THE NIGHT WAS a messy blur.

It was the kind of blur that could be created by tear-filled eyes or watercolour paints—both would give the same effect of a world melting away.

As far as Maarit was concerned, the events of the evening were completely illusory. If not for the striking bruises flowering across her neck like malevolent violets, the memories that played over and over in her mind, the ache between her legs and the rawness in her throat from screaming, Maarit might have thought she had dreamt up the whole thing.

It was a feeling of the strangest proportions. Her head was spinning and could simply not process what had just happened.

Kneeling upon the tiled bathroom floor, she swayed slightly and collapsed against the wall, leaning on it for support. The contents of her stomach were spilled; she turned her face away to keep the putrid smell from wafting to her nostrils.

She was very vaguely aware of the fact that the two men had followed her, but she refused to look up nonetheless. She felt an unexplained anger directed at the pair of them. Perhaps she was upset that they had been too late.

Or perhaps she was upset that she had needed them so badly in the first place.

There was some shuffling, and then a tentative voice uttering only her name. "Maarit...?"

Evidently, it was the warlock. King Theodoracius's tone was never tentative when he spoke.

She buried her face into the folds of her arms. The incessant urging to calm her own heart only caused the clamouring to worsen. Through cracked, vomit-encrusted lips, she let out a breathy sigh that turned to a quaking sob halfway out.

There was more shuffling and she heard footsteps approaching her, so she peeked out at Alexander. He knelt at her side and hesitated before reaching out for her. His hand extending to touch her—no matter its intent—seemed like a threat in a way it never would have seemed before. It reminded her of Sergius's hands on her skin. Of being violated.

"D-d-don't touch!" she managed to blurt, shrinking away from him and melting into the wall. "D-don't—"

And cries overtook her body once again.

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       MAARIT SHIFTED UNCOMFORTABLY, taking care not to cast a single glance in the direction of the monarch seated at the opposite end of the impossibly long table. At long last, after having lingered above the chair for a few minutes, she sank into it with resolve. Droplets of water fell from the ends of her hair, splattering onto the table and leaving behind traces of her lilac scent.

She had bathed—scrubbing her skin clean until it was raw—and changed her clothes, and still, nothing could wash away the inexplicable shame mounting within her.

She did not blame herself.

She could not blame herself.

Yet somehow, she was guilty and ashamed that she had not been strong enough to fight back. She was supposed to be strong. It had become a responsibility for her and she hated the powerlessness more than anything else. She wished that she could have been the one to kill Sergius, and felt that King Theodoracius had robbed her of that opportunity.

How exactly can one destroy a monster without becoming one in the process? The thought prickled the back of her mind. It was like the venom of a snake, like the sting of an insect, seeping into her gibbous veins and poisoning her thoughts. No, she told herself adamantly. Some people deserve death. Some people murder so many others that destroying them would save the lives of their future victims.

From the corner of her eyes, even with her head bowed, Maarit could see Alexander drifting around the table in evident uncertainty. He had escorted her down to the dining hall and seemed unsure of whether or not to stay. Upon seeing that she had finally sat down, he turned on his heels and made to leave.

"Picard," King Theodoracius drawled, stopping the man in his tracks, "you are free to sit."

He said nothing, but pulled a chair out somewhere in the very middle, at a distance from both Maarit and the king. At last, she summoned the courage to look up at him and saw that he looked tired. Her screams of terror had awoken him from his slumber.

"Why—why are you making him stay?" Maarit asked, her voice sounding a lot raspier than she had anticipated.

Theodoracius pursed his lips, taking a moment to think before responding. "Because I'm not entirely sure you'd want to be alone with me."

"Since when do you care what I want?" she snapped, glaring up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. Then she turned to the warlock, who was very nearly dozing off in his seat. "Alexander, you may go to sleep. I'll be fine."

Alexander turned to his king for clarification. The boy-king only nodded to confirm that he was free to leave. Without another word, Alexander hobbled up the staircase leading to the corridors and disappeared out of sight.

A silence fell over the pair of them like a veil; it was eerie in its disquietude. Two separate pairs of eyes snuck glances at one another, laced with suspicion. When their gazes met at last—the amalgamation of the orbs of a broken soul and those of a murderer, which beheld lingering anger—Maarit cleared her throat.

Her focus flitted elsewhere when she began to speak. She could not look him directly in the eyes.

"What a surprise," she said flatly, a strange and satirical smile forming on her face. This drew the gaze of the king onto her once again, as though he had pegged it essential to know what she would say next. "There's not a single person around. No guardsmen. No warlock. No protection. How stupid of you. This would be my perfect opportunity. I should kill you right now."

He sighed. "Your declaration alone makes it clear you aren't about to make another attempt on my life."

"You're quite the genius, Your Majesty," she scoffed facetiously. "Truly. What an enlightening observation on your part!"

She began biting on the skin beside her nails. The deeper she delved into her thoughts and the more silent it became, the quicker the flame of rage within her spread. In reality, it was as much King Theodoracius's fault as it was Sergius's.

"It's your fault, you know," she said, voicing her frustrations. She sounded on the brink of hysteria, but carried on nonetheless, her silver tongue waging a war against a king. "You arrived too late. You brought me here. You are keeping me prisoner here, rather than just killing me. And you are the reason I couldn't save myself using sorcery! This is—all—your—fault!"

He did not even flinch. Instead, he extended his arm, picked up the full wine bottle in front of him and poured some out for himself.

With a hand that had not stopped trembling since the incident, Maarit reached out and grasped the handle of the teacup in front of her. Steam swirled into the air, emanating from the hot liquid along with the redolence. The fragrances of lilac and tea combined with the saccharine smell of roses that drifted in from the courtyard through the open windows, paralyzing her senses entirely.

Her desire to insult and lash out at the king momentarily forgotten, she took a sip and forced it down.

It was oolong tea: her favourite.

"Why do I have oolong tea?" she asked abruptly, a panicked paranoia filling the void—the silence—that stretched out between them.

How does he know?

"Do you not like oolong tea?" he asked with innocence, tilting his head inquisitively.

"No, it's my favourite. But how did you know? What powers do you have? What else do you know about me? What are you trying to do to me?" Her tone was more frantic than ever and her eyes were as wide as they were frightened.

"I didn't," he told her, confusion starting a fire in his eyes. "I didn't know. It was a mere coincidence—that I can assure you. Coincidences happen all the time. I certainly don't know anything about you besides that you are immensely defiant."

A heavy exhale poured from between her lips. It seemed to carry the weight of the entire world. Closing her eyes momentarily to relieve them of their stinging, she folded her legs and tucked her knees under her chin. Her midnight tresses, still damp, tumbled over her shoulders.

Using one hand, she smoothed over the top of her own head and whispered, "Oh, God. I'm just being paranoid. I'm being paranoid."

Strangely enough, there was something that resembled pity in his eyes; Maarit saw it fleetingly, in the millisecond it took to look up at him and then to turn away.

She took another sip of the tea and revelled in the taste, swirling the liquid on her tongue. It reminded her of home and of the two people in the world that had always been her home. Helios. Keion. She almost choked at the mere memory of the brothers' names.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this," she said quietly, not entirely sure as to why she was saying anything at all. "It wasn't supposed to happen this way. There was no love in that act. None at all. There's supposed to be love."

She swallowed hard.

"Were you awake?" she asked the king.

"Hmm?" he asked, his eyebrows furrowing. He had his hand placed firmly on his untouched wine glass, filled halfway with red wine.

"Were you awake?" she repeated. "When you arrived, you didn't seem tired. Were you already awake at the time?"

He nodded, a strand of his perfect hair falling out of place and into his eyes. He fixed it immediately, tucking it underneath the crown on his head.

"Why?"

Theodoracius grimaced. His response was short and vague. "It was only midnight. I don't sleep very much to begin with."

Figuring she would surely not get a better answer out of him, she took another sip of tea. Her mind worked frantically, swimming with question after question. Nothing ever made sense when it came to King Theodoracius.

"So why did you do it then? Why did you stop him so violently? Why did you punish him at all for what he did? And why did the entire ordeal make you so angry?"

They were the questions that had been plaguing her mind the most since it had happened. He had no heart, no soul, no compassion or mercy. He was a killer, yet he had been outraged that Maarit had been assaulted—too outraged.

Theodoracius's deep brown eyes seemed to glaze over. His face was taut, like he was struggling to keep his mask of apathy on. "I strongly oppose violence against women."

Something within her felt somewhat offended by the statement, but she was not quite sure why. "Oh, so that you oppose?" she scoffed. "That makes absolutely no sense and is a disgrace to even say. You're a murderer!"

He smiled. "Yes, indeed I am," he agreed, his lips curling upwards. This smile was different. It was without evil. It had the hint of something akin to pain behind it. "That is different."

"Didn't you threaten one of your father's mistresses with a dagger? That sounds an awful lot like violence against women to me."

"No," he responded, "not her." When he swallowed, his throat bobbed. "Something you should know is that the rampant rumours among gossiping villagers are not always the most reliable source of news. Especially when they pertain to myself."

"Fine. But even if that particular part isn't true, it doesn't change the fact that you locked me in the dungeons for days."

"That was by no means violence. Besides, I had someone bring you food and drink. There is a difference between imprisonment and violation that is violent in nature. Not once did I put my hands on you. In fact, you hurt yourself much more than I did."

"Violence was used to get me here in the first place!" she opined forcefully. "I was physically restrained when your guardsmen and Picard came to abduct me from my own home!"

"Again, that is different."

"How is it any different?"

He did not answer. Instead, he took a sip of blood-coloured intoxicant and then set the wine glass down. It made a hollow sound as it met the table.