Exile

"The cold wind bit into her frail visage as Maska tried to rearrange her thick woollen scarves around her. It did not seem to help at all. The ice had perforated her skin all over and had started mating with her bones, making the memory of warm dressing rooms and long, protective fur coats a futile hope to cling onto. Had it only been a few weeks since they had been ordered to leave the castle, their home?
Maska remembered how it had looked as she was driven away by people she did not know, in a car she had never entered before. It was a simple little thing with no adornments or any kind of luxury. It had no warmth either. That had been the first time Maska had felt the cold creep up her spine and into her scalp, into her throat and into her heart.
Unable to shake this parasite, she walked back into the house. Seeking a moment of pause, she knew the guards would soon come fetch her and drag her outside with the rest of her family. Work had to be done. But how would any of them stand it? Maska remembered the many festivities her family had been a part of in their old life. How heavy the gowns were, how splendid the jewels and how delicious the food. Maska bit back tears of remembrance for fear of them turning into ice on her face. She could barely feel her feet and her hands, not to mention her nose. Maska walked to the small oven they had been given a few days after their arrival and began making a cup of hot water. Maska remembered the porcelain cups she had drunken her hot water with lemon and honey out of whenever she had been invited to tea by her father's mother, the greatest lady she had ever known. How knowledgeable she was and how witty! She had been the one that taught Maska what was proper and what not.
Her thoughts were irrecoverably disturbed by two young bearded soldiers who commanded her to return outside. Maska recognized one of them, but the other one must have arrived only a day ago and must been busy with other duties. She asked to rest a moment longer. The unknown soldier scoffed and breathed some insult in dialect, a string of words that Maska could not understand for the life in her. Nevertheless, the coarseness of his tongue made the delicate hairs on her arms stand straight.
Maska carefully lifted her eyes to plead with the guard she had seen before. She saw the same hunger in his eyes she always did. He made her uncomfortable in the most innocuous manner possible. With his eyes. Now they were silently battling, for warmth, for suppression of an improper fire, for comfort. The guard spoke, his deep voice a stark contrast to the other man's. Soothing with a hint of sensuality. Maska lowered her eyes and blushed. The water was boiling. The guards said nothing. Maska took it as a sign of their intention of doing nothing.
As she slowly sipped the scalding water, one of the soldiers left, leaving her alone with the one who still had his gaze fixed upon her. She tried smiling, but a smile would not come. Her expression would have turned into a monstrous grimace, so she abandoned it.
The man would not look away.
Maska hid her eyes, pretending to take another sip of her drink.
It was not proper, not proper at all."

E.