Trial of Servulus

Chapter 2- Warriors of Gold

The sky bled a brilliant orange as Claire returned to her assigned dormitory, tearing open the wooden door and slamming it behind her. The explosive presence caught the attention of the servants, startling them from their cleaning. They swiftly parted as Claire charged through the stone hallways. Injustice, nothing but filthy injustice, she snarled in her mind, rounding the corners until she hit a bedroom. "Filthy-" she spat, unceremoniously tossing her sword on another bed. "Worthless marauders!" Piece by piece, she clipped off each segment of her armor, dropping them in a crumpled mess for a servant to pick up. She removed her helmet with such fury that a couple strands of brown hair were ripped out with it. With boiling anger she flung it away, slamming the projectile off the stone walls and nearly striking a lit torch.

As her gear laid in a disorganized mess, she stood in the middle of the room panting from the exertion. Her clothes underneath were stained with sweat and mud, being merely cheap, blackened strips of stitched leather. Apprentices were seldom given nice things, let alone good clothes. Collapsing on a bed cushioned with hay, the fire that churned in her blood was starting to weaken. She brought her hands to her face and groaned through them, a lingering cloud of shame darkening her thoughts.

The rest of them wouldn't be back until late tonight, Claire made a quick calculation in her mind. The thought of them seeing her like this sent a shot of anxiety in her spine, her vision absently scanning the ceiling while debating her options. What was the point, her mind lamented. She had given the greatest display of power possible and was shunned for it. The memory, already one that would stick with her forever, made her face twist with anger. Turning onto one side, Claire weaved herself into the hay and begged for sleep. Anything to end the terrible day. Anything to erase the shameful events from her mind forever.

The sound of footsteps snapped her awake, jolting her into alarm. Sitting up quickly, she spotted a servant that had entered the room. Her face scrunched in a sneer, it was always the servants that got in the way. The lowest of the apprentices unworthy to carry weapons, instead banished to the brooms and trays of food. Claire vowed years ago that she'd end herself promptly if she was ever damned to such a position.

Placing a silver platter of food on one of the nightstands, the servant took a weary step. "Your armor, do you want me to-"

"Get out," Claire cut him off.

Flinching at her tone, the servant was already backing off. "Right, sorry. I- ... sorry." He sped away, shuffling back into the darkness from whence he came. Watching him leave, Claire deflated with a hung head. That was too harsh, she told herself, where did that rebuttal come from anyway? A sliver of her being wanted to run after him and apologize, but he was long gone. No wonder they hated her.

Sighing to herself, she climbed out of bed and gingerly walked to the food, looking down at her meal. An unripe apple shining a sickly yellow, a slice of meat from an animal she didn't recognize, and a lukewarm bottle of mead. Popping the cork from the drink, she took a single gulp of the liquid and quickly jerked her head away with a repulsed expression. Never the good kind.

She pictured a massive table in her mind, piled with perfectly cooked hams and vegetables, served alongside piping hot breads and cooked treats. All complimented by the finest drinks anyone could refresh themselves with. All for the Vaticans, she knew, clenching her fingers around the bottle. For such holy warriors, they certainly knew how to indulge in the spoils of royalty. Hands shaking, Claire held the bottle in the air, gritting her teeth and bracing herself to fling it across the room. The shatter would be therapeutic, followed by an explosion of sticky, foul-smelling glass a servant would have to clean up later.

Staring hard into the glass, Claire searched for a boiling anger within, clenching the bottle and winding up her arm. Then it stopped, that burst of rage never sparked. Her head lowered with a frown and she defeatedly placed the bottle back on the table. With nothing left but her own hopeless thoughts, she snatched a pelt blanket from another bed and retired for the night.