A prophecy was given to the Realm of Valeera, but only one kingdom took heed to it and set forth a law that would divide the people into two groups. The Fair and the Strange. One group possessed a promise from the gods while the other is doomed for...
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As Prince Grisonce slipped out the back door, Rasheem sighed with a roll of his eyes. "He's the one who'll give me a heart attack."
He faced her with his hands clasped before him. They stood like this for a good minute.
"So..."
Mageia's eyebrows raised. "So..."
"Confirm his little disclosure upstairs to be pure nonsense or not."
"Honestly ... I think you need to present better hobbies for him."
"Hmm," he agreed with a slight nod. "Best ponder it. When the boy reaches a theory or an idea, it takes him years to extinguish it."
"It was all foolish talk ... religious talk ... blasphemy."
"Nothing true about it?" Rasheem asked with curious eyes.
"I don't know."
"Hmmm. Bet you're hungry. I'll make you something."
She did not refuse. He moved across the room to the kitchen, and she followed.
"Will he really try to plead my case?"
"He has done it plenty of times, but by means of a written letter. Too long, perhaps, for his father to take the time to read. So, he just gives Gris what he wants."
I hope he succeeds, she wanted to say, but she didn't want to place all her trust in the Strange Prince. His stuttering may not be his only defect. His eyes were haunting, especially when she brought up his mother.
"Would you say he has a clear mind?"
"You mean to say, is he crazy?" Rasheem gave a humored chuckle that exposed him to be more relaxed than he put on. "I've known that boy since he was a babe. He has more of his mother in him, I'd say."
A hint of admiration appeared in his voice as it trailed off. His hands were quick though, pouring hot soup into a glass bowl. He grabbed silverware and placed her at one of the empty seats. She sat down, but he slipped back into the kitchen.
She observed the beautiful designs on the bowl and the silverware and felt out of place. If only Dean were here to see her dining with royal fineries. Grief flooded through the doors she'd been trying to keep sealed.
Blessed Naphri, heart goddess of health and emotions, give my family peace, especially Dean, she prayed.
"Are you alright, my lady?" Rasheem asked, placing a roll wrapped in a napkin beside her bowl. He sat down with his own bowl of soup and roll, and studied her face as she tried to suppress the flooding emotions.
"I'm okay," she managed to say. "Thank you for this."
This is most likely my last decent meal.
"No, do not thank me. I hate being thanked for being courteous."
