A Not So Happy Beginning
A/N I posted two at once because the first was so short… but it really was just a prologue, so now to the real beginning. Oh and a warning, this chapter is a little violent…on with the show
My childhood was not pleasant, not even the servants gossiped about what occurred in our manner. My father was temperamental and abusive, because his father was no longer alive to keep him in check, he went wild. As a young child, I often felt the back of his hand, or the leather of his belt. Once I reached the age of five, the queen provided a tutor to teach me how to become a princess. The woman was strict, but I relished her company. With her, I spent hours out of the way of my father. Her disapproving glares had nothing on my father's tirades.
The woman lived in our manor, and I am sure that she was aware of my father's temper, but she never let on. After one truly horrible dinner, she stopped eating with my family and started taking meals in her room. She never commented when I came to lessons with a black eye or bruises, rather she turned an invisible eye. I later came to wonder if my father paid her off or threatened her. I could not believe that she would so callus to turn a blind eye to the abuse without some ulterior motive.
She stayed with me for seven years, and with her, I learned reading and writing, penmanship, embroidery, and many other ladylike skills. I learned how to host a tea and what fork to use when. It was all rather tedious and the only time I relished was spent with my stitchery. I was an antsy child and had a hard time sitting still. This being true, I could spend hours creating one of my masterpieces.
As I grew older my father's abuse grew more cruel, I had long stopped pleading for the help of my mother. She refused to even look me in the eye. More often than not, she was away visiting some relative or another. I had also long stopped begging her to take me with her, my pleas only fell on deaf ears.
It had been an even worse night than usual. My mother was away yet again and my father had drunken more than usual. In his inebriated state, he had become creative. I was sitting in the corner, working on a rather complicated piece and my father turned on me. He started by asking to look at my work. I saw his state and politely shook my head, hoping to lose his attention. This plan backfired. He became more upset, and actually lifted his hulking body from his chair to come grab my work from me. I let it go, and turned to flee, knowing that in a rage he was especially dangerous. I was to have no such luck. My father grabbed my arm with enough force that I sported bruises for weeks afterward. But that was the least of my worries. He brought my work over to the candle to see better.
"See, my pretty," he grinned at me with yellow teeth, "that wasn't so bad." He turned to my work. "What is this garbage?" He looked up at me and must have seen my distress. I had been working on that scene for months. As my own face twisted, his began to sport a smile. He brought my work closer to the flame.
"This really won't do. Not at all." And with that my work was in the flames. I let out one word, more a gasp than anything, no, and reached for my work. There lied my greatest mistake. My father, still holding my wrist, laughed.
"Oh, so you like the fire as well." And all of the sudden my arm, near the elbow, was burning up. The pain became unbearable as I felt my flesh singe. The smell, oh, the smell. As long as I live I will never forget it. At the moment I thought I could bear no more, he let me go. He thrust the now charred work at me.
"Get out of here you wench," he stormed, "see what you made me do. It is all your fault, stupid girl."
I lost the rest of the words as I fled. I did not run to my rooms, but rather the stables. I looked for water, anything to ease my pain and finally dunked my arm in a trough. As I lifted it out I could already see blisters forming. I still have a scar, a reminder, not that I would ever forget.
I was not long after that day that the monster died. Not of anything glorious, though after the fact I wished that I had killed him myself. No the bastard died after chocking on a chicken bone. His poor daughter, unable to help him, just watched. I watched my father turn from blue to purple I watched him die and I enjoyed it.
My mother never made it to the funeral. Rather she came home in a pine box. While at her cousin's she caught a cold. She died, the weakling, not even able to fight off a fever. At the age of twelve, I became an orphan. The king and queen came to the funeral, out of respect for the first Lord Rydes, who really had been a good man. They also came for me, their future daughter-in-law.
After the ceremony, they asked me to have my bags packed up. It was not hard, as I had few possessions. I brought my needlework and the two books I owned. One was a collection of fairy tales. The other, all about herbs.
At first, I thought that I was to be going to the palace. But I was mistaken. The King and Queen departed soon after the funeral. Instead, I was sent in another carriage to a second cousin. My tutor, freed of her contract, for the royals had forgotten to renew it, left me to fend for myself. I have a feeling that even my educator had balked at going to such a backwater section of the country. The royal family had thought that I should be with relatives, rather than strangers at such a difficult time. I was unable to explain to them that these relatives were strangers and that the time was not troubling, but rather a celebration. And so I was sent further into the country to start my second life.