WARHAVEN

Three

Something within me loved and hated the market. I loved seeing the fresh-cut flowers, plump produce, and the plethora of trinkets and desirables that I could never afford. The colors were so vivid among the stalls. The purple of the eggplants, the red of the tomatoes, the rich yellows and browns, of the potatoes. Some stalls were explosions of color, such as the tailors. They carried textiles of royal blues and purples. The oranges and greens were so vibrant, it almost hurt to look at them. I'd stopped comparing my bland tan dress which was littered with holes and mud. I never understood the female's desire to wear such outlandish things. What I had worked on, that was what mattered.

The smells were also something I looked forward to. The scent mixed within the air and created a harmonious and overwhelming scent that just smelled of things I could not have. The mud and manure were always the base of this mixing pot. It was something I, and everyone else, was used to. It was the smell of work. It was intently drowned out by the smell of roasting meats and vegetables, seasoned to perfection. The smell of perfumes and candles that were wildly out of my budget almost gave me a headache as I passed by a perfumer's stall. I tried to ignore the haggling and begging as best I could.

My favorite stall, besides the bookkeeper's, was the florist. I always got stuck staring at the flower bouquets that were meticulously put together by dirt-stained fingers, and wrapped with light brown twine around the stems. I always went out of my way to touch a few petals and savor the delicate softness. It was among the most fragile of items I'd ever held. For a long time, I wished to be on the receiving end of such flowers. I no longer have such a desire.

"Hello, young one. May a lovely lady be inspired to purchase a lovely flower arrangement?" A plump man with large cheeks smiled at me.

I made eye contact and smiled softly. His rounded shoulders and sun-kissed cheeks hinted at his long hours in the flower fields. His apron was dirty and stuffed with pruner tools, green stems, and broken flowers.

"No, thank you. Although they are very beautiful." I smiled once more and didn't allow him the opportunity to haggle me, as I walked on, avoiding the bustling gatherers.

I made my way through a sea of people. This was the part that I hated the most, aside from the fact that I barely ever had enough coins to purchase anything I truly favored. My attendance at the monthly market was strictly for survival. I needed food, and so did the girls.

I walked by a mother with her young daughter and thought not only about girls at the orphanage, but myself. I never knew my mother or my father.

They told me she had auburn hair that was long with soft ringlets at the end. Her eyes were vivid green. The women who raised me only provided me with this information. They said she looked terrified as she handed me over, she was covered in blood. They said she looked remorseful and terrified. I guessed I understood it now that I was older, if I was to fall with child, having nothing, I would probably give my innocent child up as well, to people who can at least feed and clothe the babe.

Sometimes when the head ladies were angry, they would taunt me, telling me I looked nothing like her, they claimed that was why she couldn't bear to even look at me. I looked like my father. They never mentioned knowing anything about him, I always wondered if he was a bad person, or perhaps he didn't even know about me.

My long, straight brown hair reached my waist. I had it braided for the market today. My eyes were a deep brown. My olive skin was sun-kissed, the proof in my ever-so-faint freckles that covered my cheeks. I never cared for my face. The girls I grew up with used to say I looked as though I had mud spat on me, and then they proceeded to do just that.

I picked up some fruits and vegetables from a stall a few rows down from the florist. I picked up potatoes and onions, carrots and celery, and some apples. I grabbed a few ears of corn, as well as a head of lettuce. The woman I bought it from attempted to make small talk with me, but I kept it very short.

"Thank you, have a nice market day." I moved on.

I only had a few coins left and still needed to grab bars of soap and a loaf of bread. One of the kitchen rags got burnt by the stove last night. They expected me to fit that in the budget somehow, They'd have to get over it.

I was given twenty-five coin each market day. If I had any extra money, it would go to textiles and materials that I could create something more with, of course, with the intention of selling. My whole world revolved around surviving and making money.

I guess it was fine, it was all I ever knew. I always kept my eyes down not only to avoid the sickeningly persistent salespeople on the opposite side of the stalls, but I also did my best to never envy. It was pointless. I stopped admiring the gorgeous gowns and parasols. The jewels, pearls, and clinking of coin-stuffed pockets. The market was the biggest event of the month. Everyone gathered to sell, trade, and buy. Most of the people here were good. They were raised well, educated properly, and their intentions pure.

Unfortunately, there was an influx of the rich. I hated seeing the smug looks on their faces as they scoffed at me. They looked at me as though I was mud on the bottom of their boot, and maybe I was.

Ever since the war, people have stopped helping each other. Things got so bad that they treated everyone as though it was every man for themselves. The rich got richer, and the poor got poorer.

The rich had no remorse as they gathered their assets and pulled them together to survive. They were very tight-knit, many of them had been family friends for generations. The war only helped that. They had absolutely no pity or remorse for the poor, sick, disabled, or hard-working. I guess that was my biggest issue with them. Aside from the fact that many of the younger generations and the people, my age, I had everything handed to them. I had to work from the day I was born.

I continued to navigate the sea of the rich and the poor mixed. I grabbed a loaf of bread from the local baker, and gently set it on top of the vegetables within my worn bag. I had cut holes in an old potato sack to use as a carrier for my market purchases. It worked, most of the time.

I spotted the last stall, the soap maker. I silently weaved my way through the crowd and approached. I knew that I only had two coins left. I was hoping that would be enough to buy at least one bar. There was an older woman who looked anything but interested in anything, which was odd, everyone was excited on market day, except for me it seemed. I looked down at the colorful array of soap bars. Some were a light lilac, color and labeled lavender. One was orange, of course, orange-scented. There was a yellow lemon and a creamy oat. Cast away at the bottom, with a very unimpressive display, were unscented bars. I spotted the price tag. 2 coins for 1 bar. Perfect. "Hello. May I please purchase one of your unscented bars?"

She looked up at me and just stared for a moment. She sighed loudly, "2 coin, girl." and stretched her wrinkled hand out at me. I extended my arm out and dropped the two coin into her small hand. She rolled them in between her fingers and smirked. "Grab your bar and be on your way. A looker like you shouldn't be out with the moon. At least you be snatched. A beast would pay mighty amounts for one like you."

I grabbed the bar with haste and shoved it in my bag while speed-walking away. I looked back and noted that she was watching me approach the trail in the woods. A smirk danced on her lips and she rolled my coins in her fingers still. I could've sworn she sniffed them.

She was right, the sun had set, and the sky was covered and rich oranges and yellows, pink peppered throughout. I needed to get back to the orphanage as soon as possible. The walk was about an hour, I could only pray that I would make it there in time before darkness welcomed the night walkers.