Narrative by Megan Cerbin

The day she was born the whole country rejoiced. There were festivals in the street, music wafted through the villages, laughter and the sounds of merrymaking could be heard resounding on each street, the pungent smell of ale filled the air, and everywhere there was feasting as families killed the fatted calves they had been saving for an occasion like this. They had waited so long for just this occasion, that when it finally happened the victory was all the sweeter.
Little Princess Genevieve came into the world in a burst of fire as the sun was just beginning to peak over the mountains the country was so well known for. As the sky was painted gold mixed varying shades of pink and orange, so too did a tiny head dusted in fine golden hairs appear and let loose a high-pitched squall of righteous indignation at being forced out into the cold of the world.
She was perfect in every way, even as a baby. It was said there had never been a greater beauty in the entire world, not even Helen of Troy. As she grew older, so too did she grow more beautiful. Her golden blonde hair grew and fell down her back in perfect ringlets that shimmered in the sunlight. She had the fine delicate features of royalty, and when mixed with her ivory complexion, rosy cheeks, and lips as plump, pretty, and pink as a rose, she looked reminiscent of the finest china doll. Her doe-like eyes were looked like a mixture of the cool, blue waters on the coast of the country and the bright, green forests in the heart of the country.
Princess Genevieve was everything her parents and the country ever wanted, so much so that there was no mourning her lack of being a boy or lack of having a brother. It was expected that Genevieve would continue being perfect her entire life, perfectly complete womanly pastimes such as embroidery, music, and art, along with having perfect decorum and manners, and going on to make a perfect political marriage to help strengthen the country. That all changed the first time Princess Genevieve saw a swordfight, though.
“Your Highness! Genevieve!” was heard being called loudly throughout the grounds of the palace.
The irate four year old pretended not to hear, though, making her way deeper into the forest. Her pretty pink dress with lace overlay had long since become covered in mud and torn on stray branches. Her silky white slippers would never be white again and at the moment her golden ringlets appeared to resemble a bird’s nest more than human hair with all of the leaves and debris stuck in them.
The little girl could have cared less, though; because for the first time in her life she had a taste of something she had craved her entire life, freedom. Without her servants, tutors, parents, and adoring citizens following her around the air smelled fresher and cleaner. Genevieve felt everything more deeply and an incomprehensible sense of peace overcame her. A very bright child, Genevieve didn’t quite understand what all of this meant, but somewhere deep inside of her she understood that she could not bear to let this feeling go and return to being a beautiful canary locked in a keyless cage, sheltered and flattered her entire life, knowing only a façade, never anything real. This part deep inside was driving her as she journeyed deeper and deeper into the dense forest surrounding the palace.
The shouts became fainter and the trees denser, until the four year old stumbled into a clearing near the middle of the forest and a group of soldiers. Genevieve ducked behind a tree quickly, sure that if they spotted her they would return her to the palace and her life as a doll on a shelf, a collectible never destined to be played with. Trying to remain as quiet as possible, the little princess barely dared to breathe for fear that she would be heard. After eluding notice for about a minute, though, curiosity won the battle and she slowly inched her head around the tree to pear out at the soldiers. As she observed them, Genevieve noticed something peculiar; it didn’t seem as though the soldiers were looking for her at all or even knew of her disappearance. She knew that the soldiers stationed around the castle itself were looking for her, for she had heard their voices, but maybe these were soldiers that were stationed around the castles fortifying outer walls built around the forest surrounding the castle. It wasn’t so much the soldiers that interested her as it was what they were doing, though.
To the little girl it almost appeared that the soldiers were dancing, but what they were doing was much more interesting than any of the dances she had seen being done at the balls thrown by her parents. In this dance they used shiny, silver sticks to try to strike each other. Somewhere in the back of her head she seemed to recall one of her nursemaids telling her it was called a sword and that they were dangerous and should never be touched by little girls like her. That thought was nowhere near the front of her mind, though, as she watched the soldiers never-ending dance. They didn’t seem hostile, for they were joking around with each other and issuing challenges to each other, so the little girl wasn’t scared. Far from it actually she watched enraptured as they attacked and blocked, advanced and withdrew, back and forth, push and pull, they continued their dance, taking no notice of the little princess hiding behind the tree.
As she stood there watching, time had no meaning to the little girl and all thoughts of continuing deeper into the forest were lost. There were only them, her, and the beautiful blades they wielded rhythmically in their fascinating dance. She was so amazed by the movements of the blades and the soldiers that it took her a second to notice that the soldiers and their magnificent instruments had stopped the dance and were now talking to another set of soldiers.
The grief that washed over Genevieve at the thought of not being able to watch the dance anymore was unlike anything that the three year old had ever known. She felt her heart breaking into a million tiny shards and pain wracked her body at the thought of not being able to watch the beautiful dance and returning to life inside of her gilded cage.
It was due to this that the tiny child in a fit of unbelievable rage burst out from behind the tree and screamed at the top of her lungs, “I command you to keep dancing!”, and followed it by crossing her arms over her chest and jutting out her upper lip.
The expression on the face of the four guards can be described only at unabashed shock and amazement at seeing the golden princess in front of them with no supervision and in the disheveled state that she was. Once the guards managed to recover from their shock, the two that were not sword fighting darted forward quickly, each gently but firmly grabbing one of the escaped princess’s arms to prevent her from running away.
“Come on, Your Highness It’s time to return to the castle,” one of the guards holding her arms said.
Upon hearing these words Genevieve began thrashing wildly in the guards’ arms attempting to prevent having to return to her life on a shelf.
“No!” screamed the little princess, “I shall never go back. I’m going to stay here and watch the pretty dance forever.”
Identical sparks burst into the eyes of the two guards not holding Genevieve, the two guards that were doing the sword fighting.
They looked at each other with a knowing expression in their eyes before one of them piped up and said, “Well, Your Highness, we have a proposition for you. We believe we can offer you something in exchange for your agreement to return to the castle.”
A curious expression entered the royal’s eyes as she pondered what the guard had said.
“What could you possibly have to interest me?” she demanded impatiently with a haughty air.
“Well, you seemed quite interested in our swordfight,” said the other guard.
“What if we taught you some basics?” the first guard enquired.
Princess Genevieve’s eyes lit up in amazement, imagining her wielding the beautiful instrument in the graceful dance it was designed for. With a quick nod of affirmation, the star struck little princess forever sealed her fate and ruined her country’s hopes for a bright future of what the people who lived in it deemed perfection.
“Genevieve! Genevieve!” screeched the shrill voice of her mother.
Genevieve stopped listening to her mother after the first reprimands, for she knew the forthcoming speech by heart. It would contain the rants against her appearance, her posture, her manners, and her general lack of perfection, but those were merely secondary complaints compared to her mother’s number one complaint, her daughter’s love of the unholy and unfeminine art of sword fighting. Her mother would then go on to rant about her father for allowing her to partake in such a thing, and Sir Henry and Sir James for teaching such a despicable art to her. The relatively new addition to her mother’s rant was of course that fact that her daughter would never be ready for the ball celebrating her engagement to the elderly, portly king of a neighboring country, much less ready to be a wife and queen.
Once her mother finally ran out of steam after an eternity and headed to lie down in her chambers, pleading exhaustion, Genevieve felt that tell tale spark of excitement fill her. Genevieve knew she could count on her mother to be in her chambers until the evening meal, giving her some precious time of what she desired most, freedom.
Genevieve quickly strode off to her own chambers once her mother was gone, slippers slapping loudly against the floor as her skirts billowed out around her legs. Soon, she reached her own chambers and nodded to the guards outside the door as she slipped inside. She let loose a sigh of relief as she began pulling off her uncomfortable dress and corset, and pulled the pins from her hair, allowing her golden ringlets to cascade down her back. Finding the secret hiding place in the bottom of her wardrobe, Genevieve sighed again as she slipped on breeches, a loose shirt, and a pair of boots she had stolen from the laundry wing of the castle. She also grabbed the sheets she had strung together. And tied one end to the bedpost and let the other end trail out the window.
Quickly, Genevieve scurried down the rope of sheets and felt her feet touch the grassy ground, excitement building inside of her. She strided quickly across the grounds and into the woods until she came upon the clearing where it all began. Finding the hollow log she used as a hiding place she removed her precious instrument of freedom, her reason for life, her sword. Thus she began her magical dance, back and forth she moved, imagining invisible enemies in front of her, losing herself in the magic, and feeling free, if just for a moment.
It is this magical feeling of freedom that she feels while wielding a sword, that caused Genevieve on the night of her engagement ball to pack a small satchel of clothes, gather a little water and food and money, and take her sword, slipping forever into the darkness of night, finally free. All her parents and country had left of their perfect, shining princess, and perfect, shining hopes, was the pile of golden ringlets found on her floor on the night she escaped into the darkness, cut by the blade of her own sword, her instrument of freedom, her means of escape.