She was frail, a wisp of a girl whose pallor blended with the stone walls of the castle that confined her. Her fragility masked her sex; there was no makeup to soften her harsh, angular features, no vibrant silks to drape her slight frame. She spoke seldom, aware her words carried as much weight as the dust motes dancing in the narrow stream of light through her window. And yet, she resented her own insignificance.
The castle, her home, was a prison in all but name. A high tower room, perched just far enough above the courtyard to turn escape into a suicide mission. No locks on the door, no chains on her wrists. Yet she was bound as surely as any prisoner. Her curse—at least, that's what she believed—was not chains of iron but of hatred. Her mere presence sowed discord. Arguments exploded whenever she entered a room, anger stirred from the quiet like a tempest. So, she stayed away.
The king, her father, was beloved by all. His reign was prosperous; the kingdom thrived under his steady hand. But in his heart, his eldest daughter was a blight. A disappointment. A stain on the crown. His second daughter, the golden princess, was everything he could have wished for—graceful, beautiful, sought after by princes and knights. She was adorned in roses, while the elder daughter, this wretched thing, was hidden from view, out of shame and superstition.
Her existence was whispered of but seldom acknowledged. She lived for years in isolation, her company limited to herself and the endless echoes of self-loathing. She tried to escape, in the most permanent of ways. Poison, falls from the tower—futile gestures, as if the curse itself wouldn't let her die. As if her suffering was preordained to last.
Then came the day Freefall returned. He was not real, of course—just another of her creations, like the imaginary friends of her childhood. But Freefall was no doll. He was cynical and hollow, a reflection of the very world that scorned her. His sickly yellow eyes never left her, even when she tried to forget his crouching presence in the corner of her room. Yet he was always there, brooding thoughtlessly.
"You've been gone too long," she whispered.
"I never left. I've been here, waiting."
His gaze made her feel diseased, tainted. She shuddered, wishing he would leave, yet terrified of the silence he would leave behind.
"Would you promise to stay?"
Freefall chuckled, low and bitter. "Have you ever considered," he murmured, "that perhaps you are my demon, and not the other way around?"
She recoiled. His words lingered, long after the shadows crept in and took him with them.
Loneliness suffocated her, creeping into her soul like fog on cold mornings. Occasionally, she found respite in writing, drawing the worlds in her mind onto parchment. But most days, she cried, hugging her knees to her chest, pleading with the walls for a friend. No one came. And certainly not the sort of shining knight who could save her.
There was no speaking to her father. She could not change his opinion of her. She could not please him. He would only turn red-faced and snarling. She did not wish for that most of all, so she returned to seclusion. She understood for the first time how the damsels in fairy tales felt. They could not save themselves. They had to have someone. She had no one.
The girl awoke on her sixteenth birthday. She remembered her birthday, but no one celebrated it. But a single note slid under her door.