The Prince and His Servant

Chapter 1

I picked up my oak violin, the instrument that had the capability to sweep all of my pains away and replace them with a warm, fuzzy feeling that would well up in my heart and spread throughout my body, carried in my blood. Gazing upon it as if it were a living being, I picked up the bow and brought it up to it's strings.

I've always loved the violin, for as long as I can remember. My late mother had told me it was due to my late father, whom always played the violin for me since infancy, and that seemed to make sense. I often made my own songs, most of which came to me as I fiddled with the different strings and note combinations. I always felt at ease as I played the beautiful, melodious instrument I held so dearly to my heart.

As I gently guided the bow across the violin, pressing down on it's neck to create a soothing melody I remembered from my childhood, a smile crept it's way to my face. No matter how horrid my day could have been, no matter the events that occured, my sacred instrument could bring me to a state of tranquility with ease.

As I played the song that I thought defined the pure ecstacy and joy of a child's laughter, I hummed the tune to myself as my hands moved the chorus along. Sometimes, I found the sound of my tunes dull, as there was nothing to accompany me. I felt as if my violin emmited a lonely set of notes just put side by side, when with another, it could be a symphony of harmonious sounds woven together to form a tapistry, a masterpeice to the eyes of the musicians, and possibly even our audience.

But I knew that my skill level is without equal, no matter the person, no matter the instrument. As I thought more intensely on the subject, my mood darkened, and my song, which was once lighthearted and joyful, was now turning to something mournful of happier times. I unconsciously rushed the tempo of the music, as if to match a dark undertone of emotion.

Once I'd realized what my mind and music had become, I moved my bow away from the violin, and I knew the look of fear and sadness had been etched into my irises. I also knew I did this often, play a song, then remember there was nobody to share my joy with. It's a horrible feeling, as I often lost interest in playing. Despite this, my true feelings would return the next day, no matter the previous. I couldn't ever give up my true passion for good.

I heard a soft knock on the door as I gently laid my violin into it's leather casing, it's bow beside it. After which, a small voice leaked through it and into my ears.

"Excuse me sir, but the tea you requested has been made. Shall I bring it in for you?"

Ah, I thought to myself, the servant has arrived with my tea.

Another thing I felt a passion for was tea. But it had to be specially made to suit my well-developed pallate. Any change in the process, any foreign ingredient, any amount too little or too much, I could tell with just one sip. Often, I would send it back because it wasn't to my liking.

Oh, but this man... he was a miracle that had made it's place in my life. He could always keep a conversation going without the stutter of a man in front of the most royal person in the country. Not only that, he could make tea perfectly. In fact, it was so much so that not once have I sent a cup of this man's tea back to be rebrewed.

"Good, good. Bring it in, if you will."

After a few brief moments, the servant opened the door, the tea cart in front of him. As he wheeled the cart to the office desk, placed in the middle of my study, he wore a face without emotion. There wasn't even a look of melancholy distaste, just a blank slate, free of any emotion.

That, and a few other minor details, were the drawbacks of this man. He rarely ever wore a smile, despite his polite tone in his speech. It was unknown, his past, but I've had always had the feeling that something horrendous had happened, and that he was without an amenity.

Whatever the reason for his apparent disinterest in society, with me being the obvious exception, he refused to speak of it. No, it went beyond that. Many people that entered the royal palace would ask about the way he looked at people, the way his face seemed to have a sliver of sadness and possibly frustration engrained into it.

"I have no reccolection of a tragic memory of any sort. I suppose it's just how I am. I apologize if I have inconvenienced you in any way," he would say. Of course, "sir" or "ma'am" would be inserted where it need be. He was a servant, after all; he had to refer to anyone and everyone as a sir or a ma'am, though he often refers to me as, "My Lord," or "Your Highness".

He set the teacup on the table somewhat cautiously, as though it was made of pure porcelain, and that if he moved to quickly, or set it down too roughly, it would shatter to peices. He was often like this, making sure he did every job delicately. It was one of the many things I enjoyed about having him as a servant.

"Thank you, sir."

I smiled at the servant as he gave a small sigh under his breath, his hands making their way to be joined behind the man's back, and his posture straightening slightly.

"Your Highness, it is not required you call me 'sir'. I am merely a servant. I am not worthy of being called anything other than that."

I then mimicked his earlier behavior, sighing under my breath at his comment. I've always called him sir, and yet every time I do, he tells me that I don't have to, that he's just a servant, and the latter. It picked at my nerves, seeing how such a fine servant- no, rather, a fine man- never wanted to be called so.

"I'll not have this conversation again, sir. Too many times has it taken away precious time away from my past times. Now, pour you and I cups of your amazing tea. I wish to share something with you."

He sighed and stayed silent as he heeded my order. I coule see it in his face that he wanted to say something in defiance, but luckily he knew better not to do so. I would often snap at him for objections, despite the fact that I would not want to do such things. It was a habit of mine, one that I was always unsure of how it started.

As he walked over to me with the teacups, I smiled softly. It was more of a heartwarming smile towards a man who had complied with my orders rather than a genuine smile, and he knew this. I secretly think that he'd wish for more than so, but I know it's a strange thing to think of a man.

"Your tea, sir."

"Thank you. Have a seat, Levi. If, of course, I may call you so."

He whispered a small, "Of course, Your Highness," as he sat in the couch facing the one the prince now sat in. I had never called him by his name, as I felt that he and I were too distant to call each other by anything other than their title or ranking, or even a polite pronoun. As often as I wished this were not so, my servant, on the other hand, seemed to never be interested in that sort of friendship. Therefore, my remarks were kept concealed.

"Now, concerning what I spoke of earlier..."