his fingers around it and hurling it upwards, out through one of the high windows with the crash shattering with the sounds of ocean waves.
He sprang lightly down, landing squarely in front of Leona and looking gravely into her eyes. “We’re cursed. So we make this our home,” he gestured around him. He had then paused, his back to Leona, and she thought she detected a tremor running through him and she had gone closer, wanting to touch but not daring.
            He had turned, his face radiant in the dusty beam of sunlight that filtered in through the mill’s low windows. Thus illuminated he could have been an angel, a heavenly savior sent to save Leona. And he would, she knew he would, rescue her, carry her far away, to safety, to freedom…
            The anger now dissipated, and warm thoughts of Jason coursing through her body, Leona slipped off into a sleep full of dragons, ogres, and evil queens—all of which Jason saved her from and none of which she remembered in the morning. It was just then, as she was slipping out of consciousness, that she decided no order would keep her from the first man she’d ever loved, and when, upon waking, she remembered her resolution, it was with the fog of remembering someone else’s thoughts.
 
 
 Act III:
 
            Leona fought madly through the brambles that led to the pond, heedless of the sharp thorns that poked at her, ripping at her clothing and the flesh beneath it. There was a path on the other side, but she didn’t want to waste time. She’d already been to the mill where Jason’s father told her that he wasn’t there, and the pond was Leona’s only other guess.
            At breakfast that morning the queen had reiterated her cruel command that Leona remain in the castle, and Leona made a great show of storming to her room and throwing the bolt across the door. She slipped out less than an hour later, unobserved by any but Henry and with the flames of love in her heart fanned by the tyranny of the queen.
Cresting the rise she picked up her pace, stumbling and nearly falling as she reached the water’s edge.
            “Behind you,” came Jason’s voice, and Leona whirled.
            “What are you doing?”
            Jason stood, legs apart, about ten feet off the ground on a branch of the smaller white birch that stood near the pool.
            “Come down; you’ll damage it.”
            Jason laughed, a sound that was cruel in its mockery, and he took a step further out, catching himself suddenly as the branch cracked like a gunshot. Leona jumped. Jason swung lower, sending another branch tumbling from the tree, and finally dropped onto the ground below in a shower of twigs and leaves.
            Leona stared up at the gash in the tree where the branch had been attached and alive only seconds before.
            “Leona, Leona. It’s only a tree.” He smiled.
            For a moment she stared, out-of-sorts from his tone, and then he leaned in and kissed her cheek for the second time and she relented, deciding she’d misheard the intonation of his voice.
            Leona relayed the events of the previous night, emphasizing the spitefulness of the queen’s order, as they walked along the edges of the pond. Jason had looped an arm through Leona’s, and walked slowly, leaning into her from time to time with a gentle pressure that caused Leona to pause in her words each time it happened.
            As they passed around the far end of the oblong pool Jason stopped suddenly, turning towards Leona and laying his hands heavily on her slender shoulders. She froze mid-sentence and looked back at him, trying to read his now-impassive face. “Jason…”
            He looked away, biting his lip, and Leona leaned in closer, touching his face with her hand. His skin was cold to her touch; she repeated his name.
            Jason pulled Leona even closer, his hands falling from her shoulders, tracing her form lightly and falling to rest on her crescent hips.
            Leona’s stomach lurched and she fought the urge to pull away, having never been touched this way before. But then she looked at him, thought of the queen, and wrapped her arms around her Jason.
            He picked her up, then, his face showing only the slightest strain under her weight, and carried her back around the pond to a small, grassy patch near the entrance. This was the place Leona came to read, and the greenery bore various impressions of her form on it already.
            Here Jason lay her, holding himself up, across her, looking. Leona looked nervously back at him. “I love you,” she said.
            He made no reply.
            “Jason.”
            His hand was slowly making its way up from her leg towards her head.
            “Jason, I can’t be missed. I must be on my way soon. Now.”
            His hand slipped up her side, pausing, and making its way towards her yet-untouched breasts. She gasped, and then began to pull, to roll away, out from underneath Jason’s silent form.
            Roughly, now, he seized her, his hands no longer caressing, but tearing and ripping at her clothing and the flesh beneath it.
            Leona tried to sit up, hitting her head hard on the spongy earth as she was thrown back down. All clothing torn from her, Jason pinioned the princess’s arms down with his own and began.
Leona screamed then, just once.
            Gusts of winds fell over the jagged landscape, dropping heavily into the glade. Above Leona’s head the tree branches hurtled violently from side-to-side, crashing into one another and making sounds like thunder. Leaves trailed back and forth, clinging like tatters of decaying flesh on the skeletal branches of the birch trees.
            Leona fought back a whimper as Jason touched her breast—not gently, as a lover would, but groping her brutally, kneading and digging his fingers roughly into her soft flesh.
            Beside her a log, rejected for whatever reason by the lumbermen, protruded from the pool, sickly-colored slime imbedded in its once-beautiful bark. Demonic-looking serpentine patterns showed where creatures had made the log their meal, and the shit of some small animal littered the log’s horizontal plane, just above the water’s surface.
            Something inside of Leona tore and she flinched, silently.
            On the ground nearby lay the disembodied branch Jason had broken, amputated without reason and now lying useless in the mud. Far above the tree bled, sap pouring lethargically from its wound, congealing in the craggy bark below, showing a dark stain on the tree’s white trunk.
            Jason stood and Leona glimpsed blood. Reaching down, he grasped her hands and pulled her to her feet. There was a moment of silence while Jason stared at Leona and Leona closed her eyes, then he moved quickly in, planting his lips squarely on Leona’s.
            For a brief moment they touched, and a second later only air was before her.
            The princess opened her eyes and saw only the pond. No sign of Jason. All that remained were his clothes on the ground and the pain between her legs. Something damp touched her foot and she looked numbly down. A frog, larger than she’d ever seen, sat by her toes looking up at her. For a second it seemed that a smirk lay on its amphibious lips (if, indeed, frogs even have lips) and with a hop and a splash it vanished into the murky water.
            She stared after it blankly, her feet rooted to the earth. Gooseflesh rose on her skin as wind beat down on her naked form. And still she stood, watching the spot where Jason—watching the spot where the frog had disappeared.
            She slipped quietly into the castle nearly an hour later, observed only by Henry, who sat in his guard house fingering a simple iron band and saying nothing as Leona walked past, her hair in disarray and her clothing damaged and barely staying on her slender frame.
            Empty hallways greeted her and she slipped through them as quietly as possible, barricading herself in her room and slipping down against the wall, wrapping her arms around her naked knees and hugging them to her chest. And then she wept.
By dinner she’d changed her clothes and washed her face.
            It was two weeks later that the queen entered her chambers in the early morning, sitting silently on her daughter’s bed as Leona clutched the brass chamber pot, spewing out the contents of her stomach, just as she’d done every morning for the last six days.
Breathing heavily, not daring to move, she stared down at the mass of vomit—mercifully unidentifiable—that swam in the umber pool inches from her face. Somewhere far away she thought of the colors that swirled and pooled below, a rainbow gone horribly wrong, melted and defiled until stripped of any beauty. Then she vomited again, her body wracked as she bent over the pot, knuckles every bit as white as the nightgown she wore.
            She knew there was nothing left, but she remained in front of the chamber pot, her back to the queen. All too vivid in her mind was the picture of a woman striking out with her husband’s riding crop, catching the then-eleven-year-old Leona across the face because she’d snuck away to play with the sons of a soldier in the castle. Just as bad were the verbal beatings she’d received on countless occasions: for reading, for her walks in forbidden places, for speaking out of turn to young men.
            Leona coughed into the pot, trying to make a vomiting sound, but there was nothing left to give, so she simply stared, imagining she could see the fates swirling around in the pot, portents of terrible days to come. She closed her eyes. And still the queen sat silently on the bed behind her.
            Wandering thoughts pulled at Leona’s consciousness, taking her back to places she didn’t want to go, and tears squeezed out from between her tightly shut eyes, working their way through her eyelashes like prisoners wriggling free through dungeon gates. Faint, tiny plips followed as the tears dropped into the pot below, a noise far too insignificant for the emotion they represented.
            There was a sound on the floor beside her and, looking, she saw through blurry eyes a steaming bowl with a spoon sitting in it.
            “Cabbage,” came her mother’s voice, “it will help.”
            Leona looked up slowly, her eyes red and her vision uncertain.
            The queen looked at her with a soft gaze that Leona hadn’t seen since she was a little child. “Do you think you are the only woman to be thus taken advantage of? You are not the first. Neither was I.” Leona looked at the queen, her mother, whose gaze was kindly and sad. She reached out a hand and Leona took it, clutching it to her frigid breasts. 
             Her mother lifted her gently to her feet, supporting Leona’s unsteady legs with her arms, and drawing her towards the bed. She placed the princess carefully beneath the sheets, pulling them up around her and smoothing them across her hunched shoulders. For a long while, then, she sat beside the princess, saying nothing, but holding her daughter’s hand in her own as though she could imbibe her own warmth and strength into Leona this way.
            Finally, as Leona was beginning to nod off, the queen rose, saying softly, “I’ll have more blankets sent up immediately.”