Chapter 17: 17. A Little Hope

 

 

- ARELLIA -

 

Before dawn breaks, I open my bedroom windows to let the last of the cool night air flow in as I sit sluggishly against the wall. I feel warm all over, but I cannot stop shivering.

As a member of the Imperial Court, I have witnessed the awfulness of judgement and indirect insults. But their pettiness does not hold a candle to Vasilis' wrath. I have faced his temper my whole life, but it is never so cruel to have almost cost my handmaid her life. Guilt rises in me as I think of Enka, her body bruised and limp as she was dragged away by my imperial guards. All while I sat there and stared at the carpet.

I think of going down to the servant's quarters where she is being treated. But, I do not. I am too scared to face her. I sit and stare at the dark sky and imagine myself a fearless knight, someone who is brave enough to stand before injustice and does not cower. I imagine myself as cruel and heartless as my brother so that I will no longer have to feel this pain.

I touch the bruises on my neck. They are tender and sore. I will not lie, there was a small part of me that enjoyed belittling Vasilis. At that moment, I truly believed Vasilis would kill me. But, he merely laughed and retreated. I had never seen him show restraint. It felt wrong, somehow, to have been the one overtaken by emotion for that second, while Vasilis was in control of his.

I wish to feel something, anything at all besides a vague queasiness. I want to be braver, but every time the opportunity arises, I cower and weep and let the likes of Vasilis and the members of his court treat me like I am nothing. The wrath boiling inside me feels like it will erupt. If I let it loose, will I, too, turn into a grotesque creature of loathing and despair?

I think of my father, of his calm temperament. I had never met my mother, but I was told that she, too, was a gentle soul. Where does Vasilis' animosity stem from? Where does mine? As I sit here, wallowing in self-pity, I realise that Vasilis had been right. I am weak and crying is all I am capable of. There is only one person in this miserable palace I can call a friend, and she is lying in the servant's quarters, wounded.

After a long moment of contemplation, I drag myself to my feet and rush over to my dressing table at the corner of the room. It is an old decrepit thing, made from Black Ivory. It is wood from an ancient tree in the Ebony Meadows that had been alive and standing long before Angel's Death. It is not elegant by any means, this table. It is square with sharp corners and deep scratches. In a world of glittering jewels, silks and furs; it is simple and rustic. Perhaps, that is why I love it so.

I rummage through the drawers for my finest jewellery. I stuff an embroidered pouch full of emerald brooches, sapphire earrings, pearl necklaces and diamond rings. Everything I have, I inherited from my mother. It may have suited her, these jewels, but I always thought I looked too childish in them like I am playing dress-up.

When I go through the wardrobe, I realise that everything I own is too extravagant. The dresses are too long and uncomfortable, too dashing. I own no tunic or trousers. Even my nightgowns are made of silks and laces. All the shoes I own are heels. Exasperated, I unclasp my jewellery and shove them into the bag alongside the others. It is now lumpy and fat, filled to the brim with enough jewels to buy a dozen ships.

Next, I dismantle my gown with great difficulty, the small buttons at my back are dainty and my fingers are too shaky and clumsy to grasp them. Awkwardly, I prop my back against my bedpost for a better angle, but all it does is bruise my wrists and arms against the wood. Had I been always been so dependent on Enka for every small thing?

While she lies wounded, I am once again blubbering over trivial matters. I stifle a pitiful sob and groan, grabbing and pulling at the delicate stitching. When I hear the buttons pop one by one as I tear the fabric angrily at the seams, a laugh escapes me. When the dress falls and crumbles at my feet, blissful relief floods through me. It feels like I can finally breathe again.

The outfit I picked is spread out on my bed, it is scented with lavender and verbena. It is a black high-necked gown with a leather bodice stitched with metallic thread. Unlike my accessories, this is the only item of clothing I own that once belonged to my mother. After she passed, father was so distraught that he could not bear the sight of her dresses. Fueled by grief, he burned them the next day. This is the only garment that remains.

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It is tight, thick and heavy. It is not made for the humid south. My mother was a woman of Northern Illya, along the borders of Khronir where temperatures are cooler. There is a swirling pattern of chrysanthemum flowers and twin daggers on the bodice, the crest of my mother's line. Forsaken the moment she wed my father.

I let my braid loose and small blue gems and petals fall to the ground. I flinch from the colour as I am reminded of piercing blue eyes, golden hair streaked with blood and vicious laughter.

It is a foolish thing, I realise; hope. As I strap the pouch of jewels tightly to my waist with a leather belt, I feel more put together than all my years in delicate gowns. Perhaps, it is because I finally realise I have nothing left to lose.

I am afraid of the noise my heels will make, so I leave my room barefoot. The stone floor feels like ice against my feet. What I should do is go back and keep my head down. Be a pretty little flower in beautiful gowns. Bottle up all of my anger, be obedient and serve my kingdom.

Instead, I take careful strides through the quiet hallways, heading for the stairwell. It is too early for my handmaids to wake me. They will not arrive until two hours after dawn breaks. Despite the hysteria last night, the guards are nowhere to be seen. The castle should be teeming with soldiers on high alert. But, everything is eerily still.

My heart pounds and my breaths are uneven as I race down the stairwell. Sweat beads my forehead and my hands are clammy as I clutch the hem of my dress. A delightful breeze envelops me as I exit into the courtyard and sprint across the pebblestone, avoiding patrolling soldiers, raking up dried dirt and twigs. Dawn has not yet broken and the sky is a lovely shade of navy. Everything is quiet except my beating heart.

In the courtyard, I spot a guard by the side of the entrance gate to the Eastern wing. Adrenaline flows through my veins, making me jittery and nervous. I feel rebellious, sneaking around like a thief in the night with a pouch full of jewels.

The Eastern wing is a stone manor with a tall crooked tower, half-covered in vines and ivy. There is a balcony on the second floor that looks over the courtyard. There is something misshapen about this wing that ought to make it charming but instead, it feels ominous.

Panting heavily, I start toward the side of the manor, thankful that my gown is dark enough to blend into the shadows. I believe that is where I will find the servants' door. I have seen many servants come and go from this place, though I had never been here. I did not realise how far my handmaids had to walk to get to my chambers.

As I see a door, my heart speeds anew. I descend the steps to the servant's quarters. The wooden door is short and splintered, plastered with dirt. In this dim, cramped hallway that leads to the kitchens, the air is stale and dusty. The windows are small and dilapidated.

I have to stop and lean against the wall while I take deep breaths. I am not used to running. My legs feel clumsy. My feet are raw and burning. For more than half my life, I have been fighting down panic. Perhaps, it is not that great of a thing for a constant rattle of nerves to seem normal. But, at this point, I wouldn't know how to live without it.

The palace cooks and gardeners will soon wake. I do not linger. Darkness envelops me as I rush past the kitchens down the hall but suddenly, I am stopped by a dark-eyed servant, who grabs my arm. A black leather collar is tight around her neck.

"Princess? You should not be here! We cannot let anyone see you!" She gasps. I do not recognise her but she speaks as if she's known me all my life. I try to school my expression to be as blank as possible, but the panic in her eyes instils fear in me.

When she drags me down a dark, winding hallway, I let her as I do not know what to do. I smell it then; the sharp coppery tang of blood and the sour musk of sweat and urine.

When she pushes me through a small door, the sight beyond leaves me breathless.

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