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Entry tags:
abc prompts; k+s: enslavement
She almost feels like a real girl.
There are maids flocking around her, twisting and pinning and curling her hair, smoothing her fingernails, pinching and patting her cheeks. They're even altering her dress: a slimming, sweeping sky-blue affair that brings color to her eyes.
But lurking at the edges of the scene, sending a chill to cut through the warmth of their attention, there is her constant awareness of what is to come.
They're preparing her for the prince.
She couldn't put it out of her head if she tried. The maids murmur to each other, let him take down her hair when he undresses her, don't paint her lips so brightly, she's a slave, not a whore. She wants to punch their pretty faces. To them, she scarcely qualifies as human. They're paid for their time and their work, albeit a meager salary. They're servants.
Her people, by contrast (fair-skinned beside the denizens of this kingdom), are slaves, conquered and captured. She is but a trinket, passed from hand to hand and made to work simply for the luxury of eating a bit of bread.
Most recently, she was retrieved from a duke who had tired of her spirit. He called it 'insubordination.' He had been her third owner to do so in the two years since she'd been lifted from the kitchens to do more — glamorous work. Some of the girls with whom she'd scrubbed floors and dishes had expressed their envy. She'd been excited, herself.
That was before she understood what would be expected of her.
Now, with the promise of a prince to please, she feels nothing but dread.
Two girls escort her to the prince's chambers, leave her just inside the door. She stands on aching feet and awaits his acknowledgement, her eyes trained defiantly on him all the while. (If she makes him hate her, too, maybe he'll deem her unfit for the bedchamber and send her to the kitchens again. She'd die to wash another dish.)
He's turned half-away from her, writing something she's too far away to read. His countenance is serious, but he's too young yet to have creases in his brow. Like his people, he's beautiful: bronzed skin and dark hair, warm, dark eyes. His hands are exquisite, poised around a quill. They'll be less lovely when they're on her body.
The thought makes her stomach twist and rekindles her bitterness. He still has not looked at her.
"I suppose that scroll's going to pleasure you when you're finished signing it," she says before she can stop herself.
The quill freezes. She can't believe she said it, but since she did, she raises her chin and tries to look as bold as she must have sounded.
He turns to face her, one arm over the back of his chair, both eyebrows raised high. Silence stretches thin between them.
"Sit," he says at last, and nods to the trunk at the foot of the bed.
She sits and she seethes. The prince returns to his missive.
More than anything, she wants him to come to her so she can stop imagining all the horrible things he might do. Her mind is in constant motion: will he be rough? Demanding? Will he ask her to do strange things? Will he beat her? Worse, perhaps — will he touch her gently, and claim to love her? Kiss her softly and expect tenderness in return?
It is nearly nightfall, and when the light from the window becomes too dim to write by, the prince rises to light a candle. He takes it to the bedside, not to the table, and there he begins to undress. She can barely see him from the corner of her eye.
Any moment now, he will call on her to come into his bed. She listens as he turns back the blankets and settles in, watches the room go dark as he blows out the candle. The only sound in the room is the soft whirring of crickets from outside.
Still, he does not speak to her.
She cannot bear the thought of being made to sit here through the night, or of being found asleep here in the morning. Will he simply ignore her? She's accustomed to being treated as some sort of pet, but even pets have needs — he's treating her like furniture.
Just as she finally opens her mouth again, the prince's voice breaks the quiet.
"There's a ledge beneath the window. It isn't very wide, but if you can make it to the corner, there's a rail you can climb over to get onto the roof proper. Find your own way down from there."
A few moments pass as she struggles to understand. He's telling her to climb out the window? Onto the roof? To go where?
"The guards will be changing shifts now," he adds. "You'll have a few minutes."
Anywhere, she realizes with a start. He's offering her a chance to escape.
He didn't call her to his bed because he doesn't want her there, because he doesn't want any slave there, if she had to guess. There's nothing special about her, no reason he should release her and not another girl in her place.
She stands abruptly, and she makes for the window without looking back. She doesn't dare give him a chance to change his mind.
And he doesn't. He's silent as she edges carefully out into the night air, inches cautiously along the ledge and lunges — grabs the rail and scrambles over onto the roof. The gauze of her skirt catches on one of the fence's spearheads. She rips it free and then she runs, kicking her shoes off as she goes.
Her hands touch the roof for purchase until she gets to the top and half-slides down the other side, rough tiles scraping her tender feet. There's a tower to her right, with a staircase wrapping around the outside.
She makes her precarious way from the roof's edge to the wall of the staircase, praying desperately that she might not break her neck. If she makes it to the ground in one piece, she'll have to find some rags to wear. This dress will be a dead giveaway. Perhaps she can steal into the laundry and find a frock, cover the gleaming red tones of her hair with a kerchief. And if her face is dirty enough, the guards might not notice how pale her skin is.
They'll surely be looking for her, so she can't stay in the kingdom for long. In the morning, someone will come to the prince's room to serve him breakfast, and inquire as to the whereabouts of his new slave. He'll say — what will he say?
That she slipped out in the night? From his own bed? He can't tell them he let her go, but they doubtless won't believe that she escaped without his notice. They'll know he looked the other way while the expensive gift he was given by a lord trying to curry his favor simply disappeared. There will be repercussions for such disregard.
She pauses, one foot on the staircase wall and the other between the spearheads of the rail, her hands wrapped around an iron upright.
An ordinary man wouldn't turn her loose at such expense to himself.
That, she thinks, with a sudden rush of emotion — that is a prince. Compassion, selflessness and bravery. She's overcome with admiration, but she won't turn back.
Will she?
Slowly, she retreats back over the railing, sits on the roof with her back against the iron. She could leave here now, go out into the world, wherever she wants to go. Wherever that is, she will be alone, cold and hungry, and she will always be hiding her face. There is nowhere in this land that a girl with pale skin will not be suspect. But she will be free.
Or she can return to the prince: a man thoughtful enough to see a girl where others see only a slave, kind enough to release her from her nightmares, courageous enough to face the consequences and noble enough to suffer them in silence. Such a man would not starve her, would not strike her. If he sees in her a human being, he will certainly treat her as one.
He may not ever call her to bed, but if he does, she is beginning to think that spending the night with him would be worth the benefit of his magnanimity.
The ledge is harder to navigate going back, and she slides into his window clumsily. Her bare feet land on her skirt and tear the gauze open wider as she tries to stand.
"What are you doing?"
His voice is taut, strung between disbelief and anger. A frisson of fear runs through her, but she pushes it down and speaks with courage that she can only hope might impress him.
"Tearing my skirt apart."
It might have, she supposes, if she'd thought of something more impressive to say with it.
His silhouette sits up in the dark. "Why did you come back?" The tension in his tone has dissolved into bewilderment, and it eases her nerves.
"If I'd run away, you would have been in trouble come morning," she says as matter-of-factly as she can. "It's rude to lose a gift."
Silence is unreadable, but she thinks he's still confused, so she continues.
"I don't want to run away. You're very brave, letting me go, or very stupid." Belatedly, it occurs to her that she might be pushing her luck, calling him stupid. "I came back because... I want to be brave."
"Or stupid," he interjects.
"Or stupid," she amends. "But I rather think that a prince who is compassionate enough to release a slave and take the blame might be a kinder master than I've ever had."
The blankets rustle as he shifts. "I don't want to be your master. I didn't let you go because I'm brave, I'm — I let you go because I'm selfish."
She scoffs aloud, emboldened by his candor. "Then I came back because I want to be selfish. A prince will keep his slave well-fed and warm. If I run, I'm cold and hungry."
"Why are you so sure I'll treat you well?" he demands, frustration lacing his words.
She doesn't answer immediately. To tell the truth, she can't be sure. Perhaps he simply didn't want the hassle of a slave. Perhaps she's angered him by coming back, and he'll take it out on her. She's so confidently declared him a benevolent prince, but that doesn't make it so.
"I'm not sure," she says finally, and into her next words she puts every ounce of courage she's ever had.
"I'm just brave enough to find out."
There are maids flocking around her, twisting and pinning and curling her hair, smoothing her fingernails, pinching and patting her cheeks. They're even altering her dress: a slimming, sweeping sky-blue affair that brings color to her eyes.
But lurking at the edges of the scene, sending a chill to cut through the warmth of their attention, there is her constant awareness of what is to come.
They're preparing her for the prince.
She couldn't put it out of her head if she tried. The maids murmur to each other, let him take down her hair when he undresses her, don't paint her lips so brightly, she's a slave, not a whore. She wants to punch their pretty faces. To them, she scarcely qualifies as human. They're paid for their time and their work, albeit a meager salary. They're servants.
Her people, by contrast (fair-skinned beside the denizens of this kingdom), are slaves, conquered and captured. She is but a trinket, passed from hand to hand and made to work simply for the luxury of eating a bit of bread.
Most recently, she was retrieved from a duke who had tired of her spirit. He called it 'insubordination.' He had been her third owner to do so in the two years since she'd been lifted from the kitchens to do more — glamorous work. Some of the girls with whom she'd scrubbed floors and dishes had expressed their envy. She'd been excited, herself.
That was before she understood what would be expected of her.
Now, with the promise of a prince to please, she feels nothing but dread.
Two girls escort her to the prince's chambers, leave her just inside the door. She stands on aching feet and awaits his acknowledgement, her eyes trained defiantly on him all the while. (If she makes him hate her, too, maybe he'll deem her unfit for the bedchamber and send her to the kitchens again. She'd die to wash another dish.)
He's turned half-away from her, writing something she's too far away to read. His countenance is serious, but he's too young yet to have creases in his brow. Like his people, he's beautiful: bronzed skin and dark hair, warm, dark eyes. His hands are exquisite, poised around a quill. They'll be less lovely when they're on her body.
The thought makes her stomach twist and rekindles her bitterness. He still has not looked at her.
"I suppose that scroll's going to pleasure you when you're finished signing it," she says before she can stop herself.
The quill freezes. She can't believe she said it, but since she did, she raises her chin and tries to look as bold as she must have sounded.
He turns to face her, one arm over the back of his chair, both eyebrows raised high. Silence stretches thin between them.
"Sit," he says at last, and nods to the trunk at the foot of the bed.
She sits and she seethes. The prince returns to his missive.
More than anything, she wants him to come to her so she can stop imagining all the horrible things he might do. Her mind is in constant motion: will he be rough? Demanding? Will he ask her to do strange things? Will he beat her? Worse, perhaps — will he touch her gently, and claim to love her? Kiss her softly and expect tenderness in return?
It is nearly nightfall, and when the light from the window becomes too dim to write by, the prince rises to light a candle. He takes it to the bedside, not to the table, and there he begins to undress. She can barely see him from the corner of her eye.
Any moment now, he will call on her to come into his bed. She listens as he turns back the blankets and settles in, watches the room go dark as he blows out the candle. The only sound in the room is the soft whirring of crickets from outside.
Still, he does not speak to her.
She cannot bear the thought of being made to sit here through the night, or of being found asleep here in the morning. Will he simply ignore her? She's accustomed to being treated as some sort of pet, but even pets have needs — he's treating her like furniture.
Just as she finally opens her mouth again, the prince's voice breaks the quiet.
"There's a ledge beneath the window. It isn't very wide, but if you can make it to the corner, there's a rail you can climb over to get onto the roof proper. Find your own way down from there."
A few moments pass as she struggles to understand. He's telling her to climb out the window? Onto the roof? To go where?
"The guards will be changing shifts now," he adds. "You'll have a few minutes."
Anywhere, she realizes with a start. He's offering her a chance to escape.
He didn't call her to his bed because he doesn't want her there, because he doesn't want any slave there, if she had to guess. There's nothing special about her, no reason he should release her and not another girl in her place.
She stands abruptly, and she makes for the window without looking back. She doesn't dare give him a chance to change his mind.
And he doesn't. He's silent as she edges carefully out into the night air, inches cautiously along the ledge and lunges — grabs the rail and scrambles over onto the roof. The gauze of her skirt catches on one of the fence's spearheads. She rips it free and then she runs, kicking her shoes off as she goes.
Her hands touch the roof for purchase until she gets to the top and half-slides down the other side, rough tiles scraping her tender feet. There's a tower to her right, with a staircase wrapping around the outside.
She makes her precarious way from the roof's edge to the wall of the staircase, praying desperately that she might not break her neck. If she makes it to the ground in one piece, she'll have to find some rags to wear. This dress will be a dead giveaway. Perhaps she can steal into the laundry and find a frock, cover the gleaming red tones of her hair with a kerchief. And if her face is dirty enough, the guards might not notice how pale her skin is.
They'll surely be looking for her, so she can't stay in the kingdom for long. In the morning, someone will come to the prince's room to serve him breakfast, and inquire as to the whereabouts of his new slave. He'll say — what will he say?
That she slipped out in the night? From his own bed? He can't tell them he let her go, but they doubtless won't believe that she escaped without his notice. They'll know he looked the other way while the expensive gift he was given by a lord trying to curry his favor simply disappeared. There will be repercussions for such disregard.
She pauses, one foot on the staircase wall and the other between the spearheads of the rail, her hands wrapped around an iron upright.
An ordinary man wouldn't turn her loose at such expense to himself.
That, she thinks, with a sudden rush of emotion — that is a prince. Compassion, selflessness and bravery. She's overcome with admiration, but she won't turn back.
Will she?
Slowly, she retreats back over the railing, sits on the roof with her back against the iron. She could leave here now, go out into the world, wherever she wants to go. Wherever that is, she will be alone, cold and hungry, and she will always be hiding her face. There is nowhere in this land that a girl with pale skin will not be suspect. But she will be free.
Or she can return to the prince: a man thoughtful enough to see a girl where others see only a slave, kind enough to release her from her nightmares, courageous enough to face the consequences and noble enough to suffer them in silence. Such a man would not starve her, would not strike her. If he sees in her a human being, he will certainly treat her as one.
He may not ever call her to bed, but if he does, she is beginning to think that spending the night with him would be worth the benefit of his magnanimity.
The ledge is harder to navigate going back, and she slides into his window clumsily. Her bare feet land on her skirt and tear the gauze open wider as she tries to stand.
"What are you doing?"
His voice is taut, strung between disbelief and anger. A frisson of fear runs through her, but she pushes it down and speaks with courage that she can only hope might impress him.
"Tearing my skirt apart."
It might have, she supposes, if she'd thought of something more impressive to say with it.
His silhouette sits up in the dark. "Why did you come back?" The tension in his tone has dissolved into bewilderment, and it eases her nerves.
"If I'd run away, you would have been in trouble come morning," she says as matter-of-factly as she can. "It's rude to lose a gift."
Silence is unreadable, but she thinks he's still confused, so she continues.
"I don't want to run away. You're very brave, letting me go, or very stupid." Belatedly, it occurs to her that she might be pushing her luck, calling him stupid. "I came back because... I want to be brave."
"Or stupid," he interjects.
"Or stupid," she amends. "But I rather think that a prince who is compassionate enough to release a slave and take the blame might be a kinder master than I've ever had."
The blankets rustle as he shifts. "I don't want to be your master. I didn't let you go because I'm brave, I'm — I let you go because I'm selfish."
She scoffs aloud, emboldened by his candor. "Then I came back because I want to be selfish. A prince will keep his slave well-fed and warm. If I run, I'm cold and hungry."
"Why are you so sure I'll treat you well?" he demands, frustration lacing his words.
She doesn't answer immediately. To tell the truth, she can't be sure. Perhaps he simply didn't want the hassle of a slave. Perhaps she's angered him by coming back, and he'll take it out on her. She's so confidently declared him a benevolent prince, but that doesn't make it so.
"I'm not sure," she says finally, and into her next words she puts every ounce of courage she's ever had.
"I'm just brave enough to find out."