Olivia's extra story

“Girl? Where are you!” The call rang out through my small quarters, reaching me on my straw pile. Rubbing the hole near my nose, I flinched. The last time I heard that tone I had received a knife to the face, narrowly missing my eye.
“I am here!” I raced over, trying to please Madame Liken (Pronounced Lick-En, like yen without the y). She was the woman that trained all the slaves on how to care for their masters. Some would go to other places in the kingdom to learn, like being a culinary servant or to be an apprentice in herbs, but most stayed with the forbidding Liken. An older woman, she was well balanced, but had a hooked nose and pointy eyes used for sinister glares. All the slave girls agreed that she was cold and slippery and cruel, but we would never voice that. It wasn’t much, but she used so much violence against us it was the little we think and not be found out.
“Why aren’t you fetching supplies for your charge, that prisoner Felicity? She arrived minutes ago, you should have been there waiting!” She yelled at me, and smacked me out the door.
“I’m sorry!” I mumbled quietly, I had learned not to raise my voice to her. “I wasn’t notified, it will not happen again.”
The hand that had been hitting my back reached up and grasped the main body of my hair, ripping it upwards.
“I’m sorry your highness! You were not notified?” she said nasally, then threatened, “Since when did you become royalty? Just because you had a special treatment in your old land as a babe doesn’t mean you are better than any of these other filthy creatures. Next time you will be there before your charge is, or you will be the King’s next festival friend!”
Clenching my teeth, I stifled a gasp when she yanked my hair once more then shoved me onto the trail to the castle. Her threaten about the King did not scare me; I had heard it many times, but the comment on my treatment brought back horrible stories. Where I used to live, scarcely were there girls with ginger hair, and mostly because people had killed them. They used to believe it was a sign of a curse against the village and whoever lived there if a red-haired baby arrived.
I was told that when my mother first saw me, she hid me away from my father, telling him I was barely alive and could only see her. For many days she had thought about what she could do, almost going mad trying to figure something out. Finally, she gave up and looked to the village priest for help. Upon revealing me unto him, still only weeks old, the priest had fallen to the floor in shock. My mother wooed and crooned to him, begging for him to help her find a way to keep me. Finally, later that day, he had told her of their only option, a public purifying trial. My mother had asked for any other way, but he was stout in the option. In his mind there was no other way to treat me.
Days later, they priest gathered the occupants of the village outside its walls in a large clearing. My mother was forced to let the villagers see me, but after this I had only been told small bits. The people in my village, who later became my friends and family, were ashamed to tell me how they had reacted to seeing a supposed devil child. But the one thing I had been told, was that to purify me, they had taken a white-hot piece of iron and pressed it to the pads of each of my fingers for a second, burning my skin. This had left the tissue flat and smooth, but without any feeling. All my life I had been clumsy, though slowly I changed that by using my wrists and the outsides of my hands to feel objects. Right now I rubbed my wrist against each of my glossy fingertips, feeling once again that which had saved me, and yet still ruined me.
Running the last few steps to the servant door of the castle, I almost flew into the opening door.
“Harri! Liken is looking for you! Run quickly to your master!” My frantic friend told me, trying to brush her matted curls from her face without spilling the bucket of murky slush she was carrying. Sighing, she gave up when half the vessel sloshed on her already drenched clothes. Her curls bounced around her nose, seemingly giddy for freedom.
“I know, she already found me Pip, thank you though. Have to go!” I rushed past her, missing the worried look that passed over her features at the mention of being found. Soon that look vanished, but a frown replaced it when the rest of the bucket endowed its contents on her.
By the time she had turned around and was dumping the few drips that had avoided her out of the tightly thatched container, I had grabbed a pail from the washer room and filled it with water from a large basin, along with grabbing a cloth and towel from a cupboard on the far side of the room. After I found enough to wash the prisoner up, I headed to the servant’s kitchen. Folding my tunic up, I used it as a basket to hold a few pieces of stale bread and crumbling cheese, one of the best selections available. No fruits, and few vegetables were seen in this kitchen, alike spices and most meat. Those foods were sent to the Royal Kitchen, where it fed the King himself, his family, Advisors Leaders, Counts, and any Peers who stayed at the castle holdings got whatever was left.
I struggled down the back halls up to one of the slave entrances, and slipped out. As due, the sun was setting and slaves scurried in and out of the many doors leading out of the castle and to the slave housing. Past the main building I was at was the two story Holdings where all the prisoners were kept. It had been designed so that the prisoners who were supposed to be treated fairly were up on the top floor. As you went farther and farther down, torture increased and most of the inhabitants grew insane from being in their cells so long. There were rumors that the building went all the way down to Hell and that’s where the Pit was, and for many inhabitants it may have felt like that. Luckily, my prisoner was on the top floor, so I had already assumed she was going to be another one of the King’s playmates. Poor girl.
After I dodged across the yard and showed the Count my pass, I was escorted up the stairs by a young Peer. He had light, straight hair that he shook out of the way when he sneered at me.
“Why should we even bother following around scum like ‘er?” He asked the Count. “Its not like she could d’ damage to anybody, never mind break some un’ out of their cell.”
“Just go along and do your job.” The Count told him with disdain. Muttering curses about ‘bloody slave monkeys’, the boy pushed me in front of him down the hall. The bucket being full of water, it splashed out of its walls and down my legs. Dirty streaks appeared, showing how filthy I really was. I turned to glare at him but received a shove pushing my head down.
“Get’re moving snit, which one do y’got” He asked me, spitting by my toes.
“The new prisoner, I am to ready her for the King.”
Cause if she’s as ugly as you he would fall down dead at the sight of your face. That or he might recognize you as one of his own kind and welcome you into the family.
I bit my tongue and swallowed my response. Something he might not have expected, I would have surely been slapped if I have voiced what I had pondered.
Too bad I thought. It would almost be worth the slap to see the look on his face. But if Licken Chicken found I had caused a disturbance before seeing to my prisoner she would surely strap me…
I trudged up the stairs with the supplies, the Peer following behind. At the top we entered a hall of dark chambers, the lack of windows leaving only torches for light. We passed another sentry and went down three bends, ending up outside a large wooden door marked 28. The Peer unlocked the door and pushed me inside.
“She’s all yours,” he called back to me, already ambling back to the other guard.
I placed the pail of water on a small table near the prisoner’s bench, which was in the corner and was just a square wooden frame with a layer of straw. To my right was a table, but with no window for light I could not see the items. I reached for some rushes on the floor, and then went back to the hall to search for something to light them with. After they were in full flame, thanks to a nearby torch, I headed back into the room, and located another torch on the wall above the prisoner’s head. Going on tip-toe to reach the light, I wavered and fell back into the small table. The pail of water fell on the bench, and water splashed across the prisoner’s face.
I gasped, and hurriedly lit the torch, trying to see what I had down. Light slowly filled the room, and I could see the form of Miss Felicity come to life, rasping for breath. She was blotchy and fevered, and I feared her chest would explode if she breathed any faster.
“Felicity?” Woops, I thought to myself, that was Miss Felicity to me.
“Miss Felicity, hello Miss Felicity, I am Harriona, I will be taking care of you for now. Miss Felicity, are you all right?” I realized the heat I was feeling was radiating off her skin, so I fell to the floor and searched for the cloth that had been in the bucket. I soon found it and started washing her face, once again asking her if she was all right,
“Miss Felicity, do you hear me? Are you all right? Can you hear me? If you can, please open your eyes.” I whispered near her face, hoping she would so badly that it almost surprised me when her bloodshot eyes flickered open for a moment. Worried about their redness, I washed her lids again, hoping to soothe them. I looked up and realized that there was a large mound on her forehead, so decided to let the cloth lay there to help with the swelling.
“Mi-Miss Felicity. Can you see me?” I stammered. Was she blind? Oh what a horrible waste that would be, she really did have a fine face. Well past the bruises, cuts, and swelling those damned men gave her. Why we are put below them is my eternal question.
Those eyes opened again, and I looked down grimly. She appeared to be a monster, a beautiful, beaten monster. I almost expected chains to be tied to her wrists like a cage bear, captured and slaved.
Slowly taking a deep breath, I almost jumped when her breathing cut short and her eyes widened, focusing somewhere past my eye. I tried to console her, help with the pain, but I didn’t know what to do. I was just about to re-wet the cloth from the water still on the floor when she asked me, voice cracking.
“What is your name?”
Her head injury must be worse that what I had thought, I will just keep it from swelling too much and make sure she continues to talk. I told her my name again and repeated that I would be taking care of her for the King. Her eyes glazed over, still focused on me. I shivered but kept talking, trying to pull her out of the stupor.
“Harriona, please come close.” She interrupted, ordering me, voice quiet but growing eerily stronger. I wasn’t sure what to do, but obliged, trying to help her. When I stopped leaning in she snapped.
“No.” Then, “very close, please, place your ear so that I can tell you something.” She pleaded at me, eyes still trained perfectly, following with my every movement. It had started to scare me so I told her that I was there, and she could tell me. Meaning to make her calm, I gently grabbed her hand. All of a sudden she jerked back, making horrible sounds.
Oh no. “Miss Felicity? I’m sorry, did I hurt you Miss Felicity?” I didn’t move away, but searched her face frantically, trying to find anything stable in her features.
“Please, just do what I asked, I beg of you…” Her voice grew weak, and my will fell apart. I put my head beside hers and her breath tickled into my ear. Voice low and scratching, her disposition silenced me.
“I’m sorry, Harriona.”