~I~
Holy Roman Empire, 1556.
“Rosamund?”
Long lashes fluttered, but eyes remained shut. With a gentle sigh, the owner slightly turned, readjusting her sleeping posture with her lips pursed, enduring the rough surface of the straw-stuffed mattress beneath them. Slowly, she snaked her hand over a younger girl lying next to her, “Mmm?” she breathed tiredly, her low tone deficient of any signs of annoyance, “Can’t sleep?”
A blinking pair of electric blues hadn’t a dust of sleep, “Can you tell me a tale?” Sleep had never been a close companion of hers, not as regularly as others. Perhaps she had grown spoiled by her sister’s insightful stories that it became hard to sleep without one-alas, like many other nights, she hoped to listen to one, and fall asleep while at it all thanks to her sister’s angelic chords serving as a quiet lullaby to her ears.
A small, tired smile played on the older woman, “Tomorrow, Anne.”
“Pray, dear sister, you know I cannot sleep without one,” the girl protested with a playful pout, her hand briefly flying to her golden head and scratching away, “Please Rosamund,” she pleaded in a small persuasive tone as she reached for her sister’s side and stirred her gently.
The woman remained silent, contemplating her little sister’s request.
“Rosamuunnddd,” the girl whined, her big orbs searching her sister’s face.
“Alright, alright,” A light chuckle reverberated from the woman’s chest as she fluttered her eyes, revealing a bright pair of ocean blues twinkling with amusement, “But I must tell you, I’m rather sore.”
The blonde nodded, huddling closer to her sister’s side and throwing her hand around her with a small, satisfied smile, “Only a litel, a short tale is fine.”
“Hmm… “ Rosamund thoughtfully murmured, pulling the girl closer to her and adjusting the straw blanket around them, “…what sort of tale do you wish to hear?”
“Any tale is fine with me,” Anne responded.
“Oh? What about a tale that is so frightening...” Rosamund playfully suggested, creasing her brows in a mock frown.
The blonde’s eyes widened, a flash of dread in her electric blue depths broadening her sister’s smile, “No!” Anne shook her head.
“Oh, Anne... my mind seems to fail in conjuring any worthy ideas this day,” Rosamund sighed tiredly.
“In pity’s name, dear sister,” the blonde pleaded dramatically, “amuse me, just this once... pleaseee!”
A smiling Rosamund only looked at her, tired, but not helping the amusement.
“Hmm?” the child pressed, batting her eyes in a silent plea.
“Fine,” the woman drew a long breath, her hand slowly wandering up to her sister’s golden locks that she had braided moments earlier, “well,” she started, softly brushing her loose strands back, “Once upon a time, in a small village.. there dwelled a maiden, a very unhappy maiden.”
“Why?” the blonde inquired, curious
“She was lone,” Rosamund explained, staring at space, “She lacked friends and… that someone who is dear.
“One that is dear?” Anne echoed.
“Pray Anne,” the woman laughingly muttered, “wasn’t a tale you wanted?”
The blonde shrugged, a playful smirk pulling on her lips.
“You see, there comes a time in life when we yearn for what only one special someone can give,” Rosamund explained.
Anne’s brows pinched together in confusion, for she couldn’t fathom what was it that her sister meant, “Um... why had she no friends?”
“Because she’s poor.”
“Oh...” Anne sadly mumbled, her gaze dropping, “.. like us.”
The woman nodded, “Well, their lives were once more pleasant, though not rich, they lived comfortably. But alas, their fortune took a turn; they fell to our station, and her companions ceased their discourse. She was cast from their circle in a blink of an eye right after her family’s fortune collapsed.” She smiled solemnly, and peered at her quiet sister, her hand still tousling her soft curls, “Her new life proved challenging, yet she bore with it. Her father, ailing, could not help as needed any longer, and they had to toil for sustenance, labouring like slaves to meet tax demands. Thus, she worked by day and gazed upon the stars by night, for oftentimes, sleep denied her its comfort.”
“Did she not pine for someone dear?” Anne lowly inquired. “I mean, she sought that special someone… right?”
“No, none had captured her heart thus far. Yet, there were some who sought her favor.”
“Ah..” Anne watched her sister expectantly, hoping for a sizzling romance tale.
“Their unwanted efforts vexed her though, for they stirred discord among her peers. Her fellow maidens disliked her mostly for that, you know.”
“Why though? What sort of companion did she desire? Der Reichsgraf, perhaps?” Anne murmured.
“Nay, not a count. Such thoughts never crossed her mind. For one, noblemen would not consort with common folk such as us.” Rosamund smiled patiently.
“Hmm..” Anne hummed, looking deep in thought.
“She held not to riches as a measure of worth. Her heart yearned for mutual understanding, for one who would cherish and honour her for who she was. She sought a profound connection, a bond so special that when she gazed into his eyes, she would find her soul’s true match,” the woman narrated with a distant look in her eyes and a ghostly smile gracing her features—almost a wishful look.
“Just like that? His eyes?” Anne arched her brow disbelievingly.
“Aye, just so.” Rosamund nodded, “When she was but a child, her mother oft told her that the eyes are the windows to the soul. These words, she treasured dearly. Truly, Anne... one could discern so much about a person’s character, simply by gazing into their eyes.”
“Were her suitors not of that kind?”
The woman shook her head, “They were enamoured by her easy appearance, but true love, my dear, goes beyond mere physical attraction. Lust oft ends in catastrophe, especially for a woman of her station.”
“How can she be certain then?” Anne challenged.
“She saw the way her father beheld her mother, that’s how she knew.”
Brief minutes ticked away quietly with the sisters lying side by side, lost in their own thoughts, “Tis a sorrowful tale, Rosamund. The maiden…she’s lone and sad,” Anne complained.
“You think so?”
The blonde girl nodded.
“Not quite,” Rosamund smiled, observing her pouting sister, “Listen flower, in life’s journey, we should find beauty in imperfections, seeing the good even when things aren’t perfect is a refreshing way to cope. I promise you, you’d see the world in a much different light than most people if you do,” coiling a golden strand around her finger, she continued, “be ever grateful for your blessings, even the little ones... for when they depart, their true worth and significance shall become apparent,” she paused, slapping her hand over her mouth and briefly coughed, “For my part,” she cleared her throat, “I count myself fortunate to have you and father; regardless of life’s trials, to have you both is a treasure beyond measure, a blessing.”
Anne smiled. “And the girl? What keeps her grounded?”
“Hope. She holds onto hope that one day, she’d find true happiness, and love.” Rosamund smilingly told her with a kind smile.
“Gute nacht, Schwester.” Satisfied, with dropping lids, Anne murmured sleepily.
The woman leaned in and pressed a kiss on the girl’s forehead, “Schlaf schön,” she murmured as she watched her fall into a peaceful slumber. It felt as though it were only yesterday when she bounced her on her lap, chuckling at her charming four-teethed smile. It was unfortunate that the little sun flower grew up without their mother, but heart-warming that she blossomed into her spitting image.
Anne.
Their mother’s final gift to her. Their father might not view it as such, but she wholeheartedly regarded her as one—a beautiful gift. And that’s why she named her after her. Anne.
Minutes seemed to stretch on endlessly as she lay in silence, staring at her peacefully sleeping sister, the only sound was the soft rhythm of their breathing and the whispering gentle winds from outside.
Suddenly, a commotion at the door called for her attention. The sound of heavy footsteps stumbling into their home caused her to whip her head towards the door, finding a dishevelled middle aged man making his unsteady way inside, his features caked with dirt.
Gently, she untangled herself from her sister’s embrace and slowly sat up, her tired eyes taking in the familiar man wobbling towards a straw bed at the opposite side of the room. Slowly, she rose to her feet and made her way to the man who now collapsed onto his mattress with a grunt, his tunic stained and filthy, in desperate need of a proper washing—she reckoned with a relieved sigh that she wasn’t going to the fields the next day, which meant she had time for laundry.
Squatting down in front of him, she reached for his shoulder and gently guided him to lay on his back, prompting him to look up, his sunken dark red-shot eyes finally meeting hers, “Rosamund...”
A sad smile crossed her lips, the stench of cheap beer wafting from his mouth and the sight of his unkept yellow teeth never fazing her. She was used to it, “Yes, father.”
“Aren’t you... tired?” He slurred, concern etched on his face.
She shook her head, running her hands over his worn-out boots and hoses, revealing swollen feet underneath.
“I am tired,” he breathed, the mist in his eyes glimmering under the room’s dying candlelight.
“Then go to sleep. I’ll stay right here with you.” Her voice was soft and comforting as she gently began massaging his stiff feet.
He weakly nodded and let out a heavy sigh, finally succumbing to sleep. Pressing her lips into a thin line, she feathered her rough hands over his thick calluses and cuts throughout his feet, the ugly hardened layers that had long grown from the pressure of toiling in the fields.
She didn’t consider this a chore, rather, it was the least she could do for him.
With that, she stayed by his side for a while longer, pressing and soothing his feet she knew must’ve been sore from the day’s activities before finally getting up and heading towards the door.
The cool night air hit her as she stepped outside. Feeling slightly exposed in her spaghetti strap knee-high linen smock, she wrapped her arms around her thin frame and softly rubbed the goosebumps from her skin. There were hardly any people out at this late hour—she noted with relief as she scanned the quiet streets. She was scarcely covered after all; being seen in such attire would have caused quite a stir.
Quietly, she made her way to a nearby small bench and sat with her back leaning against their little cottage’s wall. With a deep breath, she took in a familiar street lined with identical cruck houses, all facing each other. Surrounding them was lush greenery, with each house having its own plot of land for farming when they weren’t working in the fields. The dirt-road in-between stretched out in different directions—if one headed straight north, which was on her left, they would be met with the breathtaking view of Lake Constance – her favorited spot.
She glanced to her right, ignoring a distant view of the lake, her eyes twinkling with a distant memory whilst she held tighter onto herself, the materializing images in her head rousing solemn beads that stung her eyes.
A few villagers parted, hurriedly making way for a thirteen-year-old girl, her hair, the colour of summer strawberries whipping in air as she burst through the gathering crowd, her bare feet hastening towards a nearby well, her blue orbs red-shot and glistening with streaming tears. Coming to a halt, her shaking body slamming against the well’s curved walls, her hands grabbed its rough surface as she tried lifting herself, ready to toss herself into its dark foreboding depths while she cried out in anguish.
“I want to die! I want to die!”
“STOP HER!!” A cry of alarm echoed through the stunned gathering, rallying the villagers to action.
Just as she had climbed over the wall, teetered on the brink of demise, strong arms grabbed her from behind and pulled her back from the edge, regardless of her frantic struggles and wails.
“Let go of me! Let go! I want to die... let me die!!”
With a quick swipe of her hands, Rosamund wiped her pooling tears away along with the gutting memory. Lifting her gaze to the starry sky, she drew a long breath; she couldn’t help but marvel at how far she had come in eight years.
Eight long years of growing out of self-pity.
Of gathering courage to face life head-on, the way it was thrown to her.
She had faced challenges beyond her age and taken on responsibilities for both herself and others—she lived.
They all did.
They say wealth makes one strong but that wasn’t the case in her book.
Love makes us even stronger.
