The Princess’ Revenge
By Libby Mitchell
Papa, why?
You didn’t pony up the ransom, so Tristan rescued me. You expected it, you bastard. Our planets declared war. You profited.
The cryochamber mist cools my body as my mind wanders. Even the stars I love pale in my anger. Reaching, finding myself…
Home.
Tristan’s portrait over our old fireplace, his eyes gazing down, scorching me with passionate echoes. The king who would never be.
My memory of his scream, his dying breath against my face. The ultimate sacrifice. For me.
The chilly mist embalms me, the tears frozen.
When I awake, they will pay.
Even you, Papa.
This piece was part of the microfiction challenge with NYC Midight. One hundred words based on a genre, action, and prop. Mine were sci-fi, paying a ransom, and portrait. Now, I have, percolating in my mind, the beginnings of a sci-fi trilogy.
