Unbound

Tradition

200 years.

200 years of evolution and advancement, and here she was: staring down the barrel of oppression and stagnation. The council c****d tradition between their fingers, a ominous click following its action. Annalise stared at it fully, raised a hand to shield herself from its pious actualization.

They were doing this – to her. They were actually doing this.

Of course, there were signs. Signs as red and boisterous and heeding as any she’d ever seen. The first was Agnar’s smile – an impish contraption – that sought to stretch the thin palette of his lips; the second was the council’s meeting invitation. Never, ever was she allowed to participate in political matters. Unless, of course, it somehow involved her unwilling participation.

And this? She scoffed mentally. On this, she was more than unwilling. She was vehemently opposed. Her thoughts kicked and screamed to the forefront, daring to be spoken, but she hurriedly quelled them.

We can’t lose it yet. We can still take the day. Patience, patience.

Her eyes met Agnar’s. Her heart thudded in her chest, willing the belligerent murkiness in obscuring the tactile emerald of her eyes to dissipate. If she dared to sway him, she’d need to appear innocent, feeble like a wounded doe. She drew her full lips into a quavering pout.

“Brother, please,” she said. “You can’t submit me to this. I –I’m not ready.”

Innocence. Meek.

The slanted planes of Agnar’s face softened, dough in her hands. Wisps of sandy-gray hair wrangled free of the vast, golden confines of the crown upon his head. His eyes – a modest forest, mossy green – struggled away from hers and instead fastened on his wife, Cassandra, whose lips pinches into a firm leer. She gave a subtle shake of her head, turned her gaze toward the ancient, balding heads of the council.

Annalise’s eyes sharpened to knives. They burrowed in Cassandra’s cheeks and left long, invisible scratched that oozed crimson.

Of course it’s you. It’s always you.

Agnar cleared his throat and coated his words with a hope that didn’t reach his eyes.

“On the contrary. There’s no princess who’s more prepared for the challenges ahead than you are. Any prince would be lucky to welcome you into his kingdom.”

“Indeed,” Cassandra agreed, her sharp, chirpy voice bleating through the chamber. “We couldn’t be prouder of your prowess in your studies and eloquence, though the etiquette could use some work….” Her eyes slid to Elizabeth’s elbows, which were firmly placed on the table and supporting her chin. “… No highness worthy of his title could resist you. Agnar, isn’t it so? Her beauty alone will inspire wars tomorrow night.”

“Yes, but beauty doesn’t win wars, money does,” Elizabeth hissed, innocent pretenses gone. “Money, may I remind her highness, that we don’t have. Due to wars that we’re still fighting.”

Council members squirmed in their seats and exchanged nervous glances. Agnar bit back a smirk. Meanwhile, Cassandra’s sneer only widened.

“Expansion comes at a price. A price that you’re willing to help us pay. With marriage. This is your destiny, Princess. Your parents were ardent observers of tradition. They even said –”

“Oh-ho, no, let me stop you there,” Analise jabbed a finger in her direction. “My parents sought to abolish the marriage law. They said that I could marry whomever I chose, whenever I chose. They said arranged marriage was a stupid tradition – so stupid, they refused to honor it themselves.”

Agnar stiffened in his seat.

“Analise, please –” he started, only to plowed over by his wife’s sharp words.

“Unfortunately, your parents sacrificed themselves before they could make such changes,” Cassandra said. “All that remains is the legacy they left behind– you. Your 18th birthday is a week away, and the scripture says you must be wed by then. We’ve already waited long enough as it is. It’s in the best interest of the kingdom to abide by the scriptures and choose your husband tomorrow evening –”

“Scriptures? You mean the scriptures that are as old and outdated as the opinions of everyone in this room?” Her fair cheeks flamed with a red so bright, it nearly warred with the raging auburn hues of hair. “The same scriptures with a fabled war between vampires and witches? The same scriptures that talk of blood heirs and a, what, mystical realm that we’re indebted to? The one that “supposedly” explains why our crops are dying and everything’s drying up? All bullshit.”

Cassandra gasped.

The council grumbled in their seats, but Agnar shuttled to his feet. His eyes were blown wide, his hands clenched in fists.

“Analise,” he said firmly. “You and I both know that it’s explicitly forbidden for you to read the scriptures. Only the King and council have access to them.”

“A princess’s nose doesn’t belong in politics,” Cassandra added, only to shrivel Agnar’s warning glare.

“News flash – I’m on the verge of becoming a queen. One way or another, I’d get to read them. I just skipped the formalities of waiting. Besides, I know for a fact Ariana read them.”

A hole blew wide in her chest. It was a familiar hole, one rife with tattered stitches. Childhood memories rolled through her mind: days of rolling hills and endless laughter. They were warm memories – blissful memories – that only a sister could create. Those memories were quickly obliterated; erased by marble headstones and a winding procession of mourners in black dress.

“Ariana was different,” Agnar argued.

“You’re right. She was allowed in council. She was allowed to have a voice and choose her husband. But me? I’m just a pawn to the throne – a w***e you can gift to the highest bidder.” She shuttled from her chair, sending a metallic screech across the council chamber’s floor. “Fine. I’ll dress up tomorrow night and throw myself before the auctioneers, let them lift my skirts if you wish. Anything for a few cents.”

Like a tornado, she raged from the room, leaving a shouting lot of chaos in her wake.