Her royal Highness, Princess Leila of house Halmeuth, gazed wistfully as the raindrops fell across the glass scattering the coloured design into a boastful array of beauty. In disgust she turned away. Her Highness had always felt a distinct objection to the enormous windows carved into every wall of the palace. It was, she felt, over-done. However, one could not argue the intense effect it had on the nobles; they adored it. Leila wondered, as she stared, why they adored melted sand, as if it were diamond. Now that, would truly be a spectacle to behold, imagine how the sunlight would filter through, throwing golden shadows about the dusty corridors. Glass shattered too easily, it broke and made a mess. Leila gave the window one last look of disgust before she turned her back on it and strode down the corridor, with a grace and confidence as only the Imperial Princess of the South should. As she strolled, she contemplated. What Leila felt was particularly bizarre was the lack of self important nobodies about this morning. Usually they bustled about without any real sense of direction. Her Highness wondered as she walked, what they actually did to support the country. Little, she surmised. When at last she came to the large oak doors, Leila sighed and pressed her fingers against the dead wood, her eyes filled with an expression of guilt and regret. “I still mourn you, my dearest friend.” and then she pushed them lightly, and the doors swung open in greeting. A huge room, and a man sprawled on a throne. He looked up as she passed through the doorway. “Leila. My Love, how wonderful of you to come.” The worn man croaked. “Father...” “Ah, it is to be one of those visits.” “I don’t know what you mean, Father.” She replied in sad voice. “My! How cruelly she treats her poor old Father, do you see, see how she treats me, Leonel?” Leonel was a tall, lean, serious faced man, who never left her Fathers side. He was, one could assume, a bodyguard of some kind. Ever since that night, Leonel had fixed himself to the King and refused to leave. Leila quite detested the man. “If your Majesty would agree to it, why not teach her Highness some manners? The child is coming to the age where obedience to her betters should shine through with every word she speaks.” He looked at Leila appraisingly, a hint of steel in his eyes even as a the corners of his thin lips twitched into a cold smirk. Leila stared helplessly at the man, what she wished to retort could not be said in audience of the King, of her father. Not to his most trusted man. And especially not by her. “What Leonel says is right. You will learn some respect, or you will learn to be quiet.” “Congratulations, your Majesty. You seem to have finally regained your voice. And so early in the morning too! I am so glad. The medicine must be working.” Leonel crooned. Appalled, Leila turned her back and began to walk from the room, quite safe in the knowledge that neither her father nor Leonel were willing to talk civilly any further. Why was it, she thought, that just when she wished no one would be roaming the halls, everyone seemed to come out at once. Watching her flee, tears standing in her eyes with sardonic pity plain in their expressions. She hated them. She hated this place. And she hated herself. It had happened more than a year ago now; that night in the palace. Many had died, and Leila remembered it as clear as day. They were trying to get to her, this she understood perfectly, though little evidence had been found to actually suggest it. Eight or nine important officials had been murdered and the chief of her guard and several palace soldiers had slipped into a deep sleep they would not come out of on that night of horror. Leila was fifteen at the time, and very mature for her age. She remembered she was sleeping soundly in her chamber when two people burst through the door. One, her Father. The other, following a little behind was her Mother. The King seemed almost mad, as he threw the doors wide open, startling Leila. She cried out, and his eyes fixed on her; red, red as blood, his mouth drew back into a grotesque snarl as his hands reached out for his beloved daughters neck. Leila could not move, those eyes held her, burned into her soul even as her Mother had thrown herself at the King in an attempt to stop him. “Darrel! No!” And then he had turned on her, his own wife, his soul mate, and drawing the dagger at his belt had pierced her in the heart. Leila watched as she tumbled to the stone floor, rivers of red leaked from beyond her hair, so alike spun-gold, now red as ruby. She had watched as her mother mouthed her final words. “Darrel please, don’t give in...I love you, my beloved, survive...and conquer what’s inside of you.” then she had passed into a world neither of them could follow. And her Father, seeming to be drawn back into sanity by her words had put his head into his hands and wept. Leonel had appeared then and took the King away. The next time Leila saw her father was on the day of the funeral. No one spoke a word of what had happened after that, nor did any speculate on who was responsible for the murders in the palace. But every soul in the palace were agreed upon one thing, the blood that was shed in the palace had awakened the King’s taint, as it had Laila’s Grandfather and his Grandfather and every other Father before them. He was changed then, he spoke little and when he did his voice was so hoarse it grated upon the ear. Leonel had said it was the medicines which stopped the Kings ability to converse, Leonel had also said that the medicine would quench the Kings madness. Leila refused to believe either, though she knew her Father was undeniably mad. And she was terrified of him. The rain drowned out the painful memories, and waking from her stupor Leila became aware of where she had fled to, the same place she always came to when she felt melancholy. The courtyard extended in a large rounded oval and high stone-wash walls imprisoned her. The walls had not always been there, once there had been shrubs covered in varying blooms, and colour, and #life. It seemed as winter came the colour drained from the world and not even the crisp white of first snow had blessed the palace this year. Leila felt her mood deteriorating and apathy emerge inside of her, it was as though the winter had frozen her heart. The ground cracked beneath her feet as Leila advanced towards the heart of the courtyard where a large gaping hole and overturned soil met her. Here had once stood a magnificent oak tree, it could have been as old as the Gods themselves Laila had believed. When she was a child Laila had enjoyed running her hands up the rough bark and climbing the thick limbs with bare feet and leaves in her hair, it was the time of her innocence, when all the world was a palace, loving parents and a large beautiful tree. Laila sighed and a tear fell from her left eye; the other remained dry. It had always been that way, Laila had never been able to cry from her green eye and tears always ran freely and often from her blue eye. There was a sense in that. Her left eye was a deep blue and it always appeared glistening as if on the verge of tears, blue for sadness.
