It had been a fantastic night, but now Rosemund was beginning to regret it. She'd spent several hours in unoccupied forest on the back of a horse, feeling more alive than she ever had with the breeze weaving between trees into her face. It had been dark, a little scary even, but the moonlight had filtered through the leaves and it had been incredible. After that, she'd stopped in Inspirro for a small dose of alcohol (she would have betted that anyone at the castle would faint if they'd heard she drank) and then won a fight. The victory had made her slightly-drunk self bigheaded and overconfident, and so she'd immediately lost the one afterward.

She was feeling the loss right now as she scrubbed the massive windows in the high-ceilinged castle corridor. A sore rib was not helping her get the job done, and the worst part was she had a million other things to do. She gritted her teeth through the pain, finished the window that she was working on, and got a start on the next one. It was times like this that she resented royalty, but of course this time it all came back to her. This was Rosemund's fault, and without this job what would she have?

Ah, but could anyone help envying the royals? She wasn't all that interested in ruling the kingdom of Sayyar, of course. She wasn't into politics. (Politics! Hah!) She was into being rich, doing whatever she wanted, and not having to do any hard physical labor. She caught herself daydreaming, glanced to either side of her for any sign of someone who would shout at her for working too slowly, and hurriedly returned to work. She scrubbed the glass so hard it practically glowed, painstakingly moved through that window, and went on again to the next one.

It was too early in the morning for there to be anyone else moving through the corridor. She lifted her shirt and looked at her side, wincing. It was a very nasty mix of purple and black. No wonder it was so sore.

A mental note: Brawl sober next time.

As Aire gazed out of the window, feeling just a little too feminine for his own taste, he thought about how it would not be long until a servant arrived to wake him. Each morning when the servant arrived, he was already up and out of bed, though still clad in his sleeping robes. This morning, as with other occasional mornings, he had the urge to dress himself and start the day on his own. After all, it didn't hurt to be independent sometimes.

A sigh escaped him as he pulled on his royal blue colored tunic and dark colored trousers. Sometimes being royalty was hard work. All of the things he would soon be required to do - ruling an entire kingdom, no less. Parties and other festivities he was socially obliged to attend, for the sake of popularity and publicity. Sometimes he wanted to just stay home and read a book, but that wasn't plausible.

Again, he stared out of the window. A thin, transparent layer of frost rested upon its surface. It would have been best if Aire dressed in a warm cloak also. So he pulled an extravagant, genuine fur-lined one from his wardrobe and threw it over his shoulders. He inhaled deeply, shrugged the restlessness off of his shoulders, and headed out of his bedroom.

There in the corridor was a woman servant working. Working, however, could have hardly been the proper word for Aire to use. She was moving slower than a sloth. The servant glanced around but seemed to miss him - after all, it was a very large hallway. She pulled her dress up on the side opposite of him and seemed to be inspecting her side, and Aire scoffed.

"Excuse me," he said, with an audible tone of arrogance. "What on earth are you doing? Shouldn't you be working? And by working, I mean, working, not moving as if it physically pains you to clean a damn window."

A very familiar voice startled Rosemund out of her ponderings. Oh no, not him, she inwardly groaned once she found the source of that unmistakably arrogant voice. She was not in the mood for this right now. It had been too much of a night, and it was too early right now, to have to deal with the Heir––she'd often considered moving and finding some other job in a different city once he took the throne. But of course, as entitled and downright bratty as the kid was, he was the heir.

Not showing her irritation, she tucked in her shirt with slow calmness and then knelt and bowed to Aire, though she held his gaze all the while. In some parts of the castle, she'd learned, it was contested whether Rosemund was "mentally slow" or just liked to mess with her higher-ups. It was of course the latter, although she, a lowly servant, didn't claim to be the sharpest mind in the kingdom. If she happened to get in hot water for taking a tone with someone, she usually escaped punishment by acting confused and scared, and insisting that it was how she always spoke.

"Ah, forgive me, your Highness. Woe is unto the one who works slowly, even if she be plagued by gout or leprosy or consumption. My Lord, I invite you to watch me, thy loyal servant, clean these windows which soon will be yours––so that you may see the newfound swiftness of my work!"

It was almost hard not to laugh at the idea of Aire watching her clean the windows. Rosemund didn't expect him to agree to waste his time like that, but she'd at least wasted his time with that little speech.

The unmannerly undertone that this servant took (whose name Aire could never remember) did not go unnoticed by the Heir. With calm mannerisms, he crossed his arms over his chest and tried to make himself appear taller, for that was the only advantage he had considering his muscles were obviously lacking. He glared down at the servant bowing to him, cold eyes piercing into her flesh.

Oh yes, Aire was well aware of this servant's antics. She had a habit of speaking to all of the royal family as if they were cretin, but most noticeably him. He'd always let it go, because it didn't wound him - she was the one scrubbing dirt off of walls and windows for a living, whereas he lived in the lap of luxury. It was almost amusing to listen to her speak to him in such a way. She must be jealous.

"Fine," Aire said, in response to the preposterous and not at all serious request to watch her clean the windows. "Go on," he said. "I'll watch."

With all due honesty, it was not an unfamiliar feeling for Aire to be attracted to this servant in particular. Though he never remembered her name, never knew her age, never knew quite where she came from, he couldn't help being impressed by her obvious disregard for most authority. Not to mention, her physical appearance - body, face, and other assets - was nothing to scoff at. Her unruly red hair was...cute, he had to admit. One of her most notable features, aside from the freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her nose and rosy red cheeks.

Oh.

She hadn't expected him to say yes. Damn it. Her heart skipped a beat and then dropped quite far as Aire agreed. Great. Now Rosemund had to keep cleaning the windows, faster, and with this piece of work looking at her while she did it. Her side ached a little more just anticipating it.

Still, she stood up, grabbed the bucket of soapy water and the ladder, and moved to the next window. Once she got into the rhythm she figured that she would forget about Aire and fall back into doing this her own, efficient way. She climbed up the rickety wooden structure and got to work.

She couldn't help but consider kicking the ladder over once she had finished this window, but thought better of it. Maybe when she was ready to quit this job...

The expression upon the servant's face sunk, and likewise, a smirk formed upon Aire's lips. He continued to stand with his arms crossed, looking up at the woman as she returned to work. Still, her movements were forced and stiff, almost pained. Another sigh threatened to escape, this time one of sympathy, nonetheless frustrated. It would be cruel of him as a future ruler to force a servant to continue working through some kind of obvious pain. He cleared his throat, drawing the servant's attention to himself, and gestured for her to come down.

"Come here. What is wrong with you?"

Though the question was meant to be meaningful and concerned, he still used the same harsh tone.

"Come here. What is wrong with you?"

Oh no. As if Rosemund needed more trouble than she already had. Knotting her eyebrows, the servant wondered if royalty had anything better to do than to watch their maids and servants work. Evidently, some did not. Hurriedly, she finished on the window, leaving it with a sparkly-clean appearance, and climbed with her purposely-irritating slowness to the bottom of the ladder. After all, there was no way Aire was truly concerned.

When she approached him, it was with a bowed head but otherwise her stubborn demeanor. The truth that she was almost shaking with dread. If he asked questions, she'd either tell the truth and get in very hot water, or she'd lie herself into a deep hole from which it would be hard to escape.

"There is nothing wrong, your Highness."

Almost before the servant could finish even speaking, Aire barked out, "You're lying. Tell me the truth." Still, his arms didn't leave his chest. In truth, he was still trying to make himself appear taller, thus somehow superior (even though he clearly was, being royalty.) For some reason, at that moment, the servant's bowed head irritated him even though it was common practice for the help not to look their masters in the eyes.

"You can look at me," he said in a slightly softer tone.

She looked up, a defiant glint in her eyes and on her face. Her heart was pounding like crazy. It was always a horrible mess when someone saw through her lies, and now the royal family? She'd probably be able to worm out of this one by claiming that she did not want her pain to prevent her from her all-important duty of keeping this glorious castle in a state of awesome cleanliness and excellence...but still, she didn't like to be caught lying.

In any case, it was clear that Rosemund was going to have to think on her feet and say something that would get the heir off her back, and fast.

A situation this dire called for one thing: feminine "charm".

She swallowed and let her face become sad and doe-like. "Ah, your Royal Highness, heir to the admired throne of Sayyar, you are far too eminent to hear of the lowly problems of a- a woman." That should be clear enough. If he asked her what she meant, it would confirm her suspicion that the entire royal family had bred with each other.

As Aire looked into the eyes of the servant, he couldn't quite decipher whether she was being truthful or not. This was something that frustrated him greatly, because before the passing of the king, his father had always told him that reading people was an important part of ruling a kingdom. Especially when it came to affairs with royalty of other kingdoms. However, this woman was not royalty and she was not important. Aire could only hope that those who were important in the future could be read more easily. After all, a lowly servant probably had more skill in deceit than someone of nobility.

As if, he almost scoffed aloud.

"I see," he said, stiffening. He looked away from her, out the freshly cleaned window. The garden was calling his name. "Sorry to have bothered you. Take-"

What was he doing? About to tell this servant to take the rest of the day off just because she was having trouble with her own body.

"Take better care when cleaning the windows. I see spots, and you're working entirely too slowly."

Before the servant could respond, the heir turned on his heel and hurried out of the corridor.

Rosemund sighed with relief and simply didn't care if Aire heard her. Works every time, she thought victoriously. She would have to be sure to keep that in her arsenal and only let the brawling get too intense about once a month. (If people suspected her cycle was irregular, she feared that it would raise questions.) She half-listened to the heir's order, waited until he was gone, and let a wildly smug smile spread across her freckly face. She couldn't help being proud of herself for that clever save.

Reluctantly she returned to the windows, going at exactly the same pace and care she'd done before Aire had arrived. She didn't see any of the spots he'd mentioned, and now that she thought about it a little, Rosemund even felt a little insulted that he dared criticize her work like that. It wasn't as if he didn't have the right, of course, but she'd have liked to watch him climb up a rickety, splintery wooden ladder with a vicious bruise and clean the damn windows!

She stopped herself from thinking like that. It was never going to happen and that was that and it was perfectly fine.

As somewhat of a surprise to himself, Aire managed to walk away from the servant without skipping a beat or even looking back. In truth, he felt horrid for the way he'd spoke to her. Though after all, he was royalty and she was, well, filth. Absolute filth. The only way a relationship between them could ever exist would be in his late-night fantasies. At this thought, his heart sped up and his palms started sweating as their skin collided in his head.

What was he doing? Thinking up a relationship with a servant. His mother would have his head. This was no way for a prince to be thinking, he could almost hear her speaking those words. There was not a person he could open up to about this conflict. Not a damn person.

Evening dawned all too quickly and Aire had managed to bypass most of his pre-ruler responsibilities - but alas the pre-coronation dinner was upon them, and for Aire not to attend would be close to blasphemy. His coronation would take place early in the morning, then before his mother completely gave her powers of Queen over to him, now King, a search would begin for a suitable wife for him. This almost depressed him. He wasn't well acquainted with any visiting royalty enough to call them friends or to even say he was attracted to them, yet soon he would have to marry one of the coveted princesses.

When he entered the grand dining hall, not many were gathered around the oblong, mahogany table. It would be quite a bit before the dinner began, and the ones who had seated themselves were socializing among each other. They would hardly miss him at the moment. Taking a chance, he slipped into the kitchen and made up his mind that if another nobility asked him what he was doing, he would simply state he was making sure the servants were doing their part well.

There she was, slaving over the range. The petite, ginger servant whose name he never remembered.

"Hello," he greeted her, in an all-too-polite and embarrassingly cracking voice. He cleared his throat nonchalantly and opened his mouth to speak again, but no words came out.

Rosemund had not been able to rest a minute when she'd finished the windows, and though her side felt like she was being drawn and quartered, she'd moved swiftly to her next tasks. To be truthful, the main factor in making her move so quickly was fear of being caught working too slowly again. As much as Aire irritated her, he was not the worst person to catch her being inefficient. There were plenty of people in the castle who, although not royalty, were horribly strict, and might fire her or even have her flogged––and she was in enough pain as is.

Now she was preparing the dinner, and moving as if she had no bruise at all. She'd gotten used to it throughout the day, tuning it out of her mind, and cooking was kinder on her bruise than scrubbing windows on ladders. She was the first servant in the kitchen, and she knew that others would be arriving soon, but it was nice to be alone even if she knew it wouldn't last. She was in the middle of gutting a turkey when who should walk in but the heir to the kingdom? Despite the crack in his voice, Rosemund recognized it and tensed.

She turned her head to look at him with a critical eye. Out came the bird's intestines in her bloody hands, and she curtsied in a gesture that was partly obligation and partly sarcasm. "Your Highness," she greeted quietly, before discarding the turkey's innards and washing her hands. The worst part was that there was more than one turkey. She turned away and continued working–– brushing oil onto the bird's skin and then salting it, checking the temperature of the stove. "May I be of assistance?" she finally said while wiping her hands on her apron. This was asked entirely in obligation, surprisingly.

The way the servant worked was flawless. Again, Aire knew nothing about her other than her general personality, so he wasn't sure how long she'd been doing work. In fact, he didn't know what all was her responsibilities in this castle. After all, there were many servants and he couldn't keep track of the jobs of each one. However it was apparent that she not only did cleaning, but cooking as well. Typical enough, though, he figured. Most females handled the inside and males the out.

Her tensing did not go unnoticed, making Aire feel a little guilty. He hadn't meant to upset her work, and hoped that he could stand there a few moments longer while she tried to work in peace. The sarcastic way she'd curtsied didn't even register or bother him much.

"May I be of assistance?" she asked, much to his surprise.

"No," he replied, voice softer than when he'd spoken to her early that morning. "I was hoping you were here so that- that I could apologize for this morning. I hope you are...feeling better," the last sentence came out more as an inquiry than a statement, and he peered at her with concern.

One dark-red eyebrow went up inquisitively; clearly Rosemund was surprised by the apology. She pursed her lips, unsure how to respond, but also glad that he'd said sorry. Unless it was a cruel joke, which of course was always a possibility. There was a reason that almost no one on Earth knew that her mother was a prostitute, for one thing, and she was sure that any respect Aire might have had for her (hah!) would vanish if he knew.

She nodded curtly. "There is no need to apologize, Your Highness," she said, shortly; she truly wanted to accept the apology but she knew that doing so would mean publicly recognizing royalty as having faults. It would be fine if anyone else did so, but a servant risked being laid off. "I am feeling perfectly well. Thank you very much."

And with that, she got to peeling potatoes. She assumed that he'd be leaving, and if he didn't she would just have to suck it up and act like he didn't bother her at all. Preparing food took too much energy to also devote some to being a sarcastic ass.

"No, I-" Aire assumed she hadn't heard him begin to speak again or either didn't care, as she'd turned away from him and began peeling potatoes. A thin, pale hand hovered over the servant's back as he longed to place it upon her if anything in a comforting way. He swallowed past a thick buildup of anxiety in his throat and took a deep, but silent breath through his nostrils. He was well aware of the servant's fears of getting dismissed from her work - most of them possessed the same fear, for the common way for one to be "dismissed" was through execution. The hand fell back to his side, and he looked around the kitchen, seeing no other occupants.

His voice lowered, and he spoke in a hushed tone, "You- You don't have to be so formal anymore." He chewed nervously on his bottom lip, eyebrows knit together in worry. "At least, not while we are alone. You- I mean, I was being very rude and unfair this morning - not-not that I'm supposed to be fair to mere servants, per se-"

Horrified at his sudden awkwardness, Aire sputtered and squeezed his eyes shut to get his mental bearings. When he opened them again, he said, "I am, uh, I'm glad you're feeling better."

Her potato-peeling slowed down and stopped; it didn't seem like he was going away. At least he was being nice, and well, it wasn't like he was unattractive. Even if he was inbred. Even so, she was getting nervous. Speaking informally to someone so highly ranked could have its risks. Like attachment. Not that she could get attached to this complete dork.

She stood silently through his awkwardness and felt a quiet sense of victory, a sort of "take that!", but showed none of it, instead adjusting her hair net and waiting for the prince to finish. "Ah, but of course," she said, feeling facetious again. "T'would be truly terrible if I were to be too ill to give my skills to the glorious kingdom. Another mere servant could take my small place, of course..."

Her eyes gave a small defiant glitter. If the servants were gone the castle would fall into disrepair, and of course, it was because those at the top were too lazy to take care of anything on their own.

In devastated embarrassment at the fact that he'd said the wrong thing, Aire's shaking hand rose to his face and covered his eyes. A slow, seemingly controlled breath released itself through his lips. The servant hadn't turned to him, but the irritation in her tone was apparent. Aire had been considered the most charismatic Jutes around the castle, but when it came to this one woman, he was royally screwing up. It frustrated him to no ends, and it almost made him want to forget the attempt he was making at being kind and forming any kind of relationship, platonic or otherwise, with this servant.

"I didn't mean it like that," he snapped, trying to keep his cool.

Again, controlled breathing. Something his adviser told him to work on when he felt particularly angry. Before he could continue further, his mother entered the kitchen loudly, making her presence known.

"Aire," said the Queen. "Shouldn't you be preparing for your dinner? I assume you do have a speech all sorted out. Alana was supposed to have helped you with that earlier this week. Poor dear's been under some stress since we had to dispose of her retarded child."

Aire cringed at his mother's words - the Queen never did have a filter for her mouth, even less since the passing of the King. She'd become overwhelmed by her own power, by the fact that not many people would stand up to her because everyone knew she was quick to hand out executions.

"And what are you doing in here?" she continued. "I've been looking for you everywhere, our guests have been watching me run around like a chicken without its head. I heard your voice in here. What are you talking to this slave for?" The Queen looked at the servant with disgust. "Hopefully putting her in her place. Look at her - look at that hair. Dear," she said, addressing the servant. "You really do need to find out what a brush is, and use it quick. I don't want you looking like such a hideous mess around my guests. Especially on this night before my son's coronation. Have you no brains?"

Nose pointed deliberately into the air with disgust, the Queen gestured at Aire with a dainty, manicured finger. "Come on, son. The other cooks and servants are arriving and you don't need to be surrounded by their filth."

Just as Rosemund was about to respond to Aire's snapped response with more sarcasm, she heard footsteps and straightened up more than what looked possible. It didn't seem like he'd noticed the Queen's approach, but she could hear it from a mile away and it made her blood run cold. As a servant, she was well aware of Her Highness's reputation, and she was not about to risk her head by being insolent in front of her. When she entered, she averted her eyes and pointed her head at the floor, barely able to control her own trembling. She'd had nightmares of being executed because she had been unable to keep her mouth shut.

She was having trouble keeping her mouth shut right now, especially. Her face went from a scared pale to an angry red in a matter of moments, and she bit her lip to keep from being smart. It isn't worth it, she told herself. It isn't worth it. She isn't worth it. She took some pride in her hair. It wasn't beautiful, no, but it wasn't horrible either. At least, that was how she saw it. And what was she supposed to do? Hair never looked that great in a net! Did she want to see fiery-red strands in dinner? But thankfully, Rosemund managed to keep quiet.

As the Queen turned to leave, she carefully raised her gaze again, looking briefly at Aire. Any respect she'd gained had evaporated; there was no sarcasm, no defiance now, just anger. She turned away again and went back to peeling the potatoes. This time it was with quick furious strokes. She nicked a finger and acknowledged it only by wiping the cut on her apron. Damn royals. Damn inbred royals, she thought furiously.

There was no other option but for Aire to follow his mother out of the kitchen unless he wanted to be brutally interrogated in front of a lowly servant, probably embarrassing them both and leading to the servant's possible death. Before the door shut behind him, he turned his head toward the servant and though her back was toward him, he said in a low voice, "I'm sorry."

"What was that?" the Queen asked, turning to her son as they walked toward the dinner table, now filled with guests.

"Nothing, mother," Aire replied politely. The Queen merely smiled at him and patted his arm.

"You're going to make a fine young King. I've already got some lovely women in mind for you to take in as your wife." She motioned to a young woman sitting between Duke Rowlan Marche of Barboan and his wife, Aliana Marche. "See her? That's the daughter of Rowlan, as you can probably tell. She looks almost just like him - and he is a very handsome man, I must say. Look, she's looking this way, wave at her. Hello, Marietta."

The Queen raised a hand and waved at the girl, and Aire followed suit in an awkwardly forced manner.

"Anyway," his mother continued, turning again to him. "Rowlan has informed me that she's quite infatuated with you. Do you even remember her? It's been some years since they visited, I believe their last visit was before your father died, but you and Marietta got along just fine. Just fine!"

Aire sighed audibly, though his mother paid no mind. He didn't know how to tell her that he was not quite ready for marriage yet.

"And there's Rachel Wetherby - Micus and Fiona's daughter, from Ostrand. Oh, Fiona recently passed, and word is that the poor dear is getting ready to marry her father if she can't find a suitor soon. Wouldn't you like to save her that trouble?"

Aire looked at the woman in mind with disgust, then at his mother with an equally disturbed expression.

"Mother," he said. "Why do I have to marry someone from another kingdom?"

The Queen looked at her son with a shocked expression, as if his question was the absolute definition of preposterous.

"More power, more land!" she exclaimed. "More fortune! Don't you want to secure the future of this kingdom? We aren't exactly the most prosperous kingdom, Ellie, and it's a vital...vital must that you get married as quickly as possible! And I will not marry my own son. Oh, I need a drink. You wear me out, Ellie."

Aire cringed at the use of his childhood nickname, one he'd always despised due to its implication at femininity. Before he could protest the words his mother spoke, she was prancing off after a servant carrying a tray of wine glasses. Another huffed breath escaped him and he seated himself at the head of the table, his designated spot. A glass of wine was offered to him, and he took it. Never before had he drank a type of alcohol - but he figured he'd better get used to it. It was almost a requirement at royal parties.