Winter Wildflowers

Chapter 14

Day 143

Ofelia had never seen anything like it. Buildings made of a smooth stone towered above her, pillars higher than she could dream of reaching, a shrill loudness that pounded through her mind, a sick brightness that her eyes still hadn't adjusted to blinded her.
She was dirty, she realised as she watched the countless women around her dance in colours, their cheeks chubby, their hands soft, their eyes lively and their voices beautiful. It was humiliating as Ofelia sat perched upon a horse for all to see, wading through the people in celebration. No doubt it was a great deal that their 'noble' warriors had finally returned home after such a successful conquest and all these free men and women were happy to enjoy the riches that would benefit them because of it. Ofelia however was nothing but a dirty, wiry looking slave girl stolen as property. These people seemed not to care, not one sorry glance was spared her way and it nailed in how helpless her plans to escape were. To these people she was beyond worthless, how would she be able to play dead with all their prying eyes? The preachers wouldn't care for her, they were the ones blessing Knightley as he arrived, she wouldn't be able to escape any jail that Knightley put her in.
Hopelessness drenched her and the great potential of Knightley really marrying her settled panic in her chest. She turned to him behind her and he looked down to her face. She met his blue eyes below his helmet, and he studied her for a moment before returning his gaze to the people, resting his hand upon his sword.
Women continued to dance around them, people bowed as they neared the heart of the buildings. A man and a woman adorned in fine looking fabrics graciously walked out to meet Knightley and his men. Their eyes worried Ofelia, the lack of empathy twisted knots in her gut. Both wore what Ofelia guessed as chieftain crowns, though these were made of intricate metals and jewels. These people spoke to Knightley in a tongue she'd never heard before, a tongue she'd heard none of the men speak. Knightley slid away from Ofelia and dropped from the horse to bow to the couple. Then the woman embraced him and pressed her lips to his cheek in what could only be explained as a mother's kiss. Ofelia dropped her eyes. If he was the chief's child as she was, she truly had no hope of escaping, especially if he willed to stop her.
After greeting who Ofelia concluded as Knightley's parents, he returned to Ofelia, helped her down with a well-practiced form, before sending his steed off with a group of men. With nothing but a careless glance, he also summoned a group of women in matching cloaks to Ofelia. Ofelia panicked and stepped into Knightley, clutching at his arm.
"I- "
Knightley removed her hand from his arm, publicly shooed her away as if she were a dog, and walked beside his parents as he left Ofelia with the women. She gaped at him but he spared her no response.

If judgement could speak, Ofelia was hearing the worst of it. Each girl covered their mouths and shared sly glances as they uncovered each section of her body. Ofelia was ashamed of her bruising, of the cuts she bore, of the gruffness of her hands. Her throat seized at the swollen blue bruise up her side, gifted to her by the sabaton of Sir Knightley. She rubbed her jaw.
The women rubbed her raw. Her skin stung as they cleaned every cut, trimmed her nails, and applied oil after oil to her skin. The only enjoyable moment being when they brushed her hair, a memory of her mother doing so at the hearth replacing them as they did. They brushed it, they massaged ointment through it, they washed it thoroughly, then they cut it. Ofelia had wriggled in their touch at first, but she had given up by the end, sitting silent as she stared at the walls. They dressed her in a dress too tight for her liking and covered her hands with soft, feminine gloves. It was if everything that Knightley had forced her through was to be hidden, to be swept under the rug, and it was humiliating for Ofelia. Like it was somehow her fault.

She didn't see Knightley for that night, apparently it wasn't important for him to come console the person he'd set to marry. Apparently, her loneliness didn't come to mind. She sat on the edge of a bed that night, her hands clasped together as if they were still bound. She glanced from her bed to a mirror. Her face was swollen, her cheek bruised and the white of her eye red. She stared at herself, and anger pooled in her belly. She was so terribly skinny; her cheeks were gaunt and her once lengthy hair had been cut to just below her shoulders no doubt to the tremendous breakage it had endured throughout her journey. She held a hand to her shoulders. She looked so different.