The Crimson Crown

I became increasingly aware of the thickness of my diaper as we entered the courtyard, my heart thudding in my chest as I waited for someone to point to me and begin laughing. The ridiculous outfit would give me away, or they would notice the bulge around my waist, or they could see through the thin tulle of my dress and see the outline of it. I held my breath, but as we moved out into the multitude of servants, guards, and attendants bustling around us, bowing as we passed, no one said a said.

I felt Dorian’s hand squeeze mine as he pulled me toward the carriage. The courtyard buzzed with activity; guards dressed in uniforms of crimson and gold lined the path to our carriage, their polished armor catching the bright morning sunlight. Banners bearing the royal crest fluttered in the breeze, and horses, strong and majestic, stood ready to pull the carriage. Their harnesses and reigns were adorned with gold accents, and their coasts were brushed to a glossy shine, each one draped in a saddlecloth embroidered with the Four Winds symbol.

Servants bowed deeply as we approached, and a footman stepped forward to open the carriage door, extending a hand to assist me as I stepped up into the plush interior. The inside was just as luxurious as the exterior, upholstered in velvet cushions of deep crimson with a soft golden trim and tassels. A small, gilded lantern hung from the ceiling, casting a warm glow. Dorian followed behind, offering me a reassuring smile as he took the seat beside me. Outside, the escort prepared for departure. The sound of horses' hooves on the cobblestones mixed with the clinking of armor as the mounted royal guard assembled, their lances tipped with fluttered banners. The captain of the guard, seated astride a powerful steed, signaled readiness with a raised hand. Trumpeters sounded a short, regal fanfare, their notes carrying across the courtyard and into the streets beyond.

The carriage door was closed, and the wheels began to turn, our escort moving into formation, two rows of guards flanking the carriage, with more riding ahead and behind. The procession moved out through the castle gates, past cheering citizens who lined the streets to catch a glimpse of their prince and princess. As the royal carriage emerged from the castle gates, the sound of the cheering crowd swelled, a wave of excitement and celebration that rippled through the streets. Word had gotten out they were on their way to save the towns in the south, and the townsmen approved. People lined both sides of the cobblestone road, waving banners in crimson and gold and tossing flower petals into the air. The petals fluttered down like a delicate rain, their colors bright against the morning sun. Children darted between adults, waving frantically, their laughter mingling with the jubilant cries of the crowd. Merchants, tradespeople, and nobles alike stood shoulder to shoulder.

Inside the carriage, I hesitated, my fingers brushing the edge of the window curtain. The noise and energy outside felt overwhelming, a stark contrast to the quiet sanctuary of the castle. Dorian, sensing my nerves, offered a small, reassuring smile and nodded to the window, “They are waiting for you.” he said.

Gathering my courage, I leaned out slightly, my fiery red hair catching the sunlight and drawing even louder cheers from the gathered crowd. At first, my heart raced, uncertain of the reception I might receive. But, as I met the eyes of the crown, smiling faces, weaving hands, and warm gazes, my nerves began to ease. The people shouted my name alongside Dorian’s, their joy palpable and infectious. A small girl in a lavender dress stepped forward, tossing a handful of blossoms directly toward the carriage, her face alight with wonder. I smiled, lifting my hand in a graceful wave, and the cheers grew even louder. The warmth and adoration of the crowd wrapped around me.

As the carriage continued through the city, the buildings grew sparser, and the noise of the crowd began to fade. The cobblestones gave way to a smoother dirt road boarded by lush greenery. The city’s grandeur was replaced by the gentle charm of the countryside, rolling fields dotted with wildflowers, low stone walls separating pastures, and the occasional thatched roof cottage nestled among the trees. The air was fresher here, carrying the faint scent of blooming clover and the earth aroma of tilled soil. The escort maintained their steady pace, the rythmic clop of hooves and the creak of the carriage wheels now the dominant sound. Birds flittered across the sky, their songs mingling with the rustle of leaves in the breeze. Farmers paused their work in the fields to wave as our procession passed, their faces beaming with pride.

I sat back, retreating from the window as I relaxed into the luxurious cushions of the carriage, softening the rough road beneath the wooden wheels. Dorian wrapped an arm around me and pulled me in. I leaned my back, my head resting against his shoulder as his fingers played with the loose strands of my hair. “How long is the trip?” I asked curiously.

“A day's travel.” Dorian replied, “We’ll camp just outside town tonight and then head in at dawn.”

I nodded, glancing up at him, “Have you taken many trips outside the castle walls?” I asked.

Dorian nodded, “Several times during my youth. Say what you will about my father; he trained me to be a soldier first. I rode horseback for days; I marched with the men; I learned to swing swords and parry lances, and I learned the art of making fire and oiling my sword. It’s a peaceful life of ordered discipline.”

“Being a soldier is a peaceful life?” I asked, scoffing.

“Sure.” Dorian answered with a smile, “You never have to worry about your next meal, you know exactly what to do every day, there is no question. You pack camp, march all day, and drop from exhaustion after setting up camp. You and your squad make dinner, joking around the fire, and then sleep like a rock. Say what you will about physical labor; the days you work your body to the bone are the most restful. No nightmares to plague your thoughts, no worries, just blissful unconsciousness.”

“Did you ever have to fight?” I asked, looking up at him, our eyes meeting.

I saw his gaze soften just a tad, memories flooding him. Dorian nodded, breaking out gaze, “I did.”

“What was that like? How could the King possibly justify sending his storming son to battle like that?” It seemed impossible to me, my father would have never been so reckless.

Dorian’s fingers, which had been playing with my hair, slowed, his eyes turning to the horizon, a distant look to him. “I wasn’t his only son,” Dorian said softly after some time.

I blinked in surprise, “You weren’t? I thought you were.” I exclaimed.

He shook his head, “I was one of three sons.” Dorian responded.

“What happened?” I asked, my voice growing soft.

“It was a long time ago.” Dorian explained, “My mother gave birth to triplets, all three sons; it was a miracle. Father wanted to ensure only the strongest were allowed to take the throne; he said that a King should have to see the kingdom both from the throne and the front lines. A King should know and understand the consequences of his actions. And so, he sent us three to join the army. He said he had prayed to the Four Winds, and he knew, with certainty, that the one true king among us would survive and live on to carry the legacy of our family.

“The army had no clue who we were. My two brothers, Eryndor and Caelric, were sent off to bolster different sections of the army. Eryndor was always so bull-headed; he was strong, too. Until the day we were sent away, he boosted to the family how he would take the throne with ease; he would cleave through the ranks of our enemies and turn the tides of war. A single man against the united might of our enemy.” Dorian chuckled, shaking his head, “His arrogance was his undoing. I wasn’t there that day, but I heard the stories. He fronted the charge, an unquenchable bloodlust that left him bloodied and dying on the field moments after the battle had started. Stories vary from arrows bringing him down to clever spears, but in the end, the weight of battle trampled him to death.”

“Holy storms.” I said, “What about your other brother?”

Dorian dawned a pained expression. “Caelric should never have been on the front lines; he wasn’t a soldier, he was a scholar. Curse father for sending him. I vowed to protect him; I wouldn’t let him meet the same fate. He was sent off to be a messenger boy; it was the best I could do to protect him. I thought he was safe. My spearmen and I were rotated back to camp from combat to rest and recoup, and I noticed his team had left camp. I asked around and found his sergeant had sent them forward to the front. I had no clue why messenger boys were on the front lines and I raced back to find him.

“I eventually found his squad, there shoulder to shoulder with the other spearmen; they looked terrified; none of them knew how to hold a spear, let alone hold a line.” Dorian said, venom in his words as he sat back, “The enemy pushed, and the troops around them fell back, leaving my brother and his team there, alone; I was almost there, I could see him, I could…” Dorian’s words caught in his throat. 

“You don’t have to continue.” I said, my heart aching for him, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize what happened.”

Dorian shook his head, “No, it’s fine. I watched as he was speared through; I watched as my brother died. I demanded retribution from his sergeant, who just shrugged and told me he had to work with what he had.” Dorian spat, his grip on my shoulder tightening in anger, “I nearly killed the man right then and there. Had it not been for his guards who pulled me back, I probably would have.”

I let his story wash over me, feeling a sense of guilt for dragging up such memories. I felt horrible, not only for making Dorian relive these events but for having gone through such trauma to begin with. “I’m sorry.” I said softly, my words barely a whisper, “But you survived, you lived.”

Dorian’s grip on me relaxed, and he looked down at me, our eyes meeting, a haunted look to his gaze, “I did; I always seem to live; I’m cursed to live with the burden of watching those around me die.”

I felt a cold shiver travel down my spine as I broke off our gaze, nestling back into his arms. He had gone rigid, his entire body stiff, but as I settled into him, I felt his muscles relax, his arm embracing me. “I’m sorry, my prince.” I said softly, trying to diffuse the tension, “I will be here for you; I will help break that curse.”

I felt the tension drain from his body, his arms embracing me, pulling me into a tight hug, “I will not let anyone do anything to you, my princess.” Dorian said, his arms tightening around me, a desperation to his voice.

I wanted to point out the fact that he was letting the King do whatever he wanted to me, it seemed, but the argument died on my lips; now was not the time to point it out. I could feel genuine agony in Dorian’s emotions; I could see it in his expression. I didn’t want to torment him; now was not the time to antagonize him. We sat like that for a while, embraced in one another's grasp as we rolled through lush green meadows and across babbling brooks. 

I wasn’t sure what else to say; I had never dealt with trauma like the kind Dorian was experiencing. Thankfully, it didn’t seem to me that Dorian needed me to say anything. While he seemed lost in thought, his embrace never lightened; his touch was respectful and seemed to ground him in reality, pulling him from the horrors of his past. I felt horrible; I wanted to help him, if for no other reason than because it pained me to see another person in such agony.

In all my training to be a Queen, I had never had a lesson on medicine or the physiological horrors of war. I knew enough to realize Dorian was experiencing a form of post-traumatic stress, but beyond identifying that, I was clueless to help. I tried to remember my time there in the hospital, taking short lessons from the nurses there. I had been there to learn and care for newborns, as well as see the birthing process, one that had turned my gills green and nearly caused me to puke. I remembered the clinic being filled with soldiers, a company having just returned from war.

The soldiers were a mix of bloodied and injured, along with several who were weeping but otherwise seemed unharmed. I had asked the nurse about those men, and she told me they had been broken, war did that to men. They would spend the rest of their days trying to overcome the memories that chased them, that haunted their dreams. She said many would never fully recover, but the most important thing was never to leave them alone, to surround them with people who would talk, who had experienced similar trauma.

I had never experienced anything like what those men had, or Dorian had, but I could certainly be there for him, to be someone to lean on and ensure he knew he was loved and cared for. My hand went to his, taking it and giving it a firm squeeze, “I’m here for you, my prince; even if you just need someone to talk to or to hug and sit with, I’ll be there for you.”

Dorian’s hand tightened around mine and he smiled at me, leaning down and kissing me before embracing me in a tight hug. “Thank you, my princess. You are one of the best things that has ever happened to me. You have brought a lightness to my life that has been shrouded in darkness for too long.”

I beamed in pride at his compliment, and we rode in silence for a while longer, enjoying the rhythmic rocking of the carriage, the fresh air of the countryside, and the beautiful views as we rolled down the dirt road. I wasn’t certain how long we sat there in each other's embrace, but it had been long enough that the sun had passed its apex and was beginning its long, cumbersome descent toward the horizon. I felt Dorian shift, his hand moving from where it had been holding me to my crotch, feeling my diaper through the fabric of my dress. 

I blushed as he checked me. “Still dry?” Dorian asked.

I nodded sheepishly. 

“I’m sorry, princess, I should have been paying more attention; let’s get you something to drink.’ Dorian said, sitting up and attending a cabinet built into the carriage. 

I only caught glimpses of what was inside before he closed it, but it was enough to make my cheeks turn crimson as he returned to me with a fresh bottle. I felt Dorian’s arms embrace me once more as I melted into him. He brought the bottle to my lips, and I began to nurse. I still wasn’t a fan of this treatment, of being forced to drink from baby bottles and to drink whatever liquid this even was. That said, the feeling of Dorian’s embrace, the simple act of being fed like this from his very hand, the gentle caress of his figure as he made sure I was comfortable, it was unlike any eating experience I had ever had in my life.

As embarrassing as it was, there was a genuine warmth to the act as well. Dorian was looking out for me and my health. He seemed to love the simple act of holding me, his fingers brushing my hair as I drank, the rhythmic nursing an added comfort to his embrace. I didn’t enjoy being treated like a baby, and yet, the amount of attention Dorian showered me with, the care and love he put behind even the simplest motion, spoke volumes about how much he cared for me. He seemed to want to do what was best for me genuinely, and unlike anyone else in my life, he had an invested interest in my livelihood. Despite the indignation of the treatment, I found it endearing, and as much as I hated aspects of my new life, I loved this man, and I would make him as happy as he made me.