Chained to the Royal Will

The flickering candlelight cast long, dancing shadows across the opulent, yet morbidly still, bedchamber. Zena, in her hastily donned bridal finery – a rather ill-fitting, slightly too-large hand-me-down from her sister – approached the deathbed with the hesitant steps of a condemned mouse approaching a sleeping cat.

“Well,” she muttered to herself, adjusting the heavy veil that kept slipping over her eyes, “this is certainly… festive.”

The Crown Prince, Lord Theron, lay pale and unmoving, a veritable porcelain doll with a faint pulse. Rumors of his terminal illness had swirled through the court like a particularly nasty draft, and Zena had been the sacrificial lamb, traded for her sister’s social climbing aspirations.

She poked his arm. “Hello? Anyone home?”

No response. Emboldened by his apparent lack of consciousness, she began a more thorough examination. First, she checked his pulse, just to be sure he wasn’t playing possum. “Still ticking,” she announced to the silent room, “though barely.”

Then, her curiosity piqued, she tentatively lifted his silken bedclothes. “My, my,” she murmured, her eyes widening slightly. “They weren’t exaggerating about the ‘terminal’ part. He’s practically a walking ice sculpture.”

A sudden, unexpected twitch from the prince’s hand sent her scrambling back, nearly tripping over the voluminous train of her borrowed wedding gown. “Whoa! Living statue alert!”

Undeterred, and perhaps fueled by a mixture of morbid curiosity and a distinct lack of anything better to do, Zena resumed her investigation. She poked and prodded, tracing the lines of his surprisingly well-defined physique. “Not bad,” she mused, “for a man who looks like he’s about to audition for a marble statue competition.”

Then, her fingers brushed against something… unexpected. A distinct, if somewhat sluggish, response. Zena’s eyes widened. “Oh,” she said, her voice a breathy whisper. “Well, isn’t that… interesting.”

A mischievous grin spread across her face. “Seems even the dying have their… moments.”

With a newfound sense of purpose, and a complete disregard for royal etiquette, Zena decided to conduct a more… hands-on examination. “For science!” she declared, tossing the veil aside.

The night progressed with Zena’s increasingly vocal observations, and Lord Theron’s unconscious body providing more responses than anyone would have thought possible. “And they said he was dying!” she would exclaim, or “Hold on, are you sure you are sick?” and “Well, this is certainly a wedding night to remember”

The heavy velvet curtains around the royal bed did little to muffle the sounds emanating from within, though thankfully, those sounds were less “royal consummation” and more “slightly confused medical examination.”

Zena, perched precariously on the edge of the bed, held Lord Theron’s wrist aloft, squinting at her non-existent watch. “Hmm, pulse still erratic,” she announced, her voice echoing slightly in the vast chamber. “Though, I suppose that’s to be expected, considering…” She trailed off, gesturing vaguely towards the lower half of his still-unconscious form.

Theron, bless his unresponsive heart, offered a low, unintelligible groan. Zena jumped slightly, nearly dropping his hand. “Oh! You’re still with us! Or, well, part of you is, anyway.”

She then proceeded to adjust his silk pajamas with the clinical detachment of a physician examining a particularly perplexing specimen. “Now, let’s see,” she muttered, tracing the lines of his abdomen. “Temperature… slightly elevated. Muscle tone… surprisingly firm, considering. And… well, that’s certainly… enthusiastic.”

Another groan from Theron, this time accompanied by a slight thrashing of his legs. Zena, unfazed, simply patted his knee. “There, there, your Highness. Just a routine check-up. Nothing to get… worked up about.”

She then procured a stray feather from a nearby pillow, and with a mischievous glint in her eye, began to tickle his foot. Theron’s leg jerked violently. “Oh, very responsive!” she exclaimed, scribbling notes on a scrap of parchment she’d found on the nightstand. “Reflexes… excellent. Though, I suspect it’s less ‘royal reflexes’ and more… ‘involuntary twitching.’”

A particularly loud groan from Theron caused Zena to pause, her feather poised mid-tickle. “Alright, alright, I’ll stop,” she said, tucking the feather behind her ear. “Though, I must say, you’re a remarkably… lively patient, considering your condition.”

She then leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Between you and me, I think the royal physicians have missed something. You’re not dying, you’re just… hibernating. A very… active hibernation.”

The heavy silk sheets rustled as Zena, with a determined glint in her eye, adjusted her position. “Right,” she muttered, more to herself than the still-unconscious Lord Theron. “Let’s see what all the fuss is about.”

She’d spent the better part of the evening exploring the landscape of his unconscious form, and now, fueled by a combination of curiosity and a healthy dose of “well, why not?“, she was ready to proceed to the next phase of her… investigation.

“Now, now, your Highness,” she whispered, her voice a playful murmur in the dimly lit chamber. “Try to relax. Or, well, as relaxed as you can be, considering you’re currently playing the role of a particularly handsome log.”

She then proceeded to rearrange the pillows, creating a sort of… support system. “Comfort is key,” she announced, patting the makeshift arrangement. “We wouldn’t want anyone getting a crick in their… well, anywhere.”

A low groan escaped Theron’s lips, and Zena paused, her hand hovering over his chest. “Oh, are we having a reaction?” she asked, her eyes twinkling. “Is the royal log starting to stir?”

She then leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t worry, your Highness. I’ll be gentle. Or, at least, as gentle as I can be, considering I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing.”

A moment of silence followed, broken only by the soft rustling of the sheets and Zena’s occasional muttered commentary. “Hmm, interesting,” she mused. “Definitely… firm. And surprisingly warm, considering the circumstances.”

She then let out a soft sigh. “Well,” she declared, finally settling into a more comfortable position. “This is certainly… an experience. I’m going to have so many stories to tell.”

Another groan from Theron, this time accompanied by a slight twitch of his hand. Zena grinned. “Oh, you’re awake?” she asked, her voice laced with mock surprise. “Or, at least, part of you is. Welcome to the party.”

She then adjusted the blankets, tucking him in with a maternal air. “Now, try to get some rest. And try not to… overexert yourself. We wouldn’t want you to strain anything, now would we?” She gave a final pat on his chest, then blew out the candles, leaving the room in a dim, suggestive glow. “Good night, your Highness. Sleep tight.”