The Princess had long ago been forbade from her surreptitious forest expeditions, her stallion unhappily relegated to the stables where he paced. The horse too had a bandit darling he wished to see, and even less ability to accomplish his equine desires. Without her trips to the forest, her midnight meetings with Grimholt had become the old friends only time together.
Though he had been to numerous events for the suitors, one way or another Grimholt would be shut out. He felt like suitor was just a title he had, and one that carried no weight or meaning in Nicobar's rule. His invitations would be lost. If he managed to make it on time, Adora would be forcibly kept from him. Be it the game of cat-and-mouse he always seemed to be playing with the Prince, a thinly veiled threat from the Sheriff, or another suitor whisking her away. He made it through those days on her glances and gentle smiles alone.
In the beginning of this whole affair, he had been willing to accept that his beloved would be married to another. Over time his feeling on the matter had changed significantly. The more they kept him from her, the harder he intended to fight. He did not want to despise the Count, but Cinbran was not making such a task easy. Grimholt just knew the rich duke would not be so bold outside of the safety of Stormwatch's court.
Would not be so bold alone, in the forest, against the famed outlaw. What he wouldn't give for a chance to finally face him in a real sword fight.
Grimholt could not help feel a deep, wicked pleasure in knowing that only he spent the nights with Adora. For all the Prince and Count desired to keep them apart, Grimholt knew in his heart of hearts that when the blessed day finally came, that his beloved princess would choose him. He would only have to endure the agony a little longer. The pain was greatly softened by every stolen kiss under the stars until then.
Sneaking into her gardens was nothing new for him. Long before the contest he would hide among the branches of the willows, and watch her as he sharpened his blades or repaired clothing for the camp. She would paint her soft, delicate masterpieces, or on serene nights he would catch her in prayer before slumber, whispering the liturgies she had taught him once alongside her.
Tonight, however, Adora looked forlorn and far away. She rubbed roughly at her red, wet eyes and sighed. He climbed nimbly up the old tree easily, until he reached the branch that extended its crooked finger out to the castle.The princess was in her usual seat beside the open window, cheek resting on her palm and looking the picture of perfect misery.
"Princess?" He called softly, not wanting to startle her. "Princess Adora?"
"Sylven?" Her voice was hoarse. She had been crying for a long time again. He crept acrobatically along the branch until she could see him.
"You know, you can call me Grimholt. That is my name now." He smiled at her, and she returned it, but much more forlornly. Like she was recalling a terribly sad and sweet memory. When she said nothing he continued, "good evening, my lady. I hope I am not intruding. Shall we go for a walk? Or perhaps we stay in for the night? Could be romantic." He winked, but still her mood did not lighten.
In fact, she seemed to grow even more distressed. She looked anxiously to the corner of her room, then back to him.
"Adora? Are you alright?"
"Yes, I am... alright. But I think... it would be best if you left."
"Left? I thought-"
"Forget what you thought! Forget everything you thought!" She exclaimed suddenly. Grimholt stumbled on the narrow branch, for a moment and grabbed the above branches to not fall. "Oh, Sylven, I am sorry. I cannot continue this charade."
"Charade?" His voice was soft, distant. Almost like he was dreaming. Something hot and uncomfortable began to prickle within him, like the gnawing sting of insects.
"Yes, this whole terrible mess. I cannot keep lying."
"Lying? About what? You're not making sense. Has someone put you up to this?"
She glanced anxiously to the corner again. "You must stop coming to see me, Sylven."
"But, Adora-"
"I am engaged to wed Count Cinbran... post haste."
His legs wobbled under him, his strength and balance threatening to fail him and send him plummeting to the earth below. He scanned her face desperately hoping to see some secret sign that she did not want to do this. All he found was an expression of hurt, and painful sincerity.
"The Prince intends to make the announcement tomorrow. I am to be married in three days."
"Three days?!"
"What?" She laughed, a bitter sound that made the itch under his skin burn. "We have been betrothed since the Contest. What difference does this make?"
"Since the Contest?" He thought back to his greatest moment, the public humiliation of the Prince at his hand, ruined by the Count ushering his Princess away. "This whole time? This wholetime you have lied to me? Played me for a fool?"
The Princess swallowed hard, and squeezed her eyes shut. Tears slipped from her eyes when she opened them again. Another glance to the corner, each one making his frustration build. Just what was so important she could not tear her attention away to focus on ripping his heart out? Nothing she was saying made sense. The hot, itchy feeling was threatening to overtake him.
"Why did you you lie to me?" He demanded again, raising his voice. "I told you everything! I was honest about everything, Adora! I put the safety of everyone I'm in charge of on the line just for a chance to love you, and this is how you repay me? Stop looking over there! Who is there with you, Adora? Is Cinbran there? Because I will leap through this window and cut-"
"Stop," she said sharply, holding her hands up. Tears streamed down her face. "Please. Just go.
I did what I had to do, please understand that."
"Oh, that's rich! Coming from the bloody princess in her ivory tower. You could be doing so much more for your suffering people, and you know it. I know you know it. Instead all you bloody nobles leave the hard work to the damned criminals!"
"I am doing more for them this way."
For once, he was too stunned to speak. He leaned heavily on the branches, trying not to snap them in anger. He felt sick, like he might vomit or like he might destroy something. He was practically quaking with rage and betrayal. Were these her true colors, bleeding through the too-perfect painting he had painted in his mind of her?
"Is this why you could never tell me you loved me? Could not bear to lie about your true love?" "Please, stop. Just leave, Sylven. For your own-"
"It is Grimholt. Grimholt. I told you, Princess, I am not that little boy you knew. Thrown away by this Kingdom, by you. Yet, still I've came back and earned my name. You want me to forget everything I thought? How about you do the same. Or, don't you remember? I'm an enemy of the crown."
"The Phantom was right," she whispered, like a blow to the chest. "About people like you."
His world was crashing down around him, his body thrown from the ship into the icy depths, and the island of his love falling away into nothingness. He had fought many battles, lost more than he would admit. Had been stabbed, burned, and even shot at, but it was nothing compared to the supreme agony he felt now.
Didn't she know that she held his entire heart in her delicate hands?
He wanted her to say something, anything, in her normally gentle, sweet, consoling voice to quell this unstoppable emotion inside of him. She only stared back at him hard with weepy eyes and trembling shoulders. Pathetic. Weak. Useless.
How many times did he need to be taught the same lesson before he learned?
With a snap of his cape, he plunge down into the darkness below, relishing her alarmed gasp. Foolish woman who knew so little of who he was now. Did she think he was going to kill himself for her? He easily grabbed the branches, quickly scaling back down.
They had both been living in a fantasy of the past, and it was clear now that it was time to live in the present.
As he mounted his gray mare and took off into the night, Grimholt did not see the slithering, dark shadow that crept out and down from the Princess's window. Nor could the outlaw hear Adora as she collapsed into great, wracking sobs.
Instead he rode the back trails down to the city proper. He had once helped groom these trails with his father, but everything they had worked on for this ungrateful kingdom had been allowed to become overgrown and ugly and useless.
The Prince's negligence over the years was beginning to take its toll, causing fires and flooding among other problems Grimholt was ill equip to solve. The guards were at the beck and call of the pampered prince while Nicobar spent money only on frivolities, not sparing a coin for the citizens. As always, the needs and petitions of the people were presented to him to solve. Him, Grimholt, without any money or title or power.
What he wanted now, what he needed, was a drink. A real, strong drink and not the nauseating homemade liquor that Gristle cooked up. Grimholt tied up his unhappy mare outside the tavern and pulled his cloak's hood up. Damn anyone who would stop him, ask him for anything, or try to arrest him. They would taste his cutlass before they could utter one word, and be left holding their tongue as a reward for trying.
Inside he could hear the familiar cacophony of the pirates. His old crew in fact. Exactly who he was hoping to find. He had been alerted of their ship in the port, but was avoiding the port since being announced as a suitor. His infamy among the people was too great and his standing as a wanted outlaw not dissolved, only temporarily ignored at specific events and nowhere else thanks to Nicobar. Well, now he wasn't a suitor and all bets were off.
He stalked through the crowded tavern, keeping his face hidden until he found them on the second floor, away from the uneasy townsfolk. The people knew not if they could trust the pirates, which drove Grimholt to near madness. How could they ask him, repeatedly, for help, and then treat the closest thing he had left to family so poorly?
The pirates, a haphazard group much like his own crew of outlaws, regarded the stranger that approached the table with a cool hostility until he revealed himself.
"Get me a drink, boys," said Grimholt darkly. "I have a princess I need to forget."
His old crew easily welcomed him back into the fold and clearing a space for him next to Captain Redmarrow. They poured one tall glass after another for him, and he drank every last one with reckless abandon. He caught up to their drunkenness quickly, and they lent a sympathetic ear to his troubles. The pain was fresh and humiliating, but a little less so with each gulp.
"Aye, why don't ye jus ferget the lass?" Mused the graying Captain.
"How am I supposed to forget her? Every inch of this blasted, rotten Kingdom reminds me of her!"
"Then leave it behind! Come back to the sea. She's yer one real love anyway."
Grimholt chuckled, tracing a finger around the rim of his glass. "Bit sad, that."
"Sad? Aye, lads the land be makin' him soft an' stupid. 'Sad,' he says. What be sad about adventurin'? Ye love to adventure, Grim! Think of the new lasses ye could meet. There be more princesses than just Stormwatch, ye know."
"I think you've given me a similar speech before."
"Well, it be as true now as it were then. Look, we be shoving off in three days time. There always be room on our ship for another scoundrel." The Captain crashed a hand down on Grimholt's back, making him spit out his drink unexpectedly which erupted the whole table into a fresh peel of laughter.
When Grimholt was good and drunk, the proper pirate drunk he hadn't been in a long time, he took his leave. He was less careful as he left, unable to keep from stumbling his way back to the mare. The cold night air did little to sober him up. Somewhere far away, thunder rumbled.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk. One lover's quarrel and we are already planning to run away with pirates again?"
Grimholt rounded on the voice, but his usual reflexes were slow and syrupy. He fumbled for the cutlass fastened at his hip, but his arm was suddenly wrenched painfully behind his back. Followed by the other. Then he felt a powerful, unseen force yank him down until he slammed onto the ground.
"Unhand me!" His speech slurred and his head swam from the impact. He struggled against the bindings as two claw-like feel stepped into the torchlight.
The Sheriff.
Metal arms reached down and scooped the outlaw up, and over the Sheriff's sharp shoulder, making Grimholt groan. He clawed at the bindings around his hands, but the shadow tendrils that the Sheriff deployed were not tangible. His fingers slipped uselessly through the icy whisps, but he could not free his wrists. There was one wrapping around his throat, and his breathing becoming more and more labored
The Sheriff marched away from the tavern, leaving the gray mare to stomp and whinny in protest, unable to break free. Grimholt tried to speak but he was struggling to get enough air to merely stay conscious.
"Now it is time for action," said the Sheriff, as Grimholt's vision began to fade and he slipped into darkness. "To take care of lingering problems."