The Lullaby

The soft glow of the early morning sun spilled into the hallway, casting a warm embrace on Christine as she moved gracefully, tray in hand. The delicate clinks of porcelain echoed against the hushed ambiance. Her destination was the room of the Ásján princess.

Princess Ingrid was the first of her kind that Christine had ever met. For most Sylvanians, an encounter with an Ásján was nearly impossible.

The tales circulating about them painted a negative picture, branding them as an arrogant and selfish race. This perception had grown so extreme that even individuals born with white hair, unrelated to Ásján heritage, faced persecution.

Before Christine entered the room, she recalled the instructions given to her — to treat the princess as she would any other master. Initially, she had interpreted this advice as a caution against mistreatment.

Expecting the princess to embody the haughty characteristics described in Sylvanian stories, Christine was taken aback by the sight that awaited her. Princess Ingrid possessed an otherworldly beauty, with silver hair, soft blue eyes, and pale skin. Instead of arrogance, what Christine witnessed was a vulnerable soul. The night goddess from Sylvanian tales stood before her, in tears, pleading to see the maids she adored.

"They are still humans, after all," Christine thought to herself.

She took a deep breath as she approached the princess' room. She gently pushed the door open, expecting to find the princess still in slumber.

However, to her surprise, Ingrid was already awake, seated on her bed and leaning against the bedrest. The princess didn't seem to have fallen asleep at all. Her eyes looked tired, and her silver hair was a tangled mess.

"Your Highness, what happened?" Christine inquired, concern etching her features.

Ingrid turned her head slowly, acknowledging Christine's presence. "Good morning, Christine," she greeted, her voice holding a hint of weariness. "Can I have the tea?"

Christine, momentarily taken aback by the princess's request, quickly composed herself. "Of course," she responded, a sense of urgency in her voice as she set the tray down on a nearby table and poured it into a cup.

Ingrid's gaze lingered on Christine's fluid movements as she traversed the room, the tray balanced effortlessly in her hands.

"Christine, are you from a family of knights? Have you trained with swords?" Ingrid inquired, her voice as gentle as the breeze.

Christine looked up to face the princess, her brows raised in curiosity and amusement. "Why would you think so, Your Highness?" she asked.

"Mmm. You move like a knight I knew," Ingrid responded, her eyes tracing the subtle grace in Christine's motions.

Christine picked up the tray with a steaming cup of tea and walked towards Ingrid. "That flatters me, Your Highness. However, I am not from a family of knights and I have not trained with swords," she revealed. "But I am confident with my skills with knives."

Ingrid delicately picked up the offered tea, her fingers caressing the delicate porcelain. "What a useful skill," she remarked, savoring a sip of the warm brew. The room filled with the fragrant aroma of tea, mingling with the morning sunlight that painted the scene in hues of gold and warmth.

"Would you like to take a bath or have breakfast first, Your Highness?" Christine inquired, standing with grace beside the bed.

"I'll take a bath first," Ingrid replied with a soft determination.

"Then, I shall go warm it," Christine declared, bowing respectfully.

"Do not warm it. I want a cold bath."

"Pardon?" Christine's surprise was evident.

Ingrid smiled, a subtle mischief in her eyes. "Yes, and please take this book away from me," she added, pointing at the opened book on her bedside table. The morning sunlight streamed through the window, casting a gentle glow on the unexpected whims of a princess.

In the bathroom, the air was thick with the luxurious scent of roses and oils swirling around Ingrid as she submerged herself into the cold embrace of the bath. 

As she reclined in the tub, Ingrid's fingers delicately traced the contours of her naked form. The coolness of the water caressed her skin, a gentle contrast to the soothing heat of her touch. She cradled her own body, feeling the subtle ripples of the water dancing against her as she surrendered to the quiet embrace of the fragrant bath.

Ingrid's voice resonated through the quiet room, her words a soft murmur against the solitude. "They sent a soldier to serve me when the barracks are just right in front of the palace," she observed, her gaze fixed on the ceiling's emptiness.

Ingrid knew Christine was trained in combat. The subtle nuances in her scarred hands, her movements, and the resonance in her voice painted a silent portrait of a warrior. Things all too familiar to Ingrid.

Ingrid closed her eyes, allowing the water to envelop her, only her face breaking the surface. 

As the gentle ripples caressed her, a melody lingered in her mind, reminiscent of an old song. The water's embrace seemed to awaken the lyrics, and she began to hum softly. Soon, the haunting melody transformed into words, seamlessly blending with the water's rhythm.

Beneath the shadows of the fortress walls,

Tales unfold of a tribal princess from the north.

Her heart entwined with a prince so fair,

Yet destiny's twist, a love to beware.

Oh dear princess, blinded by desire,

Your heart's aflame, a love so dire.

A fool entangled in a web of fate,

The path you tread, a perilous debate.

She approached her father, tribal chief,

With a plea as sharp as a warrior's sheaf.

"I'll wed that prince or meet my end,

By this sword, my fate I'll mend."

Oh dear princess, dancing with fate,

In the web of love, you weave, too late.

A marriage forged for kingdom's might,

A loveless union veiled in night.

She wore the crown, a heavy weight,

A queen in name, love's bitter fate.

Her heart, a prisoner in a gilded cage,

A puppet on a royal stage.

She gave birth to a daughter, a child so divine,

Adorned with all, in radiance did shine.

Jealousy grew, a poisonous seed,

A mother's envy, a bitter deed.

Oh dear princess, lost in your pain,

A mother's love turned into disdain.

With a dagger raised, to her own kin's throat,

In the dark chambers, this lullaby she wrote.

Ingrid opened her eyes as her voice faded. With a weak whisper, she said, "Queen Mother, have you finally decided to bring my end?"