The Prince and The Slave [ON HOLD]

i.

THE RUBBLE HAD been cleared from the Great Hall less than thirty minutes ago and Danielle along with the rest of the slaves immediately got to work scrubbing the room clean. Danielle was one of three female worker slaves in the entirety of the palace. The rest of the enslaved women were either handmaidens to Queen Tuya, servents, or even brides to young, distinguished men.

When Danielle first arrived in Egypt, she had been put through a variety of tests for both intelligence and physical capability. They had been greatly disappointed to find out she could neither read or write. Danielle silently cursed them in her mind. She had been taken away from her home at the young age of fourteen; less than a week from her birthday where her father had promised to teach her how to both read and write. How ironic.

They decided she'd be best as a worker. And being a slave as she was now, she wasn't allowed to learn anything anymore. Slaves weren't granted such luxuries.

Danielle scrubbed the floor hard, anxious to get her daily work finished along with the extra work load added on due to the two prince's recklessness. Speaking of the youngest prince, he was currently down beside her on his knees as well, not nearly scrubbing the floor as hard and holding his rag in the worst way possible; the way that ended in red rashes and peeling skin. Danielle knew that this man had probably never seen a day of work in his life. She kept quiet, however, not wanting to cause any form of commotion. The Great Hall, after all, was deadly silent. Only the sound of running water, slaves walking from place to place, and the scrubbing of the floors was heard.

"How on Earth do you do this all day without collapsing?" She glanced over at the young prince who was staring at her, probably waiting for her response. How was she supposed to answer such a question?

She didn't want to bring up the fact that they got whipped if they didn't, or that the uncomfortable soreness of their hands after a day of work was far better than the bleeding wounds on their backs they would receive if they didn't do their jobs up to the palace's standards, or even that part of the reason she and all these good people were constantly suffering was partially because of him, whether she wanted to admit it or not. But no, she couldn't say that. He would deny it, slap her, beat her, something, anything but actually taking the truth and swallowing it.

She looked down to find that he was still holding his rag incorrectly. She jumped at the idea of changing topics that still, somehow, related to his question.

"You're holding your rag wrong." The Prince also looked down at his hands, his eyebrows furrowing. 

"How am I supposed to hold it?" He asked. Danielle went to open her mouth but ended up closing it.

"May I touch your hands, your highness?" She certainly couldn't just grab his hands and begin to readjust them. He was a prince and a prince of Egypt at that; son of the Pharoh Seti and the Queen Tuya. Moses nodded and she went to correct his hand placement. His warm hands held a deep contrast to her cold ones. "You mustn't grasp the rag so firmly; the strain will give you rashes and make your skin peel."