Flower of the Heart

By Nayanya Potter

Summary: She was never important, until one day a stranger came and took her away from all she knew. The purpose: To use her as a slave in a foreign household until she was old enough to bear children.

Part One:

“The world is a strange place,” She remembered her mother telling her. “ruled by the kings, who want and crave power. But they aren’t important. They never were anything, and shall never be anything but one who collects taxes, and stash them away in a royal treasury, hanging onto their gold like a life raft, forever terrified of anything that might take away their power and authority. Be good, child. Remember that there is no freedom, for no matter where we are, we are always a slave to someone, whether it be a king, an army, or fate.”

Now she stood, remembering her mother's instructions. She was but a child, a young girl from a village down south. A pretty child, some said, though she was too chubby to remain so for long. She had short, black hair, grimy with dirt and oil, and her face was smeared with dust and ash, her eyes bright and a little scared. But it didn't really matter what she thought or if she was afraid, she knew, and she took a little comfort in that and stood, gazing at the man that her mother was showing her to.

He was tall, so tall he was nearly a giant in her child's perspective. His hair was a dark brown, though not a muddy brown like her brothers, a deep, chestnut brown that was glazed a little in red. She liked his hair, thought it was pretty, and envied him a bit, for her own black hair was nothing that special. He had icy blue eyes, eyes that seemingly  shone with a deep, radiant light. Really, he was nothing special, but had a certain air about him, one that told you he had power, even though nothing about him would suggest it.

He was dressed simply, a black tailored suit, with plain wooden buttons fastening it in the front. He wore a dark gray cloak, one that had flapped behind him in the wind, had appeared to be almost a set of wings attached to his back as he made his way though the yard to talk to her mother about her.

His shoes, the child realized, were exceptionally made. Nothing else about him told you that he had money or was any richer than a local businessman. But his shoes… his shoes were so very fine, made with the softest black leather, and tailored so well that he must have never had a blister. Those were shoes that were fit for a king… Fit for better than a king.

The adults had finished talking, had decided it was better to wait for her father to come home. They didn't tell her to leave, though, and the girl waited patiently, though agonizing at the possibility of having to sit still until her father returned.

Her father, she knew, would have finished his work at the blacksmith’s, would have gone down to the pub with his friend Morley. He could come back in a minute, in an hour, or he could have drunk till he was unconscious, could pass out and have to be carried home in the late hours of night, and the man with the gray cloak would have to wait until he had woken and gotten over his hangover.

Meantime, she wanted nothing more than to leave, to go back out in the sunshine where she could continue to observe the unique patterns she had seen when she twisted a bit of crystal in the light.

The child knew that she was the object of their conversation, knew that her fate was now in the hands of this stranger, and her mother and possibly her half-drunk father. She didn't worry though, because there was nothing she could do about it, had she been so inclined.

As she was not, there was no need to make a fuss. She sat on the low stool that her mother pulled up, and swung her short chubby legs in slow, lazy circles. Her mother was offering the stranger tea, and he accepted. That was good, that meant that they would take out the biscuits as well, and would give her some as well as a little juice.

She sat quiet, and sure enough, a small plate with three biscuits and a tin cup of apple juice made their way to her, and she ate them appreciatively. The biscuits were hot and tasty, fresh from the oven, the best in town. Only her mother could cook like that, and the girl ate all that was given to her and looked to her mother for more.

No more made their way to her, though, and although she was disappointed, she didn't mind that much. She swung her legs in patterns now, the left in a figure eight, and the right in a complicated series of circles, lines, and the occasional spiral. She concentrated on making them repeat the same sequence over and over again, made sure that every time her left leg started its fourth figure eight, the right leg began again with a half circle.

Half-circle, diagonal down, three-quarter-circle, up-down, side to side, spiral, half-circle, diagonal down, three-quarter-circle, up-down, side to side spiral, half-circle, diagonal down, three-quarter-circle, up-down, side to side spiral…

A sudden bang at the door sullied her meditation, made her look up and realize that her father stood at the door, a slightly angry, confused, and yet wary expression on his face.  He looked at his wife, the woman who was sitting at the table with a strange man, his youngest daughter sitting on a stool nearby. His dark black hair, just like her own, but dulled with ash from the blacksmith's, framed his dark tanned face, and his eyes demanded to know what was going on.

“Darling,” His wife said, firelight giving her light brown hair a coppery glint, “This here is….” Her voice trailed off, as she realized that she had neglected to find out their visitor's name.

“Lord Khankrov.” He said, tilting his head ever so slightly to the left.

Her father nodded, and drew further into the small farmhouse room. He shrugged off his coat, and gestured for his wife to bring him a drink. He sat at the table, across from Lord Khankrov, and took a long draught before answering. “I am Gehad Smith.” He said, his low voice booming, though he did not mean for it to do so. “How may I be of service, sir?”

Lord Khankrov gazed at him, assessing his answer, before he began to talk. “This is a very nice town, sir… yes, it is, for it has a smith, a pub, a tavern and inn, a market, a baker and butcher, and many farmers. This is a very prosperous town indeed.” He looked around, then commented. “There are a couple of very nice cliffs around as well.”

Yes, there were at that, for the town was in a valley surrounded by small weathered mountains, not high enough for snow, but high enough for there to be the odd towering cliff or two. Far, far to the southeast, there was one mountain that stood high enough for snow to cover its high, craggy peak, but there were still lots of trees, lots of dry, summer weather.

The smith nodded, acknowledged the fact, and said no more, knowing that to repeat his question to the nobility again was bordering on insult, and the lord would tell him what he needed as soon as it pleased him, and not before.

The girl sat, quiet, wondering if the adults could just get on with it, say what needed to be said and then they would all leave, the stranger would go and ride off the way he had ridden up, and her parents would go to their bedroom, would leave her alone and she would be able to sneak an extra biscuit before she went to bed. But instead they sat, the awkward silence stretching out, and she thought she would simply die from boredom.

Finally, her mother turned to her, aware of her inner agony, handed her an extra biscuit, and told her to get to bed.

Gratefully, she took the still warm biscuit from her mother's hand, and then went to bed, covering herself with the warm furs and falling asleep as soon as the last golden crumb had disappeared down her throat.

When she awoke again, it was in the back of a cart, still bundled up in the furs she had gone to sleep in, and she had been lying on a large bundle of furs, which was what the cart was transporting. A pair of horses, one a muddy brown, the other a light gray, pulled the cart. Not knowing where she was, she blinked and looked around, observing a servant boy, about eleven years old, who drove the cart. Looking ahead, she saw that the cart was not alone, but part of a procession. There were two carts behind the one she was in, and a carriage and a number of riders ahead. One of the riders was the noble from the night before, she noticed.

“Awake, are you!” a voice boomed suddenly, and a huge, massive woman riding an equally massive horse rode up beside her, bouncing up and down cheerfully. “Want something to eat, dear!” The woman thundered. “I've fruit here, and cake!” she reached into a bag and pulled out a small cake and some apples. She tossed them into the cart where they bounded about, jostled by they cart's hurried speed.

She grabbed an apple that had fallen nearby, and bit into it gratefully, the sweet juice filling her mouth. She didn't say anything, but ate, then ate another and another until her belly was full. Then she turned back to the lady on the horse, still trotting jauntily beside the cart, and asked in a small, quiet voice, “Where am I?”

“You're on the road! In the service of Lord Khankrov now, you are!” She roared as an answer. “You’ll start work tomorrow, as soon as we get to the castle, and they give you a name!”

But I already have a name! The girl thought desperately. I have a name, and if you go back and ask mother, she’ll tell you!

“And don’t you be getting any ideas about running away, either!” The woman boomed. “You’re the property of mi’lord,  now, and he can have you whipped if he thinks it’ll do you any good.” She eyed the girl for a minute, then sniffed. “Could have done much better, if’n he was looking for breeding stock.” She muttered. “Gonna  have to wait years before you’re old enough to bear children.”

Property? But I’m a girl…You don’t own people…she thought.

“Well, girl, how old are you?” The woman demanded.

“Mm… I’m… I’m se’en.” She answered.

“Seven, you say? Don’t lookit. Look about five to me, but I suppose seven isn’t that bad, only have to wait about six years before we can start getting babies out of you.” The woman said, approvingly.

Babies? But I am a baby. Mother always said so…

 

***

A/N: Well? What did you think? Love it, hate it, want more, think I should give up? Tell me your opinions, because hey, I care! Wow! Isn’t that amazing??

~Nayanya