Baby Ori lay back into the grass and stared up at the moon she’d made. Other inner children lay beside her. They were holding hands.

“Did you know,” Baby Ori said, “That in the real world, the moon changes all the time? Sometimes it will be half a moon or just a sliver of the moon.”

The child next to her rolled over, enjoying the crinkle of the grass and the wet dew. “I don’t care,” she said, “I hate the real world.”

Ori smiled, though it was sad “Me too. The real world is hell. A Reaper told me so.” She watched a firefly flit by.

The other child continued to roll around, giggling. “I don’t know what that means.”

That was so funny. That was the funniest thing they ever heard.

Once the little girls got going, they couldn’t stop laughing. They laughed from the bottom of their tummies. They squealed so hard that they had to get up and run around the fields.

“I got a frog! Look!! It’s in my hands!” Someone yelled.

“I see it!!” Screamed another.

A child from the forest toddled into Baby Ori. “I’m scared.” They cried. The mood changed as if a sudden storm cloud had covered the moon.

Baby Ori felt nervous. “Don’t be scared. Everything’s okay.”

Underneath the starry sky, the child balled its little fists and cried. “Is not. I bad. I scared.”

The children gathered around the weeping child. They hushed and soothed them with little children’s voices

“Look at my frog.” Offered the child with the frog.

Moments like these happened sometimes, on the inside. But it was okay because everything was okay.

That was the world that Baby Ori made.

—-

The King sat back as the court exploded in jeering and mockery at Lady Ori’s confession. There was no way that such a frail, kind child could have killed her mother.

The King lifted his hand once again. “If Lady Ori has confessed with her own lips, then why have you brought her Artois?”

Artois bowed again. “It is a matter of the law. All Lady Ori’s current injuries were inflicted upon her by the Knights de Rohan and the late Contessa.”

Count de Candel, Contessa de Rohan’s younger brother, snarled in disgust. “Lies!” he shouted. “Do not lie, Ori!”

No one agreed with him. Some of the Court exchanged glances, then looked away.

Artois ignored Candel. “This constitutes a waving of wrongdoing as per ‘Protection of the Skirts’ and ‘Proof of Near-Death’.”

The King nodded.

What followed were many half-truths and outright lies. Lady Ori had told Artois a version of events that painted herself in a pitiful, blameless light.

Artois described Lady Ori’s history of childhood abuse and neglect. That bit was true.

He told the Kimg that Sir Jonathon had visited her often, spitting venom and threatening her life.

That was a lie. That scummy little bastard was too frightened to dare visit her again.

Artois spoke about how the Contessa favored her bastard son and would beat Lady Ori on his orders.

That was laughable. Contessa de Rohan had used Lady Ori as a whipping boy. She didn’t favor Sir Jonathon. She had enjoyed harming Ori.

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Artois then spoke about Jonathon’s deranged attempt to kill her when he saw that she had acquired a dagger.

Of course, that never happened.

Artois was an elegant speaker. Lady Ori could see herself enjoying all this—after two ibuprofen, a blunt, and a fucking nap.

Artois sighed, caught up in his dramatics. He described how Lady Ori had begged and pleaded for a dagger that very day. “She had no other choice but to protect herself against a knight twice her size!”

The King’s face darkened. “The Knights de Rohan refused Lady Ori a dagger for the Lady’s undergarments?”

Artois nodded, solemn. “Yes, your Majesty.”

Lady Ori bit her lips to keep from chuckling. She pretended to be holding back tears.

‘Protection of the Skirts’ was a right afforded to all women and girls. Even girls as young as five carried sheathed daggers under their skirts. Girls of more common birth carried utility knives.

They had never allowed Baby Ori a dagger.

By refusing her this basic right, the Knights de Rohan had legitimized her entire story. Even if half of it was bullshit.

Artois continued, his brown eyes glowing with indignation. “Soon after, Contessa de Rohan went into Lady Ori’s room.”

He described the scene. Contessa de Rohan, livid, unlocking the door of her daughter’s bedroom. Like a black shadow, she stood over Lady Ori, intent on killing her. All for attacking her favorite child—the bastard son.

In the audience, Count de Candel frothed with dissent. “Brother-in-law!” He called to Foix. “How can you do this?!”

The King turned his eyes to Lady Ori again. “My Lady,” he told her, “It sounds as if you have lived a very unfortunate life.

Lady Ori stared at him. What did he want? Should she pretend to cry?

He stroked his chin, thinking. “I would like to hear from Lady Ori. My Lady, tell the Court how Contessa de Rohan died.”

Foix stood in front of his niece, “Your Majesty, please allow Lady Ori to rest.”

The King shook his head. “You may rest soon, Lady Ori. Right now, tell me your story in your own words.”

Lady Ori narrowed her eye. Who cared if she killed some abusive cunt that nobody liked?

This body has been abused and traumatized by people who were tasked to care for it. What else could the King want?

She gathered her thoughts and ran her story over again in her mind. The crowd seemed sympathetic, she should use that.

She bowed her head. She spoke in a soft, lilting voice to describe a myriad of atrocities to the Court. All that had happened to Baby Ori in their past.

Speaking it out loud, the body whipped itself into a frenzy. Her heart began to pump in her ears, and adrenaline sped through every cell. She began to tremble all over. Her voice wavered with emotion. She could see everything happening as if she were there, experiencing it again.

Of course, that didn’t mean she had to tell the truth.

Lady Ori took these strong emotions in her hands and began to spin them into a thread. She settled into the power of the moment. She wove her web with each word. She married the truth to her lies. She brought the Court to tears.

Even Count de Candel had gone quiet.

Swaying the crowd was satisfying in the same way that sitting on a man was satisfying. She liked to make them wait, to beg for it; To die for it. The mood was perfect.

She looked up at the King at all the right moments to stir his heart. Acting could be fun too. She could play pretend if it meant she could live.

The Court and the King could not help but feel moved. Poor, pitiful Lady Ori. She became the very picture of a soft-spoken, kind-hearted virgin with a black eye.

Men were so fucking stupid.

She clenched her hands in her lap. “I believe the Knights de Rohan confused my screaming for the Contessa’s.”

Her mother’s face welled up in her mind. Lady Ori struggled to suppress her wrathful facial expressions. She sniffled, then winced.“Usually, I do not interfere, your Majesty.”

These words hurt. Lady Ori didn’t want to say them. “I try to fall asleep…or…I roll into a ball.” Her voice came out in a whisper. “I go limp.”

The suffering baby Ori had experienced…

Lady Ori paused, but hot angry tears poured from her eyes anyway. She grit her teeth even as her face throbbed in pain.

If she could slit her mother’s throat again, she would. She would do it a hundred thousand times.

The King listened.

Lady Ori took a deep, shaky in-breath. This lie was the most important. Would they believe her? “I was so frightened to die, your Majesty. This time, I fought back like an animal.”

There were rumblings among the Court.

She struggled with the complexity of her emotions. She did not twist her head to look at their expressions. It didn’t matter.

She took a moment to dab at her tears. This moment of heightened tension was her favorite part. She should enjoy it while she can. She’d need to control herself. “I grabbed at the Contessa. I found the dagger.”

She suppressed her urge to laugh with her whole chest by curling inward. She bit her lip.

Fought back? Frightened to die? Those were descriptors for other people. Killing her mother had felt good. Every injury she inflicted on that bloated demon was a moment closer to freedom.

That euphoria was why Baby Ori had left. She could neither enjoy that freedom, nor the frightening pleasure of it. Those feelings belonged to Lady Ori, now.

Next to her, Uncle Foix took out a handkerchief and covered his face.

Lady Ori looked at him and almost recoiled in surprise. He was outright keening. She glanced at the King, at a loss for what to do.

The King pitied him, “I’m sure you are also thinking of your daughters, Foix. This is hard for all of us to hear.”

The King sighed and shook his head. “I have heard enough. Go and rest, Lady Ori de Rohan, Count de Foix, Count de Artois. I shall hear from Knights de Rohan and Sir Jonathon de Rohan tomorrow morning. My decision will come sometime after.”

Lady Ori glanced at her Uncle Foix again, nervous. Watching him sob, she felt like she had done something wrong.

She hadn’t meant to upset him.