Beneath the Surface [ON HOLD]

Chapter Twelve - Friendship and Silverware

Chapter Twelve – Friendship and Silverware

The castle kitchen was probably the one room I was dreading the most. After Nicholas admitted to hardly ever using the kitchen due to never really needing to eat as much as an ordinary person I automatically envisioned spiders as big as my fist hanging from the ceiling by artfully crafted webs and pots and pans lying forgotten on the floor and table tops – their hollow insides covered in festering insects.

It was because of these nightmarish images that I implored – or rather forced – Nicholas to go down to the kitchen first. For once I was glad of his magic – it was most adept in taking care of unwanted guests that still lingered in the abandoned kitchen.

Why he needed me, however, is still beyond me.

Although I am beginning to suspect that the only reason Nicholas wanted me here was to have someone to listen to his royal woes and laments.

Take today for example – Nicholas flitting about the kitchen, peering into cupboards and into pots, while bemoaning his tragic fate, and me – polishing and cleaning like a woman possessed, occasionally muttering noncommittal ‘mmmhmmm’s or ‘hmmm’s whenever Nicholas paused.

I stare down at the gleaming silver spoon, its delicate frame clutched in my hand, the sheen of dust and rust eradicated after Lord knows how long. The very spoon that I was now contemplating to hurl at Nicholas’ head to cease his incessant whining.

But perhaps I needed something heavier – like the huge stew pot that sat discarded only a few feet away. I bit my lip in consideration, my fingers twitching… Hm – perhaps not.

“I sometimes wonder what life would have been like if I had never been a mage…” Nicholas confesses softly, from his position atop the dusty wooden table. I grit my teeth at his conspiratorial tone – I can already feel my sanity slipping away.

I stay silent, setting down the polished spoon on the velvet cloth and picking up an ivy-decorated fork. All of a sudden flinging the stew pot at him along with the forked utensil seemed quite appealing.

“Maybe-” continues Nicholas haltingly, “Maybe then my Father wouldn’t have cursed me… Maybe… just maybe, he would have been able to love me.” The last part is said at barely a whisper, a thought that was clearly just meant for his ears.

I heard it clear enough, though.

“If your Father truly loved you – he would have loved all of you. Including your magic.” I say gently, shrugging my shoulders. I still want to hurl something at him but suddenly the notion doesn’t seem as pressing now.

I proceed to scrub at the small fork determinedly, my eyes narrowed on the dust collected in the detail of the climbing ivy.

“I just can’t help but think it’s my fault – that this is my punishment. My punishment for being the way I am. No-one can love a monster, I suppose.”

Sighing in exasperation I turn to face him, the cleaning cloth and fork still clutched tightly in my hands.

“I have no idea what you were taught as a little princeling, but the way I see it… you were given this gift for a reason. My Father always told me that God never gives us more than we can shoulder. So maybe instead of complaining about the hand you were dealt, you can move on from you and your Father’s loveless relationship and find someone who can love all aspects of you. Including your magic.” Wincing slightly at my overly serious words I add quickly, “Even if you are an arrogant twit I’m sure you can find a dog or something to love you. Some chickens, even.”