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After several weeks working as a personal in the Kou palace (and her perhaps-new-home), (Name) quickly came to realise how essential her constant chores were to her ability to function. Her head, devoid of memory, focused easily while performing her daily menial tasks no matter if it was busy work or personal-specific duties, something she had come to excel at or something that her seniors still scolder her results. However, when her hands were left idle, her head, devoid of memory, was overtaken by whited clouds. There shouldn’t be any reason for this to matter, but her feet carried her to places while her mind was fogged, and she would come to in a room she did not recognise. This always seemed strange to her. Strange not because she wandered, but strange for no matter how far in the palaces she went, no one treated her as if she were out of place. It seemed that (Name’s) position to Lady Kougyouku granted her some strange sort of authority amongst the help. Servants parted around her fogged-minded vessel without question, as a river parts around a wayward stone. If she made eye contact upon one, they would come to ask what they could do for her, almost as if she were a noble herself. Even the times when her feet took her to places where she should surely be punished for entering, those concerned were so bewildered with her any reprimand given could hardly be called severe. Perhaps this was due to how quickly word of her spread, how she became during her free evenings, with her wandering feet and blank head. Considering that the circumstances of her head, devoid of memory, had spread long before this, her trespasses easily came to be part of the royal routine.
Today was another Thursday evening of wandering feet. After a pleasant day of strolling through the gardens and minding arts lessons, Lady Kougyouku had excused her for the day. Common servants would assist the Lady with dinner, bathing, dressing, and bedtime in (Name’s) absence while she took some time to herself. As she passed through the common servants’ hall, pondering whether to use her free evening to sit on the plaza and watch the koi in the fountain, or to help her camarades in the week’s laundry, she came aware in a hall she didn’t hold recognition of. It had been a long way for her feet this time, she thought, as her sandals sunk into thick carpets.
The corridor was low, but wide, and intensely dark with finery. The walls, the carpets, and columns were ornamented heavily with thick carpets and gilded details. Deep imperial reds and gleaming golds were prominent in the threads and carvings. Even the ceiling was designed intricately with the same hues and painfully fragile paper presses. It was very different from Lady Kougyouku’s palace. Her finery was more simple imperialism, not only because she was a lowly eighth princess, she preferred lighter colours and a sort of simplicity in design that radiated elegance. This hall, wherever it was, was just heavy, and its richness pressed down on her. She felt she had defiled the air for breathing of it.
(Name) noticed then a pair of servants solemnly making their way down the hall. They had an authority similar to hers, she thought, but they carried that authority fully and were very different from her. They paced step-by-step as they must have been trained to do, their servile costumes much more intricate than hers. Their eyes snagged on her and their lips curled at her common servants’ uniform she wore much more often than she should, being a personal to a princess of Kou. They all knew she shouldn’t be here, and (Name) realized that she could get in a very lot of trouble no matter whose personal she was, and they all wondered in varying levels of distress and curiosity how she had arrived here. This hall was too hallowed for her.
Then her eyes found a heavy door-curtain, and her mind once again became blank to the world and to those two servants, and her feet wondered on, away from their muted alarm as she pressed the curtain away and slipped inside.
It was very dark. All she could sense was a muffled dimness of black shapes crouched down and made thin as possible, as all things do in the dark. Logically, there should be two wall-lamps on either side of the door-curtain with lighters ready, but her wandering feet did not care. (Name) could feel objects sitting to make the air crowded, and obstructions stretching above her head. If she could sense the furnishings and huddled space of a chamber or hall, why should her feet crave for light? They took her forward, toe-heel and sensitive to what could be in front of her. They wove forward and side-ward, between the little halls made by the looming furniture until they reached a lighter darkness marked by a small mote of dust.
She sensed a desk, a high, stout one, not like the low and elegant table Lady Kougyouku used to practice her calligraphy as she knelt upon a sitting-cushion. But like the one at Lady Kougyouku’s, beside there was an angular paper lamp. Her fingertips set softly upon the edge of the bureau, feeling carefully for some lighter. Oddly, here didn’t seem to be any, so (Name) recalled the slip of matches a stable hand gave her, the ones they used to singe ticks off the flanks of nobles’ steeds. She skillfully struck on and dipped her hand and arm deep into the lantern’s open face towards its oil wick, but simple matches were shorter than lighters and her fingertips burnt as soon as the wick lit. Her hand retreated quickly, dropping the smoldering match in the now-lit lighter tray.
With the glow of the lantern, her feet relinquished hold of her and she came to once again. She looked around and became speechless.
What (Name) had navigated through was a antechamber narrow with rows of looming shelves. Now she stood in a square-ish room still lavished with thick rugs and carpets, walls with latticed woodwork and all was as gilded and plush as the outer halls. The high desk she had felt sat on a platform raised above the floor, laid with its own carpets and was massive, made from fine wood she had never seen, as dark and heavy as the previous décor, Behind it was a chair even taller and laid with red cushion, just like everything. Behind that was a panel displaying a wide, wide map of what was surely the world, and behind that were even more shelves upon shelves. Red and gold and dark and rich and bright all at once, so intensely everything, everything so intense. But these things, however fine, was not what entranced her.
It was the books. The tomes and scrolls stacked and packed into the towering shelves she had passed, glistening with gilded edges, tight leather bindings, embossed papers. In the time (Name) had been discovered and brought to serve in the palace, she had not given a single thought to books. It never came up in her foggy times when she thought about too many things. Now that so many were so suddenly before her, a deep, deep ache was realized in the tendons of her limbs, inside her chest, and fighting its way in her throat. Reading. She loved reading, she just remembered that she loved reading. She loved reading more than anything, she would real anything just for the sake of reading. Now her mind was fogged but it wasn’t her feet this time, and she paced shakily up and down the aisles she had passed in the dark, gliding her fingers across the rows of books, darting in and out of the library and the desk room, busying over the few shelves there as well.
After half an hour, (Name) stood, chest heaving with the exertion of excitement, grin wider than anything in the world. It was obvious what she had to do now. She had to read (never mind anything like decorum, she had forgotten any inhibitions necessary of her position. She had forgotten that this was not her palace, that she was even in a palace). All that mattered were the books, she had a fever of ink and paper, and which one should it be, which one should she start with, a scroll, a tome, a journal, one of the unassuming cloth bindings, or the sagas with glistening scrollwork? Scrolls she was unused to, and would have troubles rolling up and out, and she couldn’t defile something so sacred, so perhaps she should stick to the bindings more traditional to her.
Soon she was pulling books off of shelves and peeking inside, sliding them back in. Everything was wonderful to read, but stories were the best. She wanted stories. Of course, anything written is some sort of story, nut that’s not what she wanted. She wanted events and characters and intrigue, something new and exciting, which was inevitable since she doubted she had read any of these books before, memory intact or not.
Luckily, there wasn’t just anthologies of histories in this collection (not that (Name) disliked history, but again, that’s not what she wanted today). There was poetry and sketches, calligraphy and philosophy and tactics. Some novels, too, of varying subjects and tones from introspective to adventurous. She was about to choose a novel that seemed somewhat her taste, but a thick, sturdy spine caught her eye, and there it was. Faerie tales. Her favourite. People often called her childish for her affinity of them, but faerie tales were anything but that. They let you peek into a world between the fantastic and the far too real, a peoples worries and hopes mimed through magic, a heritage hiding in the heather with the hero, a culture between the scales of a beast.
As soon as she opened to the first title page with haunting calligraphy illustration, she sunk to her knees and fell deep into the waves of a land new to her. There were fables and folktales, of animals and origin stories, and of people who must have at least half-existed, and of heroes too epic to fathom, and it was here that (Name) lied for a long time she could not notice through the new atmosphere around her.
She was sitting in the cave of a wise dragon, awaiting the end of the world, when the words wobbled as she lost her balance a bit, and she was snapped from her reverie It wasn’t surprising; the way (Name) was crouched, balancing on the balls of her feet with the heavy book spread across the table of her thighs, put a lot of pressure on her ankles. It was probably the hand that caused her to stagger.
The hand.
In the top left corner of her book, a large, rough hand rested, tapping the page very gently. On its fingers were many rings. Many rings. Her heart ceased and her head snapped up.
A noble was kneeling in front of her. At first, as her head slowly rose, all she saw was his broadness and the swirl of his robes, embroidery stitched taut and perfect, the same intensely rich hues of all these halls. There were too many layers in his cloaks, like the too many rings, golden threads and finishes gleaming. Her eyes, against her will, for this was someone too noble for her to look at, clicked upwards to his face. It was all stern edges, with his strong jaw, thin brows, long hair in a deep imperial red and intensely narrow eyes. His eyes glinted powerfully, striking even amongst all the other red. His face shifted as her eyes finally met his.
“There we are, a bit caught up is that it?”
With her mind partly still swimming in the stories and partly shell-shocked, she could only manage a dumb, “Huh?”
Suddenly her feet no longer had any hold of, not her mind, not anything, and she remembered how blasphemous her wandering was, how this study belonged to someone, how she was only granted the role of a personal through the mercy and pity of an eighth princess, how this man had too many rings on his fingers and too many layers in his robes for her to even stand in the same room as him.
Her knees slammed against the floor, and was about to curl in on herself before remembering the tome in her lap. Halting her harsh motions, she carefully set the ribbon book marker in her place, tilted the cover closed, careful with the binding, so that none of the pages were accidentally crumpled. (Name) cursed inwardly; she couldn’t put something so special on the ground, no matter how immaculate the carpets were. So, resting it carefully on her thighs, she drew out the clean linen that she kept with her in case of emergency and spread it out the square beside her. Once she settled it down, she immediately resumed the moment and slammed her forehead to the floor in front her knees, hands planted beside her temple in a fierce kowtow.
“My Lord, please forgive this low one for their trespasses,” she intoned properly. “She has forgotten the place allowed to her and has wandered too far to be excused. This one bows to remind herself of her position and take what punishment that may be assigned to her.” There was a pause that nearly killed her.
“No need,” the nobleman’s voice rumbled above her. “I have not been offended.” It was difficult to believe that of someone with such a sternly built face. “I just wished to know what you were doing here.”
Her head rose slightly from her stance, to peer up at him in shock. “I—ah—no, this one—my Lord--”
His eyes went from her to the book resting on the linen throne beside her “You were reading?”
“Yes, my Lord, from a tome too divine for my presence.”
“You treat it well.” His hand reached out and brought to him the book. He opened the cover, and an eyebrow arched. “Children’s stories?”
(Name’s) throat burned her head snapped up fully. “Fables represent a peoples better than any tangled political narrative. Histories are sillier than children.”
His face jerked up, eyes sparking in surprise. Her face grew hot. (Name) lowered her head back to the ground and was about to meekly announce this one’s humble opinion, but it wasn’t her opinion. It was true. Her fists tightened and she instead mumbled a this one spoke out of turn.
His eyes did not leave her. His face was thinking. “Who are you?”
“This one has been honoured to become the personal of Lady Kougyouku, eighth princess of Imperial Kou."
He looked as if he were about to say something, then he did not. His face thought, he eyes looked upon her and then upon the book, and he said something else.
“This study belongs to me, and I must spend the evening working here.” (Name’s) toes curled under her in preparation of the propriety of departure.
“You may stay here and continue reading. I can see you enjoy it. If you can understand these in here, you read very well for a commoner. And you must not have read for a long time, for there is no library for servants.”
(Name) was still for a moment, then sat fully upright out of pure shock. “My—my Lord--??”
“I do not mind someone so kind to books residing here.”
She was so speechless, she just stared at him for several moments before sputtering the only thing that came to mind.
“Please get up, kneeling doesn’t befit such a noble.” Her hand flew over her mouth. “I’m sorry, I just ordered you, I was not thinking at all—”
“Then you must get up as well.”
"I could not, I am just a----” he was noble, she, a lowly servant, “---thank you my Lord. This one would be much more comfortable on the floor where she belongs in these quarters.”
“You have a rather strong sense of humility for someone who wanders a palace so freely.”
She hung her head, ears burning, but she heard a short rumble and looked up again. He had a stern face but amusement gleamed in his eyes. The nobleman returned the book to her hands.
(Name) did her best to watch him without signifying that she was watching him as he rose, strode atop the platform, and settled down in the heavy chair at the heavy desk, rolling out a couple scrolls already stored there. He began to carefully write in his own journal, reading texts very closely as he did. It occurred to her that she did not know his precise rank and she found herself curious, then admonished herself for wondering. He was without question above herself and above Lady Kougyouku, so that’s all she needed to know for to guide her behavior. Maybe he was a scholar, the mind that, like her feet, wandered. So many books, and he must write so much. Or a general, and he studies all these histories and war accounts. An imperial historian? Or perhaps all three; a general must be well-learned, she supposed. Being in service to only an eighth princess, she was unsure of the higher details of the Kou hierarchy so she hadn’t the slightest idea of what nobles were housed and commanded.
(Name) did her best to sink back into a narrative of mountains and knights and serpentine evil, but her wondering was so strong and she couldn’t help but look at him furtively, nervously, or stare stock still at the page with the sensation that sometimes he paused from his work to look at her. Like he was now. Her ankles wobbled with fatigue.
“You shouldn’t have to sit there, like that. Your legs must be tired.”
“I do many chores less comfortably. I do not mind,” (it wasn’t until much later that she thought of how her immediate response signaled that she wasn’t reading at all, and that he knew that she watched him and that she knew he watched her, and that he was probably rather amused, and she was rather humiliated by it).
“You cannot read like that. I couldn’t,” she bit back a comment how servants could do many things a noble couldn’t. He heard it anyways and she could feel his invisible smirk. He gestured his writing hand to his right, sleeve rustling. “There is a stool here. I’m afraid it’s not proper, but it should suffice better than the ground."
“I--"
“I’ll make that an order,” he added for good measure before (Name) could protest yet again. It should’ve sprung back into her proper mind of gratitude and servility, but it didn’t and she was honestly frustrated, almost as if losing a game of chess. Rather than pout, she chose the graceful route and carefully gathered up the book and linen for carrying, quite demurely, and walked to the stool by skirting the shelves and sides of the room properly, as protocol said.
(Name) sensed that her sudden adherence had off-put this noble, like his move had been nullified, and she was satisfied once again. Besides, this stool was much nicer and she wasted no time at all in diving into the tales, and remaining there, no matter how many times he rested from his writing and she should’ve sprang to ask if he needed anything, no matter if he looked at her or not with a wondering face. There was no need for protocol under the whims of swirling spirits and rebelling sons and daughters, of creatures beckoning from the darkness.
When her ribbon bookmarker appeared suddenly very close towards the opposite cover, the hand appeared again, in the top left corner, a gentle presence.
(Name) looked up, dizzy with how her eyes and head were heavy with stories. Her ankles had been saved, but her back ached. It had been longer than she felt. “What time is it?” the subtle mote of sunlight was gone.
The nobleman stood in front of her again, a small frown on his face. “The moon is well up,” he spoke softly. “Please forgive me, I have forgotten. As a personal, you are very busy and must need your rest. I am dismissing you now for your well-being.”
This was awful considerate for a noble so high, and she thanked him plainly without noticing. He returned to his desk She had almost left the book marker in her place but then began to return it to the front of the book, since she was leaving. But he told her to leave it where she left, and she thought little of it before carefully handling it into its place on the shelf. As she began to exit the chamber into the shelved antechamber, he spoke to her.
“How did you come by this place?”
She paused, and pivoted to face back into the room. “My wandering feet took me.”
He was writing, not looking up. “But shouldn’t you be serving?”
“It’s my free evening.”
“And how often are you given those?”
“Every Thursday.”
“I see. You are welcome to come back next Thursday. That’s an invitation, which means you have my permission.” He refreshed his pen. Not looking up. “I don’t mind the company.”
“Thank you, my Lord. Goodnight.”
“Yes, goodnight.”
Her feet carried her back without having her think. She quietly asked guards her way back to Kougyouku’s wing, and continued through the halls quietly and nodded at the midnight servants quietly. Her feet passed by Lady Kougyouku’s chambers, where she slept upon a mat on nights when she was on-call, and quietly stepped into the communal servant’s room, and slipped quietly into a futon. It occurred to her that, as she quietly floated to a sleep filled with fierce dragons with scales and eyes a most intense imperial red, that the nobleman never announced himself, and she hadn’t an idea of who the man who thanked her for her company was, and she wondered how her feet would find their way back next week.