Script

Chapter 2: Empty Images

And the stories he read me, they were the ground that my childhood was built on. Those stories taught me everything that I grew to know. Bravery, loyalty, love, and hatred. Betrayal and bloodlust, and most importantly, ingenuity. They were ground into me, as thick as the blood that moved through my veins. They became me.

"And they lived as happy as they could until the sun set on their final days. Fin," Arley shut the book and placed it on the hand carved table that sat in one of the many rows of wooden platforms. He grinned at me, the little girl with the bouncy, bubbly eyes. The happy girl, the belonging girl.

"Did you like it princess?" my father asked pointing to the story book in front of him. I clapped and nodded violently,  I had really enjoyed it.

The sky was darkening outside so the only source of light came from the torches that lined the walls a few feet above the highest bookshelf. The castle care-takers had always been cautious of the torches in the library, placing them as high as they could with the biggest ladder they had. The last thing anyone of us would want is the burning of the books that provided us with such relief, insight, and joy.

"Another, papa! Another story pwease!" I exclaimed, throwing my fist-ed hand in the air with excitement. My thumb was slightly wet from the anxious suckling i brought upon it, who could blame me? I was four.

My father chuckled and shook his head, "Not now baby, I have to work. Why don't you go play with Elizabeth an Eugene, maybe all three of you can convince Chef Francois to give you some extra sweets."

"B-But, Elizabeth and Eugene have no story! You have story papa," I whined like the child I was. Although I loved the company of the prince and the princess, the games we played were often to little compared to the books.

"Now, Leyla, come on," I heard my father say through my incessant cries of protest, "I hear that Francois has made your favorite custard, why don't you go try some huh? See look, there's Elizabeth now!" He pointed to the library enterance, a small girl about my age with light brown flowing hair stood with her arms crossed defiantly, she was complaining to the servant that was looking after her.

"I want the cradle!" she huffed in annyoance. "I need my cradle!"

"Dearie, your four summers old now, you're a bit to big for the cradle. You're becoming a princess. A very pretty one at that too!" the maid tried to use flattery as a convincing push but the little girl retaliated just the same.

"No MARY! I no want to be a pretty princess, I want to be a happy princess!" She nearly broke the glass windows with her screeching.

"But dear-" Mary was cut off by my youthful voice.

"Elizabeth, would custard make you as happy as it makes me?" I tugged on her dress sleeve hoping to get her attention so we could frolick off into the castle kitchen and laugh with Francois.

She immediatly lit up when she saw my face. We'd grown up together, we were basically sisters. "Leywa!" She yelped and hugged me with all the strength she could summon from her tiny body. "You're right, let's go see Francy!"

We couldn't pronounce Francois at such an early age and rather reduced it to a mere Francy that riled up the chef as much as we loved the little nickname.

We both ran to the kitchen in a fit of un-ending giggles and smiled. Once we were there though, the story changed.

Francy was a rather large man. Tall and wide. His hair was always covered in his white hat, which had plenty of stains, and his dressings always covered in a pristine apron that never seemed to gain a single smudge from the sauces he often prepared. His brow was always a bit sweaty from the heat of the kitchen and he always kept a hankie in his apron pocket. He was a teasing man. He ridiculed us in every positive way there is. He tickled us and we went screaming. He laughed with his deep, almost intimidating voice, and he put his hands on his bunchy hips.