Not Stockholm Syndrome

By Thalia

 

She'd been in this cell for weeks, maybe months, and her skin was pale as moonlight. Pale as Serenity's, the ideal of beauty. How ironic.

In court, Earth was the dark realm, a swirl of blue marring the perfect silver world. The renegade province, the dark faction, and it was more than simply scandalous when the Crown Princess and heiress of the solar system had chosen a Terran as her mate. Earth refused to join the Silver Millennium, and Melantha knew far too well that the Terran populance was even more opposed to the union of their prince with a Lunarian than the Serenitas empire.

Clearly, the rebellion needed to be taken care of, and when a virtual communicado hadn't accomplished the trick, she'd been sent. As second-round diplomacy, in the language of the court.

Really, an assassination mission.

She had almost succeeded too, and when she'd gone down, she'd taken a good number of their army with her. She was outraged that they'd clap a princess of the alliance in irons and drag her off to a cell like a common petty thief, but then, they had their rules. She was guarded, first by foot soldiers, and then after her second break-out attempt had left a charred carcass of a boy no older than seventeen sizzling and leaf-choked on the ground, by a general.

On the first day that he had come, introducing himself with mocking civility through the enchanted bars, she had almost paused, stunned by his beauty, before launching her attack. But it was a half-hearted attempt anyway, because it was more out of duty than hope that she continually tried to escape.

He had, of course, coolly thrown her attack back at her, throwing her back against the wall of her cell, her head hitting stone with a painful crack, and then he'd watched her slide down painfully into her cot. And then he was standing right in front of her, gazing down at her face with almost-impassive cobalt eyes, and he'd shaken his head even as he murmured a healing spell.

"You shouldn't be so rash, lady," his voice was low and rebuking, and surprisingly more sympathetic than angry. "I don't consider you a fool, whatever government employs you."

And so she'd argued with him about the justice of the Silver Millennium. Spat in his face, and he'd calmly clapped her in a force field with one hand even as the other rose to wipe her saliva from his cheek. He'd remained infuriatingly civil, not a ruffle of emotion in those cold blue eyes, and were it not for the fact that he'd immobilized her almost to the point of paralysis, his treatment of her was almost befitting her station as a lady.

Of course, when she'd realized that he wasn't going to beat her or retaliate for her attack, she'd tried a different tactic, employing what few tricks she'd picked up from Morrigan, but she'd never been accomplished at playing the role of coquette. But that, too, failed.

She rather believed it was because underneath it all, neither of them were dishonest enough for such deception.

Cogs in clashing machines, and every day, they talked a little more about things that had nothing to do with anything, because it was the best way to ignore the proverbial elephant in the room, and on the dark planet, he was her only hope for survival. And conversation became concern-- a handkerchief when she tried to hide her tears of frustration. A cool cloth on her forehead when the draft in the dungeon brought on a fever. A book of fairy tales to read by candlelight, full of beautiful, illustrated lies.

He never let her go, and with each passing day, he spent more time with her. He'd always disarm her first.

Their first kiss had happened while he held her hands with his above their heads.

There was never quite the type of love that she'd always read about, with trust and adoration and roses and poetry. Now she looked nothing like a courted lady, despite her moon-pallor, and their relationship would've been even more unequal than that of Serenity and Endymion. A Jovian princess and a Terran warrior, and they always made love by dead of night, his hand on her throat and hers on his. Equals, enemies, and they knew better than to trust each other even then.

She wouldn't have respected him, she thought afterwards, when he left and she curled up around the warm indentation left by his body in the hard cot, if he'd been foolish enough to let his guard down around her.

She thought drearily that Ariene would've called it Stockholm Syndrome. But for once, the Mercurian princess would have been wrong. Because it was more complicated than that: she wasn't crazy, and neither was he, and she didn't expect them to ever be on the same sides of a battlefield. But love was unavoidable like the seasons, cold and hot and somehow unchanging, at once desolate and glorious. There was a heartbreaking beauty in the irrationality of it all, a sense of joy in the irony. She admitted to herself that in a new life, if he lay helpless before on a stone table and she held a knife, his blood would still stain her hands to mingle with her tears.

He brought her news of battles when he came, more often than not, and she'd been able to read the outcomes in his clear eyes. Don't kill the messenger. She knew all too well of his role in the death of Rowena, who'd died in his warrior-brother's arms, Jareth's dagger buried in her chest, and yet he held her as she cried over her friend. He buried the fingers of one hand in her curly hair, his touch caressing and firm and warning. She knew that if she attempted to avenge her friend, he'd snap her neck.

After each death, he brought her a pink rose, to match the earrings she wore, and now the cold floor was a riot of dust and dead petals and blood drops. She'd step on the roses in the dark and crush them under her feet, half by accident, pricking her soles on their thorns. Once upon a time, she'd laughed at Morrigan's expression when one of the Venusian's many suitors had left her room covered with rose petals.

She didn't know how long Morrigan had left to live.

When news of the invasion broke out and filtered down from the palace to the dungeons, Nolen had visited her, in his warrior garb, an hour before the attack. She told him, in bald honesty, that she hoped that he would die quickly and painlessly. He gave her one of his wry, inscrutable smiles, and tasted tears when he kissed her.

He promised, like every other time, to come back after the battle to tell her about the dead.

Melantha sat in her prison cell and knew, even as he left, that this would be the end. Hadn't there been a prophecy about a battle some years ago? She had never really paid attention in history lessons. But it didn't matter any more which side emerged victorious.

Her magic-- her life force, the birthright of a princess and a senshi of the Silver Millennium, was tied to the ancient magical energy that had protected and maintained the moon's holy power for so long. Her life was but one link in the chain, one thread in the web. It was a part of the code of fealty that had been put into place centuries ago, when the first senshi of each planet had pledged her services to the crown.

As night turned to day, and day back into night, there was an explosion of sound and colour so great that it shook even her cell, and then she knew that it was the end. It was a slow, draining feeling, almost pleasant, like the onset of sleep. Melantha lay down, for once placid, and as the light faded around her, the door to her cell clanged open, and Nolen stumbled in, blood soaking through his tunic.

"I always keep my promises," he rasped, taking her cold hands with his. She managed a smile, and reached one hand up to brush through his dark hair. The last thing she saw were his eyes, pools of blue in the dark, reflecting finality and tranquility.

And as she closed her eyes, knowing more than feeling that both of them were dying, she let out an almost inaudible laugh. He had never promised her a happily ever after.

He had never lied to her, because he was blessed/cursed with the world's most readable eyes. Cold like starshine and blue like the water's reflection of the sky. He had never lied to her, and he always kept his promises. Maybe otherwise, she wouldn't have loved or hated him so much.