My name is Dasi.

I was born and raised in a bed of sin, swaddled in rough sheets, and kissed with coarse lips.

As long as I remember, I was told of the gifts I would be given, of the grace only our kingdom could build, righteousness only our crusades could create, destiny only our lords could dictate.

These were the lessons of our land: that our gods were good, and we would be good for them.

The thing is, there was fear in my parents’ eyes every time they said that, fear that followed me everywhere, until I turned of age, and they handed me off so that I might receive divine purpose.

They expected me to come back home of course, as most do, so they could whisper more fearful comforts in my ears.

But I never came back.

My folks, who loved but could never save me, were left waiting on the church steps. For I was given purpose, everlasting and eternal, unimpeachably blessed by the gods. From that day, so long ago, they told me what I was…

“Servant…”

“Serve…”

“Serve!”

“Fulfill your purpose!”

“Move faster! Laggard!”

“Your lord demands it of you!”

“Serve!”

That fear that followed me turned to anger. ‘Why me?’ I wondered, ‘Out of all the others?

It built up and up and up, until I didn’t even notice it anymore. It was always there, just like the voices, as normal as the sun in the morning.

I thought that it would be that way forever.

Then there was one day when it boiled over, as I stood by my King’s side.

It was a special day, I suppose. I had been a handmaiden for years. I did it well enough to rise above the others. ‘A true Servant,’ they said.

That’s the face I showed, as the meal was served.

Inside the great hall, a dozen chandeliers shown, hung high and low, blasting away all the shadows. The floor was polished stone, and the walls were pale wood. Banners fluttered everywhere while the band played in the center of the room, their trumpets and cellos soft, yet lively.

Long tables stretched around the hall, covered in golden cloth. Silver domes fogged from the hot foods within. Crystal chalices sloshed and spilled wine on silken sleaves.

The guests sat in their elaborate chairs, laughing their arrogant laughs, running hands over fur coats, showing off glittering rings, closing white teeth over shining forks, chattering like birds about inane things.

Politics. Bureaucracy. Blood sport. Oppression.

So on and so forth…

I had my hands clasped behind my back, waiting on my King.

“Ahem! Mmm… this is cold.” He was eating a potato prepared with garlic, butter, chives and goat cheese. It smelled delicious, but he turned the plate onto the floor. “Cold…”

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“M’lord?” I asked.

I leaned into his perfume and studied the mess between his boots. He grabbed my collar and hissed in my ear.

“Have the cook killed. I won’t have anyone making me look the fool in front of my guests. And make sure the next knows what he’s doing, or you’ll be punished as well.”

Then he pushed me away, huffed and shook his head.

“Sire…” I said.

He had already dragged another platter over, this one topped by a fat steak, covered in clovers and purple gravy that smelled of roses.

His table was at the head of the room, raised above the others. All around, nobles, merchants and diplomats were doing similar things. Feasting, wasting and reveling in excess.

Guards stood at attention against the walls, glittering in their armor, some with ceremonial halberds, others with rifles on their shoulders.

My fellow servants walked in the livery of our nation: elaborate green and gold suits and skirts.

My King had me in a butler’s uniform, hair held by a ribbon, fabric clean and crisp, perfectly aligned emerald and cream. Despite my deepest feelings, I took comfort in the outfit. It felt like wearing a wall, against everything outside of me. Because I didn’t have to face those things. It was the Servant facing them.

The real me was free to weep in the back of my mind…

I adjusted my bowtie, rubbed the fingers of my gloves together and bowed, as formal as I could.

Some foreigner in a coat made of peacock feathers leaned close, to conspire with my King.

“Your Majesty,” He said. “Even as illustrious and noble as your reign is, no one is free from poor help. Believe me… I’ve seen the worst. Why, just the other day…”

“Please, gods,” I said, under my breath. “Guide me. What am I to do?”

“Die!”

“Serve!”

“Place respect upon thine Lord’s name.”

“Would you make your King wait? Lament! For your failures, lament!”

“Lament!”

“Find and kill that fool! Make him suffer and bring your King his head!”

“Roasted!”

“Yes! Roast it!”

“Hurry! Hurry!”

“Slothful tripe! Get on with Godspeed!”

Their screams hit a crescendo, burst then faded away, madness dragged into the distance. But their words stayed with me, floating just within reach.

The King should not be made to wait.

Not on me.

Surely, not for me.

“As you command…”

I unbowed my back.

Before I slipped away, to do my gristly duty, I saw my Liege making messy cuts in the steak, rents which leaked red and steam, revealing pink meat.

His prized knife was of green metal with wave patterns tracing up the blade. It was a work of art, held in liver-spotted, trembling hands. My King’s jowls shook as he growled. He was incensed by the ugly and uneven work he’d done.

Normally, it would be me cutting the steak. He liked things to be perfect, my King. And he refused to accept his mistakes.

“Allow me,” I was right by his side in a second, gently prying the blade free.

I leaned over him. He look up, and I saw approval in his eyes. Maybe even appreciation. With Godspeed, I watched the beginning of a blink.

I thought I would split the steak, I did. I thought I’d make it into beautiful cubes, all perfectly even, for him to consume. I wouldn’t have dreamed the blade would wind up in my King’s neck.

Not ever.

So I was surprised as everyone else as the blood spurted around the handle and turned my glove red, and it sprayed across the table and guests, the noise of it distorted, low and drawn out.

“Grrk!” My King gurgled.

I was surprised as well when I started to saw, all the way through, until even the last bit of flesh had snapped.

Off came his head.

The stump of his neck became a fountain, and I stood under it, uncertain what to do. I placed the head down on the steak. I turned it to face me. Still blinking. My King was working his mouth. He looked as confused as I’d ever seen.

It was a deathly quiet room that watched me place the dome back over the platter, that heard blood spill out with every heartbeat and the body hit the floor with a splat.

The first sound that reached me, beyond my own pulse and the buzzing in my ears, was the gods, come back into focus. It was all noise at first, until the words finally burst out.

I had shocked gods as much as mortals…

“YOU DARE?!!!”

“Servant of a dead King! You Dare?!”

“Regicide?”

“Betrayal! Most! Fooouuuul!!!”

“Regicide?!”

“Traitor!”

“You are no Servant! You are a sinner! A Savage!”

Regicide they called it. I tried to laugh it away, tried to frame it as an accident. Didn’t work. I had to run.

Across three borders, and four years, I hid and I skulked and I slipped farther away from the Pewter Palace, the Highland Theocracy, and the role which had swallowed my life.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t escape the gods. It is my purpose, as they say. Everlasting, eternal and unimpeachable. I was the blessed servant of mad gods and dead king. And that I would remain…

Forever…

Or so I thought.