As she washed the dishes, she could feel the cuticles around her nails cracking and the burn on the sensitive skin on the backs of her hands. She went back and forth about whether it felt less bad in the water or out. The others didnt have these cares anymore. Their hands were cracked and blistered, and felt like they were made of wood for how long they'd worked in this kitchen. Daphne's were still soft, still new to this manual labor, and it wasnt a mystery to anyone. All of the seasoned women corrected her, laughed at her, and rolled their eyes when she asked them a question of process or procedure. Dues, she thought, 'I'll just have to prove myself a worker, then they'll accept me as one of their own.' She knew they never would though. These women didnt respect how she'd made her living before this hot, steaming, stinky dish basin became her livelihood.
A raucus beat of footsteps and booming voices emanated from the hallway just outside the dining room, as the head cook and all around boss of the kitchen servants burst through the door.
"Attention! The hunting party has returned and they're expecting a feast... at this hour," he said, lowering his voice at the end in disapproval, although not quiet enough for his feelings of underappreciation to be missed. "Kitchen maids! Stop what youre doing, we've enough for the first and main courses clean, I need your help with service, as I've already relieved the majority of staff. Now, lets get started on an-"
She didn't hear what he said afterwards. All she could think was 'He's back.' and 'I'm going to serve him...' There were so many mixed feelings, she couldnt tell whether she was embarrassed, excited, or dreading it. Other servant girls were just thankful to be in the same room as the prince in hopes he'd throw a modicum of attention their way, but he rarely did. Daphne didnt think much about the prince, except how hard it must be to be a prince.
Before she knew it, she had a tray in her hand and was walking it into the dining room with the other servers. The men grunted in acknowledgement, and banged their fists on the table in celebration of the food.
She did her job and kept her eyes trained where they should be, until her face and thighs felt like they were on fire. She couldnt resist any longer. She stole a glance at his usual chair, to find him in it, reclining slightly with his arm on the rest, fist clenched, staring at her. She was undeniably captivated by him, almost to the point of neglecting her duties.
It had started a few weeks before, a late night return just like this one, only it wasn't from a hunt, and the voices were not so raucus. It had been some sort of dark errand for the king, or that was the word around the kitchen - "Sent his boy and the war chief out to do his dirty work.. Lazy coward." They'd served a much smaller, more somber group that evening. She thought everyone had left when she returned to the dining room at the end of the night to clear up. She was almost on top of him before she realized he was slumped in the big oversized chair.
"My apologies, sir!"
"Wait." he said with such confidence and authority. "Stay" he uttered, barely moving except to gesture to the chair next to him. She couldnt fathom sitting in a chair, at the big table, next to the war chief, but at the same time, she couldn't fathom disobeying him.
She sat uncomfortably at the edge of the seat with her hands folded politely in her lap and her head lowered, trying to be as small as possible. He took a drink from the cup on the table and sat back in his seat. Neither looked at or said a word to the other, they just sat in silence for minutes. To Daphne it felt like hours, completely unsure of what he could possibly want with the company of a dish girl.
Suddenly he let out the longest sigh and dropped his head as though his previously held breath was the only thing holding him upright. Everything seemed difficult for him, breathing, sitting, being.
Daphne stood quietly and turned to leave, there was no way any man would want to be seen like this, especially by an inferior. Her retreat was stopped by a huge hand on her forearm.
"They say you used to be a whore." he managed. She turned to see him in the exact same position, head down, slumped, the only difference was his arm outstretched to hers. The statement feared her and emboldened her to tear her arm out of his grasp. When some men found out she was once a whore, they felt it justified them in forcing themselves on her. She never took the chief for that type of man, but still, he was huge and had a reputation for being brutal, she would be stupid not to fear him.
His head shot up to see the cheek of a servant who would dare to flee from his hold like that, only for him to see her face and understanding to come to him.
"I'm not planning to force myself on you" he said as he poured more wine into his cup, took a swig and set the cup in the table next to where she stood. "Have some." She didn't reach for the cup and he didnt seem to care. "I'm not looking for.. those services. If I were, I would have called for a whore. Tonight has been.. difficult. I want company.. comfort. I assume you know better than most single women how to comfort a man. Am I correct?"
He was correct. She had found women divided into camps: girls who thought men were always gentlemen, women who were jaded and thought they only wanted sex, and the experienced, who saw many facets of men and understood that they require feminine affection independent of sex on occasion. Many times in her previous employ, men would pay to lay in bed with her and stroke her hair, or watch her apply her skin balms while they talked of nothing in particular.
She stepped toward him slowly and retrieved the cup from the table. As she got as close to him as she'd been to a man since she left the profession, she took a swig and offered the cup to him. He took it and a small swig while he watched her intently. Few people surprised him and even fewer took the lead with him, especially the likes of a kitchen servant. It was already the tonic he needed after the night he'd had.
She lifted the front of her skirts until her knees and the tops of her stockings were visible to him. Slowly lifting one knee, she settled it on the outside of his thigh and repeated with the other, finally settling on his lap, near his knees. He took the wine cup from his mouth but never took his eyes from her. As she reached for his face he flinched, like an abused dog, so she slowed. Her fingertips barely grazed the skin on his neck before becoming more familiar at the nape.
He dropped the wine cup, uncaring of its fate, and grabbed both sides of her waist and pulled her into him until there was barely a breath between them. She pulled on his neck with more and more insistence until he yeilded and laid his head on her bosom. She wrapped her arm around his back and stroked his hair as he breathed raggedly and occasionally trembled. She held tight to him as he battled. He did what he needed and she was there ensuring he was okay. Her deep steady breaths eventually became his, and as his muscles relaxed, he felt how hard he was gripping her small body, likely hard enough to bruise, without even a sound of protest from her.
When he looked to her to apologize, he saw her looking back at him with a look of genuine care in her eye. He'd been looked at many ways, with fear, hatred, responsibility, respect, contempt, but very rarely.. care. She held both sides of his face and placed the softest kiss on his forehead.
