Daughter of the Frozen Flame

XYLIA never uttered a word to the man who was her father. She hadn't been able to. All that had been going round and round in her head, like a dizzying carousel ride, was that her father was holding her. He had her chestnut hair, was only an inch taller than her, and his touch was as cold as her hands had become. She saw herself in him and it had shook her to her core because she had spent her whole life telling herself that she didn't have a father, or a man who looked like her. He didn't exist.
The emotional reunion was entirely one sided, and awkward for those who watched it. Taiden ultimately cleared his throat and stepped forward, bowing his head respectfully, as he couldn't bow at the waist due to the burning pain still throbbing through his upper body.
"Your Majesty, with respect, it has been a very long journey and I think all of us – Xylia included, would benefit from rest and a change of attire.”
"We also lost one of our own on the way here, your grace." Julius added, reminding Xylia of Zechariahs, causing her breath to hitch in her throat.
"He fought bravely and gave his life to promise our escape.” Allela said solemnly, “I think his name should be added to the memorial of the fallen, Your Majesty. Without his sacrifice we would not have made it back to Fallycia.”
The king nodded his head. “It will be done. I’ll have someone show you to your quarters in the west wing.” He looked back at Xylia with a soft, proud smile and his voice became tender. “It’ll be good to talk with you once you’re well rested, daughter.”

Xylia didn’t rest though. She couldn’t. The bed, with its sheets of silk and feather pillows, was too soft. The room was too light, and the servants who drew her a bath in an ornate tub that was large enough that she didn’t need to curl her long legs up in it, were giggling and fussing with excitement at their princess being home after such a long time. The hot water chilled as she climbed into it, her grimy rags of clothes discarded carelessly on the smooth black tiles. Xylia sank beneath the water and felt tiny in the bath; the first time in a long time that she had felt small. She was used to bathing in a tiny tin drum where she was hunched over uncomfortably, pouring water over herself as quickly as possible just so she could clamber out of the small tub before her joints seized up and her back stiffened. In here she could stretch out her long, gangly limbs and there was still slight room to spare. The water, now cool, had been perfumed with elderflower that matched the soap left on the side for Xylia to use. She was tired, numb, but she wanted every single trace of the last few days to be washed away so she scrubbed at her body until her skin was red and stinging. The water was tinged with dirt and blood and Xylia abandoned it, not bothering to call someone to empty it like she had been told to. Instead she just dried herself off with one of the too soft towels and pulled the clean long tunic that had been left for her over her head. It was expensive cotton, far better than anything she had ever worn before, and it felt foreign on her sore skin.
Too much room was hers. She could run laps around the space if she wanted to. The white carpet tickled her feet and felt softer than the mossy grass she remembered from the days when she would hunt near the village of The Draca. It felt like another lifetime to her now, yet her fingers itched for the bow she had never been able to use properly. Hunting was familiar, but having a room bigger than her uncle’s house was daunting. Things she didn’t even know the name of glittered and glimmered from an ivory vanity she was scared to approach, and Xylia didn’t even bother opening the doors of the armoire than ran the length of the marble wall. She didn’t deserve anything like this and she didn’t want whatever was inside the doors with their polished plated handles. She wanted to ignore the expensive furniture, the silver ornaments and fancy decorations. She wanted to burn them all away and be left with nothing like in the world she had come from.
Crossing to the tall window, she grasped the wrought iron handle and thrust the window open angrily, blood burning inside as she thought about how they had ended here. Zechariahs had died for her, men had fallen in Lyris to stop the Queen and yet Devanna still lived. They had accomplished nothing. How was she supposed to rest in luxury like everything was okay?! Her skin became hot as the icy air of Fallycia whipped around her, and she felt fire and ash on her tongue as her anger burnt hot inside of her. She screamed into the clear night sky, wishing she could snuff out the stars and tear down the heavens on Queen Devanna and Empress Loreina. When her throat was finally raw, her screams no more than choking rasps, Xylia fell to her knees and sobbed into the frosty air.

That was how Taiden found her early the next morning. He had interrupted servants on their way to fetch her, insisting he would check on her himself. It sent the small blonde girls giggling away, but he hadn’t slept easily all night. He had a feeling he couldn’t shake that Xylia wasn’t alright, and he knew it was impossible to expect that she could shoulder all of this on her own. Her entire world had been turned upside down and there was little time to do anything about it. She had been thrust into this without warning or choice.
Xylia hadn’t responded when he knocked on the blue doors of her quarters. He tried again, but still nothing. It was worry that made him go inside regardless, and seeing her sitting by the window almost broke him. The room was ice cold, and her hair had dried in stiff frozen strands after her bath. Other than the fresh tunic, she wore nothing else, and her vulnerability was more obvious than the clean cotton. Taiden breathed out her name and crossed over to her in quick, long-legged strides, dropping down beside her and ignoring the pain that rocked through his healing body.
“You’re like ice.” He whispered, touching her frozen, pale skin before wrapping her in the jacket the Xeo Palace servants had provided him with. It was crimson, to match his own kingdom, and he had wondered where on earth they had found such clothing in his size, but the servants scampered about here doing what was needed before rushing off again. There seemed little time to ask questions of them.
“I am ice.” She answered numbly, not even moving to look at him, her bloodshot eyes still fixed on the view of the late sunrise. Red bled into orange and yellow, staining them as Fallycia’s watery sun ascended into the sky.
Taiden folded her into his arms, trying to force warmth into her stone cold body. “You may control ice, but you’re not it. There’s too much fire in you for you to freeze like this.” He told her, rubbing his hands over her back.
Xylia remained still in his embrace, breathing in amber and leather. Something familiar, finally. He was warm, his new clothes thick to protect from the cold climate, but he was something she knew. In this strange place he was recognisable and it eased the chill from her bones.
“I’m not going to imagine to know what this must be like for you, but I’m here.” Taiden whispered, his cheek pressed against the top of her head. “I may be able to offer some help, and I want to do that for you, Xylia. I want to – be there for you.”
“I can’t do this.” She mumbled, lips against his shoulder just because he held her so tightly.
“It must be daunting.” He pulled back, looking across with relief to see that she wasn’t quite as vacant as she appeared when he first entered the room. “But baby steps, and I’ll be here the whole time.”
She managed the tiniest of nods and pushed herself up to stand. Her legs wobbled slightly and Taiden steadied her with a hand on her shoulder.
“I’m fine – just stiff.” She assured him, waving him away as she crossed the room to the dreaded armoire. Her body cracked loudly and her feet tingled as the blood rushed back through her, but Xylia didn’t stumble.
“I’ll wait outside.”
She nodded and once she heard the click of the door, she tugged open the door of the armoire and glowered at the fabrics inside. Baby steps, she reminded herself, pushing aside gowns of blue and silver, searching out the plainest outfit possible in the depths of what had been carefully selected for the Phryensh’a. Finally, seemingly hidden away, she stumbled upon a tan tunic, black leggings and a pair of brown leather boots that took more time lacing up than she was willing to give them. Xylia grabbed her old, thick leather belt and pulled it tight around her waist, adjusting the fabric of her tunic first and then assuring that her mother’s dagger was safe at the side. Her hair frizzed when she dragged the soft brush through the stiff lengths, but she didn’t care, letting it look wild and untamed down her back. Her reflection showed Xylia as she knew herself; thin, waiflike, with hollow cheeks and chapped lips. Her hand raised to touch a cut she hadn’t noticed before now. It bisected her lip on the left side, splitting both the top and the bottom thinly but deeply. It would scar, and she knew it. Xylia didn’t even recall being hit or tasting blood, but then everything had happened so fast back in the castle. Allela’s words echoed in her mind. “You won’t be the first king with battle scars.” Kings, princes, they might have been expected to fight and bare their scars as symbols of victory, but she had never heard of a princess or queen looking as bedraggled or marked as she did.

A knock snapped her from her thoughts.
“Xylia? I don’t intend to rush you, but the servants keep stopping and giggling, and it’s becoming very unnerving.”
She pulled her hand down from the gash in her lip and turned away from the mirror, tossing a sheet from the bed over it. She didn’t want to see herself again. “I’m ready.”
Baby steps.