The Elemental War
Just Sarah
Book One
“Missed a spot.” I don’t want to nag her, I mean, she can get so stressed out, but honestly it’s just going to get worse otherwise. She looks up at me, her dull brown eyes are glazed over with fatigue and her hands shake. It makes me wonder how long we will all last.
“Thanks,” her voice rasps. It’s pathetic and we both know it. We are 14, and we are at our breaking points. We’ve hardly ever left school grounds. We can’t remember our own birthdays. And we’re worked past exhaustion, and expected to keep going, day in, day out.
All, because we are orphans; basically one big fancy way of saying we are the government’s slaves. We will work until we are 21, then we are free; our debts repaid, as they call it. I don’t believe we will even make it that far. I don’t like showing it, especially around the others, but I have no idea how I will go on. I try my best to make up for everyone else, just so they might get a moments rest. Right now though, seeing Celia scrubbing silver plates, forcing herself to remain conscious through starvation, it makes me wonder if it makes any difference.
The war killed both of our parents. Most of us were too young to even remember how, but it doesn’t matter; there was no one to take care of us so we were all dumped on our government’s doorstep. Now here we are doing whatever demeaning tasks that even the lowest servant has too much pride to do. Today that means Celia and I are stuck in some rich, noble’s quarters scrubbing the nonexistent dirt off of any and all surfaces. I called the floor.
The entire castle is beautiful, inside and out; actually no, that’s a lie. The parts of the castle that they let the guests see are beautiful, but no one really pays any attention to the parts that aren’t anyway. I’ve always preferred the grounds and the forest, but privet rooms are a close second. This one is painted a light gold. The curtains have golden flowers and vines dancing across the fabric. At one end of the camber is a large fireplace built from gray stones and directly above it is a large painting of some noble lady; it’s pretty, in a formal kind of way.
Meanwhile, Celia and I stick out like a rat in a dove’s cage. She is slightly tan with dull, shoulder length blond hair. I’m sure if she ever got the time to take care of it, her hair would look purely amazing; but until that day comes, she wears it in a dirty head wrap. To complete the look, she tops it all off with a disgusting brown and white dress, going to about the knee.
I'm not trying to criticize; I know I don’t look any better. My own hair is a wavy brown, and under the grime, my dress is a blue gray. And when I get a rare chance to see my reflection, my uncountable freckles and my piercing blue eyes are shining out.
Far away rumblings echo throughout the corridors, steadily coming closer. Every heavy booted step sends shivers up my spine. Nothing and I mean nothing, makes a sound like that; well, except an angry guard.
“Oy, girls, OUT,” bellows a black hared, black eyed soldier. He looks like he’s in a bit of a hair yanking mood; and poor Celia, she’s so startled that the priceless silver plate come tumbling down.
Ok, I was wrong, hair yanking isn’t even close, he is more along the lines of lopping off a leg to release pure fury. After only seconds of the plate’s spine chilling crash, his face is already bright red; all that he needs now is the steam coming out of his ears.
That once bold little instinct inside of me, more recently turned squeamish, whispers to me to fight back. A wiser part of me is shouting in agreement, but it is outnumbered; and so, I sit, and I wait, as the ever so pleasant guard fights an internal battle. At the moment I'm not entirely sure which side won, but I guess it’s the one that said ‘No, don’t kick the innocent girls,’ in an annoying, fake high pitch voice; after all why would he just stand there? But the real question is why that high pitch voice is loud enough to overpower everything else, why now?
Celia is just as shocked as I am; she is only just starting to peak her head out of the safety of her arms. The tension is just pouring off of him and to be quite honest, he looks confused.
“Sarah wa…” shouts Celia, but too late. Her mouth is slower than her clever little head and my collar is yanked back against my neck and across my newly cleaned floor I go; might I add, the wood was sparkling before I got rubbed into it. Through my flailing arms Celia is visible, just barely, or until we crash into each other.
but now I have, and so...