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Dove

S moothing my dirt covered apron, I notice the dust give way and suppress the sneeze trying to worm its way out of my nose.

Taking a sharp breath, I hold tight as I hurriedly brush away the remaining particles clinging to the haggard material. Luckily, I am at the back of the crowd, so no one will notice.

Who am I kidding? Nobody ever notices me. Why did I even come to this announcement? The swarming in my belly makes itself known as I clutch at it. That’s right. Him.

I couldn’t let go of what the women said in the kitchen. My feet brought me to this place, and here I stay, within the shadows until the crowd starts to fill up. Ignoring my duties, unable to barely inhale. The only smell lingering through my breath is the small sage fires, lighting the outer cropping of the receiving room except for my blackened corner.

So, here I wait, fingers clutching a dusty and soil-stained pinafore, a jittery sensation spreading through the crowd around me. Whipping my head up, I see the tops of finely spun yellow hair move towards the front of the room—the high priestess, Cardinal, and her son, Prince Castor.

I don’t even need to see their faces to know it is them. All eyes follow the intricate braids on top of their heads. Their eyes are a piercing blue set above sharp-boned cheeks. There is no missing the fact that Castor is Cardinal’s son. So much so that, besides the square of his jaw and his height, you’d never know that his father is the king.

Seeing Cardinal and Castor together is such a rarity that it draws everyone in the temple to the public receiving room. My unease kicks up to quaking levels, my mind churning at the prospects of this announcement.

I go straight to the possibilities beyond these temple walls, the unknown.

Pressing my hand to the harsh raised skin on my upper chest, I push at the wayward fear leaking out of my pores. I cannot go there. Not when the memory is alive and well every rhythm I look in the mirror, which I avoid at all costs.

Setting my sights on the front of the hall, the room waits in silence as Cardinal glides up the dais in her shining silver gown as if she were the Goddess herself .

Castor takes his place beside his mother, and the crowd pauses with bated breath.

“It is here, within the loving arms of the one Goddess herself, that I offer my son, Prince Castor, into her care and embrace to bless the union of his upcoming nuptials to the Priestess Kestrel in one moon’s turn.” Silence descends upon the crowd before an uproar of applause and well-wishes greet the royal on stage.

My heart sinks.

No . My whole body is nothing but splinters on the floor.

This is the turn .

I knew this was coming. He just celebrated his twenty-fifth birth, which means he is free to wed. Free to find his high priestess, the lady who will rule by his side in accordance with the Goddess.

And it is not me.

It is Kestrel. Of all people. The one priestess I have spent countless hours toiling away within the confines of my sacred greenhouse.

But how was Kestrel to know of my affection? We’ve never spoken. Well, she has. I just listened to her frustrations and musings. She never mentioned this to me, and I thought she told me everything. I assumed I was her secret keeper.

I was wrong. I guess we all have our secrets. Including Kestrel.

I cannot decide what hurts worse, her betrayal or my own for fantasising about a future that could never be.

There was and is no way such a dream can come to fruition for a girl like me. A lowly temple servant and the prince of the kingdom? I’m not stupid. It is the dream of a reckless girl, one who has barely anything left to lose. And apparently, I dreamt a bit too much, considering the hurt currently radiating through my chest.

I had only seen him at the rotation of the Primary, but that was enough to fuel my imagination beyond our first encounter. Enough to want more. Enough to desire a life where I don’t have to scrub floors and dust rooms all turn long.

When my imagination takes flight, I weave stories that have no place being sung.

Seeing Cardinal and Castor on stage smiling and waving at the crowd makes the cavern in my chest yawn open, and I push against the people beside me to leave my heart on the floor, a sopping bloody mess. I didn’t need it anyway. It has done me no use in the past unforgiving rotations, and it continues to be of no use to me now. Just another useless organ. Love is a fool’s errand, and I am done being a fool.

My throat balls up as I push through the inconspicuous side door and trail down the steps into the lower temple labyrinth.

As soon as I find my way into the stone archways, I breathe mossy, cool air. The hurt feels less down here, and I continue to take deep lungfuls of air as I follow the flickering wall lanterns that leave me recoiling at every turn.

Stupid girl. I repeat the mantra in my head as I place one foot in front of the other, taking turn after winding turn until I find the last lantern and pick it up to guide my way.

My light is not like the others, though. No, mine holds glowing, thick white worms that give off enough light to see just a step in front of me, a small safety in this world of sorrow.

A bruised wooden door chipped at the sides and slowly being overrun by decay comes into view shortly after one last turn. My other sanctuary. My own room.

No other servant is willing to brave the darkness of the winding labyrinth past the storerooms and bathhouse, so I am the only one who lives down here in solitude. Exactly how I like it. No flames hold power over me in this dark place. The glowing worms that live within the bathhouse and further within the maze walls are enough to light my way.

I lift the circular copper handle, and the door gives way to a small room. One that, to the untrained eye, might not look like much with its lack of sunlight and cold grey stone walls, but it holds everything I need in this world.

Blankets to rest my weary body after a long turn’s work, a small wooden desk to draw, a wobbly stack of thin book spines that hold stories of adventure and intrigue, and webs high up in the corners of my ceiling, spun of the finest silk that house thin long-legged spiders that make me feel a little less alone.

And the art. My creations plaster the crumbling walls in fine displays of faraway landscapes, soaring birds and unforgettable faces.

One of those faces is Castor’s.

Kicking off my shoes and untying my dirty apron, I walk over to my makeshift bed where I had placed the drawing of him, the reason for the bloody wound in my chest.

Setting down the lantern on the floor, I grip the thin paper, yanking it off the wall. “Love is not made for people like you, Dove. You are just a servant. That’s all you’ll ever be,” I hiss at Castor’s annoyingly handsome face, tearing the paper to shreds, the thoughts freely stumbling from my lips in this safe, solitary space.

I cannot tell you why my voice makes an appearance in times of solitude and shrivels up in the company of others. The priestesses assume it has something to do with the horrid scar marking my neck. Little do they know I lost the words to save myself long before I entered their company.

Sitting on the many thin blankets I’ve accumulated over the rotations to make a somewhat comfortable mattress, tears fall. Tears I thought had long dried up. I give them their moment to shine in the quiet of my small room, letting the rhythm of my sniffles and quivers lull my body into a fitful slumber.

Fourteen Rotations Past

“Stop. No. Pleeease—stop.” The same words repeat and mould together into a strange lyrical pattern in my mind. “Stop. No. Please. No. Stop. Stop. No, please. Stop.”

You would think he would grow sick of it eventually, but he does not. She screams, she cries, she begs and still he continues. Still the chorus goes around and around and around. My ears screaming for a new song. Anything—

I clutch my hands to my ears rocking back and forth in the small broom closet of our kitchen.

“Hey,” my sister hisses at me. “You want some jerky.” I see her head lurch back in the dark, ripping off a piece.

“No! How can you even think of eating when he’s like this.”

“When is he not like this? A girl has to eat,” she responds.

Gradually the sounds from outside the door diminish into hushed whispers making me cringe.

Later in the evening a shaking of my small frame wakes me . I was having one of my favourite dreams. The one with the black winged man who has the beautiful starry eyes. When he visits, we talk about everything—my sister, gardening, bugs. Pretty much all my favourite things. He makes me feel warm inside.

“Get up, we need to—” But, before she can finish the sentence a looming figure grasps her by the hair and hauls her back. Scrambling to my feet I try to shout for mother, but I get no answer. The struggle my sister puts up against our father, a large stocky man, is admirable. Their bodies illuminated by a single candle flame located on the side dresser. She kicks and scratches. She also goes in for a bite. I have to repress the urge to cheer her on.

My body trembles worse than a leaf in a blustering storm. I try to call my mother again, but I start to notice a problem—nothing is coming out of my mouth.

Before I know it a whirlwind of brunette hair is flying at me, grabbing my hand and pulling me along. Smoke billowing behind her from our tiny room.

I want to ask what happened—

Where’s mother? Where’s father? But my voice won’t cooperate.

My nostrils start to clog with ashen smoke making me cough .

We are about to exit through the front door of our small apartment in the west end of town when my sister is wrenched out of my arms again and back…back…back—into a heady wall of fire.

I run through the cobblestone streets, the skin along my neck burning for attention, a courtesy I cannot give. He is after me. He got them.

Everything within me is sinking to unknown depths as I push myself to the only place I will find sanctuary. The only place I’ve ever known safety. A place where she will willingly accept me within her protection, no questions asked.

The air around me starts to smell of arid, scorched earth, smoke following me in my wake, bare feet slapping the hard ground.

My legs pump as hard as they can go, a sear working its way up my lungs.

I push myself forward until my feet touch polished stone steps, and I’m climbing, my thoughts only for her. The one Goddess will save me. She will welcome me with open arms. She will protect—

“Ooofff.” I run into something soft, almost tumbling back down the unbreakable steps.

“Got you,” a gentle voice says as my upper arm is grasped by forgiving fingers.

My eyes flick up, and I am met with ice-blue eyes in the smooth face of a child. He looks around my own age, and as I take in his yellow hair, ornate clothing and the smell of soap wafting off his skin, I know who he is.

I sway on my feet, and a forceful voice speaks behind us, “Castor, what did you find, son?”