ZEPHYR RAVENSWOOD

“That was all that happened, my lords,” Cicily told them. “I truly know nothing more. Truly!” All she said was the truth of it. The feather bed had been her last interaction with the men that night, one that left her sore and aching, and she wished nothing more than to forget it all, but it fraught impossible, as the pain constantly came back whenever it wished, reminding her of what she had gone through, and that there were more nights of such ahead. 

“I believe you,” Zephyr’s soothing voice echoed through her ears, bringing her tensed body to a slow relax. His voice calmed her down. Somehow, he was able to do that, and before she knew it, she found herself wishing that he was the one who had come the night before, that he was her first and not that ginger of a savage. He would have treated her with care, and she would not be aching all over now, she believed. He was kind, just like the other freckled one—they were both kind.

Flynn’s brows fell downwards in thought as he eyed her. Cicily then caught his gaze, the slicing gaze of his cold round eyes. It made her shiver slightly, as if a warning wind calling forth the arrival of winter after summer’s departure, swept through her skin. “All I’ve said is the truth of it, my lord! I swear!” She cried out. Seventeen of age, and she had seen so much already, that fear kept so close to her like a litter of wolf pups to their mother. She had grown with no knowledge of her father or mother, and she was sold by the man she once called her uncle as soon as she had come of age. Her life, which was filled with days of pain and tears, moved so fast and yet so slow. 

“You scare her,” Zephyr whispered to his advisor as he as well, caught sight of the probing gaze he had planted on the shivering girl. “Lighten your gaze, we’re not here to frighten the girl.”

“Forgive me. I did not mean to. I was lost in thought,” Flynn closed his eyes and answered silently, as well in a whisper. He then opened it again, but this time it was less frightening—still cold, but less frightening. “Where were you after? From your story, the guards did not drink the wine before going to bed with you. So where were you when they returned to table? As the one serving them, you should have also been there at the table, is it not?” He asked Cicily. 

Zephyr saw sense in Flynn’s question. It was a showing of how much he knew nothing about such things. “Tell us,” he beckoned—but calmly, his narrow eyes softly curious.

Madame Rose sat quietly, watching the ongoings like a play held in the streets. It was far more tedious than counting coins earned from a day’s work, which annoyed her enough, but little choice she had now, her business stood at risk, and for that, there she was, curiously awaiting her worker’s reply. 

Cicily answered faintly and sullenly, “It was my first, my lords. I was sore and tired, and it took me a bit to pick myself up and wash clean, by the time I was done, they were gone. I swear that was all that happened.” Her voice trembled, she wanted to cry, it was near. Her legs ached, her body ached. She wanted to rest, she needed it, but it was her—again. It has always been her. All her life, she was always somehow there in the midst of crestfallen and miserable situations. She wanted to curse herself for her ill fate, but it would just make living more daunting for her.

Madame Rose was the first to notice, but she was too slow to respond. It silently fell down Cicily’s cheeks—the clear white which had gathered up in her eyes. She had tried to keep it there, but it sought freedom, it sought to show itself to the people in the room, it sought to let them know what she had kept pent up inside. “I swear, my lords, I know nothing more. I swear. I had no hand in their deaths. Please, I know nothing!” She sniffled and trembled, her hands shook and her voice as well. 

It was heart wrenching for Rose, a bit too much. She had never thought of Cicily being so scared. It was not the questioning of the men before her that made tears fall, she knew. She was also this way when she had first arrived—scared, but Cicily’s fear was far greater than what hers’ used to be. She had found herself involved in the death of two guards of the royal household—a scared, youngling girl in King’s city involved in the death of two guards; it did nothing more but fester her fears.

Zephyr’s chest tightened as he watched her break down. He saw himself in her. He saw what he was in his past life—what he is. A frightened and lonely child who was always trying to hide his pain. He wondered how his life would have turned out if he had never followed his father’s ways, if he had never jumped into the street that day. If he had listened to his mother, he wondered if his life and hers’ would have been any different than it became. 

The barrage of thoughts flooded his mind, and he nearly joined Cicily in tears—but he would not have that; people were here, his advisor was here, and he was a king now; in this world, he was the king. He had grown reading stories and watching movies of them, and he knew what it entailed to be one, so he would not let himself look weak before anyone. 

“That’s enough,” he echoed, his voice strong. He then swung a swift gaze to Madame Rose. “I’ve heard enough. Let her rest, if possible she should not work tonight, or however long it would take for her body to relax. Do you understand?” 

Madame Rose nodded in reply, and a momentary, soothing realisation caressed her mind: He’s not like the kings of old. 

“We shall take our leave,” he added as he rose from the cushion he sat on, Flynn as well and Rose too; they both stood as their king stood. Madame Rose and the in-tears Cicily, bowed as Zephyr and Flynn walked past them and out of the rose-curtained room. 

She was silent now, sniffling but silent.