The One Piece Is Real

Across the city, the bells ring out. Long brass tones droning through the open window on an autumn breeze that begins to whisper the threat of winter. Even here, high in this tower, you can feel their mocking vibrations. It had always been a hope that, one day, you’d hear the bells ring for you- to signal something joyful and proud. To signal the acceptance you’ve so long craved.

But, now, they may as well be the knell of your own funeral. After today, whatever piece of your heart that managed to stay true all these years will be sacrificed on the marriage alter.

“Ow,” wincing, a little prick at your thigh pulls you from your thoughts.

“Apologies, Princess,” the seamstress offers, though her hands frantically continue making last minute alterations.

“It’s alright,” you sigh- just as you have last several times you felt the touch of a pin. Considering the pressure she was under, you couldn’t truly hold it against her. It was quite the daunting task, making a wedding dress in a matter of days- especially for an apprentice seamstress. As it is, she’s done a marvelous job at it, by your standards. But, you know it isn’t your standards she fears to meet.

Eyes coming away from the window, you find the woman draped in white reflected back to you in the mirror. From collar to waist, the thick white fabric of your bodice follows your shape without loudly accentuating it. Pure as snow, it flows down your hips to pool at the floor with the expanse of a winter blessed meadow. Lace and silk delicately trail your arms, cuffs low and pointed over your hands.

Overall, the dress is simple, but elegant. Modest in the way only someone who has spent all her life avoiding the eyes of the court- who must now be so rawly thrust before it- would appreciate. So unlike the gowns you’d seen adorn the brides of your brothers- or even the ones fashioned for your wedded sisters. Not nearly so garish and so little adornment, lacking the flounce and flair of celebrated matrimony. Somber, by comparison. A saturnine reminder of what has been lost and the price that must be paid to keep what is left.

A price your father had not even tried to bargain. For his lands, his resources, his crown he had haggled and pleaded, though ultimately, conceded. Yet, when the conqueror demanded the treaty secured through wedlock your father had passionately defended the honor of his unwed daughters- unwilling to part with any of his beloved girls. Adamantly refusing to foist them into the brutal hands of one of the conqueror’s sons.

Until he was offered the ability to choose which of his children would suffer the fate. His eye had turned to you then- the one illegitimate embarrassment that’s haunted his reign, ghosting the high tower he so often had you locked away in. As the King saw it, ridding himself of you might be the only good thing to come of this treaty at all. He openly congratulated himself on the ‘wisdom’ of having kept you for such an occasion.

“Ah, good, you’re nearly ready.” A staunch woman appears, hair so tightly bound that it deepens the wrinkles at her eyes.

“Yes, Mistress Kline,” the seamstress affirms at your feet, placing her finishing touches.

“Now, listen up,” she steps between you and your reflection. “After the ceremony, there will be a small banquet before you’re escorted back with your new husband.” Mistress Kline delivers the news like it was any other lecture she’d given you over the years of your educational instruction. Though the words ‘new husband,’ set a ringing in your ears sharper than the bells.

“I thought I’d have three days,” your pulse ticks up, numbness rushing through your veins.

“Circumstances have changed,” she says simply. “Germa will depart tonight. You along with them.” Tonight, your breath hitches at your chest. Despite knowing it was coming, the suddenness threatens to overwhelm you. “Now,” she turns her focus to the seamstress, “finish quickly and have her dressed. We’ll be departing for the infirmary within the hour.”

“The infirmary?”

“Just a preliminary examination before the ceremony,” she states evenly.

Your stomach drops, “I’ve already done that,” you plead.

“Then you know what to expect,” she says it like that should bring some comfort to the humiliation. “King Judge has sent his own physician to verify the findings,” she pauses for just a moment, “and to ensure the status hasn’t changed.”

“Changed!?” it’s as mortifying an implication as it is offensive.

“Hush now, don’t argue. It’s a reasonable request.” You don’t find it very reasonable at all.

Regardless, you’re sitting on a vacant bed in a gown a far cry from the one being finished for you levels above. Unlike the last time you endured this humiliating exam, you’ve been brought to the larger infirmary. Though it’s completely vacant, the open room and high windows makes you feel far more vulnerable than the small, private space you had previously.

“Don’t slouch,” Mistress Kline chides where you’ve folded into yourself- not wanting to unfurl until her insistent hands pull your shoulders back into a more proper position.

Just as she does so, the door opens and you jolt upright into your rigid posture, arms still hugged around your shoulders for an extra layer of modesty. Three men walk in- your father, King Judge, and the man you assume is the physician- the door closing soundly behind.

While you’d seen him before- briefly- Judge appears far more intimidating in this vast, empty space. Far taller and broader than your father, his heavy steps boom over the lacquered floors as he approaches. Your father laughs, entertaining something he said- though you see the tension around his eyes, a look you know well since its often directed at you.

“Ah, my daughter to be,” Judge stands before your bed, arms crossed with an amusing lilt to his voice. “Assuming she’s as untainted as you claim,” his eyes slide accusatory towards you father, as if he’s expecting deception.

“Of course, you’ll find everything to your standard, I’m sure,” your father chuckles nervously. “I’ve not entertained a single suitor for this one- and she’s never been unchaperoned.”

“Why not?” Judge asks gruffly. “She’s of age, is there something wrong with her?” He cocks a brow at your father, “you’re not offering me damaged goods, are you?”

There’s a slight ringing in your ears as the world dampens and your mind desperately tries to slip from your body. “No, your majesty- of course not. She’s of excellent stock,” he reasons, “I didn’t want to waste her breeding.” The back of your throat burns and you pray you don’t get sick.

“Excellent,” Judge claps his hand and you flinch at the sound. “I do have plans for her and my son,” excitement rises in his voice. “Get on with it then,” he gestures to the physician who moves to the edge of your bed, with a bag in his hand.

Quickly, your father shuffles away- stopping only when he sees Judge hasn’t moved. A hand comes to rest at your shoulder, “your majesties,” Mistress Kline’s calm voice sounds over you, “some privacy, if you would.”

Judge scowls, “I am a man of science and medicine. If she weren’t soon to be my daughter, I’d be conducting this examination myself.”

“I understand,” she nods respectfully, “but she is soon to be your daughter by marriage. It is quite a mortifying ordeal for a young woman in her position.” Though stern, your tutor always took care to look out for you when no one else would.

King Judge rubs his hand across his jaw like he's considering the most beneficial way to proceed. “Is that true?” he asks you. Unable to form words, you merely nod as you look towards the floor. Then flinch- feeling his hand come atop your head, “you’ll find I can be accommodating to obedience.”

Though, he doesn’t leave the infirmary, he draws the curtain and waits on the other side. “Please, lie back on the bed, Princess,” the physician wastes no time and Kline gently helps you scoot back and lean into the slope of the slightly raised bed. There’s a harsh clang of metal as the doctor raises stirrups at the edge. “Please, place your feet onto the supports, Princess.” His voice is so monotone and detached as he makes the requests you can’t refuse.

Swallowing, you do as he says and without word, he slides them apart- opening your knees. Gloved hands gently push the gown up around your waist, completely revealing you to his eyes- and to the shadows of both your father and King Judge who loom behind him.

Though you know they can’t see you, having them so close makes the ordeal feel that much more humiliating. They speak in voices they don’t bother to hush, though you can barely hear them over the pounding of your own heart. Face hot with embarrassment, you hide behind your hands. Mistress Kline keeps a reassuring touch at your shoulder and you’re grateful for the small mercy of her presence.

A slick sound permeates the air as the doctor lubricates himself. “Please, relax Princess. I am going to insert two fingers into your vaginal opening to measure laxity and state of your hymen.” Your breath shudders behind your hands. “Attempt to relax your body, Princess. It will be an easier experience if you do.”

Despite his advice, he doesn’t give you much time to adhere to it before you feel the slow push of his slicked fingers. Yelping, you jolt with the intrusion, hands falling away to the sight of your knees up and spread with the physician between them. “Laxity is null,” he states, “tightness of the vaginal canal suggests the absence of penetration.” Above him, you notice the shadows have gone still and silent, listening to the diagnosis. Whimpering, you feel his fingers move inside you, “hymen appears intact,” he states and you sigh with relief, having feared that somehow your body would have found a way to miraculously, maliciously, betray you. “It is my professional prognosis, that the Princess is a virgin,” he speaks his verdict over his shoulder to his King.

“Good,” Judge acknowledges. “Proceed.” Head tipping back to the bed, you stare up at the ceiling, ready to have this over with. But, the doctor keeps his fingers buried inside you. Confused, you look down your body and-

“Ah,” you cry out when he touches something sensitive. He does it again and your whole body convulses, “wait- what are you-”

“Sensitivity is good,” he simply states in his monotone voice. His fingers slide against either side at the little bud above your opening. Delicately, he slides it back and forth- examining it from all sides. “Clitoral protrusion is optimal.” With clinical precision, he slowly applies pressure to your clit until he feels the tight squeeze of your vaginal walls. “Reactivity is reasonably positive. Body is already priming for self lubrication.”

“Is this really necessary,” Kline asks, “your examination has already concluded her virginity.”

“I’m going to ask you some questions, Princess,” the doctor looks up at you, completely ignoring her. You just nod your head, hoping to be done with this as quickly as possible. With two fingers still inside and one still pressing at your clit, he asks, “how frequently do you masturbate.”

Nothing could have prepared you for the bold, humiliating question, “w-what?” you stammer.

“How often do your touch yourself for pleasure,” he restates the question as if you didn’t understand what he was asking.

Dropping your head back against the bed, hands covering your face again, you try not to imagine your father- or your future husband’s father- listening from the other side of the thin curtain. How can you possibly say such a thing with them there?

"Answer him," your father's voice commands in the tone that instinctively makes you flinch. "And do not lie," he warns.

“Um…” your breath stutters in your chest, unable to disobey your father, “just every now and then,” you mumble.

“Could you be more specific, Princess?”

“Maybe… maybe once a moon,” you confess.

“Is that all?” he asks and you simply nod in response.

You tried very hard to be a good girl and you’d always been taught it was a filthy act to touch yourself in that way. Already so loathed by your family, you tried very hard to not debase yourself into obscenity- hoping one day you could still scrounge up enough honor to be worthy of redemption in their eyes. Yet, every so often, the urge would be too strong. And- despite how you’d try- you simply couldn’t help yourself.

"By my findings, I assume you're stimulating externally. Could you confirm?" Shaking your head, you try to untangle his words and why it matters that he asks them. Thinking you must not understand the question, he rephrases, "when you touch yourself for pleasure, Princess, do you do so by rubbing this spot here?" He rolls his fingers atop your clit and you're ashamed at the way your body tightens.

"Yes," you answer, wiggling a bit- trying to find relief in a different position, though it doesn't come.

"Do you ever penetrate yourself? Insert your fingers or other objects?" His fingers curl as if to demonstrate and your hips jolt.

"No," you shake your head, "I don't- honest." It's the truth. Though, in those moments you've found yourself tempted, you never crossed that line.

"I believe you," he assures, "that matches my findings- I simply wanted to verify. Now," he continues and you brace for whatever comes next, "do you touch yourself to completion? Are you able to achieve orgasm?"

"Are these questions truly necessary?" Mistress Kline asks again, her hand a firmer grip on your shoulder.

"I would not bother with them if they weren't," Judge responds from the other side of the curtain, an edge to his voice that suggests he won't tolerate further interruption.

"Yes, I think so," you answer, desperate to be finished. Based on what you understood of sexual encounters- from what Kline has seen fit to teach you- you are pretty sure you have reached climax.

"You think so?" he asks skeptically, "could you describe it?"

"Well it... it feels good," you mutter.

"I see..." he considers quietly, fingers moving to prod at you again, testing the reactions you give him. "Inconclusive," he finally states.

"That shouldn't be a problem," Judge responds.

The doctor continues, “could you tell me about how long before or after your menses you perform these acts?”

“Uh, halfway between, I think,” you answer into your hands. You’d already been subjected to a number of questions about your cycle, you hoped you didn’t have to repeat it here.

“That tracks with the cycle of ovulation- suggests high fertility, your majesty.” He’s not talking to you.

“Very good. That will do well for my needs,” King Judge answers through the curtain, seemingly pleased.

"Would you like me collect a sample, your majesty?" A sample? A sample of what? Your pulse picks up.

"I don't think that will be necessary right now." Right now? “You can end the examination there. I am satisfied.” Finally, the physician releases you, quickly pulling his hands off and out of your body. Instantly, you pull your knees together and curl up on the bed. “Come, we have some more to discuss before the wedding this evening.”

“Yes, of course,” your father’s voice is strained, his steps hurried as he rushes to keep up with the King- the doctor filing out behind them.

When you hear the infirmary door slam shut, a little sob breaks on your lips. “Shh, there, there, my girl,” Mistress Kline pets at your hair only for a moment before she’s pulling you up- refusing to let you lay there no matter how you protest. You barely register that she’s gotten you changed back into your simple dress before she's leading you away. “Come, let’s get back to the tower,” her arm goes around your body as she steers you towards the exit. “A hot bath and a good drink will do wonders, I think.”

Neither of those things do something even close to wonders, yet as you dunk yourself beneath the water of the tub, the numbness begins to thaw. But, the pain left in it’s melted wake makes you wonder if that’s any more preferable.

Emerging with a careless slosh, you scrub at your skin again- willing it to shed the weaker layers of yourself and harden into something that can more easily withstand the brutality of fate. There was certainly no changing the one you’ve been given.

When the steam begins to make you dizzy with the heady scents of perfumes and oils swimming around your head- you stand from the bath. As if immediately sensing it, your attendant appears to wrap you in a large towel and help you step out onto the stone. With no real care, you drip along the floor, leaving puddles in your footsteps as you cross the bathing chamber and enter your room- tossing yourself onto the bed, positively soaking the sheets. But, you’d never be sleeping in it again, so what did it matter?

Looking around, your room is rather barren. Sometimes a haven, sometimes a prison, but always yours. Though, you had very few belongings, it only made you treasure them each that much more. Pulling open the drawer at your bedside, you retrieve the most precious of them all. A golden hand mirror beset with tiny colorful jewels that twinkled like stars and always cast a sparkling, ethereal, glow to your reflection. You always liked who you saw looking back at you from your mother’s mirror. No matter how you felt, the girl inside always seemed to look at you from somewhere better.

You look for her now in the polished silver- hair dripping, eyes reddened from tears, sad pout on your lips. Yet, as the sunlight bounces off the gems, you see her there- still cast in radiant lights of sapphire and ruby and emerald and amethyst. Something more beautiful, something more elegant, something you take a deep breath and strive to become- in whatever way you can.

Regardless of what happens to you now, you will try to shield the piece of your heart you only ever glimpse in this treasured mirror. Entrust your reflection with the dreams you know now you'll never reach. Dreams she deserves- even if you don't. At least then, in some way, they'll live on.

Even if you don't.