Alpha's Healer

9

Melissa Spatiatis.

Elizabeth pulls me out of the throne room after King Dimitrio has walked out. His council has been adjourned and the ministers increase the tenor of their voices. As we walk out, I can hear them resume their conversations and it is louder this time around. Elizabeth stops me and I turn to look at her. Immediately, her hand shoots out at lightning speed, delivering a sharp slap across my cheek. I gasp. The resounding slap echoes down the corridor—servants, guards and guests who are in the scene look in our direction.

Pain flares in my cheek, mingling with a profound sense of humiliation as my hand instinctively rises to my stinging cheek.

“I don’t think you understand what it means to serve his royal majesty! How dare you hesitate when he called you to the front? I have no idea why he hasn’t punished you for trying to run away yesterday, but listen, I will not allow your indisciplined character to flow in this castle.” Elizabeth says and I let go of my cheek.

“I am not a servant.” I say, my voice is low because I’m using my strength to hold myself back from yelling.

“We are all servants of the king…” She says, unable to complete her sentence when a servant walks up to us, bowing to Elizabeth.

“What is it?” Elizabeth hisses.

“Head steward, the king has asked you prepare the girl whose name he chose.” The servant says and I turn to them. I wasn’t even trying to pay attention, but it has caught my mind now.

“Oh, yes! The king has been riled up after the council meeting; you must not make any mistakes. Go, bath and dress her, oil her in perfume and inform her of the rules of his chambers.” Elizabeth says and I turn my face away.

After they discuss, the servant walks away to fulfill Elizabeth’s orders.

“Go make yourself useful, the king doesn’t have need for you at the moment.” She says, walking past me and I roll my eyes. What am I supposed to do in this foreign place when the king has no use for me? Do I go to my room and lock myself up? No, that is not a good idea. I don’t want to be anywhere near his vicinity even though he has his hands full at the moment. Why am I surprised? He is a tyrant—they take countless mistresses, consorts to fill the entirety of their desires. Why would a beast of Gevaudan be any different?

I don’t even know how my father is doing? I wonder what he is thinking. All his life, he has saved people from the clutches of an early grave, but he couldn’t save his daughter. I know he is heartbroken, and I have no way of letting him know that I’m fine. I am not fine but I will lie to him. I am in this castle, which is filled with at least two hundred servants and guards. Yet, I am alone. I am a wolfen in the midst of pure wolves. As I stand in the middle of the hall, thinking about the position of my life. My belly emits a low, rumbling growl, a subtle but insistent reminder of its need to be fed. I place a hand over my abdomen, the rumble reverberating through her body like a silent plea and I know it’s because I haven’t eaten since I got here. I have been starving myself because I’m too sensitive to go to the kitchen.

On one hand, I am running away from the king of Gethmorn and on the other, I am running from his servants. I am not ready to face what they will have to say about my identity. I place a hand onto my forehead, I already getting weak beyond my discipline. I am a healer. I know when I’m supposed to nurture my body. If I don’t eat something, I am likely to faint.

No, I cannot imagine losing consciousness in this foreign place. I summon courage on the spot and I begin to search for the royal kitchen. I know the highest floor is for the king, the third floor is for the throne room, council halls, libraries and other things that are open to the king’s officials. Thus, it has to be the second floor—that is where the royal ballroom, dining, housekeeping and other structures are. So, the kitchen has to be there.

As soon as I come from the stairs, servants begin to exchange hushed whispers, their attention shifting to mine. Some are pointing to my direction, using their hands to explain the color of my eyes to their friends. I face forward, though they are gathering around me and their tones are steadily increasing.

“They say she is a healer.”

“How can the king let a wolfen by his side? How come she isn’t imprisoned?”

Frantically, I look around, my eyes are darting vigorously searching for the royal kitchen. There are many connecting passages, hallways and I’m getting frustrated. This is the domain of servants, if they wanted to gang up against me—this would be the time and moment.

I inhale, grasping my gown with a fist. And just when I was about to give up, I see 'royal kitchen' written at the top of an entrance and I quickly make my way there. At first breath, I get the scent of freshly baked bread mingled with the rich aroma of roasted meat, it makes my belly rumble.

“Yes, food…” I whisper, rubbing my stomach.

My eyes widen with wonder as I take in the scene before me. There are about four chefs who move with practiced precision, their hands a blur of motion as they chopped, stirred, and seasoned. The clatter of pots and pans do not distract them from what they are doing, they and their assistants do not even know that I have walked in. I carefully select a plate from the arranged stack. As I lift it, the weight of possibility fills my heart, knowing that soon my tongue would be laden with the flavors of the kingdom's finest creations.

Towers of fresh fruits, platters of roasted meats, and next to it, bowls of steaming soups and stews. I plate myself crisp salads that look like they are jewel-like, a side of garlic bread and a steak.

To complement the feast, I reach for a glass and pour myself some orange juice. Satisfied, I turn, holding the plate in one hand and the fruit juice in another. Imagine my shock when I see that the entrance has been blocked by servants in aprons. They are at least dozens in number and my eyes spins around them—glare on their faces, reproach in their positions…it’s all against me.

A heavyweight presses down upon me as they formed a tight ring. My heart is pounding in her chest and I try to find my way around the circle they have confined me to. Without a word, a man walks in and slaps the plate of food out of my hand—the sound of porcelain shattering against the floor. I recoil in shock, my eyes wide with fear as I stumble backward, chastened by the force of the head servant's rebuke because I thought he was about to hit me.

His display of authority did not end there. With a measured precision, he knocks the glass of drink too, the liquid splattering across the floor. The servants break their silence, and they begin to laugh at the scene.

“Damn wolfen!”

“Who do you think you are to waltz into the royal kitchen, plate yourself food like you deserve to be in the same room as us!?” As he berates at me, his face is textured and worn out in hatred.

“You bug!” He pushes my head back with a finger and my head tilts back.

“Stop.” I say, slapping his hand and he looks at me in shock. As if I have done something worse than he has.

“You hit me. How dare you hit the head of the kitchen!” he says and I scoff in anger.

“I didn’t hit you…” I say, looking around because everyone can see that I have done nothing wrong. The chefs in the background are still chopping and cooking as if nothing is happening in front of them. I don’t even know who to call to help me, they are all against me.

“Why—why are you doing this?” I ask, moving back.

“If you stayed in the hole you come from, I would never have come to hunt! He says, pushing his fingers into my shoulder and this time, it’s not a simple push, it’s a force. I place a hand on my shoulder, slapping his hands away before they come into contact with me.

“f*****g wolfen!” He yells, pulling my hair and tightening his grip until my hair falls out from the bun. I try to push him away, but he throws me towards the table where plates are. I scream, falling on the plates that shatter at the force; my hair is disheveled and I look back at him. At this point, I’m afraid.

They are not helping me; they are watching as if this is normal—they are finding amusement in this. The head chef picks up one of the plates that fell on the floor and he strikes it on the ground so that it shatters. Quickly, I rise from the table, running into the chef’s section where they are working.

“Come out of there.” He says and I don’t obey. Although, I am shaking, quivering and wondering how I will be saved from this scene. I turn my gaze, back and forth…looking for anything that I can use to defend myself.

“I said, come here! I will teach you a lesson on behalf of the king.” The head chef seethes, sprinting towards me and I act fast. I pick up a pot, it is heavy but I don’t care. Adrenaline pumps through my veins, I am not thinking twice about my actions—I am already out to defend myself.

I throw the pot at the head chef and the whole kitchen shrieks. I look back, wondering the reason for their devastation when I see his hands have clenched into fists. His features are contorted into a mask of agony, his mouth opening in a scream.

Hot water from the supposed pot cascades over him like a scalding rain, his clothes clung to his skin from the blistering heat, and tendrils of steam rise from his scalded flesh like ghostly wisps.

For a moment, time seems to stand still as I, the head chef, and everyone around grapples the shock. The head chef seems to be overwhelmed by the intensity of the pain; I can tell from his ragged gasps. He stumbles backward, his movement are clumsy…and the servants rush to gather him, their voices begging for help.

Quickly, without another thought, I run out of the kitchen.