Alright folks, I'm pretty sure I missed the mark on this one, but this story works if we stretch the idea of "star-crossed" just a little. Lemme know if I'm not even close. I'm always looking to improve my short story "skills". Cheers! --Blondie402Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVuA42aqcnY
This story took place in a small kingdom called Chromia—which is now Les Et Denali. It was a small yet powerful country in Arnolon near The Great Mount—but then, everything is near The Great Mount to some extent. Around the break of the fourth millennium, there was an old king and an old queen who owned the throne. They prayed for a son to succeed them, else their little kingdom would fall to the queen's younger brother who was next in line for the kingship. Her brother was corrupt, of course, and only wanted to rule for his own personal gain.
Thankfully, their prayers were answered and the old queen conceived and gave birth to a strong and healthy baby boy. The boy was named Peter—a rather strange name for the Chromians who had only ever used Marsian names since the country’s inception—and he was crowned high prince of Chromia.
Peter grew up into a fine king and he succeeded the throne from his father as planned. The queen died also, as did her brother, and soon King Peter found himself all alone. He decided he needed a queen by his side. He was nearly twenty and it was high time that he find a suitable partner with which to produce an heir. He searched his kingdom high and low for nearly a year before he came upon the stunning and beautiful Spomenka.
Spomenka was a gardener in the king's courtyard. She had been under his nose the entire time. Peter went to her that day and begged that she become his queen, but she refused. I'm not a simple girl, she told him sternly. She didn't desire riches or status or grand parties. All she wanted was love and romance.
Fairy tale things, the king had spat at her in anger. She did not understand his dire need to secure his position on the throne. Without an heir, everyday Peter's hold on the kingdom slackened. To what outside force though, the king would not say. He had become obsessed with finding someone to be his queen, regardless of her wishes. Regardless of the madness in his actions.
He stole her away that very night and had her against her will. But it was useless. Night after night, he had her, yet his seed would not take. Spomenka simply refused to be his. She became like a ghost. Her beauty was her curse and she was punished for it, night after night.
Meanwhile, miles away in the terraformed wilds and woods surrounding the kingdom, there lived a band of thieves. There was an Assassin, a Seductress, and a Bounty Hunter. They were the greatest of comrades and their friendship transcended simple words. They were family, despite their lack of blood relation. But even though their relationships with each other went beyond the norm, they lived a life of fickle and meager income. They lived a hand-to-mouth existence and when they did make enough—or steal enough—to fill their empty bellies, they managed to spend everything or use everything up before the night was over.
But one day, The Bounty Hunter came upon an idea to rob the king of Chromia of his most prized possession. A golden scepter rested in the king's highest tower, ripe and easy for the taking. So the trio discussed and perfected The Hunter's initial plan and as soon as dusk fell, they raced into the night to put their theft into action.
But what the thieves did not expect was that the scepter had been moved to the deepest parts of the dungeon and instead, the king's petalless flower, Spomenka, now roomed in that tower as Peter's most prized possession!
The Hunter could not contain his elation as he climbed her tower intending to take the scepter and escape back to the woods with the assistance of his greatest friends. Imagine his surprise then when he finally opened the window and found the dark-haired beauty, Spomenka, sitting abed, seemingly waiting for him to appear.
Who are you? She asked him. She wasn't surprised, nor was she frightened of him.
The Hunter didn't know what to say at first, but then he finally found his voice and his manners. He bowed low and swept his hands before him. A simple thief, my lady, he told her. I had expected to find an old gold walking stick, but coming upon you has indeed lifted my spirits considerably more.
Spomenka smiled slyly at him. She knew of her effect on men. And why would you say that? She asked of him. She didn't want him to look at her and see only her beauty, however tarnished it was from the many nights spent in the king's bed. She wanted him to see her as she really was. As her heart really was.
But it was at that point that she realized that The Bounty Hunter was blind. His blue eyes were glazed over with an icy film and he did not look directly at her when he addressed her.
Why, what a silly question, he said with a small smile, My lady, you sound like the most divine of angels... My name is Kresimir. May I have the honor of knowing your name as well?
You will never remember it, she said with a small laugh. Call me Spomenka.
And that was how Spomenka came to fall in love with The Hunter, and he for her.
Every night, The Hunter would return to her side to comfort her and speak with her and know her, but he could not help but sense that she was in some grave trouble. When he asked after her, for her to tell him the truth of her incarceration, she simply said that she would not. I don't want this dream to end, she beseeched him, begging him not to ask her again. He could not truly understand what she meant, but in a way he felt the same.
The Hunter's friends warned him that falling for what was obviously the king's muse was a bad idea, but he would hear nothing of it. After many arguments and conversations, Kresimir demanded what they wanted of him. Should I just simply stop seeing her? Or should I try to take her from that tower? He shouted at them, I don't know what to do... I love her! But she won't tell me anything... She won't... He was practically overcome with despair at the notion of leaving Spomenka alone. She was a frail girl. She was innocent, sweet, good, and all things right in the world. She couldn't be hurt by him. Especially not by him. If he broke her heart, he didn't know what he would do with himself.
But The Assassin, the oldest and wisest of them, patted his compatriot on the shoulder and told The Hunter of Spomenka's ill-fated life and the king's obsession. The Hunter was no less than furious. He had known she was somehow trapped in that tower, but for the king to force himself on her… He hadn’t put stock in any thought that King Peter was capable of such cruelty.
There is no saving her, The Seductress said to him, It is better to forget about ever seeing her again. She's only trouble! You could be killed for less, Kress, you know that... Besides, I know a real whore when I see one. I would know, after all.
With his friend's wisdom imparted, The Hunter knew what he had to do. He would not leave Spomenka to her fate. He would fight for her with all of his being. If his life was called for in the end, then so be it. If at least Spomenka could be free of the king’s wiles, he could die well.
He decided to kill The Good King Peter.
He ran into the night and disappeared into the shadows. Using all of the skills he had learned as a master bounty hunter, he swore to himself that the king would be dead before sunrise. And as the full harvest moon rose into the sky, he found himself in the king's bed chambers. Holding aloft his naked sword, he heard the king’s bed frame squeak as weight shifted atop it. He dared not speak, fearing that the king’s restless sleep would give to wakefulness and alarm. As he heard the springs shift again, his imagination ran wild with jealousy. This was probably the very same bed that the king took first took Spomenka. This creature that was his honorable lordship... had carnal knowledge of Spomenka—a knowledge that Kresimir himself would never have. The Hunter was overcome by his anger at this notion. He lashed out with all of his might and tore through the satin sheets with his silvery butcher’s blade.
Warmth spattered his face, the bed, the floor, and the walls. He didn't stop his slashing and maiming... until he heard the piteous whispers of a woman dying in a pool of her own blood. The Hunter could never have seen what he had done, but Spomenka's dying sighs of forgiveness were enough to tell him the heinous deed he had committed in the dead of the night.
Kresimir screamed for her life, but it fell on deaf ears. He had killed out of rage, so he had been punished for it by whatever powers lay above. In his desperate cries for justification, he stepped back and back, trying to back away from the truth of his deed, and he back right over the terraced balcony and fell to his death.
The kingdom mourned the brutal passing of their king. A distant relation took over Chromia, and everything was right in the country for a time. Kresimir’s great friends mourned The Hunter as well and they lit a whole section of their coveted woods in honor of his passing—by accident, they would later swear.
But no one mourned the tragic ending of Spomenka’s life. And when they buried her, they marked her grave with only a simple cross and nothing else—not even a name—as they could not remember who she had even been. Perhaps she had been one of the lowly court gardeners, some speculated. So instead of laying white roses at her grave, as was the custom, they laid beautiful little purple “forget-me-not” flowers atop her grave.
Ironically, the phrase forget me not in Marsian is read as Spomenka.
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