The Raven Girl

Chapter 32

King Eirik, of the Lorven line, was dying.

It had come as a shock to Asta when first she heard of this, for only a few days ago she'd seen him, in a flurry of golds and furs and jewels, looking far healthier than she had ever felt. There had been a glint to his eyes that pictured youth and vitality, yet now, apparently, he was dying.

From what she did not know, for this knowledge she bared was but a rumour, a curious snippet of information she'd gained whilst eavesdropping on the rest of the servants. She didn't feel any guiltier for it- listening in on their conversations which were always filled with shameful secrets they probably regretted sharing- but she was anxious to get her hopes up at this news. After all, it was a rumour. And it was a well known fact that rumours were often fabricated to such an extent that a bad cold became as life threatening as the plague. No. Worse.

What if it was true and Eirik took his last breath tonight? What then? She did not know how she was meant to feel about it, for though she desperately wished, with all her heart, his death was every bit as painful as what he'd put her through, her conscious sprung in, scolding her for the very idea she was proposing, the very idea she was enjoying thinking about. How could she wish such a thing upon another human, when she'd been through it herself? She'd wanted to die, she'd wanted nothing more than for them to let her die and, at the time, she'd had no cares for how they did it.

She covered her mouth in horror at her own self. How, even in the moment, could she have been so cruel, so cold, so heartless? The worst part was that if she'd have been presented with a knife and Eirik's weakening body, she would have surely replicated what he'd ordered to be done to her in a heartbeat, without thought but with sadistic pleasure. And, she didn't know whether she'd stop there; even though the King was dying, would she have struck the final blow? Or, worse yet, would she have simply let her anger and hurt get the better of her, forgetting to stop before he bled out and died?

Of course, she had not the knife or custody of his body, yet this thought was enough to shake the image she'd held of herself in her head. Surely, by this, she was lowering herself to his standards, acting like the cold hearted monarch himself. Or was her own trauma enough to counter this, enough to excuse her actions?

Spluttering, she lifted her head out the basin, thoughts thoroughly interrupted by the person who'd kicked her head into the food-ridden water. She turned to face them, wiping her face with the sleeve of her dress.

"You're not working." They spat. "What happened to 'I'll work harder, I promise!'?" They mocked her voice, her words, laughing at their own, poor interpretation of her.

"That's not what I said." She muttered, flatly, but turned back to the basin all the same. Only a few more hours of menial work and she'd be allowed to escape, allowed to rest her tired head and end the vile thoughts that stampeded about her mind, trespassing on territories she'd rather have left unturned. That or perhaps she'd find Rickard, pluck up the courage to ask him directly whether the tales of Eirik's illness rang true and then, from that, gain a small amount of temporary peace from having solved a rumour.

She scrubbed at the pots, which were thoroughly encrusted with all sorts of foodstuff as if it were not a cooking utensil but a beautiful gem concealed by rock and mud. Of course, that was not the case- Asta was not uncovering a valuable gem, one that could perhaps pay for her freedom, but scraping off great hunks of burnt looking substance, chafing her hands and knuckles in the process. The reality was rather deflating and much less preferable.

Finally, she was allowed to shove the basin aside and finish for the day, hanging the last of the items in the rightful place above the hearth. She swept the floors, making sure there were no crumbs lying about for if she were to wake the next morning and discover rats scraping about the kitchens, she would face much anger from the other servants.

Shuddering at that lingering thought, Asta left the kitchens and headed through the courtyard, noting the blackened sky. She hoped they'd bothered to leave her something, but often this was not the case and they'd 'forget', scoffing the lot just because they could. Shaking her head, she pressed forward, hunger fuelling her legs. She missed her home, where she could always rely upon the cooks to save her a little stew here and there even when she came far later than was wise. It was always delicious too.

For a moment, her mind wandered back to her home, filtering out all the bad details and appearing almost perfect, leading her to question why she'd left in the first place, why she'd ever thought running away to a world where everyone hated her was a good idea. She bit her lip, realising the cruel deception committed by herself: she'd allowed herself to forget and she couldn't do that. It meant people could escape without charge, gain her forgiveness almost immediately, and it made her weak. If she forgave, if she forgot, then they would do it all over again.

She'd forgotten about Arne, forgotten about Sigurd and, more importantly, she'd forgotten about Rickard. Perhaps he had somewhat earned her forgiveness through the kindness he had treated her with, but by no means did he earn her to turn a blind eye to what he'd done. She couldn't permit her mind to just blank it out, no matter how painful it was to remember, no matter how hard it made it to talk to him. She couldn't just forget.

During this time, she had managed to walk not to the servants quarters but somewhere entirely different. It served as a great reminder that the corridors here were still unfamiliar to her subconscious and only accessible through the full use of her mind; as soon as she stopped concentrating, her feet would muddle beneath her and her sense of direction would fail. Her thoughts were really starting to sabotage her now, no longer confined to the walls of her head but running riot in her reality.

Where had they carried her now? Glancing about, she noted just how many servants were bundling down the corridors with armfuls of letters  and freshly filled jugs of wine, sometimes spilling the odd drop of claret when forced to lurch suddenly out the way of another. In short, this part of the castle was chaos whereas the rest had been eerily silent in comparison. Asta hung back, unsure as to whether it would be wise to join the chaos just yet, even if following it might provide answers. However, she decided to watch a little longer, survey the scene, see where it was they were heading to.

Her eyes chose to focus on one particular serving girl, who in her hands held a bowl of broth that lay completely untouched, still piping hot. She didn't seem to be taking it anywhere, but just stood by a door, which was bolted shut from the other side. Physically or mentally Asta could not quite work out: the girl appeared as though she did not wish to go in either way. 

When she still did nothing, Asta found her gaze began to deviate from the girl, trailing onto another, more hurried person, but it soon snapped right back onto her. The door began to open and out of it came two solemn looking gentlemen, draped in fine clothes that seemed to wash their pale faces of any colour there might have been. 

"He won't want it, girl." The taller one of the pair said with a passing glance at her. "Come back with wine or don't bother coming back at all."

Asta figured the man they spoke of was the King and, with the rumours proved more or less true, she was happy to leave without any more evidence. Even when Eirik was dying, Asta did not want to be near him and by being here she was straying far from the servants' domain without any particular permission granted. Quickly, she began to make her way down the corridors, using the other servants who'd been sent away as a rough guide to getting back, but was stopped by the same two men she'd seen a moment ago.

She gulped. This was never going to be good and that was an understatement, the closest to optimism she could get. 

"Ah," said the man who hadn't spoken earlier in unpleasant, sickly voice, "and who is this?" He directed the other's gaze over to Asta, who had been caught, mid-step, trying to leave. 

"Are we to have made the acquaintance of the Raven of the castle?" He said, his drained face no longer expressionless but grinning with the prospect of his misdeeds. 

Asta nodded, meekly. If only she could get her hands on her thoughts, they would be choked of their energy- they were her enemy, at this point in time, and they were the cause of this. Nobody else was to blame.

"Coming to see your beloved King, are we? You mustn't run away, dear girl. We'll take you straight to him."