Throughout the day, Ophelia found that energy waned more and more quickly. When she woke this morning, her body felt like lead, the melancholy in her soul pinning her to the mattress. But, as any daughter of Julian would do, Ophelia pulled herself up and methodically dressed. By the time she’d fashioned herself into the bright young princess Nevermere had always insisted that she be, she had started to feel better. Ophelia took a teaspoon of a stamina potion she’d acquired from an apothecary on the outskirts of Skia. It was harmless, she thought. Just something to give her enough energy to make it through the day. There was no need to make a fuss over the small green bottle she stashed in the bottom of her jewelry box.

No need at all. All was as well as it could be. That was all anyone needed to know.

Lorelle’s sixth birthday was but weeks away. Ophelia had settled on a gift—the kind of gift that she wouldn’t as readily acquire in Arryn Frey: a pony. A trite gift perhaps, but something she believed Lorelle would enjoy. Akagi was far better at reading the desires of their children than she. He was the one that gave them fantastic presents that made their eyes light up and smiles pop. No matter how hard she tried, Ophelia failed to understand her children. There were links missing in the chain that meant to bind her to her children. But she would try to forge them for herself, even if it took every last ounce of her strength.

Ophelia had been informed there would be a substitute her normal guard. She thought nothing of it. Ophelia had never feared for her safety in Nevermere, beloved as she was. It was a safety she took for granted, particularly since spending so much time in the largely crimeless society of Arryn Frey. She drifted down the hall to the soldier, smiling at him with the same soft, beauty that had so endeared her people.

“Shall we?” Ophelia asked—a playful rhetorical question that had only one possible answer: yes, we shall.

They would make their way through the city toward the stables at the edge of Skia. There was a rather accomplished horse breeder that had brought several of his finest for the princess’s perusal. While a carriage might have been a more reasonable means of transport, Ophelia quite enjoyed walking. It cleared her head, and allowed her to be a visible face of Nevermere’s monarchy. To remind the people of Nevermere just who it was that was responsible for their recent prosperity: Rainecourt rule.

As they passed through the streets, the crowds parted, but market day made it more and more difficult to carve a clear path.

“As you wish, Your Highness.”

There was only one thing to say when the Princess asked a question. With a small smile and another bow, Ber fell into step with the rest of the guards, and by the time they left the castle proper, he had settled into something of his usual state. A commoner and only a relatively new soldier, he had never spent much time around royalty and did his best to avoid lengthy interactions with nobles outside of the relative refuge of the military wing, where they were more equals. As a result, he may not have had the best frame of reference, but in his opinion, Princess Ophelia seemed to have every ounce of serene grace and beauty that the rumors attributed to her. Even if he had been required to speak, Ber had no idea what he would have said.

The leader of the guards seemed to have no such qualms about speaking in the Princess’s company. Ber was quietly told to take up the rear. As they made their way through the streets of Skia, they moved as a unit, and following their lead, Ber took his cues from the more experienced soldiers around him. They were alert, though not overly so, and their confidence, too, helped settle his nerves. For the most part, the citizens of Skia backed away when urged, their interactions with Princess Ophelia beginning and ending with polite bows and curtsies from a safe distance away. When they drew nearer to the crowds of market day, however, the soldier up front paused just long enough to say, “Stay close, Your Highness. Everyone else, eyes sharp.”

Ber straightened up, glancing around suspiciously as he rested his hand loosely on the hilt of his sword, and it was only because of the extra warning that he noticed the witch among the crowd. Dressed in clothes of above average quality but still far behind the fineries of nobility, the otherwise unremarkable old woman stared in their direction with a particular intent quite different from the adoration of the masses. “Look over there, the old lady,” He said to the soldier in front of him, who turned and followed his gaze. The other guard made a noise of understanding and passed the word forward, earning a “Noted. Your Highness, this way, please. The sooner we get through this crowd, the better.”

They kept moving. Ber kept his eyes peeled for the old woman again, but she seemed lost to the crowd— until “Is she following us?” He turned saw the old woman again, and the look in her eyes sent a shiver down his spine. “We should go.”

Ophelia moved through the streets as if muddling through a dream. The sights and sounds were all familiar, echoes of cherished memories she held from long ago. The people had only ever loved her; her family’s love was distant and cold, an intellectual hypothetical instead of something you could feel. In a family where she was the least, it felt good to be something great.

But as they walked, the dream started to shift into a nightmare. As the crowd began to grow denser, Ophelia felt her chest tighten. There was a point at which she was sure they were going to turn for a more open avenue, but the guard's leader carried on. What was the guardsman thinking? Taking her into the fray like this? Ophelia started to cast her eyes around, maintaining the appearance of calm while inwardly starting to panic.

Ophelia carried on, white-knuckled hands tucked in front of her.

At least Princess Ophelia didn’t seem concerned, Ber thought as he glanced over at their charge before turning his gaze back to the crowd, though he was not entirely sure that was a good thing. He couldn’t tell if the serene expression on her face was a mask or if she genuinely was not aware of the potential danger of the crowd, but he hoped for all of their sakes that it was the former. The streets of Skia were dangerous for those who were utterly oblivious to the danger around them, and even more dangerous for those who tried to protect them. No, she may have been a princess, but she was also of Nevermere – and in Ber’s experience, women of Nevermere may have been a lot of things, but incompetent was not often one of them. He doubted Princess Ophelia would be the exception.

Though he had tried to track her through the crowd, the witch had vanished once more into the sea of faces – for good, he hoped. The old woman had looked like nothing but trouble. They had almost made it through when the old witch began her chant. She had no love lost for the Rainecourt family, who had infiltrated the peaceful Nevermere of her childhood and bastardized it into the current militaristic monstrosity, but when she had entered the marketplace today, she had never expected to be given the opportunity to act on her festering hatred. That Nevermere’s very own Princess had decided to venture through the streets of Skia had to be more than a coincidence – it had to be a sign. It was a pity, she thought as she looked at the young man bringing up the rear of group, that she did not know the words that turned man into monster. How fitting it would have been for the monarchy of Nevermere to be brought low by the beasts of their own creation. Instead, she settled her gaze on Princess Ophelia herself. The young woman was beloved for her beauty and grace. Perhaps she could do something about that…

Unless Princess Ophelia or one of her guards had a way of stopping the old woman’s curse, Ber would notice the crowd begin to recoil moments later. When he looked around, confused, and finally glanced toward the princess he’d been charged with protecting, only years of military training kept him from flinching back as well. The smooth, pale skin of her face looked like it had begun to decay.

Ophelia’s eyes darted from one face to the next. She breathed deeply, focusing on keeping calm and meeting every subject with a graceful, benevolent smile. She could feel the warmth leaving her body, starting with her fingers which were turning to ice. She wanted out. To disappear into the earth and away from the barrage of sounds and sights that were starting to chip away at her fragile nerves.

Fixated as she was, Ophelia was entirely unprepared for what happened next.

It felt like being swarmed by bees. The princess shrieked as her hands flew to her face. She clawed away at it, as if she could brush the pain away, but instead, skin started to flake off in her fingers. Ophelia started to hyperventilate, dropping to her knees as her guards took action.

Princess Ophelia’s skin was beginning to flake off her face.

For a moment, Ber could only stare as his thoughts bounced between what the fuck and I’m so fucked, neither of which were particularly helpful in the present climate. Never before had anyone he’d been escorting ever actually been attacked, but then, never before had he been charged with escorting such a high profile person. Though they were taught what to in training, there was a massive difference between relatively boring practice sessions and the heart-racing, high-intensity mess of an actual situation, and as the Princess collapsed to the ground in obvious distress, it took a moment for Ber to kick himself back into action.

Step one was to get the Princess away from the threat, and they closed ranks. Someone grabbed her arm and pulled her back to her feet, and Ber stuck close behind as they shoved their way through the remaining crowd, barely aware that he was uttering platitudes to try to help her calm down as they went. “This way, Your Highness.” In a blur, the lead guard took them to a nearby building and quickly emptied the room with a sharp command. Body thrumming with the adrenaline racing through him, Ber helped Princess Ophelia to a nearby seat, glancing briefly at her face before turning away and joining the other guards in securing the room.

“Who did this?” One of them muttered to him.

“No idea,” Ber responded quietly. “Just an old woman. I don’t know where she went.”

They circled back to the rest. Two of them were dispatched to try to find the old witch who had cursed the Princess, though Ber doubted they would have much luck combing through a crowd that large and chaotic for a single individual. One was sent back to the castle to get a healer. That left Ber, the lead guard, and one other standing around Princess Ophelia, in a room that felt deafeningly quiet and still compared to the commotion of the crowd. Feeling somewhat awkward but driven to do something, Ber knelt beside the Princess and asked quietly, “Is there anything I can get you, Your Highness? Water?” Better guards?

As the guards spirited her away, Ophelia thought of Cassian. He hoped for the guards’ sake that they found whoever did this. The beloved princess, struck with a curse. It had to be some lunatic, she thought. No one else would touch her, even if they wanted to.

Surely.

Surely.

Ophelia was gently dropped in the seat, as the guards had been mostly carrying her so her feet only brushed the ground. The old witch’s curse was starting to dissipate. There was a sizable raw and angry patch of skin on her face. Her fingers went to the place, feeling the lines and rough spaces with increasing panic. Surely it would heal. Given the right treatment, it would heal.

Surely.

It was then Ophelia realized someone was speaking to her.

She looked up, her oversized hazel eyes blinking up at the soldier in fearful confusion. After a moment, she regained her composure and drew a faint smile befitting a princess across her features.

“Water. Yes, water would be lovely.”

Though he could hardly blame her given the circumstances, it was somewhat unsettling to see the princess, whom he had only ever seen act with the utmost poise and dignity, lose her composure in such a way. He wasn’t sure if he should look at her face or not, marred as it was by the old witch’s curse, but even kneeling beside her, he could hardly see any of it with her hands in the way. Until she looked at him, eyes wide and utterly human for a moment before she drew up the polite smile like a shield. Rattled as he was - and utterly lacking in having any right to a royal’s thoughts anyway - Ber was content to leave it at that.

Water. He could do that. “One moment, ma’am,” He said quietly, rising to his feet and looking around for a cup. They had, by sheer luck, ended up in a small tavern, and he located a clean one easily enough. After filling it with water, he returned to the princess, and crouched down beside her again. “Here you go, Your Highness. Would you like anything else?” Ber offered her the cup, then, after a moment, tried to offer her some comfort as well. “The healer should be here soon. And back up, too, I think.” He glanced toward the lead guard, who looked over and nodded. “So we should be able to get you back to the castle before long.”

Ophelia had never felt so small. She huddled, shoulders slumped in on themselves as the guard went ot fetch her a glass of water. Why would this have happened? Ophelia was beloved by her people. She’d never encountered such animosity and could think of no reason for it. It was the lack of clear motivation that terrified her, the unknown sitting heavy on her shoulders.

She took to cup with a trembling hand.

“What’s your name, soldier?” Ophelia smiled sweetly as she held onto the cup with white knuckles.

Ber looked at Princess Ophelia sitting there, small, with the cup of water clenched in her fingers as if she would float away upon letting go. “Berengar Stormcrest, Your Highness,” He answered her question, not sure if making her aware of his name would help or hurt in the long run. He suspected that a little kindness after such an event would hardly make up for the curse being cast in the first place, and having the victim of their failure aware of who he was went against his instinct to just try to disappear into the background while the storm blew over. On the other hand, it wasn’t as though they didn’t have a plethora of other ways to easily identify exactly which soldiers they could blame for today.

Turning at the sound of an opening door, Ber saw a contingent of soldiers entering the room and caught glimpses of other soldiers behind them dispersing the lingering crowd outside. The cavalry had arrived. As the healer approached the woman seated beside him, the soldier stood up and stepped away to give them space while the newcomer asked what Ber assumed were the relevant questions about the curse’s effects and how she was feeling now. He wondered if they would be able to do anything to help her, and he figured if there was anyone they would try for, it would be her.

The soldier himself was pulled aside to face his own battery of questions regarding the old witch and what had happened, which he answered as best he could. He had very little to go on, however, and her motivation for attacking the princess was as clear to him as the sun was to Skia’s streets. More soldiers were dispatched to look for the old woman. Ber found himself back near Princess Ophelia, waiting while everyone else discussed their imminent return to the castle. He glanced at her, and if he happened to meet her gaze, he offered, somewhat awkwardly, “Do you need more water, or anything, Your Highness?”