The Prince snored when he slept, only when drunk though; it was one of those odd things that she noticed through her years with him. She was almost positive this was not what her father had wanted for her when he sent her here to be in the service to the prince. However, she was not even sure he had fully expected, except to earn himself some favor with the King.<br/><br/>Slowly and with the practiced ease of actions born of repetition, the wet stone worked itself along the edge of her blade. The old chair she sat in creaked and moaned under the weight of her armored bulk whenever she shifted ever so slightly. As if to protest with true indignation that she would dare strain its worn ties and bindings by resting within it. Even though there was no reason to tend to the blade, as she sharpened it just that morning, she still felt the need to do it. To keep her hands busy so that her mind would wander and focus less on the state of her friend.<br/><br/>Up along the edge and down again. Over and over, the stone moved against the edge, sharpening it to an even keener edge.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">He snorted…shifted…</span><br/><br/>It drew her gaze, hand slipped and she cut her thumb. Instantly, the harmed extremity was placed into her mouth to stop the bleeding before it could really happen. The stone, dropped and forgotten for the moment while she placed her sword on the table beside her, as she went to the basin of water to wash and tend to her wound.<br/><br/>The clear cold liquid a welcome relief to the stinging wound which she tended without so much as quirk of the brow for despite the depth it, was but a scratch in comparison to what she had suffered elsewhere. Suffered at the hands of the man who was supposed to protect her, nurture her, the way a father was meant to when it came to his daughter. Soon the clearness of the water began to tinge in pink and her mind took the opportunity to snag hold of memory she was not prepared to relive.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Not now, not today, not on this day.</span><br/><br/>She knew how he felt, knew what it was to have so much dependent on you and to be thought of as a thing, an unwanted thing. Though her mother still lived she hardly got to see the woman, because of her father. Even when they had met in the past, it was so formal that she felt like she addressed a stranger and not her mother. What made it worst was the abuse she saw. The bruises, the cuts and busted lips, it was like without her to beat up on he turned to his wife. It had taken a toll too, not just on her body, but on the woman’s soul. It killed her to see her like that and she hated herself for not being able to stand against the man who did it.<br/><br/>All of this anger, this rage and self-loathing she pushed down. Push aside for the man who slept not six feet from her. On this day he always needed her more and she always was there for him. She had to be. At the end of the day they were the only ones they could ever count on. It was with this in mind that she finished up with her hand, the thumb dried and bandaged. Wet stone recovered as she went back to work on her blade until she made herself comfy in the chair to sleep. In the morning, she was up, before him as she expected and went downstairs to get him something greasy to eat and some water. It was about the only thing that ever helped his hangovers.<br/><br/>When he barked for water, he was given water.<br/><br/>In the form of a bucket, filled with the coldest water she could get her hands on.<br/><br/>“Good morning,” she said in an overly cheery voice. The bucket placed by the door as she grabbed up the tray of food and moved it to the small table by the window. “Got you something to eat and some water to drink,” as she continued to ignore whatever complaints he might have thrown her way. “Your snoring kept me up again.”