The Darkness Steals The Light - The Elim Chronicles

Prince Amos

Prince Amos loves the thrill of the chase, but his fat old nanny has no pace. In the distance, he can hear her breath with rasping breaths and a long, haggard wheeze. Her frightfully large bovine buttocks pendulum beneath her oversized royal blue robes, and her enormous udders bounce above a jiggling mass of steamed pudding belly. If only she had feathers, she would ruffle and coo like a fat old partridge with nothing better to do.

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Prince Amos hides in the shadows of giant marble-fluted pillars. All is silent, save for the echoing sound of his nanny's shuffling feet. The coast is clear as he creeps in the silence; the cold marble skin of the palace floor glides beneath his stealthy bare feet as he darts for cover. He hides where he cannot be found, peeking from behind a marble column, before he then hurtles down the spiraling stairwell. The corkscrewing steps shoot under his feet as he jumps the last steps onto the hard-polished marble floor in a single, bounding leap.

"Come back, my precious little princeling. Come to dear old nanny." Shouts Nanny Slatt as she trundles on clumsy feet under her fat sack of meat. Sweat streams down a plump red face and clings onto thin, stony lips as she wobbles down the spiral staircase. She stops halfway, gasping for breath, and her stumpy hands wipe a flood of sweat dripping from her vexed brow. Her beady eyes flutter in a fixed state of continuous blinking. She sniffs and puckers her small nose. "What did I do to deserve such a bothersome burden?" Nanny Slatt chases after Prince Amos as fast as her waddling legs can take her.

Prince Amos cups his mouth and pinches his nose, snorting in laughter, his puppy-dog eyes shining from an angelic face mopped with floppy golden hair. He gives Nanny Slatt a sly little wink and lurches into a full-blown sprint. His little legs rush down the wide corridors of The Great Palace's eastern wing as he sprints past hundreds of different rooms where a thousand hushed voices whisper in the eternal dance of royal service. Gaggles of the weaver's cackle and chirp as their calloused fingers weave fine cottons, wools, and silks. The next rooms hold armies of fastidious tailors who lean over drapes of bright-colored cloths where, with exacting eyes, they measure and cut so Thiel's elite can posture and strut.

"You wait till I tell your father." Nanny rolls into the eastern wing corridor, muttering curses under her breath.

Prince Amos rushes ahead, drawn to the sound of a calamitous song. He turns left and darts into the palace kitchens, sprinting through a wall of steam and engulfed in a blast of heat. Knives drum a frantic beat, spoons whirl, and pots clatter as brittle plates clatter and shatter. The smell of fried, smoked pork rashers fills his little puckering nostrils as an infantry of cooks swelters and toils while making breakfast. Giant vats bubble and steam near fat little pigs, which crackle and pop, sizzling on spits. Slabs of fish and fowl roast and hiss below cured meats, which dangle from the kitchen's rafters.

Prince Amos scampers through the kitchen warrens, diving between the legs of goby cooks who hack and swear. Loose potatoes roll through mucky puddles of scales, fish guts, and crimson smears. A woven basket overflows with colorful fruity jewels amidst vibrant vegetables nestled in patches of leafy green. The prince stops and glimpses over his shoulder to see the following fat fowl chasing him amidst the kitchen's morning matinee.

"You treacherous little swine. You'll give poor old Nanny Slatt a heart attack." The prince's nanny trundles through the brigades of cooks, elbowing them out of her way. "You'll take me to an early grave." Her curses fade into distant mutters as Prince Amos flees from the barreling bird.

The prince's swift feet dart beneath a giant puff of foggy flour, where the air sighs with the divinity of the baker's treats, where careful hands shape, roll, and knead.

Prince Amos puckers his nose, sniffing out fruity jam tarts, sugared almonds, and sweet honey-baked apple pie. A shower of dried fruits rains down onto flaky sheets, and on a table's edge sits an unguarded golden slice of honeyed apples with cinnamon spice. His greedy little fingers grab a handful of the sugary delight.