The Princess was not fond of going outside, the sunlight was too unbearable for her and even on winter, she had to wear a thick and furry cloak for the sake of keeping whatever little light there is away from her skin.
So, she made up excuses after excuses that she has no business outside until her public appearances become near to nonexistent, until she was a rumor within a rumor–unless she was forced to make an appearance as the heiress of the crown–rare though it may be (no one would be glad to see her out and about, anyways…) but she was fond of flowers… so she made it a point to be seen at least daily, briefly, if only just to tend to them… her flowers, her garden.
She twirled a daisy before plucking it's petals one by one, watching them being blown away by the winter winds away from her.
The Princess, now of age eleven, is currently not in a good mood–and all hell breaks loose (debatably literally or figuratively, so to speak) when the normally mute Princess is not in a good mood.  Scattered daisy petals left to clean would be the least of their worries…
Usually, the Princess... despite her otherworldly features mostly kept to herself and behaved as what is expected of her as the heiress of the throne; she excels on her studies, and contrary to popular belief, she has potential leadership and political skills for someone so young–tyrant or a judge, depending on the person you were asking, that is. She even showcased an unusual talent and interest on swordplay and archery despite being discouraged by her tutors more often than once as she was still a lady of royal blood herself–much to the Queen's horror at the sight of her holding a sword with relative ease a few years ago.
The Princess had half-hoped the pretentious hag keeled over that day–but no such luck that is a story for another time.
Of course, going back to the matter at hand, the main reason of her ire stems to the indisputable fact that she has to choose a potential fiancée (a ‘partner’ in other words) as soon as possible since according to her father:
“You need a husband to protect you when I am a gone. Because though a king can exist without a queen, a queen must always be with her king.”
The little princess had resisted the sweet, sweet temptation to throw her plate at his face during dinner (as if he had protected her all this time, where was he when his wife poisoned her, where was he when strange men and women visited her at odd hours of night–that hypocritical fool!) in favor of watching her dearest stepmother choke in the most undignified way on her food upon hearing the King's words, never mind the nobles stifling their laughter in vain at her expense.
It was amusing while it lasts.
...but when it did sink in, it aggravated her to no end. She did not even thought of it, let alone desired to get married unless she is in dire need of an heir–period.
(That was lie though.
Because the Princess sometimes finds herself looking over at old portraits of her father and the mother she never get to meet.
Sometimes, she stares and stares at their eyes filled with nothing but love for each other even in nothing but canvas and oil and thinks fiercely, wishing to herself that it hurts to know that it was just wishful thinking, I want that, I want a love like that.)
Besides, who in their right mind would even want to marry someone as unsightly as her? Everyone was too fearful of her accursed features or too intimidated of her all-too royal status as the Crown Princess of the kingdom to strike up a normal conversation without flinching away or staring too much.
Even her own parents never wanted her for as long as she remembered, so who would want to be with her willingly?
She couldn't even remember sleeping in peace lest someone tried to kill her in her sleep–there's no one to trust, let alone to confide in. Not her peers. Not her servants. Certainly not her parents–no one would dare to lift a hand to help her, the Princess of evil, she learned she received this title the hard way so… how was she expected to give herself away completely and marry just like that?
Hm… she supposes it wouldn’t hurt to try.
She should try to look for the most tolerable nobleman at the very least; most probably someone who would be too fearful of her to make a foolish attempt on her life, but at least be presentable and capable enough to follow her whims all the while keeping her entertained… yes, a partner like that would be most preferable.
(Or maybe Father should have just allowed her to get a pet.
She always wanted a puppy.
Or a cat.                         
Or maybe a rabbit.
She would have settled for a bird too.)
Forget it.
That’s just as impossible.
A loveless marriage it will be then, the Princess had already concluded with bitter resignation, her gloved hand curled underneath her chin as she stood frozen like a statue in the middle of her deceased mother's beloved garden.
…so much for a love like her parents.
When the Princess was around eight, she had heard one of the maids gossiping about how vibrant the place once appeared for the former Queen's beloved flowers have all but died and on a whim, the Princess had requested her father to give the garden to her, so that she may restore the floras to their former glory and have something to do.
The King had reluctantly agreed at this, of course, his daughter was not one to ask often and as long as her studies and other duties are not affected by the sudden interest in gardening… she may do as she pleases in her spare time.
Naturally, the young Princess know not a single thing about gardening back then as she was practically sheltered like any other princess (that was a lie), but she had learned over time and as a result, the flowers now bloomed as prettily as they did during her mother's time.
(Who knew the dead makes such a great fertilizer?)
...which is a source of fresh gossip because it is currently winter, not that is anything new in their land. But she learned just recently that flowers weren't supposed to bloom at winter, this, she had heard from the servants when they thought she was not listening. So how was the Princess capable of letting them bloom all the time?
Sorcery, they believed.
Witchcraft, they assumed…
And their ideas are absolute trash she almost wanted to grieve over her people’s general lack of intellect because the Princess practiced neither; she had no such interest in the supernatural since she practically lived her life as a living, walking ‘bringer of death’ so to speak.
But yes, she did notice–the Princess is anything but daft–that her flowers never stopped blooming be it in summer, spring, autumn and even winter until she would cut them down herself or they would automatically wither in another’s hands... once removed from the stem and left unattended, far away from her presence.
This, the Princess found out when some moronic thief dared and actually tried to steal some of her flowers.
The flowers did not even make it after a day away from her… it withered and turned into dusts in the thief's hands according to the guards when they threw the scum in front of the Princess at the foot of her father’s throne.
But she did not care.
In fact, she was secretly glad the flowers cannot survive without her presence that they will die without her.
Was it selfish to think like that?
She was long since past caring.
It just… felt nice to be needed and relied upon.
Cursed they may be, but these flowers... this garden, the sanctuary of the mother she never get to know–the young Princess supposed, in a way, she loved this garden, the flowers, one of the few things she does.
It was all she had left of Queen Eleanor.
The Princess frowned then, her gloved hand lowering to her side, as she released an exhausted sigh, shoulders sagging in defeat.  How I abhor the moment when my fury melts to sorrow...
To distract herself, the Princess began to pluck all the choicest of flowers of her picking and gently placed them on the lovely vase she had brought along with her. All of the flowers were to be brought to her room where she may see them until she would replace them again with another. This is their purpose: to bring color in her otherwise monochromatic life.
In some way, the Princess supposes the floras made her day… no, definitely not happy–because happiness was a too wholesome of a feeling she might never have in life–but at the very least, it was bearable.
Aster symbolizes patience, she thinks, chuckling quietly to herself because fools that they are I can never afford to be patient, not when my birthright and life is on the line.
She plucked another, briefly inhaling its scent in content. Gladiolus is for remembrance; she recalls reading in a book once… and pink carnations–though there was still a tender ache in her chest that has mercifully grown duller over the years as though it was beginning to numb to the pain that was hidden but it was there. It will always be there (which she always pointedly ignores)–as she holds the soft, pink petals with her gloved fingers to inspect it further for any sort of imperfections.
As if mocking her, there was none.
...pink carnations symbolize the love of a woman–or a mother, do they not?
Underneath her breath, the Princess quietly released a dry, ugly bitter excuse of a laugh as she slowly crushed the offending flower in her grip until it crumpled and withered within her small hand that has strangled, stabbed and stolen lives.
(Her youth was irrelevant.
Her hands weren’t clean.
It was as dirty as them.)
She has done… things. Horrible, frightful things beyond their imagination ever since the queen poisoned her, things that often kept her up on some nights, telling herself over and over again that whatever she had done, she only did it because there was no other way.
It was in self-defense.
They… truly thought of her as a monster.
Let them.
Because they were right, she thought, I am a monster.
The remnants of the petals fell to the snow-covered ground like droplets of blood that stained and stole her innocence all those years ago–and it was all for something so petty.
All for the sake of one’s greed, no less…
If only…
The Princess releases a sigh, a miserable and tired little sound, as the flora’s petals crumpled and scattered on the ground like raindrops of tears that she could no longer bring herself to shed.
If only my mother lived long enough, if my own mother only learned to love me, then maybe… just maybe I would not have to put up with all of this misery all by myself. Maybe I would have someone to confide in, maybe if she just tried to love me… if only I had someone who cared for me then maybe I would not have to end up being like this–
One of the petals drifted close to the boot of a man in front of the gate whom she was most certain was definitely not there before.