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Magi_monk
Super-Earth
- Joined
- May 4, 2010
A shadow, a brief glimpse in the corner of one’s eye, a nobody. That was what was expected of her. She was to be seen and not heard, a constant presence yet never a nuisance, obedient, subservient and most of all silent. It was a life that Nerith and her people had been forced to adapt to; their beauty and agility placed them in positions of servitude, wealthy noblemen happy to pay a fortune to have their needs and homes tended to by such elegant creatures. And for their hard work they were beaten and abused, used and discarded. It was slavery, plain and simple, and no one would tell you any different.
The King of the land was no different from his people; the palace had a vast army of servants and slaves consisting of many exotic races and colours. Nerith had been working within the palace for several years now, having arrived with her mother after the bloody and devastating war that had reduced her kin to their knees. The elves had not settled well to slavery, many had died defying their new masters and mistresses, among those the young girl’s mother. Thus she had grown up within the palace walls, ignored or subjected to a heavy boot or the back of a man’s hand whenever she did something displeasing.
Though life was difficult, back-breaking and often painful, there was at least one thing that never failed to brighten the elven girl’s day, or more accurately one person. The Prince, her Master’s only son. While he rarely spoke or interacted with the servants (expectations and unwritten rules dictating this not to be appropriate), Nerith had never seen the young man raise his hand against one nor speak overly harshly even when a nervous girl spilt his drink onto his lap or burnt his favourite cloak.
Often the elven girl would find herself watching him; the gentle curve of his lips when he found something amusing, the crease of his brow when something puzzled or frustrated him. Of course, she knew better than to shirk her duties, or ever speak to the Prince directly, but late in the night as she curled beneath a threadbare blanket upon a thin straw mattress, she would find herself thinking of him. Those strong arms around her, his lips against her own, those eyes gazing deeply-....
Her day dreams were interrupted abruptly as the door to the chambers half opened, two voices discussing something of importance within the hallway. Nimble fingers swiftly tugged the quilt over the freshly made bed, the girl smoothing out the ridges and bumps hurriedly. Often Nerith was sent with several others to air the guest and royal chambers while the occupants sated their morning hunger. On this particular day, she had managed to persuade the rest that it would be her to change the Prince’s bed and, able to picture him beneath the very sheets she touched or walking in the same room she occupied, day dreams had overtaken her.
Now the Prince was about to enter, for it was his voice that interchanged with the other in conversation. The door swung a little wider as Nerith bundled up the dirty sheets and held her breath expectantly.
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