The Most Important Serf

She's sitting in front of him and wondering why his stare makes her brain forget how to work. He's concerned. She's not acting right and he wants to know what's wrong.

It's just lack of sleep, she repeats to herself.

If she says it enough it'll turn into the truth.

"Are you ok?"

"Yes."

"Are you lying to me?"

"A little bit."

"Why am I not surprised?"

She supposes it's a bad thing that he's not surprised. She should tell him the truth but she's not sure she should because she's sick of being the sad, mopey, depressed one.

She's going to be fine.

She wants to be fine.



'Sides, how does she explain to him that he makes her feel like a lowly serf who has been oh-so-graciously allowed an audience with royalty? How does she explain that even though she's just a serf, the bottom of the rung, he makes her feel like the most important serf? And like a silly, ignorant, little girl, she's happy about that, being the most important. And yet--

How does she explain that she's grateful for his kind and generous rule but yearns to be his equal?

His Queen.

She would like to be His Queen.

She's not sure she would be able to say these things though, even if she should. The words are too sticky and they wouldn't make it passed her throat. They would come out a strange mumble and she would only embarrass herself.

His smirk would stop any explanation in its tracks.

So she shakes her head and says, "I'm just tired. I didn't sleep well last night."

"You should see a doctor about that."

"Ok."