Page 45 of Nightingale

“And here I thought you cared for him.” Regulus wheezed, his eyes rolling towards the back of his head as his body went stiff, then limp.

The sickening rush of it poured over him, the finality in his actions. But when the crash of killing a man tore into him, he found no regrets in his actions.

“Don’t get me wrong, Ido. But only because he’s the least terrible out of you all.” Castil uttered down at him, gently lowering him to the floor, “But that’s not a very high standard now, is it?”

Twenty Two

He paused as he passed his sister’s door, his ears picking up on the strained humming from within.

Orla.

It had been quite awhile since he’d last visited her, last seen her even. Their father liked to collect pretty things, to put on display in rooms or hang on his walls. He kept Orla under lock and key, allowing her out once every blue moon for meetings or in a vain attempt to use her beauty as a tool of negotiation with the lords of the lands. The unmarried ones searching for a wife, a womb to pop out young sons and daughters that would serve him faithfully.

One mention of the unwed Princess with looks to rival the fairest maiden in the world, of her piety and sheltered life, and it usually had the men handing over whatever it was that the King was trying to gain. A bartering chip, nothing more.

Another pretty prisoner.

The Niroulian Princesses fell into that category as well, all three of them. Vrea, shoved into the furthest reaches of the Keep, stored like a bag of grain in the stock room for three years. Only to be brought out when absolutely necessary. Then her younger sisters, Mira and Zara, if his memory served him properly.

Twins.

Decorated, with cuts and bruises and peeled flesh. Hung on the castle walls for all to see what had been done to them, to senda message to Niroula about the fate of the heirs that came their way. Revenge, for Theseus and Daria, for any others that would fall.

But Orla, sweet and good Orla, didn’t deserve to be treated like a prisoner. It was one of the things that he and Rian, and to his surprise, Brioc, all agreed on. The one, andonlything. They all visited her from time to time, selecting certain time frames when their father was too occupied with ruling and losing a war to slip into her chambers.

Castil had been the one to steal the key first, secretly ordering copies of it to be made from the Keep’s blacksmith and handing them out with a gracious stack of staggers in order to remain silent about the task. Enough to last the man a month if he used the coins wisely. Castil handed out two of the three replications to Brioc and Rian, uttering that it stayed between them, that no one found out about the theft and replacement of the original unless they all suffered the consequence. He’d take them all down with him if their father ever found out.

It was easy enough to sneak the first version back without anyone noticing. Not when the King was fast asleep in his room after a night of sexual activities, passed out in the crumpled sheets in nothing but his bare skin.

But it was that key he used now to quietly unlock her door, pocketing it and opening it wide enough for him to dart in, shutting it silently behind him.

Orla rotated from her dainty perch on the day-bench carved into the window, a bright smile breaking out on her devastatingly beautiful face. Her golden hair waved down her back with shimmering strands, translucent skin from the time indoors. She rarely saw the sun, clear in the paleness that was even lighter than he was.

Her light green eyes lit up.

Not that same cool shade as Vrea’s, but softer, daintier withhints of lovely blue that snuck past.

“Cas!” She cried out with joy, leaping from the cranberry cushion and throwing her arms around him. He hugged her back, spinning with the extra momentum she added. She wasn’t large by any means, tiny thanks to their father’s lack of care for her. “You’re here!”

Even her figure was underdeveloped, a pity since she was a beautiful thing to behold. If Castil could have had his way, he might have added an additional bargain to allow his sister another sort of life. But he already sold his soul to the devil in order to prevent Vrea’s death, and there was only so much of him he could pawn.

At least his sister was awarded every comfort she yearned for, thanks to the simple fact that she was the Princess of Carylim. If she were anyone else, Castil wasn’t sure she’d live the same.

A small relief, then.

Her room was the largest out of them all, and it was the single good thing that their sire gave to her in her imprisonment. It was on the lowest floor, across from the serving hall that led into the plain chambers of those who wished to stay in their place of work. Easier to hide something so pretty in the darkest places of the castle.

Though her room was decorated in pale colours that provided a bit of light. There were shelves upon shelves of reading material on the furthest wall, a massive dollhouse with porcelain toys next to it. There was a pianoforte, a harp, a flute all within one part of the chamber. All things that Orla knew how to play, and divinely too, thanks to her confinement.

Sometimes he slipped new sheets of music under her door for something to excite her. And then when she’d play them over and over again in the late hours of the night, he’d stare up at his ceiling as he lay in his bed and imagine. Imagine Vrea singing alongside her and listening to them both lose themselves to theharmony.

Even if the ferocious royal from across the border would rather slit her own wrists before singing for show, he could imagine how lovely the two of them would sound when joined on a stage. He could picture the tears in each and every eye that watched them because he knew that if Vrea ever sang, unburdened, uncaptured, unmuted, that every single heart in the room would shatter from how beautiful it could have been. And with Orla by her side, nothing would ever compare.

“I missed you.” Orla whispered in a voice that belonged to a child and squeezed him even tighter.

He smiled into her small shoulder.

No freckles, no beauty marks, nothing.

---