This woman scares me. She killed him! He came back form the war, the was waged in her name and honour and laid his heart out to her. He asked her to marry him, and loved her dearly - I could see it in his eyes. He looked at her like Marla from the kitchens looks at that horrendous stable boy of hers. And she drowned him. I understand her not wanting her father, the King, knowing about her… proclivities, and to turn down a noble knight of her father’s court would be foolish. Moreso, an insult, after he fought for her in this war. Still to kill him is... She’d not be the first woman to enter her marital bed impure. It’d only need some cock’s blood and discretion to fake the evidence. And now, visiting his watery grave everyday?! This macabre practice of her’s shakes me to my core. He’d die for her, fighting a war started by her- who on Mindu tries to sleep with a foreign man, a neighbouring king, and then whines when he rejects her? He was fool to call the princess a whore, in the middle of her father’s hall, no less, but still. Sometimes I think the only reason she drags me along is to remind me. Scare me to silence. Gain some perverse joy form my terror too, perhaps. But most importantly, to let me know that this could become my grave too, one day. I can no longer tell in my hands tremble from the winter’s cold, or mine own fear.

“ Let’s go back to to your chambers, my princess. It wouldn’t be wise to risk catching a cold in this weather.”

With a speculative last glance at the lake, the princess turns to leave, towards the castle. I glance once more at the watery depths. Woe, thy name is love. Death, thy angel, pretty. Arthur, thy grave a lake.

~fin~

A little spin/fanfic on Arthurian legend, but i guess all Arthurian legend we know today is fanfic/ vids of the oh Arthurian legend, so idk. At first I wanted to go with either Gwenyvere or Morgana, but in Le mort d’Arthur Morgana is his aunt, and while Gwen is indeed an acolyte for the destruction of Camelot (in Le mort that is) because of her affair with Lancelot, I decided against giving the princess a name. If if it was a prince I’d go with Mordred, but it kind of destroys the premise of “visible purity on the matrimonial bed”. I think I like imagining her name’s Niniane/Nimue and thus putting in perspective that her giving Arthur the sword/ bestowing him with the promise to fulfil a quest she sets, and kind of a mirroring of how she was killed at his court bu Ser Balin, but idk. Any criticism, ideas or advice are welcome, please!

“The usual?” I ask the shapeless… blob, I suppose is one way to describe it. It still hasn’t given me its name, so I call it Tim. Looks like a Tim.

“Yesss” the cursed sound comes out, like nails on a blackboard. The first time I heard Tim speak, I swear, my ears bled, it’s so awful. I wonder if it’d be inexcusably rude of me to offer throat caramels.

I begin working on that latte - 2 pumps vanilla syrup, extra sweet with cinnamon on top, as Tim peruses the shop, eyes soulless, and never focusing at anything too long, as always.

‘Last Christmas’ plays on the radio, and the shop is empty. Starbucks, on the corner across the street is equally deserted for once. Must be a Christmas miracle. At least the ‘Dark Lord’ supports local businesses- or Tim does. I doubt his boss would allow him to continue taking her coffee from here if she minded though.

I hum along to the radio as I finish the coffee at set it aside. Tim seems pensive, looking outside the window at the Starbucks barista cleaning up an espresso machine. I decide to leave him to his thoughts a little longer.

…

Setting the mocha down at the bar, I grab my macchiato, because gods above I have another three hours until the next girl’s shift starts, and call out; “ The coffee’s ready - and this is for you, mocha, it’s a sweetish, chocolate caffeinated drink. On the house.” Tim stares at me, and slowly comes and sits at the barstool I front of me. We drink quietly, and I appreciate the company. Night shifts may be convenient as they deal with less people, but at times like these, I do feel somewhat lonely.

3.55. “I better gooo… Thank you, Melissssaa.” it goodbyes me, leaving the money for the latte in the counter. “Happy holidays, Tim.” The demon walks out to the lamp-lighted pathway, and fades away into the night. I had never given it my name, and for some reason, I know I’d not be seeing Tim again. After all, a dark creature had just felt happy, and the balance had been tweaked. Who knows what would happen now. But for a moment, Tim was happy. It must have been a Christmas miracle.

~fin~

(As you can see I’m already in a holidays mood, and it’s not even November yet. Also, I’m using the term Christmas miracle very loosely, in the commercialised, secular sense the Christian holiday has taken under capitalism. Unfortunately, Yuletide miracle or Hanukkah miracle don’t have the same sensationalistic value as Christmas miracle.)