His Master's Wishes

Part One

A bell chimed from a room in the distance.

How he hated that bell.  Lovino's ears wrang painfully, but it wasn't physical pain all of the time. It was his mind reacting to the noise he had grown to despise. The prince of Spain was a brat, spoiled to no end. As much as he valued the Queen and King, and had the utmost respect for him, he wished they would have raised their son better. Maybe so he wasn't so two-faced, or manipulative, or cruel. The public saw the sweet and happy side of him, while maids and servants got wrath and disrespect. These things were well known between the lowest of the castle, but they would have no tongues if they voiced their concerns to the wrong people. For now, they stayed whispers uttered during laundry, the cooking of meals, or in the nightly gossip in the servants quarters. 

His room in the palace was filled with the finest of imported goods, his chamber pot filled with rose and lemon water. His bed had Grecian silk sheets, and his head lay down on ostrich feather-filled pillows at dusk. There were also places in the castle that showed the prince's love for elegant and artistic things; like the priceless paintings in the gallery and the ballroom. Lovino believed he could do better. A basket of fruits was at his tea table, and it held fruits from all the way across the continent. If they were bruised, he would not eat them. He had to have them cut a certain way, and garnished with a caramel drizzle. He was indeed living in the lap of luxury. As a prince should. 

Lovino was the Queen's servant for the most part, but he had recently been moved to be Antonio's when his last maid had run out of his room in pure rage and didn't return to the castle again. They say it was because the Prince told her she was ugly and lazy, but this wasn't the case. He had simply dismissed her of her position and wanted somebody new. The Queen had refused multiple times, so he took matters into his own hands. When he saw her in town, he always greeted her and was caught up on her new job, being a maid of some other middle-class family. Queen Isabella had put a good word in for her in pity. Since he had pretty much grown up with the Royal Family, these things were all but a day in the life for Lovino. 

"Servant!" With a huff, Lovino walked down the long hallway to the prince's room. He was sitting at his boudoir, with his substantially large mirror reflecting light off of the sun from the balcony's open curtains and doors.

"Sí, bastard?"

"Don't get cocky with me," the prince warned, "I could fire you in two seconds. My mother may like you, but I only can tolerate so much of your petty swearing." He didn't look at him but instead kept his gaze far off into the courtyard. 

"Whatever. What do you need?" Lovino set down a basket he was carrying that contained dirty dishes from the sunroom. 

"Close the balcony doors, and fix my bed. It got messed up by Afonso." Getting to his duties, he was in the process of closing the doors. Afonso was the other younger prince, who served in the Navy. The people of Spain, Portugal mainly, applauded him for his service and patriotism. Rumour was he had a small version of the Spanish flag always with him, tucked away. He wanted to keep his homeland close to him no matter where he traveled. Lovino personally loved him, and always liked to serve him when he was home.

"Afonso is out at sea, you half-wit." The prince didn't hear, or he chose to ignore it. He started to fix his bed as requested, taking the old sheets off and grabbing a spare pair from the linen cabinet in the corner of the room. As he crouched down, Lovino swore to himself. Paint droplets were on the back of his pants, and some showed in the front. If he would be punished for anything, that would be it. Hopefully, he wouldn't notice.

With every human, there is something special, and Lovino had an amazing talent with a paintbrush. The room he slept in the castle has painted an array of colors, with empty canvasses and muddy water cups scattered all around his room. For his profession though, he wasn't permitted to show anyone or sell any of his paintings. There was a fear of hidden messages being transported to other rivaling countries. Even painting in general was taboo, for it would be counted as treason and he could be put to death.