The Porcelain Princess
part four
What else could be done? The Princess remained in her room staring into her mirrors, trapped in her obsession - yet unwilling to let any look upon her. The kingdom continued to run as she become a thing of whispered gossip, in daily court seemingly forgotten. The King too appeared to cut her from his life – whatever would happen from that point, he reasoned, could only be achieved by her actions. And so the future he ignored, and the past, and one day the dark room (still with but one candle) became like a tomb to the Princess. Donning a servant's discarded cloak, she crept unnoticed from the palace to the town below.
Walking through the streets the Princess was overwhelmed by the world she had never experienced; the sights, sounds and scents in the air at once frightening and comforting. No eyes upon her, hood throwing deep shadows about her face, she passed by villagers with an anonymity wholly new to her. Reaching the end of the street her eyes followed the path and soon her feet caught up. The Princess made her way to the river that cut through the land and sat upon the bank to listen to the world around her, as she never had.
Her ears picked up a soft sound in the air: a distant, low and melodious sound. A man's lone voice singing a sad, gentle song. The Princess' curiosity was led by her ears – the voice grew closer and closer as she crept. It was nearer to the town but most definitely at the fringes away from the bustle of merchants and craftsmen and others loudly advertising their wares. She came upon a little house alongside those of the poorer traders in the main quiet or quietly talking amongst themselves. A peasant potter sat upon a stool, powerful hands molding the clay they held. And from his mouth came a song so bittersweet the Princess felt a stirring within her she had never felt before. Others had assembled nearby, drawn too by the song. The young man seemed unaware so focused was he on either the words or his work. His hair fell in front of his face and his clothes and home reflected – so it seemed – his poor business. Yet his pottery seemed fine as any within the palace, though lacking the excess the Princess was accustomed to, and his poverty was explained when an elderly man came to purchase a stack of tiles. The potter shook his head at his handful of money, taking only a pittance and murmuring something to the man. Behind a greying beard the man's face lit up in sincerest gratitude and he took the potter's hand warmly before parting with him. The young man went back to his work, and the Princess felt something twist within her at what she'd seen. As she stared the potter's head lifted and his gaze shifted towards her.
She fled.
Walking through the streets the Princess was overwhelmed by the world she had never experienced; the sights, sounds and scents in the air at once frightening and comforting. No eyes upon her, hood throwing deep shadows about her face, she passed by villagers with an anonymity wholly new to her. Reaching the end of the street her eyes followed the path and soon her feet caught up. The Princess made her way to the river that cut through the land and sat upon the bank to listen to the world around her, as she never had.
Her ears picked up a soft sound in the air: a distant, low and melodious sound. A man's lone voice singing a sad, gentle song. The Princess' curiosity was led by her ears – the voice grew closer and closer as she crept. It was nearer to the town but most definitely at the fringes away from the bustle of merchants and craftsmen and others loudly advertising their wares. She came upon a little house alongside those of the poorer traders in the main quiet or quietly talking amongst themselves. A peasant potter sat upon a stool, powerful hands molding the clay they held. And from his mouth came a song so bittersweet the Princess felt a stirring within her she had never felt before. Others had assembled nearby, drawn too by the song. The young man seemed unaware so focused was he on either the words or his work. His hair fell in front of his face and his clothes and home reflected – so it seemed – his poor business. Yet his pottery seemed fine as any within the palace, though lacking the excess the Princess was accustomed to, and his poverty was explained when an elderly man came to purchase a stack of tiles. The potter shook his head at his handful of money, taking only a pittance and murmuring something to the man. Behind a greying beard the man's face lit up in sincerest gratitude and he took the potter's hand warmly before parting with him. The young man went back to his work, and the Princess felt something twist within her at what she'd seen. As she stared the potter's head lifted and his gaze shifted towards her.
She fled.