You had opted for a maid to take you to your room. She seemed nice enough, albeit her harsh stare that never met any part of your form was quite disturbing. Your room is as big as your hut was, all open space with a desk nestled between two bookshelves, a dresser on the opposite side of the room, and the bed sitting in the middle of the room on top of a large rug. The bed is large, large enough to fit three grown men starfish style with room between them and more to fit a few other miscellaneous things. Over the bed is a large, sheer canopy pinned from the ceiling, of which you learn the material is silk.
Along with those, shoved neatly in a corner with the majestic bed hiding it from view is a four clawed tub, the accessories seemingly included for a woman of your age, with an almost empty vanity only a few feet away from the tub. Three large windows opens your world on the wall opposing from the door, no light emitting from them, the golden glow of the candles scattered as your only source of brightness.
But you get bored quickly from gazing at your room, yet only to find out that all of your desk compartments are empty, not even a hanger resides in that dresser, and you doubt any maid or servant or whatever would be appreciative to draw you a bath at this time of night. Even the thought of leaving this room to explore leaves you a little timid. Who knows what else lurks in these halls, the High King of these lands? Maksimillian? Someone else, darker in life, with ill intent?
The thought makes you shudder.
Moving closer to the left-most window, you press your face to the frigid glass, your breath fogging the material. The stars are dimmer here than in the village, the walls that guard this palace bright with firestones and the light of the city beyond that blanketing the sky. You see no moon and assume that these windows face eastward, it clouds your judgement on what time of night it is.
Boredom sets in quickly. Placing yourself on the silk sheets of the bed, you stare at the apex of the golden canopy pinned above you, and you begin to think where it went all wrong.
He’d chosen you, a young seer, instead of the many older and wiser scryers in that village. You’ve made mistakes in the past, a few too many angry clients that came back to get back the coin they’d wasted on you. Those elders hadn’t had reception like that in decades.
The intricate swirls of the ceiling decor eventually enraptures you into sleep.
You don’t sleep for long, the dawn of a new day waking you as the first golden rays break through your windows. Hints of purple paint the sky, even as you take a seat at the desk. Everything is lavish here, plush and smooth and soft.
When the sun bleaches the color away, there is a soft knock. Without waiting for your response, the door creaks open, and that same woman from last night enters your room. She carries a large bucket of steaming water. She makes a beeline towards the tub, and four other girls follow her buckets in hand.
Eyeing them, you don’t leave your seat. The pack leader places the bucket on the floor.
“Miss Y/N, we shall prepare you a bath. Would you like assistance?”
You frown. “Wh- Why would I need assistance?”
“It’s customary, miss.”
Rising from your seat, you wave them out. They’re quick to silently pour the contents of the buckets into the tub, and even quicker to leave.
You are out of place in this room, still sitting in your prison rags. Taking off the clothes feels like taking off a second layer of skin, it peels off the way one would peel off sweaty hair from the nape of their neck, the sweat and grime a residue that refuses to leave, it’s foul and you grimace at it.
The water is hot, and it feels like a blessing to feel it burn away the last three days worth of uncleanliness. You soak in it for a few moments, enjoying the bliss of the warmth that hugs you. You don’t touch the condiments.
You get your hair wet and stroke out the collected pieces of gravel that stayed from your time in that cell, from your struggle with the knights. There is a brush that sits at the end of the vanity, just within reach from your point in the water, and you begin to comb out your wet hair.
At the end, the water has turned quite murky.
You place one foot against the cold tile floor and remember that you haven’t eaten in three days. Your stomach curdles at the realization, and you are quick to dry yourself and place the grungy clothes back on.
There is another knock on the door. “Miss Y/N.”
It’s that maid again.
You let out a tentative “Yes?”
“I have acquired a dress for you, appropriate for presentation in the courts as requested by Prince Maksimillian. Shall I enter?”
“Yes,” you say again, in affirmation.
She is quick to open the door and to stand next to you, the gown has a nice pair of boots placed on top of it, and they are handed to you with a deep bow. “I shall aid you, miss.”
“N-no, you don’t have to,” you start, drawing the bundle of cloth closer to you and taking a step back, “I can do it-”
“I was told that you were a commoner. I had assumed that you wouldn’t know how to dress yourself in such complex robes…”
You sputter, once more, your face heating red, “Well, yes! But no! I- I do know how to dress myself-!”
She seems to stifle a smile, shaking her head slowly, “It’s alright, miss Y/N, I’ve dressed many others before you.”
“That doesn’t make me feel any better.”
She shushes you, “Take off your clothes, please.”
The heated red on your cheeks blossoms to a pretty sanguine from your forehead to your throat, “I do not wear any undergarments at the moment…”
Waving a hand, she encourages you to take off your clothes. At a snail's pace, you hesitantly take off your clothes, the air feeling more present on your flesh than it had before. As you attempt to hide your figure against her unimpressed gaze, she unfolds your dress on your bed, leaving the boots to one side, and revealing fresh linen undergarments, wool stockings, and a corset.
The maid hands you the pale tawny undergarments, and you reluctantly pull them on, slipping each of your legs into the holes and pulling them up to your shoulders, tying the lace of the collar together to fit you snuggly. Then, she motions you to hold your hands up, slipping on a rather large and viciously vibrant petticoat that ends just above your ankles.
Putting on the corset is the worse part. It constricts your abdomen, pushing your ribs in and binding your lungs to them, shaping your body in a way it could never conform to. Each tug of the maid rattles the air out of you, and each breath you try to take is hindered by the less space in your torso. You hug yourself, almost amazed at the quality of cloth that you are dressed in, all silk and fresh and clean linen, horrible whale bone corset and all.
Once the stockings have been pulled to your thighs, you are told to raise your arms once more, the stretching of your body relaxing the straining muscles from the corset, and the final part of the dress much heavier than the previous installments. It's sturdy, and vibrant in color. Many lacy bits litter the piece, one at the chest, one at the lower back, and at each wrist, that reveal the brighter petticoat from beneath.
She pulls you to the vanity, seating you down and quickly brushes your hair out. Her fingers are nice against your scalp, and she handles the brush that doesn’t hurt you.
In the end, you don’t look like you anymore. Sure, you do not have the paints and powders many high ladies would wear, but the fine layers of cloth mould your body into something that you might have idolized and desired when you were still a child.
“Lord Maksimillian requested you to be at his chambers at noon, for a private feast, he’d told me,” she tells you, motioning you to stand and smoothing out any irregularities she spots, taking your wrist and fixing the material there. She leans in next to your ear, voice hush; “I would suggest not to eat like a commoner. Remember; you’ve had these foods before, don’t gape at them like you’ve never seen them before.”
~~~
The prince sits across from you. The tablecloth is soft, the textile unknown to you, but it holds some sort of familiarity that you know you can find if given the chance to seek it. He picks at his food, for a short moment, but quickly finds what he likes and stabs it with his fork.
You’ve yet to pick up an utensil.
“Mrythi says you have been adapting well,” he starts, “and I am aware that your room remains empty, but I am sure that will be taken care of within the next few days.”
“Mrythi… the girl from yesterday?” You inquir, mostly because you need to speak, and also because you have yet to know the maids name. The Prince gives a short nod, “Ah. She is… nice, I suppose. All things considering.”
“All things considering.” He acknowledges.
From thereforth, it is a quiet feast. The flavors are strong to you, at first, but as time crawled on you pushed down the immense taste and slowly chewed. When his plate is almost empty, yours is still filled, and his piercing eyes bore into it, as if it had committed war crimes in front of his face. You impishly move the food around on the plate, a blush coating your face.
“Is it too much food for you?” He asks.
You nod, because it’s true. During your stay in the basement prison cells they had only given you meager scraps, bread, a slice of cheese, maybe a canister of filthy water, and before that, in your own home, your financial situation was tight. “It- It’s good, but-”
He waves a hand, shooing away your words, “Understandable, considering your occupation. I shall send for someone to clean up here- I want to show you something.”
Before you are able to stand, he is already at your side, pulling your seat out for you. The movement shocks you, and the meaning of the motion itself rattles you to the core.
Many of the couples you would sell your services to would not present this courteous and chivalrous action in front of you, and those who did were wealthy, stable, secure couples. Anxiety blooms inside of you, a coiling vine that starts at the basin of your stomach all the way to the back of your throat and to the tip of your tongue.
You take the gesture with a slow nod.
The garden is vast. It is more green than it is beautiful colors, showing its use in all of the medicinal qualities from the plants that you spot, but you know this isn’t for you. You are a seer, a scryer, not what the prince thinks you are.
“Prince Maksim-”
“We have a magician here that had requested this quite some years ago,” he cuts you off, again, and you bite your tongue, a fiery retort ready to be aimed at him, “He is old, and the servants here do not have the skill required to uphold all of this.”
“I don’t understand why I am here, Sire,” You slip out, words speedy as you turn to face him.
“For when you have the time, go to the southernmost tower over there-” He points to the slim building, attached to the walls that fence the gigantic garden, “He is willing, he is old and decaying, but he is willing- a little deaf too, to be honest.”
“I appreciate this, but I’m a scryer, I don’t dabble in the crafts,” you say, holding your gaze to him when he finally looks at you.
“This palace is a big place, boredom will set in quickly. I am only ensuring you are aware of the possibilities.”
“Do you have a library then?” You inquire, “Or at least some books. You said it yourself; this place is big, it’s huge! Surely there must be at least one bookshelf?”
Thick, warm eyebrows raise questioningly, but he nods affirmative. “That would be just down the hall from here; Ninel is often found there as well, despite his age.”
‘Down the hall’ is more like a short hike through a mahogany forest of pillared windows and tall ceilings, and Maksimillians long strides keeps you focused on your breathing and right foot left foot right foot--
And you are there, already. The door is grand, intricate carvings mirror each other from one door to the other, the brass handles thick and almost glowing in the sunlight. The light drapes gold over the dark wood, proof that the setting sun is almost within reach. The passage of time confuses you, not too long ago had you woken from your slumber, and getting dressed from Mrythi had only taken so long…
Maximilian opens the double doors with a flourish, spinning to face you with an eyebrow raised that asks ‘like what you see?’.
Inside, black wood bookshelves are filled to the brim with tomes and scrolls lines the walls of the large room. It’s larger than your room, and what looks to be four or more isles of bookshelves, just as tall and magnificent as the others take up most of the room, and there are two desks thrown in the corner with stacks of paper and quills on top of them. The room is lit by candles held in metal sconces. You take a step inside, and then another few more steps in you see a spiral staircase, iron railings from the bottom and running up and along the second floor that holds even more bookshelves.
All you can manage is a small ‘oh’, your eyes wide and heart racing. Books are expensive, or they can get expensive, all things depending on what you’re looking for. Your research on your practice is slow, and mostly done through word of mouth from the older practitioners in your village.
The prince looks proud of this, of the wealth in this stately home.
“This looks beautiful,” you comment, taking a steady step closer to the shelves, awe painting your face. You touch the spine of a book, “May I?”
He chuckles, now standing next to you, “Of course. I wouldn’t have brought you here without the intention of you using it.”
Taking the book, you stare at the cover, the gold painted words reflecting in the fire light. ‘Revisions of Kacper Paderewski’s Bestiary in Lejiry’s Southern Regions’ it says, and you gently place it back, “Are these books organized in any particular way?” You ask.
“Not that I am aware of, but one of the servants may know if you come across any.”
“I-” You start, but the words don’t form, “Thank you, Maksimillian.”
His face brightens, yet you can’t get rid of that ill feeling in your gut.
He stands at the entrance of your small abode, presence all consuming and demanding of your attention. By the colorful robes draped over his shoulders, to the many rings that adorn his fingers; you need not have an idea of who he is to know him.
“Come. Sit down.” Your voice breaks the steady silence, the whisper of calm breeze the only other that accompanies you. His eyes are only on you as he sits, graceful as one of those show horses you see from time to time. “What brings you here, My Prince? To such a place outside of your own, I’ll specify.”
“Your name is on the tongues of many under my employment. I wonder what a witch has collected so much of my mens’ spare time,” He says, his eyes cold and never leaving yours. It brings a chill to your spine.
You give him a pointed stare; “A witch I am not. Scryer is a better, healthier term for me.”
There is a pregnant silence.
He tilts his head to the side, jutting his jaw out in a way that you can discern as unjustified arrogance, “Tell me, what is it that those soldiers do to speak of you so highly.”
“They tell me their name before they dare enter my dwelling, as a start,” you quip, letting your gaze break from his as you gather your collection of markless tarot decks, displaying them in front of him, eyes now expectant on his pale face. “Be my guest, however, and pick the one that draws you in. Don’t dwell too long, they like to tell their own story. A story that may not be what is the truth.”
“I believe I came here for an answer, not a story, wench.”
“Is a story just as viable as an answer, My Prince?” You bite your tongue at the name he bestowed upon you, but it is not unusual for men to say such things.
Finally, his eyes break from you, and the relief you feel is insurmountable. He is quick to pick a deck, two fingers laid lightly on top of it as he pushes it toward you. You hum, a lick of a smile reaching your lips. While not your best deck, it certainly suits him. Cleaning away the other decks, you open the one he presented to you, scattering them around the table in a circle, making a mess of the card order and bringing them back into a clean stack.
“What type of spread will you be requesting, My Prince?”
“I asked for information, and I shall receive information. Will I have to tell you any differently to get what I want?” He says.
You raise your head in acknowledgement. You begin to release the cards into the spread you have chosen, all ten cards set into their positions, with the second card being placed on top of the first and the other eight others being placed where they belong.
The Princes’ eyes sit on the spread, dissecting the back of every card as if he already knows what they are.
Your fingers rest on the card beneath another, and you carefully reveal what it is. It’s the Knight of Coins; reversed. “This is the present card. Tell me, what does this card tell you?”
He scowls and rolls his eyes. “It tells me that I’ll be riding a horse. Staring into the horizon with my sword drawn.”
“That’s what you see. I want to know what this card tells you.”
“How will I know what the card tells me when I do not know what it means?”
You cock your head to the side with an expectant huff. “This spread tells of your past, present, future, with your past and present challenges, and the outcome. This one tells of your present, and the card speaks of wasted energy and money. What does that tell you?”
“It tells me that you’re a waste of my time.”
You laugh, something that surprises you. “If I am a waste of your time, you can always leave, my Prince.”
But he doesn’t budge. And he stares at you. Again.
“I will let you think for a moment. It’s always good to reminisce on this card.”
Another beat, and he still looks at you like a caged and hungry dog stares at a slab of meat. You continue, lifting the card that had sat on top. “The challenge, the Magician reversed. My Prince, to be up front, what have you to lose? A loved one, your position in the court, maybe the power over the men you command in these dire times?”
This card speaks to you, this time, telling you that you have many, many things to lose shall you upset this man. However, you also know that he hears the same thing, the way the energies between him and the card bend and wave before your eyes.
Finished with his speedy introspection, he looks up at you, his eyes demanding a continuance of this process. You lift the third card, it sits to the left on the two card pile, and it tells you of the past. The Empress, and you tell him as much. “Nature is our mother, she is a mother to me just as she is to you. It seems you have been a disobedient prince, and she will correct your actions like a mother would to her own child.” It was a risky jab at him, but said in light humor. It doesn’t seem to bother him; his skin as steel as his own blade.
Next is the future. The upright hierophant. “Ah, something that should please you greatly, my Prince. You will be a great scholar, and if not that a man of great intellect.”
“I am already a master of the blade, what else do I have to accomplish in my life?” He says, baring his teeth as if the card insulted him.
“But are you a master of politics? Of the on-goings in the court and the well-being of the people you will rule over? Or of the briars that line your great castle gardens? There are many things outside of war, my prince.”
You turn over the next card, goals and aspiration, a reversed ace of wands. It tells you what you already know. “You are resisting change, resisting the thing that brings you to the best outcome.”
He bites down on what you assume is a fiery retort, and you let it slide. He is beginning to taste bitter; a sign that he is up to no good in your home.
“Have you any say, my Prince?”
“None that concerns you, lowlife.”
Yet you continue, your drive of knowledge on this man a once in a lifetime deal. This card is the foundation of him, what makes him who he is and what drives him to his goal. Nine of Cups, upright. You pull a face(How immature of you! You were trained better than this!) and it upsets the Prince.
“I now know why my men are so enamored with you, now,” he barks, standing from his seat so fast that it knocks it over right onto a case of valuable oddities, making you stand as if you are fast enough to catch a falling section of the wall, your heart dropping to the pit of your stomach, “Your sorcery will be punished, witch! And do not think that my words are as empty as those cards. We will make sure that your presence will leave this town like you never existed--you and your collection of harlots!”
Your eyes widen, and for the first time in years, you feel what it is like to know an abyss of fear.
~~~
Those armored men, the men under the name of Prince Maksimillian, destroyed your home, tore apart every tapestry and crystal and orb in your possession, burned your books and every tarot they grabbed their hands on. You remember screaming at them, restrained in the bruising metal grips as they tried to secure you into the carriage filled with all of the other scryers and readers in your village, weeping at the destruction of their home and from being torn from their families.
It took two men to restrain you, and a third to knock you out after threatening to curse them and their children after you saw a bag of your cards being thrown into the growing pit of flames.
You sit in the corner of a crowded cell, shackled, curled with your knees to your chest with an elderly woman pressed against you. You had given her an odd stare before, but her old eyes only blindly mistook you as her young grandchild. Even then, the cell was pressed for space, maybe twelve people shoved in here. Most of them women, you count three heads of men, two of whom mere children.
You all sit there for maybe two days, there is no light here, but the guards rotate shifts at about an hour and a half each… the math kind of ends there, though. You’re a seer! Not a mathematician! It all confuses you to the point you start to doubt the time from the start til they begin to take out women and it becomes more spacious in the cell.
By the end of one of the guards shifts, where there are only five others beside you in that cell, a man in silver armour seemingly grabs you from the room, holding you by your chains, pulling you along the dim corridors. He takes too many turns, definitely a mistake in the construction of the building, and it wouldn’t surprise you that this level of the jail was meant for that. You aren’t surprised execution is about to come to you, but the screams of men and women that puncture your ears startle you to near tears.
But you are drawn away from those horrible noises, at some point, and then taken up many, many flights of stairs, taking you higher and higher until you stand in a gold gilded room, the High King’s Throne empty while Prince Maksimillian obtains the smaller throne right of his fathers. He lounges on it, a leg propped up on the knee of the other with a hand lazily holding a goblet. He looks pleased to see you.
“You finally brought the right one,” he says, and it’s the first time you hear a humorous tilt in his voice. It’s not directed to you, of course, but to your guide, your escort. The prince raises an eyebrow, a face he must make often because the knight releases you and leaves.
The doors slam shut, and you are left alone in this vast room with the prince.
You are unsure of what to do, for the first time in a while.
Prince Maksimillian takes a long sip from his drink. “Do you know why you are here?”
“N-No, my Prince-”
“I do.” He is blunt, but relaxed, languid. “And I don’t want to tell you.”
“My Prince-”
A smile graces his lips, and you wonder if you said something wrong, “I don’t like such formalities. Maksimillian will be fine. Maks even better.”
“M-Maksimilian, my Prince- why am I here?” You ask, a tremor in your voice.
“You intrigue me, scryer.”
He doesn’t even know your name!
“And you are of a breed I have never been introduced to. One with the spirits, with the unseen. You are a seerer, and an elegant one at that. It’s something that this court needs to show them the things that they have never seen before.” He accentuates himself with the waving of his cup, “And not only that, but my father - oh, my father - needs help that only you can provide. Well, not just you, but you were chosen out of all of those old hoots and hags. Hand picked- by me! An honor most of our knighted will never see out of me.”
There is a silence that sits between the two of you. You are speechless, and you wish you had your personal tarot with you to separate and divide these emotions to make sense of what’s going on. But all of that was burned, gone in ash. It will take you years to accumulate what you had before, the connection with your crystals melted and the love you and your decks shared now gone, soot a black snow in your river side village.
“But…” you whisper, looking down on the floor, unable to hold his interested gaze. It’s the first time he seems to take an interest in your words, “You destroyed my decks, the thing that made me the thing you saw. I can’t just… take a new deck and expect to be the same. They had personalities! That’s why that deck had called out to you, because it knew what you are, and could tell us the closest truth of you and your objective. I can’t get the same result without getting back what I lost...”
Maksimillian huffs, “I am the first born son of the High King of Rosodour, the face of the wealthiest Kingdom of the land. I can assure you that there will only be the highest quality materials bought for your shows.”
You stutter, eyes widening in disbelief. “My abilities are not a show!”
“Your presentation is, however,” Maksimillian continues, now leaning forward, his elbows propped against his knees as he places the goblet next to his feet, “I can give you back what you lost in the round-up, but all I ask is that you soothe the hearts of the people in my court even if it risks doing more harm than good in the long run.”
“I can’t accept this!”
“I was not asking you.”
“Prince Maksimillian, this isn’t right!” You plead, almost dropping to your knees, “Even if I do as you say, regain the trust of all of those cards, I won’t be able to live as a fraud! Like one of those harlots in the brothels!”
He sighs and buries his face in his hands, “Accommodations have been made for you. I can show you to your room, or I can have one of the maids or servants take care of you. I will send for someone to take note of what you need for your craft.”
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