Musa's Story Stuffage (Updated: 02/25/08)
Posted: Sun Feb 18, 2007 12:54 amYeah, I did, and it's like over 3000 words, so brace yourself... >_>;
I did have this proofread, but not by me. XD; I have a hard time re-reading my stuff. I usually end up deleting big chunks, and then trashing it completely.
The idea was just something that popped into my head like last week, and I finally got around to writing it. The first few paragraphs are always the hardest.
I hope the TF scene isn't too graphic-y or anything. If any mods find it inappropriate, lemme know. ...I felt so mean writing it. You'll see why. ^^;
Anyway, this is like my first time ever posting a story outside of a caption here. Also the first time in a long time that I've publically shown a story.
Constructive criticism is welcome, but uh... be gentle? XD;;
Well, here we go...
A Very Good Boy
------------------------------
Old Sandara placed a wrinkled hand on my shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “It’s getting late, Gio. Supper is almost ready. Why don’t you come in now?”
I didn’t stop my work even as she spoke to me. The hoe struck the ground again, and again, and again. A rhythm I was very used to by now. It was relaxing in a way. “I want to finish this first.”
The old woman chuckled, then reached up to hold down the scarf over her hair as a gust of warm, dusty wind blew past us. The air was always full of dust in this desolate place. My eyes were always dry.
Sandara squeezed my shoulder again and spoke gently, “You work so hard. Only one more year to go, eh? Then your sentence will be finished. But I will be sad to see you go. You’re a very good boy, Gio.”
I gave her a quick, forced smile and then returned to my work. She patted my back softly before heading back to the rickety wooden shack she called her home, hunched over and holding her scarf as she walked against the increasingly strong winds of the evening. It would be getting colder soon. Her arthritis will act up, so I’ll give her my blanket tonight.
And so back to the monotonous thunk, thunk, thunk of the hoe into the hard, dry dirt. It was mostly pointless work. There was about as much chance of anything decent growing here as there was of me suddenly sprouting wings and flying away. What did grow looked close to rotten even when it was freshly pulled from the ground, but we ate it anyway. Thankfully there is not a large population in this village, if you can even call it that. Most of the younger villagers had left long ago, but a few stayed, insistent that this barren wasteland could be saved. I don’t know why they held onto it. Maybe because they remembered a time when it was green and healthy. Sandara speaks of it at times, but I can’t even imagine. She doesn’t speak about it for long, anyway. The memories make her cry.
My own memories are like that. If I dwell on them too much, if I remember the happy times, I cry. Sometimes I allow myself that time, time to just sit alone and feel hopeless. But then I push it back down and continue on. As unhealthy as it must be, I have to admit that anger and a thirst for revenge often fuel me. I’ve learned to dull the feelings so as not to be walking around in a rage all the time, but they’re still there. I’m paying a double-sentence, both a complete lie. But all but those who did this to me know only about one. The other, if I told them, would surely cause them to think I’ve gone quite insane.
But I suppose I can tell you. You’re just a figment of my imagination anyway, and I speak to myself often. I have retold this story to myself so many times.
I am the Princess Elaria of the Kingdom of Canray. This kingdom. My kingdom.
And how could a farming peasant boy be a princess? You must think I’m crazy. And I suppose I am now, since I’m even talking to you in the first place. But let me explain. I’ll start from the beginning.
My childhood was a happy, privileged one. My father was, and still is, the king. He was born into it. His father had reigned well for some time before his passing away from a heart attack, and then his wife became the queen. She ruled cruelly over the country, and my father vowed to never be like her. And so he hasn’t been. He has been a kind, generous, benevolent ruler. He is also of a very trusting nature, which has caused some trouble, but I’ll get back to that later.
My mother was a woman from a noble family of knights. She was as kind as my father, though not so quick to trust everyone. Then there was my older brother, Finley, who was a horrible pest to me at times, while at others we would play together, and he would tell me stories.
Life was mostly peaceful up until just shortly after my tenth birthday. An epidemic of the Red Plague had broken out. That is the plague that makes you bleed to death. Finley had been out on a training mission for his future knighthood, and returned with the disease, along with the entire squadron of squires and knights that he had traveled with. The symptoms don’t show right away, but as soon as they did we were all separated and quarantined.
The last time I saw Finley was at his funeral ceremony. I was released from quarantine on that very day, and was informed that not only would it be my brother’s funeral, but my mother’s as well. Their bodies were burned (not just for tradition, but also to help stop the spread of the disease) on funeral pyres for public viewing and mourning, and later we had a private family ceremony where we scattered their ashes into the Pelaise Sea.
And so my father and I carried on, up until I was sixteen and we were betrayed.
Back before I was born, there was a great war against another kingdom. Our side won, and in the process my father had become close friends with a very ambitious man named Selos. Selos had so charmed and impressed and manipulated my father that he went all the way from being a simple soldier at the start of the war to being my father’s personal advisor by the end. Myself and the rest of the family never trusted him, but my father has always thought of him as a brother. I wonder how he would feel now if he knew the truth? I can clearly imagine the pain in his eyes. My father is so trusting.
Being the only child left, I was the heir to the throne. When there is no eligible heir, the ruler is allowed to personally select someone they feel is suitable for the position. I’m sure you can see where this is going. But I will tell you the rest anyway.
One night I sat in my room, reading one of my lesson books. It was about horseriding, I believe. Then there was a powerful blow to my head and everything went black. He must have sent a Tarvat assassin… their contracts are extremely expensive, but they are experts at being completely silent. Selos would have had the money. My father paid him very well.
I awoke to find myself in a dark stone cell. To this day I still don’t know where it was exactly. My nightgown had been replaced with a garment that resembled a potato sack.
There was a bucket for waste, a small bowl of water and bowl of something grey and slimy-looking. I assume it was edible, but I never tried it to find out.
I am not sure how long I laid on that wooden bench that was my “bed” and waited. Time stood still in that place. All I know is that there were some times when the scratching and skittering of the rats grew louder, and other times when they became quieter. The moans and cries of who I assumed were fellow prisoners seemed to match this pattern.
Then finally my door swung open. It was Selos, dressed rather plainly as he always insisted on doing, and he was flanked by two guards. One held a torch, and I shut my eyes against the offending light. Before I knew it, one guard had me pinned down hard against the bench. The torch was held close to me, I couldn’t see well. I tried to wriggle free, but to no avail. When I opened my mouth to scream, that’s when it happened. He slipped /something/ into my mouth… it felt like a pill. My mouth was covered before I could spit it out, and I was jostled around roughly until it fell down my throat.
They all stepped back then. I sat up slowly and opened my eyes, which had by then adjusted to the torchlight. I saw him, Selos, no longer putting on the act of being humble and kind as he did for my father. His mouth was twisted into the most smug, self-satisfied smile I’d ever seen. He said nothing, but turned and left with his lackeys. The iron door slammed shut and I heard the clicking and clinking of the lock. All was dark again. I laid back down on the bench and waited. For what? I don’t know. To die, I suppose. I assumed he had poisoned me.
And he did, in a way. I awoke from a deep sleep to find myself writhing around on the cold stone floor. I just couldn’t hold still, no matter what commands my mind tried to send to my limbs. I felt like I was being twisted, pushed, pulled by some unseen force. Like clay being molded.
My skin burned. Somehow I regained enough control over myself to pull away that sack I was wearing. My body finally grew still, and I laid myself on the chill floor to try and ease the burning. It helped for a while, though I don’t know how long. I very nearly fell asleep, but was roused from that half-sleep when I felt a sharp stinging on my arms and torso, and a warmth on my fingers. I opened my eyes to find blood on my fingertips and under my nails. I had been clawing at myself.
Then the shaking started. Uncontrollable, fitful shaking that I thought for sure would snap my neck from the force. My muscles ached, even my bones were sore. Deep inside, it felt like my very organs were churning. I couldn’t stop thinking, or possibly shouting, “I’m going to die!” I couldn’t really hear anything then, or see anything. My whole being was consumed by all this intense /feeling./
I could feel everything. I could feel every stone beneath me, I could feel what little air current there was, I could feel every hair on my body. I could feel my nails once again digging into my skin, both the pain from it and also the feeling of tearing through flesh. It felt as though my skin had a slightly different quality to it. It’s difficult to explain. It just didn’t feel like /mine./
I felt a creeping, tickling feeling up my back. There was a tingling on my scalp. My hair, my long golden-blonde hair that curled so nicely at the ends, was growing shorter. I jerked a hand back to grab at it, but the ever-shortening strands slipped through my fingers.
I dropped my hand back down in front of me and noticed then that it was in the process of becoming someone else’s hand. I stared, my eyes so wide that they hurt. I could feel the bones growing and the skin stretching as my hand grew larger, and I became aware that it was happening to my other hand as well. And my arms. My feet. My legs. All over.
A voice cried out into the dark. I felt it from my own throat, but it was not my voice. That sound echoing off the stone walls was NOT my voice. Not mine.
I rolled over hard onto my back, banging a now broader shoulder against the floor. I could feel it bruise.
I wrapped my arms around myself, hugging myself, squeezing myself, trying to force everything back to how it had been. I probably shouldn’t have done that. It only caused me to feel the changes even more strongly. The arm wrapped around my waist felt the straightening of the womanly curves I had been so excited about acquiring. The arm around my chest felt my breasts dissolving beneath it, disappearing into my skin until my chest was completely flat.
Even though I was still alive, I felt as though I was dying. I held tightly onto one last sliver of hope, the hope that this would stop, the hope that someone would come and gallantly rescue me before this was over. But that hope was shattered when an intense, pushing pain in my lower region was only relieved once I had acquired the parts of the once-opposite sex.
It is difficult to explain how it feels. I’ve heard that there are some who, from the moment of their birth, are not who they truly feel they were meant to be. If this is true, I think they could somewhat understand. But who could understand how it feels to have yourself ripped away by force? I don’t know. I don’t know how many other people he’s done this to.
Exhaustion soon set in and I passed out there on the floor. It felt like I had slept for days before I was awoken by rough, cold hands on my body. I was being forced into clothing, and I could tell by the texture and fit of them that they were of poor quality. Peasant clothes.
A blindfold was wrapped around my eyes, and a wad of cloth was stuffed into my mouth as a gag. A rope was used to tie my hands behind my back. I was marched along then on bare feet, down through the halls of wherever this place was. I could hear crying voices all around me.
We went up several flights of stairs. I stumbled many times, as apparently they were in too much of a hurry to care about the fact that I couldn’t see where I was going, not to mention that it was difficult to walk in a body so different from my own.
I heard a door open and I was shoved forward. I felt dry, prickly grass beneath my feet, and the warm sun on my new skin. If I hadn’t been so upset, I would have been glad to finally be breathing fresh air.
I was shoved again and once more marched along until my legs bumped into something hard. I was loaded into what was apparently the back of a wagon, full of straw. I heard a voice then, one that I recognized. It was very near, and sounded darkly amused.
“You, a thief who attempted to steal from the royal palace, are now banished from this city. Our most kind, gracious king has decreed that you will not be beheaded, but instead will toil for four years in the village of Anlin. After such time, if the head of the village reports favorably, you will be considered repented for your crimes and will be free to leave.”
My father believed that many criminals, especially young ones, needed only hard work and a sense of purpose and accomplishment in order to turn their lives around. He would often send them to villages in much need of assistance, where they would work out their sentence under the supervision of the heads of the village and the guards stationed in the area.
Selos leaned in close then. I could feel his breath on my ear, and I could smell that expensive cologne that he wore every day. I had never liked it, but now it made me feel nauseated.
He spoke in a near-whisper, “If you are seen in this city again, you will be captured, and I cannot guarantee that your punishment will be so light next time, princess. I would strongly advise that you create a new life elsewhere.”
I tried to lash out then, any way I could. I ended up trying to thrash my body in his direction, but this only resulted in who I assume was a guard slamming me hard onto the floor of the wagon. I could barely breathe through all the straw.
I heard Selos give out the order for them to take me away, and so they did. It was a very long ride, taking several days. I was permitted only the absolute necessities during that time, and I spent most of the time gagged and bound.
When we reached the village, I was released and put into the custody of the head of the village, Sandara. She had sat me in one of the unsteady chairs in her dusty shack of a home, offered me a bowl of watery soup, and asked me my name. I didn’t say, because I didn’t know anymore. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to hear myself speak.
Over the course of a few days she ended up naming me herself. Gio. Her quiet little Gio. She let me live in her home, and she treated me as if I were her own child. She must have known that something was wrong, as every night of those first few days, and even on some nights now, she would sit by me and stroke my hair gently. At such times I wished to blurt everything out to her, but I couldn’t. No one would believe me. It would only make things worse.
I did come very near to telling them, though. A week after my arrival, the news finally reached Anlin that the princess had vanished. The distraught king was sending out everyone who could to search for her, always assisted faithfully by his loyal advisor. I practically bit my tongue off to keep myself from saying anything about it, other than agreeing with the villagers that it was such a tragedy.
And now we come back to the present. I have been in this village for three years now. It’s true that all this time there has still been some part of my true self in this body. In my mind, my heart and soul. But every day, little by little, I feel as though I’m still in the process of losing myself, of dying.
More and more I find myself slipping into this role. Quiet Gio, Sandara’s adopted son, a petty peasant thief who stupidly tried to steal from the palace and is now paying his dues. There are times when I even feel some peace inside, when I’m with these people who treat me like family. But then I remember that it’s Gio they care for, not Elaria. Sometimes I wonder how they would react if I suddenly changed back. Would they still care about me? Would they feel betrayed? Would they ask me why I didn’t tell them in the first place, or would they wish they never knew?
Now it is getting quite late. I have to admit, this place does have beautiful sunsets.
I’ll go inside and eat my meager supper with Sandara, and I’ll speak quietly and very little, and I will listen to the stories she tells of her childhood. Then I will go to sleep and hope that I don’t dream the dreams that have me waking in tears, and then I will repeat the process over again. Just as I have for three years now.
I can’t say for sure just what I’ll do when my sentence is over. I feel attachment to this place, so I will try to come back someday, if I’m still alive. I know I must leave. I know I must carry out my revenge, whether it results in a return to my true self or my bodily demise. But for now, I continue this routine, wearing this mask.
For now, I am quiet, hardworking Gio. The other villagers often tell me that I am a very good boy.
I did have this proofread, but not by me. XD; I have a hard time re-reading my stuff. I usually end up deleting big chunks, and then trashing it completely.
The idea was just something that popped into my head like last week, and I finally got around to writing it. The first few paragraphs are always the hardest.
I hope the TF scene isn't too graphic-y or anything. If any mods find it inappropriate, lemme know. ...I felt so mean writing it. You'll see why. ^^;
Anyway, this is like my first time ever posting a story outside of a caption here. Also the first time in a long time that I've publically shown a story.
Constructive criticism is welcome, but uh... be gentle? XD;;
Well, here we go...
A Very Good Boy
------------------------------
Old Sandara placed a wrinkled hand on my shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “It’s getting late, Gio. Supper is almost ready. Why don’t you come in now?”
I didn’t stop my work even as she spoke to me. The hoe struck the ground again, and again, and again. A rhythm I was very used to by now. It was relaxing in a way. “I want to finish this first.”
The old woman chuckled, then reached up to hold down the scarf over her hair as a gust of warm, dusty wind blew past us. The air was always full of dust in this desolate place. My eyes were always dry.
Sandara squeezed my shoulder again and spoke gently, “You work so hard. Only one more year to go, eh? Then your sentence will be finished. But I will be sad to see you go. You’re a very good boy, Gio.”
I gave her a quick, forced smile and then returned to my work. She patted my back softly before heading back to the rickety wooden shack she called her home, hunched over and holding her scarf as she walked against the increasingly strong winds of the evening. It would be getting colder soon. Her arthritis will act up, so I’ll give her my blanket tonight.
And so back to the monotonous thunk, thunk, thunk of the hoe into the hard, dry dirt. It was mostly pointless work. There was about as much chance of anything decent growing here as there was of me suddenly sprouting wings and flying away. What did grow looked close to rotten even when it was freshly pulled from the ground, but we ate it anyway. Thankfully there is not a large population in this village, if you can even call it that. Most of the younger villagers had left long ago, but a few stayed, insistent that this barren wasteland could be saved. I don’t know why they held onto it. Maybe because they remembered a time when it was green and healthy. Sandara speaks of it at times, but I can’t even imagine. She doesn’t speak about it for long, anyway. The memories make her cry.
My own memories are like that. If I dwell on them too much, if I remember the happy times, I cry. Sometimes I allow myself that time, time to just sit alone and feel hopeless. But then I push it back down and continue on. As unhealthy as it must be, I have to admit that anger and a thirst for revenge often fuel me. I’ve learned to dull the feelings so as not to be walking around in a rage all the time, but they’re still there. I’m paying a double-sentence, both a complete lie. But all but those who did this to me know only about one. The other, if I told them, would surely cause them to think I’ve gone quite insane.
But I suppose I can tell you. You’re just a figment of my imagination anyway, and I speak to myself often. I have retold this story to myself so many times.
I am the Princess Elaria of the Kingdom of Canray. This kingdom. My kingdom.
And how could a farming peasant boy be a princess? You must think I’m crazy. And I suppose I am now, since I’m even talking to you in the first place. But let me explain. I’ll start from the beginning.
My childhood was a happy, privileged one. My father was, and still is, the king. He was born into it. His father had reigned well for some time before his passing away from a heart attack, and then his wife became the queen. She ruled cruelly over the country, and my father vowed to never be like her. And so he hasn’t been. He has been a kind, generous, benevolent ruler. He is also of a very trusting nature, which has caused some trouble, but I’ll get back to that later.
My mother was a woman from a noble family of knights. She was as kind as my father, though not so quick to trust everyone. Then there was my older brother, Finley, who was a horrible pest to me at times, while at others we would play together, and he would tell me stories.
Life was mostly peaceful up until just shortly after my tenth birthday. An epidemic of the Red Plague had broken out. That is the plague that makes you bleed to death. Finley had been out on a training mission for his future knighthood, and returned with the disease, along with the entire squadron of squires and knights that he had traveled with. The symptoms don’t show right away, but as soon as they did we were all separated and quarantined.
The last time I saw Finley was at his funeral ceremony. I was released from quarantine on that very day, and was informed that not only would it be my brother’s funeral, but my mother’s as well. Their bodies were burned (not just for tradition, but also to help stop the spread of the disease) on funeral pyres for public viewing and mourning, and later we had a private family ceremony where we scattered their ashes into the Pelaise Sea.
And so my father and I carried on, up until I was sixteen and we were betrayed.
Back before I was born, there was a great war against another kingdom. Our side won, and in the process my father had become close friends with a very ambitious man named Selos. Selos had so charmed and impressed and manipulated my father that he went all the way from being a simple soldier at the start of the war to being my father’s personal advisor by the end. Myself and the rest of the family never trusted him, but my father has always thought of him as a brother. I wonder how he would feel now if he knew the truth? I can clearly imagine the pain in his eyes. My father is so trusting.
Being the only child left, I was the heir to the throne. When there is no eligible heir, the ruler is allowed to personally select someone they feel is suitable for the position. I’m sure you can see where this is going. But I will tell you the rest anyway.
One night I sat in my room, reading one of my lesson books. It was about horseriding, I believe. Then there was a powerful blow to my head and everything went black. He must have sent a Tarvat assassin… their contracts are extremely expensive, but they are experts at being completely silent. Selos would have had the money. My father paid him very well.
I awoke to find myself in a dark stone cell. To this day I still don’t know where it was exactly. My nightgown had been replaced with a garment that resembled a potato sack.
There was a bucket for waste, a small bowl of water and bowl of something grey and slimy-looking. I assume it was edible, but I never tried it to find out.
I am not sure how long I laid on that wooden bench that was my “bed” and waited. Time stood still in that place. All I know is that there were some times when the scratching and skittering of the rats grew louder, and other times when they became quieter. The moans and cries of who I assumed were fellow prisoners seemed to match this pattern.
Then finally my door swung open. It was Selos, dressed rather plainly as he always insisted on doing, and he was flanked by two guards. One held a torch, and I shut my eyes against the offending light. Before I knew it, one guard had me pinned down hard against the bench. The torch was held close to me, I couldn’t see well. I tried to wriggle free, but to no avail. When I opened my mouth to scream, that’s when it happened. He slipped /something/ into my mouth… it felt like a pill. My mouth was covered before I could spit it out, and I was jostled around roughly until it fell down my throat.
They all stepped back then. I sat up slowly and opened my eyes, which had by then adjusted to the torchlight. I saw him, Selos, no longer putting on the act of being humble and kind as he did for my father. His mouth was twisted into the most smug, self-satisfied smile I’d ever seen. He said nothing, but turned and left with his lackeys. The iron door slammed shut and I heard the clicking and clinking of the lock. All was dark again. I laid back down on the bench and waited. For what? I don’t know. To die, I suppose. I assumed he had poisoned me.
And he did, in a way. I awoke from a deep sleep to find myself writhing around on the cold stone floor. I just couldn’t hold still, no matter what commands my mind tried to send to my limbs. I felt like I was being twisted, pushed, pulled by some unseen force. Like clay being molded.
My skin burned. Somehow I regained enough control over myself to pull away that sack I was wearing. My body finally grew still, and I laid myself on the chill floor to try and ease the burning. It helped for a while, though I don’t know how long. I very nearly fell asleep, but was roused from that half-sleep when I felt a sharp stinging on my arms and torso, and a warmth on my fingers. I opened my eyes to find blood on my fingertips and under my nails. I had been clawing at myself.
Then the shaking started. Uncontrollable, fitful shaking that I thought for sure would snap my neck from the force. My muscles ached, even my bones were sore. Deep inside, it felt like my very organs were churning. I couldn’t stop thinking, or possibly shouting, “I’m going to die!” I couldn’t really hear anything then, or see anything. My whole being was consumed by all this intense /feeling./
I could feel everything. I could feel every stone beneath me, I could feel what little air current there was, I could feel every hair on my body. I could feel my nails once again digging into my skin, both the pain from it and also the feeling of tearing through flesh. It felt as though my skin had a slightly different quality to it. It’s difficult to explain. It just didn’t feel like /mine./
I felt a creeping, tickling feeling up my back. There was a tingling on my scalp. My hair, my long golden-blonde hair that curled so nicely at the ends, was growing shorter. I jerked a hand back to grab at it, but the ever-shortening strands slipped through my fingers.
I dropped my hand back down in front of me and noticed then that it was in the process of becoming someone else’s hand. I stared, my eyes so wide that they hurt. I could feel the bones growing and the skin stretching as my hand grew larger, and I became aware that it was happening to my other hand as well. And my arms. My feet. My legs. All over.
A voice cried out into the dark. I felt it from my own throat, but it was not my voice. That sound echoing off the stone walls was NOT my voice. Not mine.
I rolled over hard onto my back, banging a now broader shoulder against the floor. I could feel it bruise.
I wrapped my arms around myself, hugging myself, squeezing myself, trying to force everything back to how it had been. I probably shouldn’t have done that. It only caused me to feel the changes even more strongly. The arm wrapped around my waist felt the straightening of the womanly curves I had been so excited about acquiring. The arm around my chest felt my breasts dissolving beneath it, disappearing into my skin until my chest was completely flat.
Even though I was still alive, I felt as though I was dying. I held tightly onto one last sliver of hope, the hope that this would stop, the hope that someone would come and gallantly rescue me before this was over. But that hope was shattered when an intense, pushing pain in my lower region was only relieved once I had acquired the parts of the once-opposite sex.
It is difficult to explain how it feels. I’ve heard that there are some who, from the moment of their birth, are not who they truly feel they were meant to be. If this is true, I think they could somewhat understand. But who could understand how it feels to have yourself ripped away by force? I don’t know. I don’t know how many other people he’s done this to.
Exhaustion soon set in and I passed out there on the floor. It felt like I had slept for days before I was awoken by rough, cold hands on my body. I was being forced into clothing, and I could tell by the texture and fit of them that they were of poor quality. Peasant clothes.
A blindfold was wrapped around my eyes, and a wad of cloth was stuffed into my mouth as a gag. A rope was used to tie my hands behind my back. I was marched along then on bare feet, down through the halls of wherever this place was. I could hear crying voices all around me.
We went up several flights of stairs. I stumbled many times, as apparently they were in too much of a hurry to care about the fact that I couldn’t see where I was going, not to mention that it was difficult to walk in a body so different from my own.
I heard a door open and I was shoved forward. I felt dry, prickly grass beneath my feet, and the warm sun on my new skin. If I hadn’t been so upset, I would have been glad to finally be breathing fresh air.
I was shoved again and once more marched along until my legs bumped into something hard. I was loaded into what was apparently the back of a wagon, full of straw. I heard a voice then, one that I recognized. It was very near, and sounded darkly amused.
“You, a thief who attempted to steal from the royal palace, are now banished from this city. Our most kind, gracious king has decreed that you will not be beheaded, but instead will toil for four years in the village of Anlin. After such time, if the head of the village reports favorably, you will be considered repented for your crimes and will be free to leave.”
My father believed that many criminals, especially young ones, needed only hard work and a sense of purpose and accomplishment in order to turn their lives around. He would often send them to villages in much need of assistance, where they would work out their sentence under the supervision of the heads of the village and the guards stationed in the area.
Selos leaned in close then. I could feel his breath on my ear, and I could smell that expensive cologne that he wore every day. I had never liked it, but now it made me feel nauseated.
He spoke in a near-whisper, “If you are seen in this city again, you will be captured, and I cannot guarantee that your punishment will be so light next time, princess. I would strongly advise that you create a new life elsewhere.”
I tried to lash out then, any way I could. I ended up trying to thrash my body in his direction, but this only resulted in who I assume was a guard slamming me hard onto the floor of the wagon. I could barely breathe through all the straw.
I heard Selos give out the order for them to take me away, and so they did. It was a very long ride, taking several days. I was permitted only the absolute necessities during that time, and I spent most of the time gagged and bound.
When we reached the village, I was released and put into the custody of the head of the village, Sandara. She had sat me in one of the unsteady chairs in her dusty shack of a home, offered me a bowl of watery soup, and asked me my name. I didn’t say, because I didn’t know anymore. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to hear myself speak.
Over the course of a few days she ended up naming me herself. Gio. Her quiet little Gio. She let me live in her home, and she treated me as if I were her own child. She must have known that something was wrong, as every night of those first few days, and even on some nights now, she would sit by me and stroke my hair gently. At such times I wished to blurt everything out to her, but I couldn’t. No one would believe me. It would only make things worse.
I did come very near to telling them, though. A week after my arrival, the news finally reached Anlin that the princess had vanished. The distraught king was sending out everyone who could to search for her, always assisted faithfully by his loyal advisor. I practically bit my tongue off to keep myself from saying anything about it, other than agreeing with the villagers that it was such a tragedy.
And now we come back to the present. I have been in this village for three years now. It’s true that all this time there has still been some part of my true self in this body. In my mind, my heart and soul. But every day, little by little, I feel as though I’m still in the process of losing myself, of dying.
More and more I find myself slipping into this role. Quiet Gio, Sandara’s adopted son, a petty peasant thief who stupidly tried to steal from the palace and is now paying his dues. There are times when I even feel some peace inside, when I’m with these people who treat me like family. But then I remember that it’s Gio they care for, not Elaria. Sometimes I wonder how they would react if I suddenly changed back. Would they still care about me? Would they feel betrayed? Would they ask me why I didn’t tell them in the first place, or would they wish they never knew?
Now it is getting quite late. I have to admit, this place does have beautiful sunsets.
I’ll go inside and eat my meager supper with Sandara, and I’ll speak quietly and very little, and I will listen to the stories she tells of her childhood. Then I will go to sleep and hope that I don’t dream the dreams that have me waking in tears, and then I will repeat the process over again. Just as I have for three years now.
I can’t say for sure just what I’ll do when my sentence is over. I feel attachment to this place, so I will try to come back someday, if I’m still alive. I know I must leave. I know I must carry out my revenge, whether it results in a return to my true self or my bodily demise. But for now, I continue this routine, wearing this mask.
For now, I am quiet, hardworking Gio. The other villagers often tell me that I am a very good boy.
So many people who post stories on the internet don't even bother to capitalize. It drives me crazy, and when people ignore these most fundanmental and simple conventions, well, I simply can't read it. Yours was quite readable. I do indeed think you could expand this and make a broader story out of it.