Little Slave Girl

Little Slave Girl - Prelude

Little Slave Girl 

  Olivia Jones

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♪ Prelude ♪

"Marilyn!" a loud, booming voice reverberated around the elegant hallways, startling my lady. Princess Marilyn raised her slender neck in response, her mesmerizing icy blue eyes alert.

"Yes?" her voice was sweet, tender, like the tinkling of snow bells. She fingered her ornate, jeweled brush with a gloved hand, her head slightly tilted in the perfect listening position. Her long, blonde hair laid in tight coils down her back, perfectly curled, a wondrous masterpiece. Everything about my lady was perfect, from her gorgeous tiara, overlaid with rare jewels, to her fantastically high heels, made of pure silver, the only pair made in all of England. She defined beauty.

"Please come down to greet our guests!" I immediately recognized the obstreperous, rambunctious voice as King John the Fifteenth's, a commanding quality laced through his every word. I didn't like King John at all, with his nasty breath and impulsive attitude. He was a dominating, controlling king who liked to stuff himself with delicacies while his subjects starved. But I couldn't voice my opinion, or I would be beheaded. King John would do it with just a snap of his golden ringed fingers. My life doesn't matter. I'm a slave girl.

Princess Marilyn stood up slowly, releasing the beautiful brush, examining herself in the mirror once more. "Perfect," she murmured softly to herself, then turned away, ignoring me as I vigorously scrubbed at the stained glass that Princess Marilyn had to have. It was an arduous job, for every speck had to be scrubbed off or the light would catch your mistake and magnify it onto the stone floor. And Princess Marilyn punishes people who make mistakes when wiping her stained glass severely. 

She exited the room, her flawless back facing me. The whole time when she was in her room, she never talked to me. Looked at me.

I was used to Marilyn's cold treatment of me. I could understand it, really. She was a princess, with a reputation to uphold. She couldn't associate with low-life slaves like me.  

But I couldn't help but feel saddened by it.

I walked over to her beautiful mirror, stepping into it's vision. I did not look anything like the stunning Princess Marilyn, with my hazelnut eyes that were way too big, and my short, scratchy dresses that turned my skin raw and cut off just above the knee. I wanted a floor-length dress with rubies and silk that made my skin scream with delight, but it was not to be. Slave girls could not wear beautiful clothing.

My nose was too straight, and my hair was straight also, running down my back like a river, way too level to compare with the gorgeous beehive hairdos that my queen so magnificently displayed. Everything about me was awkward and ugly, not a single attractive feature in my face or form.

The sounds of people laughing and chatting happily filled the castle, the guests from France obviously fitting in well with the court at England. They were here to negotiate with England for an end to the Hundred Year's War, and many of us were deliriously happy for their arrival. This war had gone on long enough, and many innocent men had been sacrificed. I was personally very joyful that they were here, both King Rupert and his son, the handsome Prince Lucas, because they might end the terrible war that killed my mother and my father. I had no expectations, though, of ever seeing their face. 

The chief servant, Poe, a rather plump man, with a fat, doughy face and squinty coal black eyes, appeared at the doorway. "Are you done?" he barked, his loud voice banging against the stone walls, hurting my ears with it's force.