How many years had it been since I ran away from the castle? I was a teenager then, approaching my twenties. Now…I didn’t really know my age anymore. I supposed I was not old, because my dark blonde hair was still dark blonde, for the most part. But I sure wasn’t young anymore either, since I had tiny crinkles at the corners of my eyes, and the gleam that had once been in those dark brown almond-shaped eyes was not as bright, the zest of youth had long left me.
I was once a kitchen girl at the royal palace, where the king was a tyrant. Like all other kitchen girls, I wore a shabby skirt with an apron over it, and a kerchief to tie my hair in place as I worked. When I ran away at last, I ditched the apron, and when my life had finally settled, I ditched my kerchief as well. Now, I wore my ringlets loose, with a hooded linen dress that was neat but simple enough to travel around in–yes, I had become a wanderer through the years.
Time is the cruelest murderer, the most cold-blooded of all. I recalled the ups and downs of my life as a kitchen girl, a time when life was harder than it should be, but also a time when emotions were in screaming color. That was why both joy and pain were felt with an everlasting effect, and that was why I, after all these years, however many had passed, could still remember everything as if it all happened just yesterday. But time, though it hasn’t washed away my memories like I wished it would, had washed away the emotions I should still be capable of feeling.