Alabaster

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I wave away Baudouin, walking across my room to the alabaster inlaid desk for the second time in what feels like less than an hour. To think last cycle lasted just an hour, if not less than.

I shudder at the memory of my face caving in. In such a short time, I have suffered deaths by bullets, by caved in roof, by my very own brother’s fists. That last one surprised me. I suppose I can’t blame him, though. After all, I did taunt the arse. And he likely didn’t know my bones are brittle. Probably didn’t know the force he put into that punch, that would have left a normal person shell shocked, but alive, would kill me. Did kill me.

I suppose I shouldn’t let myself get carried away. Taunting the fustilug is just too fun.

I take a deep breath. I find my eyes drifting to my coronet, again. The morning sun reflects across the surface like the all consuming flame I keep finding myself trapped by.

I shove myself away from the desk and out of my chair. I don’t have time to be sitting here pondering. My family won’t listen to me. That I know now. What else can I do now?

I can’t just sleep the day away. That would be useless. I can’t go to the family meeting, that would be a waste of time. I- the banquet.

The banquet is where the massacre happens. It’s where the servants rise up. Not Baudouin, though. Baudouin stays loyal. Why? No matter, but why are the guards nowhere to be found?

I cross the room to my wardrobe, donning a crimson cloak over an ebony tunic. I stop by the mirror for a moment, noting the mess of hair falling down to my shoulders. Poorly cut, poorly styled, bed head. I choose to do nothing about the wild curls as I stalk out the doorway.

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Grand paintings adorn the walls of the halls of the castle. The chandeliers cast a reticent glow upon those who pass through, highlighted by the piercing sunlight flooding in from the occasional window in the walls. Those paintings that seemed to move and dance in the flames two cycles ago now stand still as I stride through the hallways.

As I near the mess hall where the servants and guards have their meals, the ornate armor lining the halls diminishes in favor of groups of servants talking to friends and family. The atmosphere seems to change, going from the quiet calm of the palace hallways to a chatty sort-of bustle, only to change yet again to a tense silence as I pass. This is no place for a member of royalty to be. But I don’t have a choice.

I pass through the entrance of the mess hall, noting how different it is to the grand hall’s entrance. While the grand hall entrance is large and spacious, an arch supported by inscribed pillars, the entrance to the mess hall is a simple square doorway without the door, so a way… I guess. The mess hall’s entrance is spacious enough to allow two people to walk through at once. No more, no less. The atmosphere changes just like before, going from a boisterous crowded energy to near complete silence broken only by a cough.

The shift in demeanor is indicative of the resentment of the commoners to us royals. That might be paranoia, though, as it could just as well be a representation of the ignorance of the royals. We, after all, tend not to show a care in the lives of our servants, so why should a prince be taking time out of his schedule for a foray into the grimy mess hall. Especially when the rest of his- my family is dining on a feast in the grand hall. The logical reasoning does little to dissuade my paranoia, though, as I feel eyes boring into me.

My eyes cross the crowd, falling on countless varying appearances. A muscular guard out of his uniform leans into a leg of chicken, all but ignoring the new interloper. A boy, no older than seven, in modest garb reminiscent of a chef’s assistants looks on with barely hidden curiosity. A girl with messy hair takes a nap on a bench in the corner, oblivious to anything outside of her resting.

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My eyes fall on a doorway across the room. The royal guard’s own mess hall — they get their own as they hold more prestige than the common servants. Most of them, after all, come from noble lineage holding positions akin to the noble knights of the armies.

I cross the room. A murmur sweeps through it as I pass. I reach the doorway, and push my way through. The quiet atmosphere of the mess hall changes again into a rambunctious energy as I enter the new mess hall. I scan the room for a moment before my eyes catch on a man in full plate armor. Friederich Manson, captain of the royal guard and an old friend.

Friederich isn’t a friend because I served in the military with him or anything (I’ve never been in the military, for that matter), the reason rather being that he’s known me since I was born. Friederich is an old family friend.

I take a seat next to him.

Friederich perks up and lifts his head from his mead, “Allie, I didn’t know you’d be visiting.”

“I didn’t exactly tell anyone.”

“What brings you down here? Want to get some exercise in, work on those frail muscles of yours?”

“You know my body doesn’t pack on muscles like others. My sickness rendered that a non possibility, uncle.”

Friederich is not biologically my uncle, but he is close enough to my father that he is like an uncle. I’ve called him uncle since I was little. It helps that he isn’t much for formality. Makes him feel more like family.

I decide to cut to the chase, “so, I am here for something. Maybe it isn’t exercise, but still. I need information.”

Uncle Friederich’s brow quirks, “information, huh, what do you need to know?”

I need to know why the entire royal guard is absent during the revolution, but I can’t exactly say that. “Is the royal guard going out to train tonight?” That would explain an absence.

“No. Even if we needed to train, we wouldn’t leave the castle. We have training grounds within the palace for that express purpose.”

Friederich waves down a trainee for the royal guard (there are no servants to wait on the royal guard here like there are for the grand hall). “Bring me another round. Oh, Alabaster, do you want some mead?”

“Why not.”

“Alright then, two rounds of mead instead.”

The boy nods his head and walks off.

I turn back to the conversation at hand, “then are you going out to help quell the unrest in the capital?”

“No. There is the city guard for that, and even if there wasn’t, we would remain in the castle to keep the royal family safe in case of said unrest boiling over into an uprising,” he responds. Friederich’s expression takes on an air of uncertainty, “this is odd questioning. What brought this on?”

I don’t know, maybe the fact that the royal guard wasn’t around for any cycle’s end other than my last one (which ended prematurely thanks to Albrit the arse), but saying that would make me look insane. I’m starting to wonder if maybe I am.

“The reasoning for my questions doesn’t matter so much as the answers. So you are saying you aren’t leaving the palace for any reason tonight?”

“That would be correct.”

The boy comes back with two mugs of mead. Friederich takes and downs his in a matter of seconds. I thank the boy for the mead, before taking a hesitant sip. Warm. Dry and sweet, with an off putting bitterness I can’t seem to place. More bitter than usual, strange.

I am pulled out of my reverie by Friederich, “so, what do you think? Good mead, right?”

“It’s fine, I guess. I- I have to go. Thank you for your help, though.” However helpful those answers actually were.

I rise from the table, and leave the room. I cross through the tense servant’s mess hall and enter the hallway.

I release a breath I didn’t even realize I was holding when I cross through that painting filled hallway that marks the transition from the servant wards to the palace proper.

A several minute’s walk takes me back to my room. I enter, and take a seat at my desk. I sigh, releasing the pent up stress. This damned time loop is getting to my head.

My eyes linger on my coronet. The sun, no longer morning, glimmers off the alabaster engravings like eyes boring into your back. Maybe it’s because of the way the reflection of the sun bores into my eyes, leaving me blinking. Maybe it’s the paranoia talking. Maybe it’s nothing but my imagination, but every second I spend staring at that crown feels like an hour.

I close my eyes and lean back on the elaborate chair. The alabaster coronet doesn’t leave my mind. I’m not sure if I want it to.