It's one of my metaphor stories again. I suppose it is a princess/servant fic, but not… really. It's deeper than that and means a lot. ** Princess of China refers to the fragile substance, china, not the country!** Sorry for possible typos.
Enjoy and Review!
It's not what she wanted to be. It's what fate commanded her to do.
Sit up straight. Look me in the eye. Speak clearly and properly. It'd been pounded into her brain for years since she knew what the words meant. She was the prodigy to the family, the perfect one.
Never mind the nights that she sat in her room and cried herself to sleep. Never mind the days where she was never allowed to walk around in the sun. Never mind to that she didn't have a sole friend in the world unless it was granted to her.
Of course they realized this, but they didn't stop it. They praised her on being the stellar child, who didn't need anyone and could fend for herself. She could walk in a straight line with her eyes closed, apple on head on a tight rope and not fall down.
But she was the only person that knew the truth, because a person knows themselves better than those around them. That is because they own the brain and mind, the heart and soul, and they can choose what to do with it.
She was not strong. She was not smart. She was not kind. She was not anything… it was all a mask of what people thought of her to be. It was why they idolized and respected her, and respected her enough to lead them out of the misery and into the light she bestowed upon them.
She was a Princess of China. She was porcelain. She was glass. She was the fragile tea set that she drank from every afternoon and always let the servants take away, because she was convinced she could not do otherwise.
She was a product, not a person. They had added and multiplied her by those from her past to create something new, that when divided would give you what you had started with. A clean slate and a broken person in need of fixing. A pretty girl that they could teach to act to their will. Someone in need of possession.
As she slept on her silk sheets and wrapped a comforter around herself, she would stare out the window at the twinkling stars that her parents compared her to. They were high in the sky and she wanted to touch one of them. Books had told her that sometimes they even shot across the sky.
It was fiction, her father had told her with a punishing slap to the cheek. It had stung for a few minutes and turned red, but it was not bad enough to break the blood vessels and cause a bruise. It reminded her that she was only the product, and that if they willed it, she would break down again.
A lady combed her hair, and the brush snagged on her curls. She stared in the mirror at her face, which was a sin. The gray eyes stared back at her. People had scolded her for her gray eyes, as if there was something she could do about them. Her blonde hair cascaded down her shoulders, and she wore the most prestigious of outfits that was like a cloud against her skin.
When the lady was done, she set a small diadem on her head, bowed slightly, and rushed away from the room, leaving her and the mirror.
She touched her face, and it looked like she was drained from all blood. It had been over a month since the last time she was allowed to go outside into the garden. For a month she had been hurled textbooks in foreign languages and then asked to recite them from pure memory.
So she stood from the vanity and glided over to the window. She would be hurt for this, but she wanted it. She undid the latches on the window with her small, dainty fingers, and the window pushed open.
A breeze caught her newly done hair and pushed it to her neck. The breeze lifted her face into a smile and blew away her dress. She squinted and felt the air rush through her opened mouth and nose down trachea and into her lungs. The swelled with relief. She held her breath for as long as she could, but then it left her.
After she had enough air, she glanced down at the grounds. People worked and did not notice her. They trimmed the rose and cut the lawns. The pruned the flowers and planted new bulbs in the ground. She saw the dirt cake their skin and longed to be in their place.
She leaned back to shut the window before someone noticed and informed her parents, but it was too late. One of them looked up at her slightly with an expression of wonder and shock. He too was planting, but he had stopped to look at her.
She could find the guts to look away. He had black hair they churned around his head, and even from so high up she could see is green eyes, two emeralds that bore into her own. He was dressed her plain, servants clothes, rough tan pants and a white collared shirt, now stained with sweat.
It took her another long moment before she closed her mouth and window at the same time. She redid the latches with speed and after one final looked at the boy, she drew the blinds shut.
Weeks passed and she peeked from behind the curtains, but not once did she see the raven-haired boy. She did not see him for a month, and then for two. Within that time she had read all there was to read and even been granted a ride around town.
It changed when she went into the kitchen one night for a glass of water. She had been to the kitchens perhaps three times in her life, always when no one was looking, but she had memorized every step and turn.
From her room on the third floor, it was two hundred and eight-nine steps, but only one hundred and fifty strides. She scurried around the ten corners and three flights and down a small wooden ramp into the basement. She wore a robe and slippers, not making a sound.
She was surprised to find one person still up and working, it being the middle of the night. The butcher's knife was long in the man's hand. He wielded it like a blade and brought it down hard on top of the animal, chopping it into pieces. She stopped, part fascinated and part revolted.
He turned around like he sensed her presence. He dropped the knife on to the table of wood, and her heart dropped as she recognized him to be the man from the garden. He was startled at first, but then remembered that he was supposed to bow and did so slightly. His faced had turned bright red as he examined himself.
Only then did she do so too. The crimson and scarlet from the animal had leaked down his white apron that hung from his waist, and instead of wearing the normal servant's attire he had on a black shirt. He look made her want to flee, but she spoke to him. She never spoke to anyone.
"I was just here to get some water," she said, her voice firm and steady, just as it should have been. She was proper as she stuck her back up straight, as if she were standing in front of the queen herself. "I'll leave though…" She turned around and attempted to move away.
A hand was on her shoulder, and she stifled her screech. Servants were not supposed to touch her. She stared at the hand and whirled around. It coated her blue robe in blood that would not come out. She gaped at him, not able to believe he had done such a thing. She was not mad though… she should've been mad, but she loved the feel of someone's hand against her.
He seemed to have realized what he had done, because he dropped his hands and backed away, murmuring apologies and begging for forgiveness. "Please, I can't lose my job, I need this." She knew it wasn't a matter of losing his job. She had seen what happened to the servants.
She had been very little when she had run away and through the gardens, not stopping to look and around, not stopping to look back. She could not remember exactly where she had gone, but she remembered coming across and man, whipping the servants that lay on the ground. She remembered the screams that had mingled with her own cries. She didn't know this man, but she didn't want that fate bestowed upon him.
Sometimes she wondered what kept her standing tall and obedient. She realized that it wasn't her duty and serenity, but it was that those that worked for her were worse than she was. She had it good, and they did not, and she could not bear to think what would happen if she left.
A spell came over her, and she set her hand against the man's cheek. "I will not turn you in," she said softly, and a million tons of worry had released from his shoulders. In a torrent of emotions, he wrapped his arms around her in a hug. In all of her years, she had never felt something so lovely.
"Thank you," he said softly. He pulled back and looked at her face. "You know, you are quite beautiful," he said cautiously, brushing back her hair with the back of his hand. The gesture was so sweet that she melted in front of him. Even through the slippery blood, she could feel his hand, hard and calloused from the years of work that he had endured.
He could not have been older than her.
"I know this is informal, but I have looked for every day since I saw you from my window, all those days ago," she said quietly, realizing then how loud they had been. His eyes widened as he said, "I thought you hadn't remembered…"
"Annabeth! Are you out of bed?" called her father, and she started to hear the creaking footsteps of her father walking down the stairs. Her heart shattered. Not only would she be punished, but this man would be too. And he was her pedestal.
"Come with me," she whispered, grabbing his hand. He obliged gratefully and did not say anything as they dashed from the kitchen. "Keep quiet, they make noise," she breathed, gripping his hand tightly as they scurried away. She could only hope that he was not dripping blood everywhere.
Soon, her father's calls got softer as they got farther and farther away. They were up the flights of stairs, and she pushed him into her room. Her room was china too, breakable like her, but at the moment she felt just as tough as the man next to her. Her smartness did not feel like her image; it felt like her own.
She knew now that her father would check her room. She shed her robe to where she was only wearing undergarments. She could feel the man's eyes on her, but it didn't matter. She kicked the robe under her bed, and pushed him over to the other end of her room. "Quick, hide in here and do not make a single sound," she whispered as she pushed him into her closet. He tried to say something, but she shut the door.
Running to her bed, she jumped inside and under the covers. She rested her head on her arm and closed her eyes. And all the while, she thought of him. They had only just met actually, but it felt as if they had known each other for an eternity. Maybe in her past like they had known each other.
She willed herself to relax, not for her sake, but for his. Her breathing slowed, but she was as awake as ever. And when her door opened and someone stepped inside, she didn't move a muscle. Eventually the person, who she guessed to be her father, sighed and walked off. The door closed behind him, and she waited a full minute until the tread of his footsteps was gone. Then she jumped up and ran to her closet and pulled the man out. He looked shaken, but she wrapped her arms around him.
It took a second before his own were around her too. "Thank you," he said softly before he pulled back. He looked regretful as he bowed. "I am so sorry for the inconveniences, miss. I'll be going now."
As he moved to leave, she snatched his hand and pulled him towards her bed, and they flopped not-so-gracefully down on it. He took in a startled breath as she lay the covers on top of them. Underneath them, they came together like magnets. She couldn't help but think of the probability of a situation like this happening. And how they were together only just knowing each other, and barely at that, was amazing.
But already she trusted him with her life, and something told her that it was the same for him. "You know, it is people like you that keep me alive," she told him. "I've thought about leaving, but seeing you and the others stop me."
"Don't say that," he said. "What happens when we all die? You may be alone."
"Not actually. You'll be in spirit and it heart." His hand went to her waist and stroked her flesh lightly and caring. "Please stay here with me tonight?" she asked, not caring that the blood had rubbed off on the sheets and coated her body. It was an imprint of him on her. "I won't be able to sleep otherwise."
"I'll have to leave in the morning," he informed her, but he pulled her closer. For now that was all enough. And she had power. She could free him from this, and maybe one day they would be like this again. It was impractical, but it was true. Unless it was fated to be. She believed in fate, and she didn't know what it was going to be.
"What's your name?" she wondered.
"Percy."
"That's a nice name," she said, and she buried her head into the crook of his neck. "You know, you're strong, and I am only a Princess of China. I wish I was like you. But I am fragile and breakable, because I am a product."
"You are not a product," he told her. "You are so much more than that. It is good to be fragile sometimes. It makes you lovely, and you are wonderful."He kissed the top of her head, like that of an angel. He was her air. "Sleep now, Princess of China, and know that I am here."
And when she looked up, through the small slit in her closed curtains, she could've sworn that she saw a star shoot across the sky. Perhaps everything wasn't just fiction and there were reasons to believe. Maybe there were reasons to always hope, and things to strive towards.
Her eyes closed, and the fragility of the state of sleep was granted, so glass-like that she knew if he were not there, it would have broken.