--Her hands felt stiff, and every cut and nick on her skin was irritated by the warm water, as she scrubbed away the filth. The sun made her brow shine. Unlike the other servant girls though, she’d much rather do the laundry in the courtyard, than deal with the warm humidity and its stench inside of the servants’ quarters. The castle had several courtyards, and even this one, intended for servants and their needs, was a fairly beautiful one. Once she had finished rubbing the filth out of Mr Fliss’s robe, she straightened up, feeling a few slight cracks in her spine. It was housework, but the labour felt hard enough to take a bit of a toll on her youth. As she wiped the sweat from her forehead, Isla noticed Tristan walking on one of the terraces overlooking the courtyard. He didn’t hear her calling out at first, but she did manage to get his attention, as he turned towards her, apparently searching for the source of her voice.

-Hey Tristan! Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes… -- She hollered at him. -- Fancy a swordfight in the evening, when the sun isn’t boiling our brains? I’m eager to see what new tricks you’ve got, we haven’t had a chance to spar in ages.

--He was about to utter a reply, but the voice of Orin Farin booming from across the courtyard interrupted him.

-Ah, there you are! Where have you been, princeling? Your lesson in Proper Etiquette and Decorum awaits you.

--Tristan’s gut churned at the sound of Orin’s voice. Of his three teachers, Orin was the one he favoured least.

-Oh, you were looking for me? – Tristan replied, followed by a forced chuckle.

--As his thoughts raced for the proper rhetoric to blow off his teacher, a convenient excuse proposed itself.

-Tristan, my love! – The voice of a noble girl rang. She was finely dressed, freckled, had blonde, braided hair and, in Isla’s opinion, a far too revealing cleavage for an honest woman. The girl passed Orin to hang her hands around Tristan’s neck. As she kissed his cheek, she continued – You’ve forgotten all about me, haven’t you? The bard’s songs don’t stir the soul quite as tempestuously without you around.

--It was Lana, one of the noble girls that sought after him. He had many friends such as her, all seeking his attention. He felt hounded by their hollow affections. Isla felt like the closest thing he had to a true friend. But lately, Isla too seemed merely another one of the vultures, always asking for some thing or other from him; always fighting to spend time with him. And his time, he would do nothing rather with it, than hide away in the library and feed his mind with the interesting thoughts written within its books.

-Apologies young Lana, but Tristan’s attention is required in more… regal affairs. – Orin bowed to the girl, in an attempt to lessen the wound his words had stricken, but his failure was evident upon her frown.

-Oh, but is there anything more regal than grooming the diplomatic relations within one’s kingdom? Why dwell in books when one can get some… first-hand experience? – She placed her hand on Tristan’s chest, gently.

-Lana has a point. – The prince took Lana’s hand, as she smiled smugly at Orin. - After all, must I remind you that Lana here bears the blood of the esteemed Sashel family?

-Young lord, I must insist. Now is not the time to run off and associate with Nightling filth again.

-Nightling filth, you say? – Lana intervened. – Is it not you who is of fey skin and pointed ears?

--Indeed, despite his aristocratic poise, hair grey with age and flamboyant, white uniform, Orin’s skin was tan, and his ears were clearly pointed.

-Yes. – Orin conceded, bitterly. – I indeed share the blood of those useless, thieving sloths. Sadly, I am but an exception that confirms the rule. Regardless of this, Tristan, your father would not be pleased with your antics as of late –

-And yet you are not him. – Tristan interrupted, bitterness reverberating in his voice. – And for as long as my father remains bed-ridden, the golden sceptre of rule is the burden of my hand. And today, I say, it shall guide me to Lana’s company. To mingle and build trust with the future generations of our council.

--Orin trembled with supressed fury as Tristan and Lana walked past him, hand in hand. He had no other choice but to do so. Indeed, he could not think of a way to bend Tristan to any purpose without being able to threaten reprisal from Tristan’s father, the King. Once the noise of footsteps faded from the hallway, Orin too moved on about his day. And so, Isla remained alone, below them, in the courtyard. The inability of anyone to recognize that she is present made her feel as if she was one of the ornamental fixtures upon the pillars which held up the terrace archways. With a firm scowl and trembling hands, she picked up the laundry she was washing and hanged it along the ropes to dry. Afterwards, she stomped off to her room, slamming the door behind her. She felt a grave need for an item stowed under her bed, wrapped up in leather and cloth. Something that could take away this pain.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

--It was a short sword.

--She turned towards her cabinet, covered in nicks and slices, and unleashed hell upon it. Her swings were slamming into the wood, sending carvings flying through the air, but her wrath did not wane.

--She thought:

“Her hands upon his neck…”

CHOP

“Her lips pressed upon his lips…”

SLICE

“Her chest heaving against his chest…”

SLAM

--She paused for a moment, short of breath. Unwanted images came into her mind and tears welled up in her eyes. She dropped to her knees, unable to articulate the feelings which now took hold of her heart, squeezing it, draining it. This feeling… her grip on her sword tightened. She would see it lifted. She stabbed the sword into the cabinet one final time before putting it away. She shook the carvings off of her bed’s cover. She dried her eyes, straightened out her clothes, took a deep breath and went outside, to continue with her chores for the day.

***

--As she climbed the narrow, winding staircase that led servants into the kitchen, her limbs felt heavy, and her eyes were slightly swollen. She felt fortunate that most did not notice her anyway, so she would not have to answer unpleasant questions about her distraught and agitated appearance. All that was left standing between her and her bed tonight was to have her evening meal, and to have one prepared for her master. She strode down the hallway with her long, tangled, red hair weaving and bobbing after her. The halls were thick with humidity, the smell of stone and moss overwhelming her nose. She could find no solace that day, for thoughts of him followed her everywhere. Of course, he did not show up at nightfall to spar with her. In fact, it took a while for her to remember the last time Tristan and her crossed swords. It had been almost half a year since.

--She remembered it well. They were sparring in the woods, near Master Grif Kaedah’s hut. And she handed Tristan his ass, perhaps even more so than usual. She was certain he was losing interest in it, and had not been practicing. The duels used to be a place for their passions to intertwine. She felt her cheeks red and hot every time. She did not know what to do with the feelings which stirred inside of her. She considered wrestling him into the ground next time so she can straddle him, and perhaps he would get the idea, like the young lothario from some romantic book. But then the next time they were to spar, he was nowhere to be found. And then the next time, the same. And the next… And the next.

--If only she had spoken sooner. Made a move. Perhaps he would now be in her arms. She needed to make that move before the intrigue of court life had swallowed him whole.

--Isla had already gotten to the kitchen, and was slowly chewing on a piece of dried meat, when her mind returned to the task at hand. Her elbows planted on the table, and her head resting in her hands, she observed the two cooks as they fumbled around her to get Master Fliss’ evening meal ready, exchanging gossips along the way.

-Good heaven’s Martha! – The tall, choleric Irma chattered – I don’t mean to be rude, but perhaps your diet is not working out. Your figure seems more imposing by the day. – Followed by a chuckle she did not appear to want to let out.

-It is sooo nice of you to worry about me Irma, I can’t believe you find the time and energy, what with all that’s been bothering you. – the short, stocky Martha retorted in her congested, nasal voice, her tiny eyes flashing with disingenuous compassion before she pounces her prey.

-Oh, I’m fine my dear. My affairs have all been in order as of late.

-That’s not what I hear. I mean… And let me just point out that you are my dearest friend, but honestly dear, I hear the reason you haven’t been getting any is that your hubby’s been sticking it to the baker’s daughter.

-My… what? With that pimply, red face of hers?

-Well, I reckon it’s not her face that caught his eye… - Martha covered her mouth with one hand, as she grinned uncontrollably.

-ENOUGH! – Isla clapped her hand down on the table, causing all the dishes and the cutlery to rattle – Your gossiping is going to make me barf. Be quiet and finish up, the master does not appreciate tardiness.

-Why the audacity… - Martha stuttered – Young lady, have you any idea how long I’ve been in our lord’s service? My, I’m not sure if you were even born when I started working as his main chef.

--Irma was silent. She dared not speak, but she watched on, with great interest.

-What does it matter? The tree in the courtyard has been around longer than both of us, and still, you don’t see me talking to it for advice.

-Why, you little… you little bitch! You don’t get to talk to me like that just because you’re the princeling’s plaything!

-You should watch your tone old lady. You much overstep your bounds.

-But it’s true! We all know it, and no one dears speak about it. Well, in your face! We know. We all know the only reason you ever got this position is because of… a certain position you took with the young prince. – Martha sized up Isla with apparent disgust.

-Ok, now listen here. – Isla moved up to Martha. Real close. Her nose was almost touching Martha’s. And then she whispered, her puppy eyed expression fixed to Martha’s. – I have had a… Very bad. Day. So far. What I need you to do is to finish cutting up that piece of pineapple, so that all of us can be on our way. Do you think you can manage that?

-I… - Martha stuttered. Her legs were threatening to give out. – Okay.

--Martha’s silence lasted until the pineapple was finely sliced and arranged on a small plate, sitting cosily next to a few slices of smelly, blue cheese. However, the meal was not yet finished. There was still the matter of the empty bowl. Martha poured a generous portion of caviar into it. She even managed to slice up some garlic and sprinkle it on top in silence. But her mouth gave way before she could finish grinding up the coconut with the small machine affixed to the table…

-I heard that the princeling has vanished. – Martha prodded.

--Irma coughed abruptly. However, seeing as Isla was preoccupied, playing with the last piece of dried meat in her plate, the choleric Irma ventured – It baffles the mind, that one so blessed with court life and riches would run off to… Well, I heard that he befriends Nightlings. – She whispered in a conspiratory fashion.

-Nightlings? – Martha rolled her eyes. – But never mind that. I heard from little Merry that the castle guard has been secretly searching for him. They tossed her room.

-Fancy if they found him there…

--The two giggled, glancing at Isla, and then at each other. But Isla remained silent, and apparently absent.

-Anyway – Martha continued – It’s not just her room! They went about searching and inquiring for him, and they told everyone not to speak of it!

-Look at how well their orders have been followed. – Upon thinking for a moment, she added – And I assure you that the only bed my husband visits is my own.

--It was then that Martha finished topping the caviar bowl with the minced coconut, and Irma settled a manchette bread, freshly heated in the stony oven, onto the wooden tray which held the rest of the lord’s goods. Perhaps the little plate did not appear too fetching to the average servant in the castle, but amongst the nobles, Martha’s cookery was held in rather high regard. Isla picked up the tray and carefully trotted towards Mr Fliss’ chambers.