A Court of Blood and Feathers

1

Branwenn

"Moooooom," I giggle, tugging at her skirts as she sweeps around the kitchen, me at her heels. Gracefully, my mother throws a smile over her shoulder, down to me, and sweeps the broom at my bare feet, catching and tickling them. I jump back, my wings flapping slightly to help balance. Another giggle escapes me before drawing out her name, "Moooooooooooommmmmmmmmmm, when do I get to serve the High Lord?" I bounce on my toes as the broom pauses as she straightens up. Lightly resting the worn, wooden broom against the wall, and leans against a nearby counter, looking down at me, eyes questioning and face stern. A toothy, childish smile taking up my face beams up to her.

The easy planes of her face soften at my innocence. She shakes her head, allowing a knowing chuckle to pass through her chapped lips, "Oh Cauldron help us, for you are not ready-"

"What?" I squawk, my dark golden wings flaring as I interrupt her. My left wing snapping into a cup and knocking it off the counter, a heartbeat later it hits the floor, shattering into pieces. I yelp as a stray shard scratches my wing membrane. The sensitive spot flaring with the pain equal to a paper cut. Whimpering, I draw my wings back into me tightly, shame coloring my face as I cast my eyes downward to the floor, edging away from the mess. Mother still standing there quietly, having not moved, flinched or spoken as the scene had folded out.

"... sorry mom," I mutter, my short black locks of curls tumbling into my face. Sighing, Mother picks up the broom again and efficiently sweeps the broken shards into a neat pile. 

I silently pad over to the small table in the Palace's kitchen, sitting down onto the wooden stool, letting my wings droop in defeat. As mom finishes cleaning up the kitchen, I silently tap my fingers against the table next to me, watching her as she goes.

Such grace, my mother. Kind, yet strict. It is what needs to be when being in service to a high lord of Prythian. Nothing short of perfection with my mother. She cooks only the best for our High Lord, yet puts in the extra hours afterward to clean up. She doesn't have to clean up, the servants could. But she does. I asked her once why she takes this extra step, and she told me, "My objective of cleaning is not just to clean, but to feel happy, and at home living within this place. I once did not have a home, but now that I have one, it is mine, and I wouldn't give it up for the world." I didn't understand her at first, what she meant. As a 9-year-old. But as I watch her now, perfect balance in her feet. I can tell as her hips move with the brush strokes of the broom that she belongs, that this is a place to call home, and with that, is a responsibility to clean it.

She finishes stowing away the now clean pots and saunters over to me. The only time I see the smiling, youthful side of my mother is after her work is done when there is time for her to be happy and enthusiastic. Any other and the soft curves of her face are harsh and serious. Her mouth severe and brows drew in to form a crinkle between them. I love seeing her after work, when the golden depths of her eyes, ones that I envy, sparkle and become joyous.

She seats herself adjacent to me on another stool, leaning her elbows on the table, tan linen sleeves rolled up to her biceps. "As I was saying," she said slowly, almost cautiously. "You are not ready yet." Mother gives me a hard look with her molten eyes. My spine straightens as my ears perk up at her emphasis on 'yet'.

"You mean-?"

"I mean," she clarifies, brushing a strand of her frizzing, dirty blonde hair behind her ear, "that you are not ready at this age. But you will be."

I'm practically bouncing in my stool, "When, when, When?" I cry, excitement radiating from my core.

Another chuckle, "In a few years," she straightens her apron across her lap, smoothing out the creases forming. 

"Yeah, but whennnnnn mom?" I growl, now becoming impatient with her refrain of directing the 'When' of my question. I needed a time, a date, anything to indicate when I could go out of this kitchen and serve Lord Thesan.

"When you're older, Birdie," she gives me a small smile. A silent plea in it to be patient. The love radiating from her and the use of my nickname shuts me up.

"Okay.... but can I help you in the kitchen then if I'm not allowed out into the fun parts of the Dawn Palace?" I tilt my head to the side, black locks that just touch my shoulders, tumble to frame my face. "Yes, Birdie, I love you."

"Love you too."