The Princess that never was

Chapter One

There once was a girl with hair as pale as sun dried straw and who could love more fierce than the burning stars above. Her name was Rose. This was due solely to the fact of her beauty; no other could compare. She was what others would call a silent beauty, for most certainly she was not aware of this herself.

This story takes place in a time before electricity, before medicine, and before true government. In a time were kings and queens ruled and the poor farmer made an honest living. That was exactly what Rose's father employed, a farmhand and a strong ox to ploy his fields. Not any other could do the job as well as Philip, the farmhand. No other could love Rose as dearly as he either.

The season was summer, and the sun was bright and hot in the country of Neether. Sweat glided down the nape of Rose's neck and travelled the length of her back, tickling her skin. Summerup was always the hottest bit of the day. Carrying the small sack of potatoes to the wood laid countertop in the middle room of the small cottage, Rose got to work. The peeling of the potatoes always seemed a joy to her, as she would hum along with the faint nursery rhyme of her memory.

The crusts fell away as distant thoughts took grasp of the maiden's mind and ran rampant with dreams of another time; or another person, in this case. Phillip waded through the stalks of grain and corn rows, fleshing them out and cutting down what needed work. His woven cotton shirt hang loose on his frame, worn with time and hard labor, while dirt clung to his face and hands. She loved him all the same.

"Farm boy," she called out to him, pretending to need assistance, "Oh, Farm boy!"

She ducked her head to the side, seeming unbothered with his labors, and waited for his approach. Phillip walked up to the small kitchenette window where she worked at with slightly winded breath. He waited for her instruction.

Bending down to snatch up an empty bucket, she instructed, "I need a pale of water from the well. For supper," she amended.

He replied only, with a small smirk and knowing in his eyes, "If it pleases you." He grabbed the held out pale and trailed off towards the well. Rose's heart beat thunderously in her chest, butterfly's in her abdomen. She smiled to herself. She knew she was being daft, but couldn't help to see him so close to her, so close she could almost touch him.

Alas, her father was always nearby, and thoughts like hers for such a young maiden were not ones for such as she. She would eventually need to be wed off and her husband her father chose would lead the farm one day. The cycle would continue. Oh, but she loved Phillip so, and maybe her thoughts were a bit rash and may be one sided but she didn't care. She only wanted him.

She continued her chopping of vegetables and finely chopped her potatoes. Quickly, Rose turned to the back of the room, and waltzed out the back door to her small garden and snatched up some flavoring herbs. When she skipped back to the counter, the bucket of water sat there on  the windowsill. It sat there as if it had always been there, as if it was not related to the object of her affection.  She sighed.

Putting her all her chopped vegetables into the firing pot , she added the water until it just covered the produce. Placing the lid on top she swiveled the pot over the hearth fire, careful not to let it swing, due to the fragile mortar in the mantle. Replacing her linen rag onto the hook near the left side of the fireplace, Rose dusted off her hands on her apron.

The fair maiden looked around the middle room of their small home and got to work. She grabbed the small brush broom and swept up the floors, their wooden planks creaking under her slight weight. The house was old, but it was home. Humming and cleaning, she didn't notice her father walk in, chucking his boots outside on the porch. She jumped, taken aback.