Part 1 of 3
Dirty little fingers sifted through the shining treasures of an old cigar box. A girl caked with a mask of soot plucked up a little scrap of wallpaper with purple thread flowers, carefully though, lest she soil it. She traced the silk with her nail, tenderly, reverently, before placing it back inside the box. The dull glimmer of brass keys caught her eye and she picked them up as well, loving the tinkling music they made when jingled together. She dreamed that they had once fit the door to a great house with twenty bedrooms and a kitchen the size of a barn, or perhaps a giant redwood armoire belonging to a foreign princess, with dresses of every color made from the softest fabrics known to man.
Her fingers curled around one key, turning it, imagining the beautiful door it might open. She closed her eyes, and let her dream surround her, just for a moment.
They were baubles, her little treasures. Little bits of trinkets collected over her lifetime. They were pretty things, the most beautiful items she's ever owned: a dangly diamond earring with one gem and it's pair missing, a small, leather story book - her favorite, a tarnished, brass pocket watch with a broken glass face, though it still kept the time, a handful of foreign copper currency shined to brilliance, an assortment of colorful buttons and thread, and most recently, the delicate piece of flowered wallpaper and ring of brass keys.
She turned the cold metal in her hands, examining the intricate designs by the light filtered down through holes in the door above.
The squeal of pigs and the honking of troubled geese jerked her to the present. She tucked the keys back inside the worn out box before closing its lid, then buried it under the loose flagstones. She tucked the dirt into the crevices, careful to cover the signs that something had been disturbed, before she straightened and fixed her skirts.
She patted her covered head self-consciously, checking for misbehaving fly-aways. Master hated seeing her hair and often expressed his displeasure through the end of a switch.
She kept her bright blue locks safely tucked beneath a plain scarf, tied in a small knot at the base of her skull with the ends draped over her shoulder. She had kept up the fashion for so long, sometimes she forgot what her hair even looked like unbound.
Satisfied her attire was in order, she picked up her bucket of root vegetables, which she had gathered earlier, and climbed the steep stairs to the kitchen floor.
With one arm over her head, she lifted the trapdoor slowly to not startle any of the girls. After a quick survey, she counted a few pairs of familiar ankles. She clamored out of the dark pit and closed the door behind her.
Her master ran an inn near the edge of the province. It was tucked a ways down the road to be hidden, but not so far that it was considered out-of-town.
Levy and ten other girls maintained the place. Each girl was assigned a particular task; either cleaning, or gardening. Levy being the latter of the two.
It was a big house, but not big for them. Almost all of the girls slept in the cramped attic, using cast-off bedding from the inn when the guest sheets became threadbare, or from garbage raids in-town. Those girls usually maintained the rooms and upper floors. The "clean jobs", they called them because the girls and rooms were required to be clean at all times.
Levy, and another girl, stayed in the cellar. It was more of a hole in the ground than a proper cellar, but it was cool during the summers and somewhat warm in winter. She shared the minuscule space with the new girl, Wendy. They decided since Wendy was youngest that she shouldn't be paraded about on the upper floors for the customers to see. It was their way of protecting her.
They worked the garden, Levy and Wendy. Levy took it upon herself to shoulder the particularly taxing chores: the laundry with its stinging soap, turning the earth for Spring planting, cleaning the stalls in the barn, and hauling water. Constantly hauling water. In fact, every time she made a trip to the kitchen she brought a full bucket with her. Every time she left, it was to drop an empty bucket at the pump. It was hard, and in most cases, she was so tired by the end of the day that she passed out into an exhausted sleep.
Her hands had long since toughened, her skin was weathered and ingrained with soil. She had never had a true bath, excluding the times she just couldn't stand the grime and bodily oil coating her, she used the lukewarm water leftover from the laundry. And it was in an adrenaline fueled rush. No one had outright caught her, especially not her master. Although it was plainly obvious with her usually brown/gray skin turned harsh pink and tingly, thanks to the homemade soap. It was all she had and she took advantage of it when she absolutely had to.
Levy had grown up at the inn, starting out much younger than Wendy. She had no memory of her life or family before, and had relied on the older girls to fill in the details. She had arrived wearing a woolen, dove-gray dress with a buttoned bodice and cream petticoats, complete with brown, hook-n-eye shoes. She hadn't been from a wealthy family, though Levy used to pretend she had a distant relative somewhere, usually a wealthy aunt or an estranged cousin. She knew her immediate family had died, she'd seen the certificates herself, as well as the contract on her life. She didn't know it at the time, but the province had purchased her in order to cover the costs of her family's burials.
Her entire life signed off in ink for a pair of pine boxes and a handful of nails. Now, she was much less than a servant, and often reminded of that fact. She was like the work horse or the piglet in the yard. A piece of property to be used and trashed. It was no way to live.
Levy shook off her morbid thoughts, pulling herself back to the present. She worked hard and kept out of sight. She had plans, big plans to see the king. She was certain if she could speak to him, explain herself, he would understand and if all went smooth, she could ask for her freedom.
She knew she could make it if she only had the chance.
Levy tripped over her heel, catching herself on a nearby counter. Cook looked up at the sudden movement, then back down into the fireplace. It appeared Cook was angry again. She was an old woman, stout with ruddy cheeks and loose skin hanging off her bones in wrinkled folds. She grumbled to herself and yelled at one of the girls to put her head on straight while she viciously jabbed at whatever poor creature had made its way into her soup pot.
Levy and the girls knew better than to cross her. Whenever Cook was angry, the food was in-edibly spicy. It didn't matter what she made either. If Cook was anything short of content, no one would be able to eat that night.
So when Levy hauled her bucket of spuds to the stable yard for washing, she was incredibly surprised to have Cook come up next to her and help her carry the load.
"Hurry on now. Y'know who's gonna be wantin' these later. He's home early."
Her words sent an awful chill down her spine and renewed her speed to the water pump. While Cook pumped the handle, Levy picked up an old horse brush and scrubbed the potatoes clean.
Cook's words still rang in her ears and fueled her adrenaline, finishing the chore in half the time. She was so focused on her task that it was only when Cook nudged her that she stopped and looked up. Cook's face was schooled into a mask of calm with her eyes lowered. Levy whirled around to see their master standing a few feet away with a strange man at his side.
Their master was a tall, gangly man with a hawkish nose and slit eyes. He was distasteful to look at and his smell made being around him entirely unbearable.
Levy immediately ducked her chin at his presence and dropped into a shallow curtsy. Their master's guest spoke a few unintelligible words behind his hand, which made their master laugh.
It was so unlike him to laugh that she was startled by the outburst. Even Cook tensed at her side.
Slightly panicked, Levy glanced up at the stranger. He was the same height as her master, but he seemed much bigger given the fact he was heavily muscled. He was rather intimidating and Levy hid her hands amongst her apron to hide their shaking. The stranger smiled and the transformation in his demeanor made her mouth drop open. In fact, she decided he was quite nice to look at. He was foreign, with skin the color of coffee and no hair to speak of. His clothes were lavish, but not gaudy, like her master's. He had a way of showing his wealth without actually displaying it. He was high-class, his bearing suggested as much. He was such an oddity that he actually stood out more wearing his simple clothes.
When the stranger turned his head to look at her, she saw a pale scar cut through his left eye. She saw gentleness in his dark eyes and she knew he was a decent person. He watched her with an inscrutable expression, nodding to whatever it was her master had said. She stared, compelled, for a moment longer, then dropped her eyes back to her feet.
Her master extended an invitation to dinner to which his guest graciously declined. She could tell her master was displeased by the way his shoulders stiffened.
They left the stable yard, and Levy exhaled the breath she had been holding, finally able to move again. Cook hauled the now-clean spuds back to the kitchen for peeling and Levy hurried after her.
She couldn't stop the cold pit of dread that clenched in her stomach.
She hated this part: the waiting. It always started this way. Their master would chauffeur potential buyers around the property. Then, someone would disappear. It could be today, this week, two weeks. It didn't matter. Someone was leaving.
She prayed with everything in her that it would be her. Anywhere was better than here.
An ivory clock ticked against the room's fireplace mantel. Every second brought the man at the desk further into madness. Before him were letters, mostly of business, which needed attention he could not spare. It was the one letter in his hand that distracted him so.
It was written in an elegant flourish, stamped with his insignia. His ambassadors had written to him, keeping him up-to-date on the well being of the kingdom – now his kingdom. The news contained within the scrawling was not pleasant.
It appeared the condition of his kingdom had taken a turn for the worst during the end of his father's death. They were wealthy enough with good farmland, but had finally exhausted their resources for mercantile purposes. Businesses were either closing due to the lack of raw materials, or sought lower standards; the latter tending to be the case.
Whorehouses, rum-runners, opium dens, human trafficking, all of it ran wild like a garden left unattended to be choked out by the weeds.
People no longer batted an eye at the beggar on the corner. People stopped looking to the royal family for help. When had that happened?
He sighed and set the letter on a stack of similar ones and sank his head into his hands. He didn't know how to help them if they wouldn't speak up.
A knock on his door startled him, making him look up at the fireplace. The ticking clock had succeeded in lulling him.
"Come," he called.
The gold ornate door opened to reveal his advisor. A long-time, trusted friend to his father, and now to him.
He sat back in his chair, not bothering with the more formal greetings the king was due to give his advisors. The man was more family than friend.
"Lily," he greeted.
"Gajeel."
"You have good news for me?" he began hopefully.
The dark man shifted his weight into a more relaxed pose. He still wore the civilian clothes assigned to him by the Royal Guard; a safety measure to travel the kingdom without hindrance.
"If it were good, I wouldn't be here."
Gajeel groaned, "Just add it to the pile, why don'tcha?"
He gestured irritably to the scattered letters across the desktop.
Lily approached the desk and examined the closest missives with an arched brow.
He spoke after a short time, "Are they all like this?"
"Yes. Some worse than others. But all the same."
"Where are the worst?"
Gajeel gave a bitter laugh, "Right at our front door. Interesting how the worst of our problems are where we should be doing our best. I don't understand it."
"Maybe you don't need to."
Gajeel stood, stretching his back and aching muscles. He had been sitting for longer than he thought. He sauntered to the wet-bar stocked near the fireplace. He poured himself a glass of amber liquid, tossed the contents back in a single swallow, then refilled it before he asked his questions.
"What are you suggesting, Lil'?"
His friend propped himself against the edge of the desk, crossing his arms over his chest.
"You have never been very forthcoming when it came to the people. They barely know you exist."
Gajeel turned and faced the man across from him. He had a solution stirring in his mind. He could see it in his eyes, in his small smile. Gajeel nodded for him to continue.
Pantherlily shrugged, "The people do not know you. They do not know you're even here. So, they feel the natural order has died, too."
Gajeel narrowed his eyes suspiciously. He knew where Lily was planning on taking this.
Gajeel resented the crowds and the public speaking that came with being royalty. He refused outings in daylight and often found himself shut away in the palace library. People were judgmental and he found quiet peace amongst the dusty tomes. He studied almost every field extensively, continuously broadening his education inside leather bound pages.
But he was not entirely anti-social. When day turned to night, he explored the city as one of the people. Since he was never seen in royal attire as the kingdom's Prince, he was treated no differently than anyone else in the town. He knew the streets of his city like no one else. So how things became so destitute, he couldn't fathom.
"If you were to make a show of force, it would stir attention, remind the people there is still a king in power—"
"Not a 'king', Lily." Gajeel interjected. He was unmarried, and therefore, unable to assume full kingship. He was king in every way, except title.
"Be that as it may, it will still gain their attention. All I ask is that you accompany the guard on a tour."
"A tour?"
"Yes. To every corner. In full regalia. You can even wear that scowl your so fond of."
Gajeel's expression deepened into a fierce frown which only served to amuse his friend further.
"They'll expect me to speak," he pointed out.
"Perhaps," the dark a man tilted his head from side to side, "but not to a crowd. Simply...inquire about their businesses. You already know what is going on. See if you can help them turn to more legitimate sources of income."
Gajeel shook his head. He knew the people couldn't make such a change on a whim. His request required backing. Actual resources. He had already sent his letters out to their neighboring kingdoms looking for potential brides. If they could strike a union and combine their provinces, the matter would be settled.
As if reading his stream of thought, Lily spoke up, "That brings me to my next topic. Have you considered a bride?"
Gajeel rolled his eyes, "Yeah, Lil', I went through a whole list of them today."
His sarcasm was a little overdone, but he couldn't keep his frustration at bay any longer, "You've been out there. You know exactly what this kingdom looks like. No princess is going to want to deal with this kind of headache."
Pantherlily gave a quiet chuckle, "Does it have to be a princess?"
Gajeel tipped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, knowing what was coming, "I suppose not."
"The kingdom does not need to tangle itself further in foreign affairs. Our focus needs to be within our borders. Find a noblewoman here. Wed her. Parade her through the kingdom. If the people see you, they are reminded of control. If the people see you with a wife? They will see the royal family as an active entity to contend with. They will rely on you."
Gajeel downed the last of his drink, setting the upturned glass on the bar.
He knew he was right. But it wasn't his wisdom that he despised hearing. It was facing his own shortcomings that he was dreading.
"Lil'?"
The man at the desk looked up at his Prince curiously. He could see the nerves play across face, the raw fear of having to face the public.
"Does it have to be a noblewoman?" he asked quietly.
He would hate such a creature. He had met his fair share of spoiled brats during his father's life and he was not too keen on tying his future to a she-devil. His advisor gave his question sincere consideration before answering.
"No, I suppose not. A wife is a wife, no matter where she's from. If anything, a low-born woman could actually help your cause."
Gajeel nodded, taking in his words with a solemn expression. He knew it sounded like a desperate plan, but it made sense. A woman would humanize him, make him approachable. That was what he needed. To be open to the people, and a wife was simply the gateway.
Lily chuckled before he stood, crossing to the door to leave, "A wife – a good wife – will bolster the people's spirits; renew their pride. A wife will definitely help."
His words were spoken more to himself than to the prince. The door shut with a quiet click and Gajeel knew he was alone once more.
Gajeel paced before the fireplace, unable to remain at rest any longer. He was placated by his advisor's words. If he could find a woman, a kind and thoughtful woman, he felt a glimmer of hope that his kingdom would prosper from their union. She may not be able to provide lands, but she could provide fresh perspective.
And an heir.
He sauntered to his desk and filed his paperwork, straightening the pens and ink in their holders. He strode towards the oil lamp nearby and held it aloft, carrying it back to its original location: his room.
He had yet to move into the king's suite since his father's passing. The rooms had been sterilized. New sheets, scrubbed carpets, even the tapestries had been replaced. But it felt wrong somehow. Invasive. So instead, he maneuvered the halls until he reached his own rooms, setting the lamp on his bedside table.
The bedclothes were rumpled, just as he had left them. He stripped the loose shirt from his back, flinging it towards his dressing chambers. His pants followed.
Soon, he was sinking into the soft mattress, a weary sigh escaping him. He felt better after listening to Pantherlily's advice. He had a way of making simple solutions for difficult problems. And they tended to work beautifully.
So he decided he would not think about this. He would not think of his fears.
He reached his hand out to the side, into the empty space of the bed next to him. A woman would occupy that space soon. He rolled to his side and propped his head on his hand. He imagined seeing her curves making dips in the duvet, her fingertips curling over the edge.
Such a woman would certainly be sleeping by now, but still, he wondered what she would look like. Would she twist her hair into braids before she slept? Or would she sleep with it loose in glorious, shining waves? Did she have a round mouth? What were the color of her eyes? He wanted to know. Did she sleep with her chemise tied?
Did she sleep with one at all?
This was how he fell asleep. His hand outstretched atop the bed covers and his body curved, just so, in anticipation to fit his wife.