#'she had gold and pearls for her dowry; only her gold was on her head‚ and her pearls were in her mouth.' | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pedros-mustache-main · 4 years ago

Text

if you leave before the start (i)

summary: he’s your husband, but that doesn’t mean you have to be his wife.

word count: 7.7k+

series masterlist

chapter warnings: arranged marriage ceremony, unlikeable reader (y’all she is a straight up meanie!), alcohol, language, innuendo

glastonbury, somerset, england. 1840.

according to your father, it is a good match, a very good one indeed.

he has wealth, status, a sizable estate. you have a healthy dowry and connections to parliament by virtue of your father. he will give you a safe life in the countryside, and you will provide him access to the inner-workings of government and an heir to carry on his family name. together, you will live in wedded bliss—no troubles, no worries to turn your hair gray, but perhaps the odd village scandal to keep things interesting.

really, you should be happy. dozens of your friends have gone to the marriage bed and found themselves sated by romance and fripperies. you are no different from say, sally, who met her intended the day of her wedding and wrote to you a week later that her husband proved to be a delightful man with amiable qualities. in all truth, you are merely one in a long line of women who have been pawned off to the highest bidder. you are not the first to meet such a fate, and you certainly won’t be the last. there is nothing unique about your situation. your father reminds you of such when you smash a chinoiserie vase to the floor at his pronouncement that yes, you are to be married to gwilym lee on the first of the month and you will be quiet about your rage.

god, you hate them both.

you’ve seen this gwilym lee only once, on the day of his meeting your father. you’d crouched at the top of the stairs, peering over the railing into the vestibule below where your father stood with mr. lee, shaking hands over the arrangement. from your vantage point, you could see mr. lee was tall and well-built, that he had a soft, genial face, and a well-trimmed beard peppering his jaw. when he’d laughed at your father’s joke—the timbre of his voice filling the hall—you’d risen to your feet, rushed to your room, and slammed the door behind you with enough force to ensure everyone in the house knew of your distaste for the matter.

insufferable prat. where did he find the nerve? entering your home, passing pleasantries with your father, all the while intending to steal you from the nest like a common viper? it makes your blood boil.

so much so that on your wedding day, stood before the mirror in your room, a cream gown pinching your waist and pearl-pins digging into your scalp, you want nothing more than to take ahold of the mirror and ram your knee into the glass, shattering the pane. you hate it; you hate every bit of this. and your father is sorely mistaken if he thinks you will go quietly.

you look magnificent, this you will concede. the gown your mother bought suits you well, though it is a tad demure for your taste. it’s silky to the touch, the short sleeves capped by an inch of lace. your back is held straight by the tightness of your corset, and the neckline exposes the crest of your shoulders. it’s simple—nothing compared to the gown rebecca wore on her wedding day—yet it should leave those in attendance breathless. you smirk as you glance over your shoulder, your eyes running over the cloth buttons decorating your spine and the swath of garment circling your feet. yes, though plain, it will do; you are the diamond which sparkles within the box, the true gift.

a knock sounds on the door of your bedroom, and you shoo your maidservant to answer the call.

“your mother, miss,” abby whispers.

you huff, twisting side to side as you smooth a hand over your stomach. is that a wrinkle? you frown as you pick at the fabric. “let her in.”

the door creaks as abby widens the opening, and your mother, with all her self-important and put on airs, sweeps into the room. she’s dressed in her statement color of purple, and a heavy necklace rests around her slender neck, the diamonds glittering in the light pouring through your bedroom window. she stands behind you, her delicate hands on your shoulders, her gaze shimmering with unshed tears.

“oh, my dear,” she says. “you look marvelous.”

you arch a brow in a silent challenge. “i know.”

if your mother sees the bait dangling before her, she does not rise to the occasion. she merely tightens her grip on your shoulders, the edges of her smile stiffening. “i’ve brought you something. an early wedding gift.” removing her hands from your shoulders, she motions to abby, who brings forward a square, velvet box. “this was my mother’s before me and her mother’s before her. now it is yours.”

abby opens the box to reveal a gold necklace within. the necklace chain is thin, the heart shaped locket at the end trimmed with yellow garnet stones. four small birthstones, each no bigger than the width of the nail on your pinky, rest in the center of the heart.

“the birth stones of your family tree,” your mother says, noting the way your eyes linger on the colored stones. “i’ve added yours—sapphire—next to mine.”

emerald, aquamarine, ruby, sapphire. four women, four lives, four marriages arranged by money, position, and power.

you wave your fingers in dismissal. “it’s gaudy, mother.”

in the reflection of the mirror, there is no mistaking your mother’s disappointment. it swallows her face like a shadow and erases the single spark of joy dancing around her irises. she looks down, fiddles with her fingers, and you are struck by her frailty in that moment. she’s haughty on her good days, a tyrant on her worst, but she’s never frail. you open your mouth, unsure of what will come out, but then you see her wedding ring and you look away.

“tell me, mother, since i am to be married in much the same fashion as you: will this gwilym insist on sleeping with the maid staff as your husband does?” her head lifts, fire lurking beneath her gaze. you narrow your stare. “when was the last time father laid his hand on you outside of the public eye?”

there’s a long pause as your mother considers you with her fire-laced eyes. you can feel the heat of her glower on the back of your neck, and you stand straighter.

“i’m sorry i ever birthed you.” her voice is low, gravelly.

you snort in amusement. “at least on this we can agree.”

she shakes her head, and a curl tightly wound against her scalp breaks free of its pin. “you will be a curse upon your husband. i am sorry for him.”

“i take that as a compliment. any man willing to all but purchase his bride deserves nothing but a wretched wife.”

turning, you lift a veil from the end of your bed. you hand it to abby and lower your knees to aid her in the process of pinning the veil to the crown of your head. once your veil is attached, abby slides a stem of baby’s breath behind each ear. you apply the finishing touches—pearl drop earrings, elbow-length gloves, a pair of silk heeled boots, a pale pink bow over the laces—then face your mother.

“well?” you spread your arms. “how do i look?”

your mother reaches out and brushes her fingers along the edge of your gloves. “like a dream.”

you tilt your head as you gather the train of your veil from the floor and shove it in abby’s waiting hands. “funny,” you say. “this feels a lot more like a nightmare.”

sidestepping your mother, you glance over your bedroom one last time then hurry down the stairs to the overcrowded foyer. as per your father’s request, the household staff have arranged themselves in two formations on either side of the room. it is unlikely you will return to this house after the marriage ceremony. you parents will come and visit you at mr. lee’s manor home, and you will never have the pleasure of darkening the halls of your childhood home again. thus, it is time to say goodbye and, loathe as you are to admit it, you feel a lump of emotion rise in your throat as you survey the faces you’ve seen slip from room to room or wait behind every corner your entire life.

your father stands before the door, already cloaked and ready with his top hat. he nods to the staff and then meets your gaze. he beams with pride, with pleasure, and you feel sick to your stomach.

“well, i dare say it is about time we made our way to the church.” his shoes clip against the marble floor as he crosses to your side. “you look a picture of a blushing bride, m’dear.” he offers is elbow, and you fit your hand in the curve of his arm.

with all the air of queen victoria on her way to marry prince albert, your father parades you down the foyer, his steps slow and regal. the servants on either side bow or curtsey in deference, the tops of their heads the last thing you shall ever see of the people who have been your confidants in moments of crisis and your playfriends in childhood. the air in your lungs feels hot, and something wet pricks the corners of your eyes.

it’s all slipping away before your very eyes—anything you once held dear—and you are powerless to stop it.

two footmen pull open the double doors, and sunlight streams into the hall, sparkling in its intensity. for a moment, you are blinded. you lift your hand to block out the sun, blinking against the pain lingering between your brows.

“[y/n]?” your father must mistake the moment as sentimentality rather than pain. “do not cry, m’dear. you are on the threshold of a new life.”

you lower your hand and turn your face to him. he’s smiling, truly convinced of his goodness to you. he looks older than you remember. his beard is peppered with gray, his forehead wrinkled. when did he age so? when did you stop paying attention?

the weight of the universe presses in on your shoulders, and you wish for all the world that you could turn back time and be his little girl again, content to worship at his feet. but you are his jaded daughter now, on the precipice of ruin, and he is your condemner, not your savior.

“father, i—”

he cuts you off with a finger. “mr. lee is a good man, [y/n]. he will take care of you, of that i am sure.”

“but i—”

“no buts, daughter. what’s done is done.”

at his gentle prodding, you leave your childhood home and any girlish notions of love behind.

your walk down the center aisle of saint peter’s church feels much the same as your walk down the foyer of your once-beloved home. guests stand on either side, wide skirts and tailored suits smooshed in the narrow pews. your footfalls echo in the cold chamber. it’s a steady beat, unlike the rapid tempo of your heart. beside you, your father radiates all the joy you should be feeling as the bride, so you feel no compunction to paste a smile on your face. he’s happy enough for the both of you.

the only difference between your walk down the aisle and your walk down the foyer is what lies at the end.

at home, there had been sunlight. it blinded you, yes, but it was warm and comforting against your frozen skin. it reminded you for the briefest of moments that the sun continues to rise on the darkest days. perhaps, you’d thought, at the end of the tunnel, there is hope for you yet...

here, between the gray stone walls of the church, there is a man waiting for you at the end of your journey. the sight of him—tall and effortlessly handsome—grinds that sliver of hope to a pulp. you’ve never hated anyone more, and your future stretches out before you in a chasm of disappointment.

it’s hard to focus when your father kisses your cheek and hands you off to gwilym. the blood rushing to your ears is loud, and it clogs the rest of your senses. you can barely breathe, so stunned by the turn of events that has brought your existence to this. the hatbox of girlhood fripperies that is shoved beneath your bed—full of ribbons and wedding announcements and dried flowers from the garden, each an image of the life you thought you would lead—withers to dust in the back of your mind. it is replaced by a steel trap, and when gwilym places his warm palm in yours, you lock your heart deep within the trap’s depths. you resolve then and there that no man shall move you—not one.

you cannot seem to tear your eyes from gwilym’s profile as the priest begins his droning. you knew gwilym to be handsome in the brief glance you’d stolen from the top of the stairs, but he is unnervingly good looking up close. from the vantage point of any of the wedding guests, you’re sure you look like a besotted fiancé, but your scrutiny runs deeper than mere appreciation. it confounds you. how could a man such as this one, with his grecian face and soft eyes and curved mouth, resort to a bride package? surely he has a handful of paramours eager to be in your position. he could have his pick of the litter.

but then you remember: you are more than a bride. you are an open invitation to a seat in parliament and an untainted womb and pretty piece to hang off his arm. disgust roils in your stomach, and you finally look away.

a low bench digs against the flesh of your knees when you kneel to take the lord’s supper. you open your mouth, accept the thin wafer and the wine, and snap your jaw closed. gwilym has the audacity to reach for your hand and squeeze your fingers while the priest recites a blessing. without sparing him a glance, you pull your hand away, thankful for the layer of fabric that kept his skin from touching yours.

during the vows, you meet his gaze. you’ve never seen eyes so blue. they look like the english sea, pale and dark and churning with foam and still all at once. you move your stare to the center of his forehead and repeat the vows when you hear your mother roughly clear her throat after you hesitate too long. you trip over the word obey and sneer at the idea of life with gwilym until death.

it’s the pronouncement of a kiss that hurtles your attention forward. the blood pumping in your ears drains; the buzz of frustration at the back of your head fades; and all is silent.

“gwilym, you may kiss your bride.”

gwilym looks between your eyes as if he’s considering. you narrow your stare on a challenge, and something flickers across his face. frustration? disappointment? you cannot tell.

when he leans forward, you stiffen and move your chin a fraction to the right out of impulse. he hesitates, then, and you can feel his breath fan the side of your face. your eyes flutter shut; you grit your teeth.

his mouth lands on the corner of yours, nothing but a brief touch to signal two souls becoming one. to you, it feels like a slap to the face. unbidden tears rise to your eyes. you choke them back when gwilym turns you to face the wedding guests. you know less than half the people in attendance, your family being smaller than his, and the unfamiliar faces smiling back at you needles the anger simmering below the surface.

how dare they all turn out in their most resplendent gowns and pressed suits and grin and clap as if this wedding were more than a sham! how dare they congratulate gwilym when he ushers you down the aisle as if you were no more than a prized hog won at the county bazar!

you hate him. you hate him. you hate him.

there is no time to make your hatred known as your mother comes to sweep you along to the wedding breakfast. she tears you from gwilym’s side before you can share a single word with your new spouse, and she tucks you close in the carriage bound for hiraeth manor.

her breath is warm against the side of your face, and her fingers adjust a loose strand of hair slipped from the chignon at the base of your head. her motherly doting, so out of character, threatens to break you entirely, fraught with emotion as you are, so you turn your head to face the window. the somserset landscape hurtles by, the rolling hills and towering trees, and you bite hard on your lower lip to keep the tears at bay.

“you shall be ever so pleased with life at hiraeth, [y/n],” your mother says. “your father is not without his wealth and position, but the lee family? goodness, they put us to shame.” she reaches for your hand and curls it between both of her palms. “you will have hiraeth to run, of course, and then the townhome in bath and forty-five thousand a year? you will want for nothing, daughter.”

you say nothing. you keep your gaze trained on the countryside, your stomach weak with the jostling of the carriage.

“i do wonder if i have trained you well enough for the job of running a household. hiraeth is larger than whitemarsh, to be sure, but—”

“mother.” you blink and remove your hand from her grasp. “stop talking.”

she is quiet a moment before whispering, her voice edged with thinly-veiled anger, “[y/n], I know we shared our own disagreements this morning but you are my daughter and i am pleased for you. you would do well to recognize what an opportunity your father has given you in this match.”

you do not hesitate in a biting retort. “the moment you allowed father to barter me off in exchange for a bump in position i ceased being your daughter. i am my husband’s wife now.”

“continue with an attitude like that and you will be a cuckolded wife, left alone to wither while the world continues to turn.” your mother’s nostrils flare. “you are lucky mr. lee is of a forgiving nature. any other man would have your tongue snipped after hearing such insolence.”

“i wouldn’t know about mr. lee’s character, mother. I have yet to exchange pleasantries with my husband.”

your mother falls silent, and her skirts rustle as she scoots away on the padded bench. the movement, small as it is in the cramped interior of the carriage, sends a sharp pain through your heart. you clear your throat to swallow a sob.

you will not cry—not now, not ever.

but truly you want to cry. you want to curl your head in her lap and release the tears you’ve been tamping down since your father told you of the match. you want her to stroke your hair and tell you it will be alright, that you’ll be alright. you want her to tell you that she’s sorry.

she’s not sorry, and she would never cradle you. she did not swaddle you in her arms as a babe; she won’t start now.

the carriage takes a sharp turn, sending you lurching against your mother’s side. you grunt with the effort it takes to reposition and disentangle yourself from your mother. she fusses with her now-wrinkled skirts and tuts under her tongue about proper decorum, but you’re not listening. you’re too busy leaning forward, your head knocking against the window pane as hiraeth manor comes into view.

“fuck me,” you breathe, throat gone dry in surprise.

your mother give an unladylike snort of derision. “yes, i’m sure he will—eventually.”

hiraeth makes whitemarsh, an altogether stately and proud manor home, look like a factory worker’s hovel. it is large, sprawling over the hilltop on which it overlooks rolling meadows on all sides. the tan facade glitters in the reflecting pool at the base of the hill, and an ancient willow’s dangling limbs skim the water’s surface. you shrink back against the bench as the manor draws closer. it seems to grow with each moment, new wings and additions sprouting before your very eyes. all this—yours to manage. the task is a formidable one, and your mother must know she has not prepared you for something like this.

the carriage rumbles over a cobblestone drive edged with flowering shrubs and rolls to stop in a circular receiving area. a nondescript footman unlatches the carriage door, and you tumble into the fresh air. you try not to gape, really you do, but it’s hard when such an estate looms before you. if your husband will not swallow you, make you insignificant in your own right, then this house surely will.

an arched door tucked in the corner of the courtyard opens on a heavy creak. you turn to see a short girl exit the home, followed by a wiry woman. the girl drops to a curtsey, her pale cheeks flushed.

“welcome to hiraeth, miss,” she says, a heavy lisp on her tongue.

“mrs. lee, how wonderful it is to finally welcome you to hiraerth!” the wiry woman stretches out her arms to take your hands. her sculpted face pulls into an eager smile, and you resist the urge to lower your defenses. “my name is mrs. brown and i’m the housekeeper here. this is angelica, your personal maid. we thought we’d be the first to greet you before escorting you to the breakfast. everyone is already here and waiting in great anticipation of your arrival.”

you look between mrs. brown and angelica, gauging their sincerity, before motioning to your mother. “we were held up briefly. my mother gets ever so sick on these winding roads.”

“[y/n],” your mother hisses.

mrs. brown gives an uncomfortable sort of chuckle as she looks over your mother’s pinched face then takes your elbow in hand. “no matter, no matter. you can follow me to the breakfast hall. there’s no time to freshen up now, but angelica will show you to your rooms as soon as she has the chance.”

you bristle at the idea of a room set aside solely for eating breakfast, but as mrs. brown guides you through the winding halls of hiraeth, the idea make more sense with each hallway and room you pass. it’s clear mr. lee has more space than with which he knows what to do. a breakfast room indeed.

the room in question is not far off from the entryway of hiraeth. there’s little chance to take in your new surroundings, so you set your jaw and square your shoulders as mrs. brown opens the door of the breakfast room. you step across the threshold, your mother close behind, and hold your breath.

you meet his eyes—gwilym’s—before anyone else’s. he sits in the middle of the arrangement of tables, an empty seat by his side. you glance at the chair to his right then at the other empty space at the far end of the room. the four tables are arranged in a sort of a square and, if you look the empty spot furthest away from gwilym, you’d be fortunate enough to neither hear his voice or see his face. a towering bouquet of flowers sits in the center of the table, and that spot has a particularly nice view of the white roses. you make to take the spot with the view of the flowers, intent on letting everyone in attendance know your feelings on the matter, but your mother beats you to it.

the bitch.

with a huff, you curl your hands to fists and all but stomp to the only remaining seat. the room is quiet, heavy with anticipation as you drop to the chair. your arms itch to fold themselves over your chest, but you are wise enough to resist. though you will not mask your anger, you will tamp it down to a degree. it wouldn’t do to wake up tomorrow and see your name in the gossip columns. that would be a dreadful start to a life in a higher societal position.

beside you, gwilym openly runs his eyes over your profile. you can feel him study you, but you do not flinch beneath his inspection. you keep your eyes on the centerpiece and drum your fingers on the tablecloth.

rising to his feet, gwilym picks up a glass chalice and lifts it. “my friends, i am very glad to be sharing this morning with you all. since the passing of my mother, hiraeth has been without a mistress, and it brings me great happiness to finally have a wife of my own who can fill this house with as much joy as my mother once did.” he twists to look down at you and settles his hand on your shoulder.

you look up, frozen under his touch. his palm envelopes the entirety of your shoulder. his gaze is soft, much to your surprise. as it was for those brief moments in the church, he looks at you only with tenderness; perhaps even pity. there is nothing angry about his eyes; it seems it might be impossible for his face to be anything but mellow. you harden your stare.

“[y/n]”—your name in his mouth. you want him to wipe his tongue and promise never to speak it again.—“welcome to hiraeth. from all of us to you, i truly hope you will be happy here.”

you blink, your mouth parting when he sits and motions for the covered platters around the table to be uncovered. leaning forward, you lower your voice and speak to him for the first time without the aid of a wedding script.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper. “all of us to you?”

gwilym thanks the man sitting to this left when he is passed a tray of eggs. he scoops some onto his plate then offers the platter to you. “would you like some?”

“uh—yes, yes—i suppose.” he drops of pile of fluffy eggs onto the cream china then passes the platter to the woman on your right, who you belatedly realize is none other than mrs. brown. you scoff and whirl to face your husband. “mr. lee, are we eating with the hired help?”

the fork that’s halfway to his mouth pauses, and his brow pinches in a confused frown. out of the corner of his eye, he looks at you. “is it wrong to celebrate nuptials with one’s staff?”

you sputter. the linen napkin in your hand bunches in your fist. “yes!” your voice is too loud for the gentle and amiable air of the room, but no one makes a move to correct you. they wouldn’t dare. “wedding breakfasts are for family and friends, mr. lee, not servants and scullery maids!”

gwilym swallows the food in his mouth and shrugs. “this is my family, [y/n]. i am celebrating—forgive me, we are celebrating with our family.”

you must look ridiculous, your forehead wrinkled with a frown and eyes narrowed in disbelief and mouth agape, because gwilym laughs and points to your plate with his utensil.

“eat your food, wife, before it gets cold. you will come to understand how hiraeth runs in due time. if it eases your anxiety,” he adds, “we will celebrate with my friends in the coming week in bath. that is the celebration you are anticipating, i’m sure.”

he returns to his conversation with the man—the butler or valet or hallboy—at his side, effectively dismissing both your outrage and your petty insolence with nothing but a gentle reprimand.

you hate him.

you do not eat your breakfast. you sit with your hands fisted in your lap and your jaw set hard. across the table your mother purses her lips and looks pointedly at your plate. you turn your gaze away.

gwilym must truly be a nincompoop if he believes you will simper and bat your eyelashes and allow him to treat the staff as family simply because he is your husband. never have you heard of such a foolish sentiment. there is a clear boundary between staff and family never to be blurred.

your skin itches, and you long for a hot bath.

as breakfast continues around you, you survey the room. the eggshell blue walls stretch to meet a high ceiling, the trim around the border a bright white. you catch a glimpse of yourself in one of the gilded mirrors hanging between a pair of large windows. you look sour, like an over-ripe lemon on child’s tongue.

the breakfast concludes some time later when the kitchen maids rise from their places to return to their duties. a skinny girl with glittering eyes takes your plate still laden with food. her voice is airy when she speaks.

“did you not like the breakfast, ma’am?” she balances your plate on her forearm, another stacked along the inside of her elbow. her cheeks flush when she moves to take gwilym’s empty plate and he smiles at her.

gwilym answers for you. “of course she did, gildy. what’s not to like when you and mrs. cliff are at the helm? mrs. lee is simply overwhelmed by the talent you possess. she confessed that all your sweets were nearly too delectable, she could hardly take another.”

sucking in her lower lip, gildy beams at the scuffed toes of her boots. “thank you, sir.” she bops a curtsey before scurrying through a side door.

you flash gwilym a harsh look. “i can answer for myself, sir.”

“i would prefer you answer with a modicum of kindness.” he nods his head to the side in consideration. “i’m not altogether sure that’s possible, so i thought i would save gildy the heartache.” he drops his napkin to the table and stands, offering you his hand. “come—would you like to see your rooms?”

spare gildy the heartache? he did no such thing for you when he agreed to taking—no, stealing—your hand in marriage.

you leave his hand hanging midair when you stand, adjusting the bustle of skirts around your legs. “i would, yes,” you say. “it’s been a trying morning, and i’d enjoy some silence and a bath so i can rid myself of the filth eking through my body.”

the jab does not land where you intended as gwilym merely laughs at your discontent. his laugh is loud, startling in the now-quiet breakfast room. he reaches for your arm and fits your hand in the curve of his elbow, patting your still-gloved fingers with his.

“your father said you were a spitfire,” he says, shaking his head in his amusement. “i see now he was not mistaken.”

at the arched doorway through which you entered, you bid your parents a hasty farewell. it is not an overdone affair—no tears, no final embraces. the days where you held your mother’s hand or clung to your father’s leg have long since passed. you merely wave them off with an upward tilt of your chin and a half-hearted promise to write before the yuletide. gwilym makes no comment on the stilted air between yourself and your parents. perhaps he knows you would stamp on his foot the moment a question slipped beyond his pretty mouth. you’re not entirely above stamping on his foot just for the sake of it. you resist the urge, however, knowing there’s bound to be a maidservant or hallboy lurking around the corner, waiting for a drip of juicy gossip to bring back to the servant’s quarters. you’ve already given them enough fodder for one day with your behavior at breakfast.

once your parents are securely in their carriage and enroute home, gwilym tugs you further into the manor. “come, your rooms are this way.”

you say nothing, question nothing, about separate bedrooms. it is a relief, in all truth, though you wonder if he will darken your doorway come the evening. your throat clenches. you pray to all the saints he will keep his grimy hands to himself or you’ll do more damage than a crushed foot.

you pull your hand from the crook of his arm as he guides you, preferring to keep your hands clasped behind your back as you walk. gwilym pauses in his explanation of the home’s original construction. he goes so far as to stop walking, and you pass him before realizing he is not by your side. in the wide hallway—one side boasting an array of polished windows, the other decorated with marble busts of his family tree—he blinks at you.

“you don’t like me very much, do you?”

you have to laugh. the sound resounds in the empty hallway, and you toss your head back in a fit of amusement. “goodness, you’re slow, aren’t you?”

he frowns, the first inkling he may possess anything other than an easy-going nature if pushed. “what is it i’ve done to offend you?”

you gawp and try to keep yourself from falling to the floor in surprise. “you must be joking, surely.”

shaking his head, a line forms between his brow. “no. i don’t understand why you are so cross.”

you turn your face away for a moment, inhaling slowly. you cross to the wall of windows and count to ten. the grounds of hiraeth are lovely—forest green grass, neatly-trimmed hedges. far as the eye can see is yours. in the span of one morning, you have gone from moderately wealthy to blessed beyond your wildest imaginations. your husband is handsome and thus far been nothing but considerate of you. it could be worse. and yet, somehow you feel as if you are the only woman who has been made to suffer a fate such as this.

you turn slowly on your foot and meet his gaze. he’s patient, you’ll give him that. he simply stares at you, waiting for some sort of explanation.

you decide to give him one.

your jaw tightens as long-neglected rage begins to boil in your stomach, and you draw in a deep breath before unleashing your indignation in a measured, even tone that fills the hall with its power.

“i am cross, sir, because i believe you to be a viper. you have stolen me from my comfort of my mother’s nest, and i fully anticipate you swallowing me whole. you are no better than the scottish barbarians who kidnap their brides and hide them away in the countryside. you are a thief and a coward, evidently unwilling—or perhaps unable—to woo his own choice of woman. i did not even have the pleasure of seeing your backside before being made your wife, and for that offense, i will never forgive you. marriage is meant to join two people who at least have been made somewhat acquainted before the ordeal. our marriage is a sham and an offense before god. so, you’re right—i don’t like you very much.”

it pleases you to see him so pale, so undone by your words. his chiseled jaw scrapes the floor, and a flush breaks out on his cheeks. you smirk in triumph.

at the sight of a maid inching along the wall at the far end of the hall, you hold up your arm and snap for her attention. “oh! girl!”

you hasten away from your husband, leaving him in the wake of your outburst. your skirts swish along the waxed, hardwood floor, and you meet the maid halfway down the hall. she stares at you with wide eyes, fear lurking beneath the surface. she must have heard. you’ve never felt more powerful.

linking your arm tightly around hers, you cast a look over your shoulder. gwilym’s hands have turned to fists. “my husband and i are finished speaking,” you say, your voice loud enough for him to hear every inflection. “show me to my rooms, won’t you?”

the following week is a rush of gown fittings, growing accustomed to the running of hiraeth, and attempting to make your husband’s life miserable.

the gowns are meant to fill your wardrobe for the social season. you arrived with a handful of dresses, yes, but with a home in bath, it is likely that you will spend a significant amount of time at dinner parties or galas. so tuesday afternoon, the day after the wedding, you are presented with an array of fabric and fashion sketches. from your place on the fitting stool, you glance over the options and pick your favorites: the teal blue which will come with an embroidered bodice; the scarlet red with lace-fringed sleeves; the dark green which will host tiered-layers cascading to the floor. it’s a hefty bill, but your husband has money enough to spend on four separate wardrobes if you so choose.

wednesday morning, mrs. brown insists you take a tour of the lower floors and accustom yourself with directing the maid and kitchen staff. you begrudgingly follow her and offer tight-lipped smiles to the flushed and nervous faces staring back at you. you truly could care less about the goings-on downstairs; that was always your mother’s job. but your mother isn’t here, and it’s up to you to preside over the well-being of the household staff. there’s so many of them, you wonder if gwilym will have annulled your marriage before you have the chance to commit all their names to memory. you can certainly pray that will be the case.

throughout the week, you revel in spurning gwilym’s kindness. you avoid him, mostly, choosing to take your breakfast in bed and your afternoon tea in the garden. you suffer through dinner with him, sat across from him at the end of a long table. you ignore his polite comments and questions and simply focus on eating your food. when he leaves a gift outside your bedroom door—a single white rose and a newly printed copy of a novel he thinks you might enjoy—you simply turn up your brow and send it back to his office. he invites you to ride about the grounds with him, and you scoff at the idea, turning on your heel and waltzing down the hall without a fare-thee-well.

to his credit, he does not shout, does not so much as grit his teeth. he bears it all with grace and composure, and that’s what frustrates you the most. you wish he would shout. you wish he would tell you to grow up and act your age. something—anything—other than the saccharine care with which he treats you. a snake with manners, it seems.

on friday morning he catches you in the breakfast room. you openly sigh when he enters, setting down your knife and reaching for your cup of tea.

“i thought you had gone,” you say, your gaze trained on your reflection in the mirror across the room. your skin is clear, your hair piled atop your head in a mess of artfully arranged curls and pins. you tilt your head to the side. hm, you really are a sight to behold when done up well. your husband is blessed.

the husband in question drops to a seat opposite you, and, for a brief moment, you note the way his waistcoat fits snug against his broad chest. you look away. “no, actually. i was hoping to steal a moment of your time this morning.”

“you’ve done a lot of stealing from me already, mr. lee.” you slide your gaze to him, challenging. “are you sure you want to continue down this path of thievery?”

as you anticipated, he does not rise to the occasion. he actually smiles and shakes his head in amusement, the knob. you roll your eyes. “your tongue does not quit. it truly amazes me.”

“i’ll have to increase my efforts to anger you, then.”

he smirks, continuing to spread butter across his piece of bread. “there is a party this evening,” he says, catching you off guard with his change of topic. “i don’t know if you recall me mentioning it, but my friends in bath are throwing the two of us a wedding party. we’ll be leaving late this morning in order to arrive before nightfall.”

“oh, that’s a shame.” you place your teacup on its saucer, pat the corner of your mouth with your napkin, then meet his eyes, yours round with innocence. “i’m afraid i can’t attend.”

he pulls an incredulous face. “it’s not an option, [y/n]. my friends are most eager to meet you, and they’ve worked very hard at making this party something you and i will both enjoy.”

a heavy moment of silence passes. you smooth your hand across the tablecloth and smile sweetly, lifting your gaze from beneath your lashes.

“i understand that, mr. lee, and i am sure your friends are lovely people. however, i simply cannot attend.”

his knife hits his plate with a bit more effort than is necessary. you bite your lower lip to keep from smiling in triumph.

“why ever not?” he asks. there is an edge to his voice; it’s slight, but it’s there. your heart lifts with glee.

you shrug, and your earrings sway against your neck with the movement. “well, i just don’t want to.”

gwilym sputters, and his hands clench on the table. inhaling deeply, he holds your gaze, and a muscle ticks on the side of his jaw. if you weren’t so intent on hating the man, you might find his anger thrilling.

instead of shouting, gwilym rises from the table and gently pushes his chair in. he clears his throat and drums a finger along the chair back before saying, “we leave at eleven o’clock, [y/n]. please be ready.”

you bat your eyelashes and take a bite of a pastry, grinning, giving him no promises.

at ten-forty-five you are dressed, but have no intention of joining gwilym on the trip to bath. instead, you study yourself in the floor-length mirror in your dressing room. much to your surprise, one of the gowns recently drawn up had arrived the night before, and after taking breakfast, you’d grabbed angel and had her help you into the dress.

you sway back and forth before the mirror. a wine red, the light catches in the folds of the skirt and the ruching over your chest. a pearl pendant rests in the middle of your breastbone, a teardrop pearl dangling from the pendant itself.

“don’t you like it, angel?” you ask.

from behind you, hands clasped before her waist, angel nods in earnest. “oh yes, mum! you look like a goddess.”

“i do, don’t i?” you pout and turn to face her. “shame about not going to the party. who will see me look so splendid?”

before angel can answer, your dressing room door bursts open. you gasp, whirling to face the storm cloud of a man in the doorway.

“gwilym!” you hold a hand against your heaving chest. “you mustn’t scare me like that!”

he looks well, dressed in a crisp suit complete with black tailcoat and trousers and deep green waistcoat. he wears no tie of any sort, though a gold pocket watch chain hangs from his waistcoat pocket. despite his arranged clothing, his demeanor is decidedly less put together. his face is splotchy with an angry flush, his eyes boring holes into yours.

“goodness, what has gotten you into a tiff, husband?”

his nostrils flare. “i told you to be ready by eleven.”

“and i told you i am not going. did you not hear me?”

“i told you it wasn’t an option.”

you sigh and level him an unamused stare. “i am ever so tired of people making decisions for me.”

“we are going—together—to bath.”

you glance down at yourself and lift your arms in defeat. “i’m not dressed for the occasion, so i shan’t keep you and make you late.”

gwilym’s eyes dart to angel then back to you. he seems to be weighing his options, whether or not giving in is worth it. he runs his hands around the brim of his hat, his eyes narrowing in thought. finally, he seems to make up his mind. he pops his hat on and just when you’re ready to wave at his retreating back, he stalks into the room and loops his arms around your waist. you screech when he lifts you, throwing you over his shoulder as if you weigh no more than a feather.

mortification and seething anger crashes over you in rush. the feeling is hot, like boiling water beneath your skin. “unhand me, you villain!” you beat your fists against his muscular back.

he says nothing.

“i swear to you, gwilym lee, if you do not put me down this instance, i will scream!”

again, he says nothing. he walks toward the waiting carriage, the hallways and rooms in which you could seek shelter whizzing past you with the speed of his gait. you kick your legs out like a donkey, attempting to connect with something which might impede his progress.

nothing helps.

the outside air is cool against your hot skin, and you fight him all the way—all arms and legs and nails against whatever flesh you can find—until he deposits you in the plush interior of the carriage. he slams the door in your face, adjusts his crumbled waistcoat, and rounds the carriage to the other side. once seated beside you, his breathing labored and jaw tight, he taps the roof of the vehicle.

“onward, smith!” unlike his breathing, his voice is steady, and you want nothing more than to reach across and tear his windpipe out of his throat.

powerless to stop it, the carriage begins its journey toward bath.

taglist: @im-an-adult-ish @itsametaphorgwil @queenmylovely @captvinswaan @joeslee @gwilymleeisbae @ineloqueent @queen-paladin

#gwilym lee #gwilym lee x reader #gwilym lee fic #bohemian rhapsody #bohemian rhapsody fanfiction #j writes #if you leave fic

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but-master · 3 years ago

Note

[🥀 for guin?]

Tales of Love II No Longer Accepting II So this is uh... really long slkdfj so sorry! No warnings apply except for brief mentions of show-typical violence and so much pining it hurts lol II Words: 2571 II Prompt: 🥀 - disappointed love

When Guinevere was born, she was graced with a name that meant “fair one.” It was auspicious, hopeful, promising her to good things as she grew—good things like a good marriage. One of royal importance and grandeur; it meant she would never want for anything, and she would be blessed by the heavens above.

As she grew into the name, her hair light and long, shining like gold in the sun, the promises only grew more tantalizing. Her father could see increasingly higher-stationed names lining up by the day, as she was reared strong, brave, kind, and just. She was sharp and quick-witted, and though she was no knight, she was brought up with a bow in her hands; no queen of Cameliard would ever find herself defenseless.

At least… not again.

Guinevere had been too young to hear the thunder of horses as they approached, or to know what that meant. She had been just able to open her eyes, just able to cry, when her father was left to pick up the pieces of Cameliard alone, after days of siege. As soon as she’d been old enough to understand what sharp things were, and what they could do to a creature, she’d been fitted for a shortbow, with the assurance that she’d graduate to longbows as she came of age. They would not lose a second queen.

She was only seven summers old when her father interrupted her shooting practice, though, and gently took the bow from her hands, replacing it with a small, wooden box, inside of which rested her mother’s childhood tiara. It was gold, polished to gleaming, and along the metal were set tiny, white pearls. Obligation had caught her at last, and the time for tricks and play had ended.

Days later, when Guinevere turned it over in her hands before she entered the halls of Camelot—for which she’d been given the thing in the first place—she noticed a small dent in the band, about the size of her thumb pad. It made her giggle.

Even her own mother had been a… what was the world her father used sometimes? A “spitfire.”

She’d dented her own crown.

Or perhaps that was what Guinevere chose to imagine. The thought that anything else could have caused the blemish did not once occur to her, even as she grew older, and learned to think deeply about everything, down to the smallest sound or littlest loose thread.

There was something comforting about being like the mother she couldn’t remember, but had always heard good things of.

When she’d entered the halls of Camelot’s court, she’d stood straight, chin up, the combs of the tiara digging into her scalp. She wondered distantly if her mother had complained about the sensation.

She wondered if she was doing as well as she had at her age.

The thought was abandoned, however, as she concentrated hard when she granted Uther Pendragon her best curtsey, and then a second to the beautiful, famed Queen Igraine. Something in her chest swelled when the lady presented her with a private smile for her troubles. It felt like she was being let in on some secret sisterhood. From queen to princess, encouragement passed.

Guinevere practically floated through the dance steps the rest of the night.

Even when Arthur, the boy her age—the Camelot prince—tripped over her feet, she hardly felt it, and did not stumble, despite the way his grip on her hand tightened in his panic, threatening to topple her with him.

Instead, she helped correct his footfalls from the corner of her mouth, and as she did so, he looked at her with huge eyes, blue as the seas in her picture books. He mumbled a “thank you” as soft as kitten fur, as sweet as the honey she put in her milk, when her baroness said she was allowed to—fine, but you can’t do it too often; it’s no good for children to become spoiled.

She didn’t think Arthur was spoiled.

He’d said “thank you,” after all.

His demeanor remained soft as they grew, and she continued to believe in his virtue, but the shy sweetness he’d shown her when he was young began to only occur around her, when they were alone for only flashes of moments, before someone came looking for the pair of them, who weren’t supposed to be alone together outside of the view of chaperones and guards alike. Even when Morgana was around—her dearest friend, and closest companion—Arthur took on the behaviour of a knight, a strong and cold defender, from behind imaginary armor, painted with the colors of Camelot’s flags.

It was not hard to watch, Guinevere was fairly sure. She didn’t think it hurt so bad to see him that way. He was being strong for her.

He was being strong for her, so she started leaving her bow at home when she came to visit Camelot— often for months at a time, much to her father’s delight.

Without her bow, and without regular training, her skills plateaued in her late teenage years, but she was always assured that this was alright.

Especially after Arthur, who’d grown tall and broad, pulled Caliburn from stone, and later, by the candlelight in his chambers, he’d sworn into her hand that she’d never feel endangered again. He’d keep her safe as long as he lived, as long as she allowed him so, as he pressed kisses to her fingers and the tiny bones in her wrists.

Her chest had been fluttery when she’d agreed. She’d let herself be protected, for as long as he would swear to protect her, and she’d leaned over to seal it with a kiss.

The promise that had passed that day had been timed well; Cameliard was inching ever closer to war, as the city tensed for oncoming marauders. To have someone swear to keep her safe, as her thoughts dwelled near always on her father and his kingdom… how could she possibly say no?

Even as she wished for not only her own safety, but the safety of her people, as well, she could not find it in herself to say no. It was selfish, she thought, but, then, she’d never pretended that she wasn’t.

So, truthfully, it was no shock when Leodegrance met with Merlin, Camelot’s court wizard, and Arthur’s official advisor, not a few weeks later, to discuss her dowry.

Merlin was the closest thing to a royal ambassador that Camelot had, for their prince was still so young, not yet married, not yet having achieved victory in war.

Meanwhile, as the invaders pressed harder at Cameliard’s borders, the people were crying out louder and louder by the day for hope, for some good news.

In the end, the decision was easy.

Leodegrance met with Merlin, and the conversation was brief.

One turn of the moon later, she and Arthur were wedded. Her father sent her to live in Camelot full-time, and with her, she brought a grand round table made of sturdy oak—it had been Uther’s before he’d died, had been passed to her father for safekeeping, until Arthur could inherit it.

As Arthur was granted a golden crown and declared king of all Camelot—which now included Cameliard— it was deemed time. So, he was given the round table, and began to seek out those who would fill its chairs.

Guinevere was passed over entirely.

It didn’t hurt as much as she’d expected it would.

When she was younger, her father had told her stories of her mother. He’d pointed at the stars from where Guinevere craned her neck out her window to see, and he’d described to her which ones her mother loved; he’d told her the stories she’d told him, the ones she’d make up on the spot to describe why she saw shapes in them. She was creative, her father said. She was creative and bold, and her humor could have made a sailor’s toes curl. She’d had hair like gold as well, and when Guinevere was old enough to understand how to do her own, she’d asked her father how her mother wore it.

Every morning from then on, she’d tied it into a bun, securing a braid over the crown of her head, and smiled at her reflection.

But there was no place at the Round Table for braids and star stories.

Besides, she had a place to sit already. She’d gained it upon her wedding day, achieved it when she married Arthur.

At the ceremony, she’d worn her hair that same way, deft fingers flying through the steps, as gracefully as when she carefully selected each arrow in her quiver when she was home.

But she was not running her thumb over fletches that day. Instead, she was brushing her hair, length by length, treating it with gentle oils, until it shone as brilliantly as Caliburn itself. She’d strung flowers throughout it all, and had nestled a pretty gold crown behind the braid.

In the mirror, she’d squared her shoulders, and had not smiled.

Arthur looked beautiful, when she strode in to lay eyes on him, standing in the church beside Merlin, who wore his typical armor, though it was polished and cleaned. A blue and gold cape had been draped over his shoulders, and the wizard regarded the affair down his nose, as he seemed always to do, no matter what situation he was in.

Guinevere couldn’t say she blamed him this time, though.

There was gold and pearl and sapphire everywhere, and it was suffocatingly bright. Guinevere clutched the rope in her hands as if it would whisk her away from all of this.

How could she celebrate now? Her kingdom was being ransacked, surely, as she stood in a gown of opulence, to wrap a cord around her wrist and swear fealty to a different king.

The words of love were not heavy or bitter. She would not pretend they were.

She cared for Arthur, truly. As surely as she cared for him, she spoke the words, and they felt like cream on her tongue. Not sour or difficult to swallow, but they coated her mouth, made her throat feel dry.

She resisted clearing it, and instead, let Arthur kiss her lips gently. It was not the first time they’d kissed, nor would ever be their last, but as he swept her into it in front of the enormous crowd, she wondered if he felt as dispassionate about it as she did.

Kissing him like this was a show, a signal that their marriage would be consummated, a signal that they’d be bound together forever, even after the rope fell to the plush, velvet carpet of the church’s altar, having served its purpose.

Guinevere was now, and forever more, Queen, not of Cameliard, but of Camelot, somewhere which she did not despise, but equally, somewhere that was not her home.

Perhaps having no place at the Table was the better fate, after all.

The closest thing to home that she felt anymore was when she was with Morgana. A knight who felt so dispassionately about her kingdom would do no good.

Still… she relearned her bow skills anyway, when Arthur was off on quests, or when he didn’t ask where she was going when she left the castle, too wrapped up in duty to even notice her absence.

Morgana didn’t mind when she brought her bow, though, when the two of them left together, every so often.

In fact, Morgana would try to hit her arrows, arced high into the air, with bursts of magic and sparks, which lit Guinevere’s eyes up, as she watched. Yellow as the pretty flowers in the meadows of the Wild Wood, Morgana’s magic was adept, powerful, stunning. It stole Guinevere’s breath almost as often as seeing Morgana’s hair on fire when sunlight hit it did.

Guinevere wanted to touch it.

She wasn’t sure if anyone else had ever dared touch a candle flame, but sometimes when she was alone, she stared at the black, chalky wicks, as they curled beneath the orange fire which perched so carefully upon them, and thought of reaching over, quick and sly, to see if the flames really were soft as they looked, as soft as Morgana’s hair looked.

Sometimes, she’d get close. She’d reach one finger near enough for it to sting in the heat that surrounded the candle at her bedside; she’d flex her fingers and almost reach out a hand to brush stray hairs back into place, when they fell across Morgana’s eyes or nose. But she’d always hiss and pull her finger away before she could burn it; she’d always clasp her hands in front of herself demurely, if only to keep from extending her wanton hand.

She was married. She’d sworn loyalty to Arthur.

She could not jeopardize that for wanting something she had no place wanting, to begin with.

Despite her best efforts, though, it burned all the same, entirely unresponsive to even her strongest resistances, her tensest moments of please no’s. It burned deep in the pit of her stomach, unshakeable, unyielding, at its worst during nights when she couldn’t fall asleep. When she stirred through fitful dozing, in and out, under the grey light of the moon.

Those were the nights when her nightgown tangled with the bedsheets because she’d rolled one way and back again so much that she couldn’t remember which way she favored for sleep, and when her restlessness would wake even her heavy sleeper of a husband, whose blue eyes were bright in the dark, when he slipped them open with worry. Try as he might to insist that his sister got all of the magic in the family, Guinevere had never once believed him, seeing the way he practically glowed in the pitch of their room, even when their curtains were drawn.

“Guinevere, why are you still awake?” He would ask.

She’d never know what to say. He would ask her something to that effect every time, and she would never know what to say, no matter how often it happened.

“Oh… merely thinking, Arthur. It’s nothing.” She’d reassure him, brushing her fingers over his brow, in an attempt to placate him, silence his questions.

It never worked. Instead, his eyes would pierce her through, and he’d level her with a look, disbelieving and evermore concerned. “If it were nothing,” he’d say quietly, “You wouldn’t be in fits over it.”

And she’d huff a soft laugh, murmur, “guilty,” and pretend to smile back as he’d break into a tiny chuckle, before pulling her into his arms, holding her close to his chest, thinking this a merciful comfort.

He’d go on to kiss her cheek and tell her that whatever it was, he would keep it from harming her for now and forever, and she would come up just shy of believing him.

Then, he’d slip back into sleep, and she’d lie awake, feigning it, resisting movement, even if she had an itch on her nose, so as not to awaken him again, and Guinevere would close her eyes and pretend that someone else was holding her, instead.

And sometimes, if she was lucky, then maybe she would eventually drift into a nap of sorts, only minutes long, and dream pleasantly of touching candles, and a long, red braid.

#// so #// guinevere had a lot to say about this one lol #// uh #// sorry it's also her backstory: abridged sljfdkslfjkdsl #ask #flamekeeperbellroc #out on business #by decree of the queen

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jaeminlore · 7 years ago

Text

Come What May | Yukhei

PLAYLIST | SPINOFF summary: i will love you until my dying day

words: 15.8k

category: seasons au, prince!yukhei, angst, fluff

warning(s): mentions of emotional abuse (not from yukhei)

The ballroom was a rich array of rose gold and pink champagne, and it just about matched the hue of your dress and of the bubbly rosé that passed through your lips and down your dry throat. As the night grew darker, the ballroom grew louder with the murmur of many different socialites and nobles.

You didn't feel eighteen. Despite the week's marking up to this day and the golden crown embedded with morganite stones sat atop your head, this entire coronation ball didn't feel any different than the countless others you had been taught to persevere through.

It didn't feel any less stifling. You still felt a thin sheen of sweat across the back of your neck, hidden under your heavily styled curls. Your open-back dress did nothing for you when countless suitors and lords often had their palm against your bare skin, making you feel stuffy despite the open layout of the ballroom.

Rain pitter-pattered outside of the floor-to-ceiling windows. It was almost midnight, and yet the band still played upbeat tunes with their cellos and trumpets. The soft jazz filled your ears with a lullaby you had heard since you were a child. You could practically hear your mother's voice singing to you as she rocked you back and forth. You could remember the day she stopped and claimed that lullabies and fairytales were for children. Even the summer rain couldn't drown out those kinds of memories.

"Having fun, birthday girl?" Adela, a close friend and confidant, sidled up next to you with two flukes of champagne in between her lithe fingers.

"I hope both of those aren't for you," you let a chuckle slip as the girl's eyes widened.

"Heavens no." She took a sip out of one of the flukes, slowly to let the residue of her red lipgloss stick to the glass. "I was hoping Prince Kun was around. You know I've had my eyes on him for awhile now."

You sneered and looked around ballroom for the prince of the Western Kingdom. "Why him? He always smells of horses and dirt and Mother says that an unclean scent is the sign of an unkept man."

"Your mother only says that because the Western Kingdom has the least funds when it comes to imported goods. If he were as rich as the southern prince your mother wouldn't mention a word."

You rolled your eyes, choosing not to argue since you knew she was right. "I suppose."

"You know what all of us are really waiting for?"

"What's that, Adela?" Although you were sure you knew the answer. This was a suitors ball as much as it was a coronation ball after all, and your mother would be choosing a man to wed you off to before the night was done.

"We want to see who on this earth could be up to your mother's standards."

"We'll be here all night," you mumbled, slipping one of the few children mulling around a soft smile. How you longed to be one of them, happy to be dressed up and excited about the entire aspect of the ball. Your customized pink gown was supposed to be the highlight of your night; something to make you feel better about this whole ordeal. Instead, it made you feel like a pig to the slaughter. That is, if the slaughter were a giant ballroom filled with rich, old, creepy men. And your mother only cared about the rich part.

Most lords in the kingdom were gross men often addicted to gambling and whatever foreign rum the pirates sold to them each month. As horrible as it seemed, gambling brought in money, and since he wouldn't technically be the king anyway, your mother didn't care how he acquired his funds.

You could joke about it, as could many other noblewomen of the court, because their fate seemed to always be in the hands of these men. Most thought that as the princess, you might get an easy way out. Perhaps you'd get to choose your betrothed.

They didn't know your mother. Despite being the queen of a small, dying kingdom just east of the Southern Kingdom, she had the mindset of a tyrant and a smart businesswoman. While her subjects were openly bailing and jumping ship to more economically stable kingdoms, your mother still wanted to be the richest and the most financially secure. Her last hope for financial stability and the chance to keep her socialite lifestyle was finding you the richest suitor in this ballroom.

You knew for a fact that the richer the man was the nastier he seemed to be; the more entitled he seemed to be. Which is why you chose to protect yourself no matter who your mother chose for you.

"Look who arrived," Adela said with a dreamy sigh in her voice. "Prince Yukhei. He's second to Prince Kun, you know."

"Yukhei? Of the Southern Kingdom?" You craned your neck, searching for the young man you often heard rumors of. Too many rumors to really tell which ones were true and which ones were false.

One rumor was true, however, and that was how economically sound the Southern Kingdom was.

"Oh no," you said. Just as you spoke, you took notice of your mother's silhouette making her way over to the aforementioned prince. "She's gonna pick him. I know it. No one can be richer than the prince of the Southern Kingdom."

"Why would he agree, though?" Adela handed you the second fluke of champagne and you accepted it absentmindedly, eyes still trained on the pair.

You shrugged. "Everyone knows how money-hungry my mother is. She gets the money, and he gets a new play toy. That's all this party is."

"Don't say things like that. You were just crowned princess."

"—of a dying and crime-ridden kingdom, yes," you snapped. "I must seem so juvenile and annoying to the royals who actually worked for their money. The ones who actually care about their people must hate me."

You would never tell Adela, just as you would never tell your mother, but the fear of marrying someone who hated you — someone who wished to get back at you and your mother — was a thought you couldn't shake.

You would get married, your mother would get your share of the marriage gifts (which would be more than enough money to sustain her) while you were left living with a man whose intentions were unknown to you. You were left at his mercy, or lack of such.

You were just an item in your mother's lot, and according to the handshake you were witnessing, you had just been auctioned off.

♡

Pearls. You hated pearls, but not nearly as much as you hated your mother's voice and the way she could spout off rules like she had them memorized. Maybe she did; you never felt up to asking.

Her words were just as restricting as the pink pearls encased around your neck, if not more-so as they just got sharper (her words, not the stupid pearls that you still felt like ripping off.)

"You'll be betrothed for a month or two, maybe even more. If you ruin this deal, and any possibility of us getting the most money from this marriage, than you will hear from me, alright?"

Corsets. You hated corsets because your mother insisted on them being pulled far too tight. The heat of the small carriage did nothing but make you more lightheaded, so you tried to focus on the open window and the slight breeze that passed its way. "Yes, Mother."

"Prince Yukhei is marrying you under his father's orders. I don't know what they want from you, but see to it that it is done, and you give them no reason to question our motives."

Gloves. You hated gloves because you had overactive sweat glands, and the white silk that encased your hands felt gross and sticky against your skin. "Yes, Mother."

"After the marriage, you send the money to me and I'll reclaim my kingdom. Then you can do whatever you'd like when it comes to the prince: I don't care. However, leaving him could count as treason, so read up on your laws or whatever."

The prince. You hated the prince, and not for who he was or where he lived. You hated him because with every mention of Prince Yukhei you felt even more trapped in this dumb game of life. There was no happy ending for you. Either you become the prince's wife who bends at his every will or you flee the country and run from the law for the rest of your life. "Yes, Mother."

"It's so sticky and hot here," your mother sniffed at the humid air and harrumphed, "I won't be visiting, except for the marriage. Which you'll be inviting me to, I assume."

Your mother. You hated your mother for the way her voice held threat after threat behind her regal tone. You hated her for the fact that she only ever raised you to sell you off for as much money a dowry and a few wedding gifts could give her. You hated her for shipping you off to one of the most powerful princes in the world, unsure of his exact intentions with her daughter, and yet not really caring after he put a price on you.

He put a price on you: a human. This dowry offer was beginning to feel more like a slave trade and less like a marriage agreement. The thought made your toes curl in anger.

You hated yourself most of all, for always keeping your mouth shut. You hated yourself for letting your mother go this far and yet never fighting back. You hated yourself for not being able to cry for years because you had mastered the art of holding your true feelings in.

You hated yourself for walking out of the carriage and onto the stone courtyard, standing still as the drawbridge shut instead of running far, far away.

♡

Yukhei had never been so thankful for stone walls and ceiling fans. Living in the Southern Kingdom had to be the worst, simply because of the blistering heat that never seemed to let up. It was summer every day here, and that meant sweat, mosquitoes, and minimal clothing. It also meant strawberry ice pops and trips to the palace's private pool.

It meant sluggish morning and frustration at clothes. While he wanted to make a good first impression, he also didn't want to melt on the spot. That was, of course, an overreaction — as was everything else with Prince Yukhei — but he couldn't help but feel tired and slightly crispy under the hot southern sun.

"Look at my arms, Jungwoo. They're practically roasted at this point."

Jungwoo, Yukhei's royal advisor, rolled his eyes. "Please, you drama queen. Your arms haven't even gotten their usual summer tan. You're overreacting. At least you aren't in a heavy dress waiting for your late prince to come greet you."

Yukhei blinked at Jungwoo's obvious hint before he finally started. "Oh! Come on, then! I can't be rude on our first day together."

Moments later, Yukhei arrived in front of you hurried, disheveled, and out of breath. He could feel the sweat beading under his bangs, and the heavy up and down of his chest. He could feel Jungwoo's disapproving gaze on him. He could feel the sun beating down on his face.

Most of all, he could feel your solemn eyes tracing over his figure as he leaned down, hands on his knees in an attempt to quickly catch his breath.

He risked a look. Then he straightened up and coughed into his hand, suddenly feeling sweaty from something other than the heat.

While he had seen you at the party (one short glance when your mother had gestured to you), nothing quite compared to your beauty up close.

There was nothing over-extraordinary about you, not to the average eye. However Yukhei found himself getting fascinated by the way your cheeks lifted slightly even if you weren't smiling and the cute little freckle barely visible above your lip. He blinked again. "Hi. Your Highness, I mean."

He bowed and you curtsied. It was all very formal; nothing that Yukhei liked. However, he never got to do the things he liked.

Like right now, the excitement of a new friend had him wanting to grab your hand and pull you away to his favorite places in the palace. But he couldn't, because the two of you had meetings with his father about the betrothal and a bunch of other technical things that made Yukhei's head spin.

To distract himself, he focused on the blush-colored pearls around your neck. They looked too tight.

Before he could ask you if you felt okay, your mother stepped in front of you and gave him a grim smile. "Prince Yukhei. I would like to discuss the dowry with your father before I leave. Perhaps you could lead me to him?"

Yukhei opened his mouth in shock, surprised at such a blatant request to talk to the king. He risked a look at you, but for some reason you were refusing to look at him.

He recalled your mother's words only nights before at your coronation ball: "She wants to get married to save her kingdom. I told her not to worry about it, that I'd take care of everything, but she insists. If your father could supply a dowry in return for her hand in marriage, she could save the kingdom she loves so dearly."

So Yukhei had agreed, and after a long talk with his father on the subject it was official that the two of you would be wed.

But if you wanted this so badly, why were you avoiding his gaze? If this was your choice, why did your mother seem the most excited?

♡

"This is your room for now," Yukhei said as he opened the door to one of the palace's guest rooms. "We're having a room in the west wing renovated for the both of us, and we'll have a meeting with the contractors soon about what we would each like in it."

You looked at him for the first time since being left alone with him. "What about a barre?"

"A bar?" Yukhei sent a confused look your way as you brushed your fingers along the canopy of the bed. "For drinks?"

With a shake of your head and a giggle Yukhei thought was quite possibly the cutest sound in the world, you answered him. "No, like for ballet."

You didn't elaborate, and Yukhei didn't ask you to despite the burning urge in his chest. Part of him wanted to sit you down and have you tell him all about your life. If the two of you would be spending the rest of your lives together, it was better to become friends sooner than later. He didn't expect you to fall in love with him or anything, especially because this marriage was purely political, but he truly did want to be your friend.

"So... what do you do for fun?"

"Nothing," you said.

"Nothing?"

"Nope."

Yukhei flopped onto your vanity chair and watched you examine all of your new furniture. "If the mattress is too soft or too firm we can change it."

"What am I? Goldilocks?" You giggled again.

"No, but you're a princess and princesses should be comfortable."

You winced. "I don't think I've ever known a princess to be comfortable. We aren't made to be comfortable, Prince Yukhei. We're made to look pretty while speaking to our subjects, so that they are distracted from whatever else is happening in the kingdom."

"That's a bleak way to look at it," Yukhei mumbled. Maybe this wasn't going to be as fun as he thought. Maybe you didn't even want to be his friend. "Can I ask you something?"

You hummed, which Yukhei took as confirmation.

"Are we going to be friends through this deal?"

Before you could answer, one of the servants peaked through the door. "Princess? Your mother would like to say her goodbyes."

You checked your pearls in the mirror and looked at Yukhei, "If I'm being honest, probably not."

Your words cut harder than they should've. Yukhei was so surprised by your choice of words that it took him a moment or two before he scrambled onto his feet. "Oh! Let me escort you!"

♡

For weeks you were able to avoid Prince Yukhei by throwing yourself into the hustle and bustle of wedding planning. It wasn't to be rude to the prince, but after getting into the swing of things and memorizing a new schedule for yourself, you had managed to forget about him.

It helped that he had left you alone ever since your first day of meeting, when you had told him that you didn't want to be friends. While it was harsh, it was true. You hated the prince for agreeing to practically buy you from your mother. You hated him for treating you like property.

You hated the heat of the Southern Kingdom and the way no one told you to pack lighter clothing. You hated that your mother visited nearly every weekend to make sure you hadn't slipped up and admitted her true intensions. You kept your lips sealed day after day, refusing to talk to anyone except when absolutely necessary.

The problem was that day after day it got harder to ignore the nice staff, and the even nicer prince.

Prince Yukhei had a way of not pushing your boundaries yet somehow always being on your mind. Maybe it was the flowers he sometimes left on your doorstep (with cute notes like where to find him if you wanted to go for a swim, or if you wanted to try the world's best ice pops), or the way he kept a respectable distance without ever making it seem awkward. He somehow made you feel welcome even from the other side of the room.

The shared bedroom was almost done. Your barre had not been included in it, despite your request. It made you upset for the first few days after realizing it wasn't included in the final blueprint, but then you realized that the prince could've done a lot more than not include your barre after nearly two months of avidly avoiding him.

So you didn't bring it up. There were lots of other things you didn't bring up, like the flowers he left outside your door, or the new wardrobe of summer-friendly clothing, or the subtle delay of the wedding for a few weeks until you were more comfortable with the idea.

Prince Yukhei was too sweet, too accommodating, that you felt something had to be up. Maybe he was one of those guys who had a ton of patience to take the time to make a girl feel nice so that he could get what he wants.

But you had a hard time figuring out just what it was that Yukhei wanted.

Within just the couple of months you've known him, you noticed that he was pretty simpleminded. Not in a bad way either, but rather in a cute way where he fell in love with the smallest of things and the littlest of moments, and that made him hard to figure out. How many people could love so many things despite their obvious flaws and uselessness?

How many people could be nice to a stubborn princess who refused to open up?

All of these thoughts had you constantly tossing and turning each night, wondering if you were too harsh on the prince, and if — after the wedding, when this was all over — he'd ever accept the truth and look past it to become your friend.

You'd like to be friends with him.

You turned on your side and sighed audibly. In reply, your stomach grumbled, which made you almost laugh. In your mind's eye you could see the note Yukhei had left you about the strawberry ice pops, and only now did you actually begin to think about how good they might be.

You shuffled to Yukhei's room and knocked softly on the door, only to get a soft groan as a reply. "Jungwoo, please tell me it's not already morning."

"It's not Jungwoo. It's me."

On the other side of the door there was a loud crash and a shuffle as you heard the prince practically race across his room. He pulled the door open and leaned against it almost casually, as if his nightstand wasn't toppled over in the background with a vase of familiar flowers strewn across the floor.

The sight would've made you giggled, had it not been usurped by the fact that the prince was in minimal clothing of only pajama pants or that his hair was in every single direction known to mankind. He looked cute. Endearing, even.

He rubbed his eyes and grinned, "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"I'm hungry," you answered. "I want to try some of those ice pops you keep bragging about."

Yukhei brightened visibly, as if he had been waiting ages for you to ask him about his ice pops. "We have to go down to the kitchen."

He grabbed your hand — after asking you first if it was okay to — then pulled you along the corridor, down the staircase, and towards the main kitchen all while trying to stifle his excited giggles and quick footsteps.

You on the other hand couldn't make a sound. Not when you were busy trying your absolute hardest to not stare at the prince's back, and the way his shoulder blades moved beneath his skin as he pulled you closer to him. You tried not to notice just how much of a difference his waist-to-shoulder ratio was, and yet that was the only shape you could really see when you closed your eyes to blink. You tried not to notice his skin and how it was so much darker than it had been the first time you saw him. It suited him. It made him seem like one with the summer nights and the sunny mornings.

The prince was handsome; you could admit as much.

You had been in the kitchen before. It was along the main corridor of the castle, just behind the large dining hall and across from the servant's quarters. While it wasn't open to just anyone, the royal family had the freedom to drop in whenever they pleased, which meant you also got to drop in whenever you liked to.

You weren't sure you'd ever get used to the feeling you got when you walked over the kitchen threshold. The place was so homey, so cozy looking as if it were made for a quaint family of three — technically, you supposed, it was — and yet it was big enough to be filled with many chefs and caterers and staff day in and day out.

Yukhei bounded straight for the fridge, pulling it open with his free hand and standing in front of it despite the freezing temperature it let out.

You shivered and tied your robe tighter around yourself while he sorted through the different ice trays. Your mother's voice appeared in your head again, those same commands to always be perfect for the royal family. Her rules on how to behave so that you could get the most out of this marriage. Correction: so she could get the most out of this marriage.

You sat on one of the high stools with your back straight and your hands folded across your lap. Maybe you shouldn't do things so abruptly; things like asking the prince to make you ice pops in the middle of the night. You were positive your mother wouldn't approve.

Maybe this was all a test. Maybe Prince Yukhei was trying to see if you would break character and maybe say something to him that could be used against you. Maybe this was all a grand plan to foil your mother's plans and you were just a pawn—

"Here they are!" Yukhei turned around and grinned. The dim light of the refrigerator accented his silhouette just before he kicked the door closed with his foot and began walking towards you, tray in hand. He pulled out two pink ice pops and handed you one. "I made them with the cook. She taught me how to mix strawberries, milk, and ice to make it even tastier."

You hesitated to give him a smile, still nervous from your previous thoughts. In the end, it came out as a grimace which you quickly hid behind your ice pop. You licked the frozen treat. "Oh. It's really good."

Yukhei's entire face broke out into a grin, not holding back any happiness as his cheeks bunched up and his lips drew upward. "Really? It's the first batch I made by myself."

You wanted to tell him that it wasn't that hard to blend milk, ice, and strawberries together, but that would've included taking away his smile and you weren't sure you had the heart to do that.

"Actually," Yukhei broke off a corner of his ice pop using his lips. He paused for a moment, poking the chunk of dessert around his mouth before continuing, "I wanted to talk to you about something."

"What is it, Your Highness?"

Yukhei furrowed his eyebrows and looked ready to say something, before shaking his head and returning to the conversation at hand. "I have to go to the Northern Kingdom for a bit. Just before our wedding, and I was wondering if you'd like to go with me?"

You froze. "Oh. Um... Is that proper? To travel with you alone?"

"No, I suppose not. I've never really done things the proper way anyway, but I get it that you have," Yukhei shot you an awkward smile. "You should loosen up more, Y/n. It's just me. You're going to be around me for the rest of your life, so it'd be nice for us to be friends."

You weren't sure how to tell Yukhei that you didn't want to be friends. You weren't sure how to tell him that this was all just another one of your mother's schemes for money and you had no wish to marry him. You didn't know how to tell him that you had no wish to save your dying kingdom, but rather you'd let it rot and rust with the people who turned it.

You didn't know how to tell him that you missed the old days, when your father was a king and he ruled the kingdom with kindness and love. You didn't know how to tell him that your mother was corrupt even to let your father die, because the cure for his disease was far too expensive when there were other things to buy. You didn't know how to tell him that you were both just pawns in your mother's game, and you hated it. You hated everything about it and if you weren't so scared of your mother you would've left already. You would've gone far away to a place where she could never find you. You'd go to the Eastern Kingdom and live by the sea.

"I've never seen the sea," you choked out, suddenly overwhelmed with tears of frustration.

"What? Y/n, talk to me," Yukhei rounded the counter and wrapped his bare arms around your waist. His lips were just by your ear, blowing cool air against the shell as he tried to calm you down.

He didn't understand what was going on. None of this was fair to him.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, clinging to his shoulders and hiding your face in the junction between his shoulder and collarbone. "I'm so sorry I dragged you into this, Prince Yukhei. I'm sorry."

Yukhei moved away from you, just enough to press his thumb against your tearstained cheek and urge you to look into his dark eyes. "Y/n, I can't help you if you don't tell me what's going on. Talk to me."

You shook your head and stood up, pushing him away. "I can't. I shouldn't have lost my composure like that. I'm sorry, Your Highness."

You bowed and walked away, hoping the prince would never bring it up again.

♡

Yukhei knocked on the door of his father's chamber, well aware that the older man was asleep for the night, "Father, can I talk to you about something?"

Yukhei had always admired his father for the way he ruled his kingdom. While other kings chose to rule with dignity and pride, Yukhei's father showed humility towards his kingdom. He spoke up for equality, and made changes happen.

He was just as eccentric as his son. Sometimes he walked around the castle in his silk pajamas, talking about the new alliance with the Northern Kingdom. Other times he had his servants wake Yukhei up at three in the morning for an impromptu chocolate cake party. Sometimes he grew vulnerable, and openly spoke about missing his wife, the late queen, and wishing she could be there to watch their son grow up.

His Majesty took care of people. He would know what to do.

Yukhei felt like a small kid again, crawling under his father's covers and grabbing on of the many throw pillows just to have something to fiddle with while he talked.

His father sat up, back against the headboard, and turned on his reading lamp. "What's wrong?"

Yukhei looked down at the pillow and messed with the golden tassels. "Father, is she okay? Y/n, is she safe here?"

"She's more safe here than she could be anywhere else."

Yukhei pouted. "You always give me vague answers. Come on, she finally talked to me — on her own will — for the first time and she broke down in the middle of our conversation to apologize to me. For what? What's going on? You have to know."

"I do know," his father spoke calmly. "I know that Princess Y/n's Mother has her on a tight leash. I know that this marriage plan isn't for the revival of their kingdom, like her mother told you, but yet for her to receive more funds. I know that Princess Y/n has been used by her mother most of her life, and while marriage isn't ideal, it's one of the only ways I could get her out of her situation."

Yukhei felt like crying. "So she's out of one bad situation just to be forced into marriage with me? Her mother still comes around all the time, Father. If she's so horrible why do you let her come around?"

The king sighed. "I'm sorry, son. I suppose I should've spoken to you about this sooner. It's been hard for me to hide it from the staff, but all of it has been for Princess Y/n's protection. As soon as the wedding is over — as soon as the money gets sent to her mother — Y/n is free. She can get the marriage annulled and she can go wherever she'd like. She'll be free."

"She's never been to the sea before," Yukhei mumbled. "She could go to the sea. She'd love it there."

"She would. And Yukhei, I'm sure she'd love it here if it weren't for the circumstances. I'm sorry it's like this. I'm sorry royal affairs are messy and callous and secretive, but it's important to me that she be set free. It's important to me that she let herself be able to live away from the gaze of her mother."

Yukhei thought of the first time he saw you, and how beautiful he thought you were. He thought of all the random times he had caught you laughing with the staff, or smiling at Jungwoo. He thought of the flowers he sent you in the hopes that you'd open up and become his friend.

He thought of how you tried not to smile around him, and how you always tried to stay proper. He thought that maybe you assumed he was just another enemy. You didn't trust him. You probably didn't trust many people.

"I want her to trust me. I want to give her reasons to trust me."

"Yukhei," his father's voice took on a chiding tone. "You need to be careful. If you find yourself wanting to marry her — for real — and she wants to leave, you're going to have to let her."

Yukhei knew what his father was saying. Son, you get attached too easily. You always have. Don't be so childish. Learn from previous mistakes and keep your distance. These are political affairs and you shouldn't get so caught up in them.

Yukhei knew what his heart was saying. It was saying that you needed a friend. It was telling him that all these political decisions were annoying and hard to swallow and it would be good if you had someone who understood by your side.

You had no one else. How could he not try to be your friend?

♡

"Y/n? Can I come in?"

You looked up from the letter you had been writing for your mother. The sound of Prince Yukhei's voice had startled you. He hadn't spoken to you since the night you broke down, and you were hoping to avoid him until the next morning when he left to visit the Northern Kingdom. You were hoping to avoid him until the wedding itself.

Two more months wouldn't be too bad, would it? "Come in, Your Highness."

The prince poked his head through the door and gave you a large grin. "You can call me Yukhei, you know. I call you by your name."

"Shouldn't we add our titles?" You whispered, rubbing your feet together awkwardly under the table. "Isn't that proper?"

"You're always wanting to do the proper thing," Yukhei giggled and leaned his hip against your desk. "It's cute. You're cute."

Heat rushed to your ears as you avoided his eyes and turned back to your letter. "Fine. I'll call you Yukhei. Happy?"

"Very," he hummed. He picked up your dragon-shaped paperweight and admired it for a moment. "I'd be happier if we were friends, though."

Your heart thumped against your chest. "You know, Yukhei, I've never had a friend before. That's why you make me so nervous. That's why I don't like being around you. I don't know how to act."

"Act like yourself," Yukhei said.

"I can't. I don't know how." You looked down at your clasped hands and licked your lips, "I know how to be a princess and I know how to obey my mother, but I don't know how to be a friend and I certainly don't know how to be myself. It's too late for all that so you shouldn't worry about it."

Yukhei pouted. Your eyes trailed down to his lips and you found yourself wondering if you'd have to kiss him at the wedding and whether or not they were as kissable as they looked.

"Y/n, are you listening to me?" Yukhei giggled. "I'm asking if you would like to go to the village with me, as my friend."

"I told you I don't know how to be a friend."

"I'll teach you," Yukhei said. He gave you a soft, crooked smile. "I'll take you to my favorite places and show you all the things me and my friends do."

He was so kind. Too kind for you, when all of this was just a ploy for money. But still you couldn't ignore the hopeful grin on his face. You also couldn't ignore the curiosity of what was in the village.

"I've never been to any village besides my own," you said.

Yukhei grabbed your hand and pulled you until you were standing in front of him, chest to chest and looking somehow excited and nervous. He always looked excited and nervous — almost like a puppy. "I'm willing to bet you haven't been to a lot of places. So come with me, and we'll be okay."

You'd never tell him, but his persistence to become your friend — to keep you from being lonely — made you feel warmth in pit of your stomach. The fact that he kept including you made you feel like someone might actually want to hang out with you for you, and not because your mother made them hang out with you. "Okay. Show me your favorite places."

"Well first you need to have proper village clothing."

"I thought you told me I shouldn't have to be proper," you teased as Yukhei opened the doors of your wardrobe.

Yukhei pulled out a light shirt and a pair of shorts. "Banter: nice. It's a great part of friendship. Put these on."

"Get out first," You laughed, slapping Yukhei with the clothes he just handed you.

Yukhei closed the door behind him, but you could still hear him as he whispered through the door. "Tell me when you're done!"

♡

You were thankful Yukhei suggested the clothes that he did. If the palace was hot, even with its stone walls and fans, outside where the sun shone directly down was practically a sauna. Mucky and humid, you could feel the sweat forming at the back of your neck. "Where are we going?"

"To the schoolhouse!" Yukhei said happily. "The kids have recess around this time and I try to visit at least once a week to play with them."

You modded, half-listening to him and half-admiring the trees around you. "That's nice of you. Is it for a promotion? Is someone paying you?"

"What?" Yukhei chuckled, "No ones paying me. We don't do stuff for promotions or fame or whatever. I just come to the village whenever I want and everyone is usually happy to see me. Except Barb — she's the butcher — but I think that's because she knows I'm onto her. I'm pretty sure she eats raw meat."

"Gross," you crinkled your nose, but your mind was elsewhere as the main center of the village came into view. How embarrassing to assume that Yukhei would be doing something as charity. You secretly hoped he wouldn't look as deeply into it as you had, and would just let it pass.

Maybe there would come a day where you didn't second guess people's motives.

The village was beautiful; unlike anything you'd ever seen before. There were hills upon hills, some grassy and bare, and others rocky with small flowers peaking through the cracks and crevices. But the most surprising thing were the small doors and windows dig into the sides of each hill. Little stones pathways led from the doors to the cobblestone streets.

"The houses used to be aboveground," Yukhei whispered. His lips brushed just against the shell of your ear and it sent a warm shiver down your spine. "We turned the houses into shops and made houses out of all the rolling hills so that it would be cooler for everyone. Our engineers are working on the technology to make air conditioners that won't break down during every heat wave."

You wondered why he was so casual about the heat, when it seemed like a problem to you. However, everyone you had met from the Southern Kingdom seemed happy and comfortable. They had become inventive with ways to stay cool, and you thought it was very admirable. Your village didn't known how to fix itself and you didn't know how to fix it. But the Southern Kingdom made it possible. Prince Yukhei and his father made it possible for their people to live happily and comfortably.

You wondered what your village would've been like if you and your mother had taken the time to fix it. "They're cool, Yukhei."

He wriggled his eyebrows, "Literally."

His laugh echoed through the hills as you shoved him gently. Like an alarm, or a call from an old friend, people suddenly started coming out of their houses. "Is that Prince Yukhei I hear?"

"It's me, George," Yukhei waved at the old man, who looked rather delighted to see the prince. "How are the crops?"

The old man shrugged and tipped his straw hat up to get a better look at Yukhei. "Same old, same old. I'll have some broccoli in the market by Friday."

"I'll be sure to buy some," Yukhei winked. Then his mouth formed a sort of an 'o' shape and his large hand made its way to the small of your back. He pushed you forward. "This is Princess Y/n."

"How do you do?" George dipped his hat down, this time in a friendly nod. "Tired of our hyper prince yet?"

You snuck a look at Yukhei, who had his hand to his chest as he dramatically declared treason. You giggled, "Not yet."

A look of realization made its way to George's face. "Oh, I see. So where are you two lovebirds headed?"

Yukhei grinned, unfazed by the nickname and rather excited to talk about his current journey. "We're visiting the kids!"

"Good. My grandkids won't shut up about you. They've made pictures for your next visit ... I probably shouldn't have told you that ... Pretend I didn't say anything."

Yukhei looked sincere. "We won't. Our surprised faces are really good."

He and George looked to you as if you needed to reassure them both. "Y-Yeah! We're great at looking ... surprised?"

"You two are cute," George mentioned just before turning towards his crops.

"Thank you!" Yukhei grinned, throwing an arm around your shoulder.

You wondered how Yukhei was so comfortable with the villagers. Part of you felt ashamed because you weren't like that. You had never taken the time to learn your people's names, not even when they were nice and surprisingly not criminals.

Yukhei steered you towards the shops, which did indeed look like old single-roomed homes. Now they were decorated with awnings and wooden signs ranging in different sizes that advertised just what was being sold inside.

Farther still appeared a bigger house, surrounded by flower gardens and scattered children's toys. A small picket fence kept the yard away from the path. Just outside of it was a sign signifying that this was the schoolhouse.

Before you could ask Yukhei about it, or alternatively, be warned about what he was doing, the door to the school building opened and three children ran out. "Prince Yukhei!"

Yukhei unlatched the gate and ran in, crouching down so that he was eye-level with all the children and could hug him.

And hug him they did. Soon all the children — maybe fifteen in all — were milling around the tall boy, ignoring the protests of their teacher from inside. "Kids! You can't just run outside when there are still five minutes left until re—Oh. Your Highness."

Yukhei stood up to bow at the teacher. "Hello, Irene. This is my betrothed, Princess Y/n. I thought we'd come visit the class on their break."

Irene was beautiful. Her black hair was drawn up into a ponytail, with small curls falling out just to frame her flushed face. She turned to you, "Hello, Princess."

"Hi," you said in a low voice. Something about her intimidated you.

"Prince Yukhei!" One of the children caught your attention: a small boy with curly red hair whose voice seemed much louder than the others. "We drew pictures for you!"

"No way!" Yukhei matched his excitement with a look of surprised glee. He was right: he could fake a surprised expression. "You have to show me the pictures, and then we'll show Princess Y/n around the schoolhouse, okay?"

Two little girls broke from the crowd and walked over to you. One tapped your leg. "Are you really a princess?"

You bent down, feeling awkward. You couldn't recall ever talking to a child before, especially one so young. Your normal audience tended to be old, rich couples who planned to invest in your mother's projects. "I-I am."

"I've always wanted to be a princess," one of them mumbled. She had black hair braided at the top of her head. "Prince Yukhei said he was going to marry me."

"Are you pouting, Emrys?" Yukhei appeared by your side and picked the little girl up, matching her pout his one of his own and pressing his forehead against hers until he let out a small giggle. "Why the long face?"

Emrys suddenly pouted again. "You promised to marry me, not Princess Y/n."

Yukhei's eyes widened, and he pressed his finger to the little girl's lips. "You have to be quiet about our secret marriage. There could be spies around."

Emrys giggled before quickly clasping her hands over her lips. Then she whispered through the gaps in her fingers, "It's a secret?"

"Yes," Yukhei whispered back with a serious expression, "Our love is forbidden, despite the fact that you gave me an apple and I gave you a flower. The royal court won't accept it."

Emrys gasped. "Like in the stories? We need rings for our love to be accepted."

Yukhei nodded. "Yes, I suppose. I'll return when I can and bring the rings for us. Then the royal court will have to accept us."

Emrys pointed at you, where you were examining a little boy's picture and pretending you weren't eavesdropping. "What do we do about her?"

Yukhei sighed. "We'll have to throw her in the dungeon, I suppose."

Apparently that was a good enough answer for Emrys, because she wriggled out of Yukhei's arms to go alert the other children about her future at the palace.

You stood up and slapped Yukhei's arm. "The dungeon? That's low."

Yukhei sent a boyish grin your way. "It's just a game, love. You can't be jealous of a four-year-old."

"I'm not jealous, I just don't want to be in a dungeon."

"Fine," Yukhei rolled his eyes and giggled, "You can stay with me."

"Can't I just stay in my guest room and never talk to you again?"

"You wound me."

After eating lunch with the children, the two of you were off again. This time Yukhei had slipped his fingers between yours, and you couldn't be bothered to pull away. "Okay, so there's this place that sells ice cream, but they put it on top of a warm cinnamon bun and it's so good! I get at least one every week."

"That sounds like it might make you sick," you said, crinkling your nose.

"You can't judge a dessert before you eat it. That's rude."

"So what?"

Yukhei smirked, "Being rude isn't proper, love."

Despite the heat rushing towards your cheeks, you scoffed, "Weren't you the one telling me to stop being proper?"

Yukhei didn't reply. He only squeezed your hand and pulled you inside of the chilly building. "We'll take two of the cinnamon specials, please."

The man behind the counter rolled his eyes. He looked friendly, with a long white beard and brown skin. But his eye read annoyance as he grabbed two fresh cinnamon buns from the oven. "The day our newsboy comes crying about how you've fallen sick thanks to my desserts, I'll flee the kingdom."

Yukhei leaned against the counter. "Are you insinuating that I would sue you? Who would make my desserts if you were gone? Come on, Alex."

Again, you witnessed Yukhei talk back and forth with someone as if the two were old friends. Again, you saw how he seemed to carry himself in a playful and open manner, so that no one seemed to be afraid or intimidated by him.

In the back of your mind, sometime on the way back to the palace, you found yourself wondering if you would've ever had the courage to befriend your own people. You wondered if you could ever love people unconditionally, in the same way that Yukhei did.

When you returned home, Yukhei stopped you from closing your bedroom door on him. "Wait. I have to tell you something."

"..."

"I know about your mother."

"Oh."

"Yeah. And I just want you to know that I'll take care of you. I'll protect you from her, if you let me."

"Goodnight, Yukhei."

"Goodnight, Y/n."

♡

You found that there was a piece of your heart missing once Yukhei left for the Northern Kingdom. It came slowly, creeping up like a sunburn at noontime. At first it's hard to notice, after the fun of playing outside and the adrenaline of summer, but then comes the pain. Slow, irritating pain sneaking up like a thief, making you toss and turn in discomfort throughout the night.

And like a sunburn, you start to notice the absence of your movement, the absence of freedom and happiness. Somehow you began to think of Yukhei as your freedom, or at least the start of it. He was your way out of the clutches of your mother, when you were still very much trapped between her fingers.

You had almost forgotten that she was your sunburn. She was the one keeping you from enjoying life.

Like she got a tip from an anonymous source, she had decided to visit the palace during the time that Yukhei was gone.

She stuck to you like glue, doing her best to rearrange things her way. The wedding decorations, once lavish and beautiful with colors of pearl and gold and rose were now a tropical green with large birds of paradise and tiger lilies to match your kingdom back home. At least, what it used to be before famine and crime took over.

You wondered why no one fought back. As the days went by, the staff didn't put up a fight at all. They took down plans for the beautiful fountain that Yukhei was so excited for. They took down the well thought out bouquets of peace roses. The tailors redesigned your dress to look like one that your mother had wanted when she got married.

You relented. In your mind, you mulled over the decisions and felt heartbroken that your mother could come in and just ruin things. You wondered what would happen when Yukhei returned the next day, to see that though your mother already left, she definitely made her mark.

She took control again.

You wanted to know why the staff let her do all of those things. It kept you up at night, rehearsing your days over and over.

Then you remembered that no matter what your mother said, it was you the staff looked at for confirmation. It was you who nodded submissively in agreement, cringing when your mother pinched your cheeks.

It was all your fault. Again.

So you cried yourself to sleep, for old times sake.

But unlike old time's sake, you were awoken at the break of dawn by two lips pressing against your temple. "I'm back, love!" Yukhei whispered excitedly. "I brought snow!"

You sat up, feeling refreshed in that way only crying yourself to sleep can make you feel. You blinked slowly and rubbed your eyes.

"Don't do that," Yukhei said. He grabbed your wrists and pulled your hands down with him as he sat atop your bed. "You'll hurt your eyes. Now look at this snow!"

He grinned at you and grabbed the tin that was resting beside him. His show of slowly pealing the lid off made you feel awake and excited suddenly. After all, you had never seen snow before, and the fact that Yukhei had brought some back with you in mind made your toes curl.

Once the lid was off, you peaked into the tin and frowned. "That's just water, Yukhei."

Yukhei bumped his head against yours as he also peaked in. "Oh. I was hoping it wouldn't melt. It was so pretty, Y/n. I played in it with Mark's friend — actually I think they love each other but that's another story — and it's freezing!"

"I don't know if I like freezing," you said. "The only two places I've lived were hot climates."

Yukhei set the tin down on the floor and turned, suddenly barreling onto you. "I missed how warm the kingdom is, but mostly I missed you."

"M-Me?" you whispered. "You can't miss me, Yukhei. I'm the worst friend and future-wife ever."

Yukhei wrapped his arms around your waist and threw one leg over your thighs. He squished his cheek into your shoulder and huffed. "Impossible."

"Possible. My mother came over while you were gone and she had everything changed. And I just let her change things. Things you planned for the wedding. I just nodded and told the staff to do what she said despite the fact that I knew how hard you worked on everything."

Yukhei pushed himself onto his forearm and looked at you with something like amusement in his eyes. He reached over and brushed your hair out of your face. "I think you worry too much."

You pouted. "You haven't seen what the wedding decorations look like now."

"I have," Yukhei giggled. "I saw it when I walked into the palace this morning. They aren't the colors we picked out, but it'll still be a beautiful ceremony nonetheless."

"You're annoyingly positive this morning."

"I can't be happy to come back home?" Yukhei asked, squeezing you even closer towards him. He nuzzled his nose against your jaw. "I'm happy to be back with you."

"You can't be happy to be back with me, Yukhei. We don't even know each other that well."

"Then let's get to know each other," Yukhei whispered. "You can start by showing me why you wanted a barre in our bedroom."

You sat up, making Yukhei fall onto the mattress with a huff. "But you didn't put a barre in the bedroom blueprints. I thought you forgot."

Yukhei got out of your bed, "Get dressed and meet me in the West Wing. Bring your dancing stuff — I know you brought it — and a smile."

♡

Yukhei was full of surprises. From his daily flowers to his habit of walking around the palace shirtless, he never failed to keep you on your toes.

But this was his biggest surprise yet. He had turned a large, empty room into a dance studio. One entire wall was made up of a mirror, and a barre was attached to it — the very barre you had asked for. Inside of the other wall was a built-in closet with sliding doors. In the corner was a table with a music player and speakers. "Yukhei..."

The prince wore his normal — yet still surprising — attire of sweatpants and no shirt. "Is it okay?"

You rose your eyebrows in astonishment at his obvious doubt. Your ran the palm of your hand over the smooth surface of the barre and walked up to Yukhei. Grabbing his hands, you pulled him closer to you, even going as far to place his hands on your waist. "Yukhei, it's amazing. The fact that you remembered my small request and went through all of this trouble... No one's ever done something like this for me before."

Yukhei breathed a sigh of relief. "Okay, good. I know you may not stay with me in the future or whatever, but I thought that it would be nice while you were here."

You could feel his warm breath on your forehead, and with your palms pressed against his biceps, the urge to kiss him was too great. Even if you didn't know your own feelings for him, kissing him just once wouldn't hurt. It couldn't. If he rejected you, you could just use an excuse to say it was practice for the wedding. Yeah...

"W-What are you doing?" Yukhei's breath hitched as your nose brushed against his.

"I want to kiss you." And so you did. You pulled him down and caught his lips in your own.

Yukhei froze at your touch, only to melt completely when you tugged at the ends of his hair. He lifted his lips off of yours, only to dip back down and softly kiss you again, and again, and again.

Yukhei was a campfire, warm and crackling through the night. A small flame trying to heal all the cold the outside world could offer. His skin felt like fire against your cold fingertips. His hands left sparks as they touched the skin of your neck and face.

He was a campfire, flickering and constant and safe. He was there for you in ways that no one else was.

And he was yours. For the time being, Yukhei was yours and you were his.

♡

"Three seconds," Yukhei moaned, running his hand down his face and ignoring the appointment book Jungwoo set before him. "She kissed me for three seconds."

"You counted?"

"What was I supposed to do? I've never kissed anyone before! What are you supposed to think about?"

"The person you're kissing maybe?" Jungwoo rolled his eyes and pointed to the appointment book. "Listen, the wedding is in two months. We have a meeting with Y/n's mother."

"Gross."

"Yukhei, listen to me. She's demanding more money for the dowry."

Yukhei's head snapped up. "What? She can't! We agreed on the set amount with the condition that Y/n would be separated from her after we married."

Jungwoo rolled his eyes and ran his fingers through his black hair. "I know the original plan, dummy. Plans change. We need to fix this or Y/n is getting shipped out and the wedding is over."

"I'm going to see Y/n," Yukhei mumbled. "I'm not letting her go."

♡

The thing about having an emotionally abusive parent is that the majority of people don't believe the child in the situation. It's so hard to, when the child seems so loved to the public. It's hard to when the parent acts like they give the world to their child.

It's so hard to believe she'd ever be abusive when your mother sacrificed her entire kingdom for your happiness.

Maybe that's why you couldn't say no. Your mother stole from the poor and manipulated the rich, but you were always taken care of. You were financially safe.

Then you were put under blame for it. You were blamed for the famine and the crimes and the war. You were assumed to be a socialite monster who had your poor, loving mother on a string.

You were the bad guy in your people's eyes.

Growing up being told that you're worthless by the poor and being sneered at by the rich made you feel worthless; it made you feel like the only thing you were worth was the sneers and scoffs of everyone around you.

Only a few people actually bothered to talk to you. Most of your events — like your birthday ball — were only attended because everyone loved your mother so much. Everyone fell right into her guise.

Everyone blamed you for the fall of a kingdom. You, an eighteen year old girl, responsible for years of famine, war, and death.

It was hard to get people on your side when you brought disaster wherever you went.

That's why it was best — things were always best — when you folded your gloved hands, fixed your pearls, sat up straight, and let your mother speak for you.

"What are you wearing?" Yukhei's voice broke your reverie.

You stared into the vanity mirror for a moment more. This. This was the woman you were supposed to be. This was the woman you were raised to be. "Pearls."

"You hate pearls."

Yukhei wouldn't understand. If you told him, he'd only question why you couldn't leave your mother and stay with him. Yukhei thought he was your savior, but he wasn't, and could never be. "Yukhei, my mother is coming to pick me up. I'll come back for the wedding."

"What?" Yukhei suddenly fell to his knees and looked up at you, one hand resting on your knee. "What? Y/n, you can't. We were making such good progress."

"Progress," you scoffed. "I'm not a project, Yukhei. I'm here to marry you and leave."

Yukhei closed his eyes and exhaled, "I thought maybe we were going to stay married. I thought maybe we'd be friends at least."

"You thought wrong, Yukhei!" You suddenly blurted and stood up, causing the prince to stumble. Once he stood up you poked his chest, "We weren't friends, okay? I thought this could work. I thought we could live in the same palace and call each other husband and wife but guess what? My mom is still running the show! If I don't go to her while she's angry and help her get the money, she will make me an enemy to your kingdom."

"What?" Yukhei furrowed his brows and grabbed your wrists to keep you close to him. "Y/n, you aren't making any sense."

That's when you burst into tears. "I never make sense. I can't make sense right now. My mother is going to turn you guys against me, like she always has. I have to obey her, okay? I have to keep her happy."

"I want you to be happy." Yukhei cupped your face. "Look at me when I say this: you don't have to go back. You can stay here, and whether you want it or not, my father and I can protect you. We'll start a war if we have to."

"Yukhei," your lip trembled, "when are you going to understand that no one is willing to fight for me?"

Yukhei pressed his forehead against your own. "I mean it. Please stay with me."

"I'll be back for the wedding, okay?"

"How can you be so sure?" Yukhei's voice cracked.

"She has to get the money from the wedding. That's how I'm sure." You pressed your lips against his forehead, struggling to hold your own emotions in. "I have to go, Yukhei."

He couldn't know that this was tearing you up inside. He couldn't know that you were terrified of going back to your old kingdom when this one was just beginning to feel like home.

You didn't want to leave. Deep down, you longed to have Yukhei in your arms again. Wasn't it just a day ago when he was kissing you? Wasn't it just a day ago when you were wishing for this daydream to never end?

It was a daydream, you supposed, the best daydream.

But it was time to wake up.

♡

"Yukhei, do you know how ridiculous you sound?" The king let a chuckle slip from his lips. "She's coming back for the wedding."

Yukhei groaned and flopped his head against the king's desk. "But what if her mother tries to take her away again? Will she just go?"

"Yukhei, once the two of you are married, she is — under law — a noble of the Southern Kingdom. If her mother tries to push her around or take her back, it'll be counted as treason towards you and her mother will be placed in jail."

"What if I kidnap her and bring her back?"

"What?"

Yukhei drummed his fingers against his father's desk and shrugged mischievously. "I'm just saying... she's only a carriage ride away. I can sneak into the castle and keep her company."

The king rubbed his temples. "You're a disaster."

"I'm a good friend. Sometimes that means making disastrous decisions." Yukhei suddenly frowned, "Besides, I'm afraid she'll go back into her shell. We've made decent progress with this whole friend thing and I don't want to lose that."

Yukhei rose his eyes expectantly. He needed this. He needed you to be beside him, safe and happy. He needed to hold you and remind you that you were strong. You'd be okay as long as he was there with you.

"Use the old carriage so you look less suspicious. Wear common clothes. Don't make me regret this."

"Father, have I ever told you how much I love you?"

"Many times," the king managed a smile. Seeing his son so happy and determined reminded him of his own quest to marry his wife. "I love you too, son."

Yukhei shot him a smile and a pair of finger guns before rushing out of the room.

♡

Your room was small. You had almost forgotten how different your palace was compared to Yukhei's. For one, your bed was underground, in the levels beside the servant's quarters. In fact it was previously a servant's room: just larger than a closet with enough room for a bed and a chest.

It brought back many memories. Memories of crying yourself to sleep, going to sleep hungry, hating your mother, and hating yourself drifted through your mind as you sat on the scratchy sheets and mended one of your mother's dresses.

You wondered why you were back here. Having spent a few months with Yukhei in his kingdom made you realize just how stifling your mother's kingdom could be. Once again, the feeling of entrapment crept up your back like an unwelcome hug.

You felt horrible for snapping at Yukhei, especially after he had done so much for you. After everything — the flowers, the talks, the kiss... — it all meant so much to you and yet one order from your mother had you crawling back from whence you came.

You really liked Yukhei. You had too — it was an unusual occurrence to kiss someone you didn't like. Although, a piece of you wondered what type of like it was. It didn't feel exactly like friendship (there was a lot you still didn't know about Yukhei, and that wasn't very friendly of you), or a political ordeal like everyone said (as the two of you seemed far too close for that), but it also didn't feel quite like love.

Then again, you weren't really sure what love was. The only person who had ever showed you kindness before Prince Yukhei was Adela, and even she had her moments of betrayal (you weren't the only one afraid of your mother.)

You supposed it was fascination, or the human need to be near someone who feels safe. Yukhei felt safe. He felt warm and secure and protective and in his arms you felt as if nothing could ever harm you.

He was a stronghold, like the sun. Always there and always warm. Even behind the clouds it was still present, shining a fair amount of light for you to feel comfortable. Yukhei felt like the sun. Yukhei felt like everything warm.

"Your Highness? I have your lunch." Someone knocked on your bedroom door, their voice rough, scratchy, and not too familiar.

Maybe your mother got new servants while you were away.

You opened the door and curtsied, only to be jostled as the guard pressed his palm against your mouth and pushed his way into your room, closing the door behind him.

You bit down on his finger, hard enough for him to shout and back away.

"That hurts!" The man suddenly whined in a different voice, and it only took a moment before you put two and two together and —

"Yukhei!" You tackled him, throwing your arms around his waist and squeezing him as hard as you could. "Why did you come here? You could've gotten in trouble. I mean, not that I'm not happy..."

"Relax," Yukhei pressed his lips to your hair before cupping your face and lifting it so that he could see you properly. "I'm safe. I'm here. And I'm going to stay here until our wedding."

Your heart skipped a beat. Somehow, Yukhei had become a bigger part of your life. Bigger than either of you had ever anticipated. The two of you weren't friends, and you weren't lovers, but it would be pretty hard to deny the fact that you were soulmates, bent on always being with each other.

Yukhei would always find you, and you would always find him. That's what soulmates did.

♡

"Tell me more about yourself," Yukhei mumbled.

The two of you lay on your small bed, covered by a single blanket. Your noses were only centimeters apart, and when Yukhei spoke you could feel the warmth of his breath fanning against your lips.

You closed your eyes and shrugged, avoiding Yukhei's warm, yet calculated gaze. "There's not much to tell. My childhood was filled with galas and balls and fundraisers that were all ploys. I've been a thief by association my entire life."

"Y/n..." Yukhei let his palm fall over your side, where he could slowly trace shapes into them as he tried to find the words to say. "Not your struggle. Not your mom. Tell me your heart. Tell me what you love and hate to eat, and your hobbies, and what you would do if you could be invisible for a day."

You opened your eyes to be met with Yukhei's encouraging smile. It was small, and far less intimidating than his wide, open-mouthed smile. This one was quiet, and just for you. "Well, I love mangoes, bananas, and pineapples. I hate lobster, even though when I was little I used to like it. I love dancing; I've been taking secret lessons with my childhood tutor for years now to keep up with my training. I also love sleeping, and gardening. And I love taking care of kids and animals," you giggled. "If I was invisible for a day, I don't know what I'd do."

"I don't know what I would do either." Yukhei pulled you against his chest. Placing his chin on top of your head, he sighed, "Can I ask you something?"

"What is it?"

"Are you okay with us? With our pace? Should we know more about each other?"

You craned your head to look up at him. The way Yukhei looked at you made him look funny, and the thought of seeing him at such a vulnerable and adorable state made you feel some kind of lucky. "What do you mean?"

"You're leaving, aren't you? You'll become a citizen under the Southern Kingdom and then you'll go travel on your own?"

For a fleeting moment, you had forgotten about those plans. Truthfully, they weren't plans you had put into place. They were plans Yukhei's dad thought up for you, and at the time that was fine. At the time, you didn't know who Yukhei was, or how much he would mean to you.

You hesitated one breath, then allowed yourself to trace Yukhei's features. The way his eyelids fluttered as the pads of your fingers touched his skin made some part of your chest feel hot. "I don't know if that's what I want."

And that night, for Yukhei, it was enough.

In fact, every night after that was enough for Yukhei. He stayed hidden in your room, or galavanted around the servant's quarters to help where he could while you stayed by your mother's side to do her bidding.

Each day you felt farther from her and closer to Yukhei. It was as if he was subconsciously drawing you away from your mother. He was showing you that there was kindness and safety in people. He was showing you that people could have good and pure intentions.

He was showing you that you could leave your toxic past and fall in love with a boy who was all the more amazing than anyone you'd ever met.

♡

And so the month before the wedding passed by quickly in nights where Yukhei embraced you and whispered tales of the future for only him and you to know.

Then you and your mother were sitting across from each other on the way back to the palace. You, acting as if Yukhei hadn't just left that morning to make it back to the palace in time, and your mother, acting as if she actually cared about your unforetold future, and not the money she'd get for your wedding.

You still hated pearls — and corsets and gloves and your mother — but you no longer hated the prince. Not for who he was or where he lived. Every mention of Prince Yukhei gave you a taste of freedom. There could be a happy ending for you. There could be a happy ending for the both of you.

Just for you and Yukhei.

It was almost funny; the way Yukhei acted happy to see you, as if he hadn't spent the entire month hidden away with you in the basement of your mother's castle. Here he was, dressed formally in his ceremonial greeting clothes — same as the first day you two met — giving you a casual bow.

You held out your hand to him, a teasing gleam in your eye as they caught his. "Your Highness."

He held his composure until his lips were actually brushing your knuckles — when he promptly let out a breathy giggle. "Princess Y/n. Nice to see you again."

"Yes, it's all very nice," your mother muttered. "Where is your father, boy? The carriage he sent us was far too stuffy and I intend to make up for the loss."

Yukhei had two servants lead your mother away. As soon as she was out of the way, he was practically skipping to you, lips drawn up in a crooked smile. "You look cute."

His simple compliment brought heat to your cheeks, as did the way his fingers were brushing over the pearls on your neck.

"Thank you, Yukhei," you whispered. "Do you think we can pull this off?"

"What?" Yukhei mused, "Act as if this is purely business with no feelings involved so that your mother won't suspect a thing and our plan will go through? I sure can't."

You flicked his chest, evoking a giddy chuckle from the prince.

He cocked his head to the side, "It's a good thing your mother won't be focusing on me. She'd see the love in my eyes and take you home immediately."

"Youre ridiculous," you muttered, ignoring the overwhelming thump in your heart. "Luckily, I'll be the one she focuses on, and I know how to be stoic."

Yukhei clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and tutted like an elder woman would a child. "I'm sorry you've had to be stoic all your life. I'm sorry that this has been such a long process and that I can't just snap my fingers and have you safe and happy. I'm truly sorry."

Your fingers reached forward to fiddle with the loose black bow hanging from his neck. "Yukhei, tomorrow I'll be married to you, she'll have her money and no more control over me. She didn't think that far, okay? I'm lucky money blinds her and she hasn't realized that I'm truly free tomorrow. She can't use me for money like she used to. I'll be free as soon as we say our vows."

"Actually," Yukhei squinted his eyes at the ceiling, pretending to thing, "I think the marriage is sealed when we kiss."

"Oh? I guess we'll just have to see then."

"Yes," Yukhei said with a determined nod, "We'll just have to see."

♡

The wedding went as you expected. In the play of your life, your mother was the director. This time, however, she only thought she was the director; the puppet master.

But your life was officially in your hands now, sealed by Yukhei's soft and shaky kiss.

Neither of you quite cared for the ceremony, or the reception, or anywhere else where you had to act diplomatic. All you really wanted to do was curl up in Yukhei's lap and fall asleep, warm and content in his embrace.

It seemed Yukhei wanted the same, because as soon as the two of you could, you were running down the courtyard in your wedding clothes, finding the carriage set to take you to your destination.

Yukhei told you fleetingly that he had planned a week in the Eastern Kingdom. Apparently his father owned a small cottage down by the sea, along with a private beach just for the two of you.

For once, Yukhei and you were both looking towards the unknown. Neither of you had ever been near a beach, and just the thought of the sand, the waves, and the sun had you both giggling in the back of the carriage like two schoolgirls rather than a newlywed couple.

Or maybe you were giggling like a newlywed couple, but rather than sharing tentative kisses the two of you were currently getting excited over what kind of seashells and fish you might see.

You yawned suddenly, interrupting Yukhei's talking. The moon had already shown itself, and the blackened sky made you feel even drowsier than before.

"You can sleep, if you want," Yukhei said. "It'll be awhile until we arrive."

He didn't have to say it twice, for you were already climbing onto his lap. You wrapped your arms around his torso and buried your face into his chest. "Goodnight, Yukhei."

"Goodnight, Y/n."

♡

Sand wasn't like you always thought it would be. For one, it was hot. You realized that quickly after you and Yukhei had stepped onto the dry sand. Yukhei had a way of putting it, "It's like dry snow, except it burns."

Not knowing what snow looked or felt like, you could only nod and pretend to keep up with Yukhei's logic. In his excitement, he failed to remember that you hadn't been there in the snow with him. Just the thought of one day visiting the Northern Kingdom as Yukhei's wife made you giddy enough to let Yukhei's mistake slide.

Truthfully, you couldn't focus on much this morning. Yukhei had woken you up already dressed, wearing cotton shorts and the same white dress shirt he had worn to the wedding, only this time it was halfway unbuttoned, leaving you to be stuck glancing at his tanned chest whenever you had a chance. And it wasn't like you hadn't seen his chest before. For the last month or so you had been sleeping right next to his shirtless form with little to no qualms about it.

However, now he was your husband, and something in the air between you two had shifted. You couldn't put your finger on it; you could barely even describe it as anything except crackly tension. It was hard to look him in the eyes now.

You couldn't put your finger on it. You weren't even sure if it was only in your head, or if maybe Yukhei felt the static too.

"I can't believe we're on a beach!" Yukhei knocked you out of your thoughts by wrapping his arms around your waist. He pressed a kiss against the junction between your ear and your jaw. "I'm so glad I'm with you."

His words made your insides curl with something unfamiliar, but not unwelcoming.

You were hesitant to place your hands over his, wondering if he'd feel the same shock across his veins that you were feeling across yours.

Maybe it was best to run from these feelings. "First one to the beach has to make lunch!"

You ran down the beach, laughing brightly at Yukhei's late "Hey! That's not fair!"

"Too bad!" You shouted over your shoulder, just moments before your feet hit the shallow waves. The cold temperature sent a chill up your spine and elicited a giggle out of your lips. "It's cold!"

Yukhei was close behind you, but he hesitated to step into the ocean. "I think I like the sand more."

"What?" You eyed him suspiciously, but found nothing but innocence in his wary eyes. "But you swim all the time at home."

Yukhei caught your eyes then, and it seemed that your choice of words finally settled between the two of you. If the tension between the two of you was a crackling campfire, it now felt like a warm fireplace, settling at the pit of your stomach and trailing down to your toes.

Home.

The Southern Kingdom was home. The hot weather was home. The palace was home. The staff was home. Your new dance room was home. But above it all, Yukhei was home.

You blinked, and the fire in your belly settled like unfinished business.

Yukhei cleared his throat and looked nervous as he ran his hand through his hair. "Well, a swimming pool is a lot smaller. I know I'm the only one in the pool. With the ocean... who knows what is out there."

You giggled. Yukhei seemed so big and tall, incapable of being afraid of anything. Yet here he was, eyebrows furrowed with worry that perhaps the ocean was a lot bigger than him. You reached your hands out for him. "I'll keep you safe."

Yukhei's eyes softened, and it took a moment of hesitation before he finally placed his large hand in yours. "Don't let go of my hand."

"I won't," you giggled, walking backwards. You kept your eyes trained on him as you pulled him through the waves, "I won't let you go."

"Good." Yukhei eyed the ocean as if a shark could somehow hide in six inches of water.

You kept pulling him, distracted by the subtle way the sun beams shone across his broad shoulders. You weren't sure how the sun always found Yukhei, but you were more than glad that it did. Yukhei always seemed prettier when the sun was kissing his skin. In some ways you were jealous of the sun, for it had endless opportunities to make Yukhei warm; to keep him happy.

The sun was also an ally, in a way. Especially when it got in your eyes, and the glare made you lose your balance over the sand and seashells still embedded in the shore. Since he had a dire grip on your hands, Yukhei fell down with you, ultimately landing with a giant splash in the shallow water.

Small bouts of laughter escaped his lips as he struggled to sit up. Now his shirt was soaked through, but so was your sundress, so the two of you were equally vulnerable.

You clasped your fingers around Yukhei's shirt in the hopes of keeping him beside you, sitting down while the waves lapped over your legs. You wanted to stay close to him, no matter where you were.

"I should've known we'd end up soaked," Yukhei said. His eyes shone now with a brighter curiosity as he scaled over the vast ocean. "We really are alone, aren't we? It's like we're the only ones on earth."

And maybe you were, in that moment. No one could really say.

You didn't have time to think about that scenario either, because Yukhei's warm arm was scooping you towards him, into his lap. You couldn't focus on the waves slapping against your waist because suddenly Yukhei's lips were pressing against yours.

And the warm fireplace felt almost simmering, stifling, as Yukhei moved slowly and steadily against you. His large hand cupped your face, while the other kept a secure hold on your hip. His lips were plush to the touch, sensitive when they drifted down for a taste of your skin.

He tasted salty, but with every kiss he just got sweeter. From your lips to your neck to your jaw, then back to your lips, he never pressed down too hard or nipped too harshly.

If Yukhei was the calm and serene fireplace, then you were the wood, cracking and slowly losing your composure with ever soft kiss and even softer moan. You tugged on his hair, only lightly, if just to evoke some reaction from him that wasn't so controlled.

He sighed. One audible sound that made your toes curl into the sand and your heart beat even faster than usual.

You wanted this. You wanted him. Just Yukhei, for the rest of your days.

♡

Yukhei warned you that arriving back to the castle might mean an influx of royal duties and decisions. He also warned you that the staff might be overly excited about the entire wedding and marriage in general. They weren't aware of the underlying plan of it all, so who could blame them for being excited about love?

In the end, Yukhei pulled you into your dance room and locked the door with a relieved sigh, as you had both been searching for a bit of repose. "I apologize for them. They're just excited."

"It's cute," you whispered. "We should do something to thank them. Like make cookies or something."

Yukhei brightened. "They'd love that. My mom has this old recipe, you know, and it's like a royal tradition so only me and my dad know it. They've been begging me to make them again."

"Why haven't you?"

Yukhei shrugged. "It was my mom's thing. She was the queen who baked for her staff, and I'm sometimes afraid that if I use her recipes, I'll be getting rid of her memory. It's stupid, I know, but I can't help but think it."

You crossed the distance between you and wrapped your arms around his waist. "It's not stupid. And if it's still too soon for you, we can always use a different recipe."

Yukhei held you at shoulder length and pouted. "No, I think it's time. Besides, you'll be there, so I'll be okay."

He pecked your forehead and giggled against your skin. "Shall we brave our way to the kitchen?"

With only three congratulatory messages, the two of you made it into the kitchen, which was partially empty save for a few cooks and Jungwoo. "I'm making sure they make your favorite meal for dinner," he announced.

Yukhei furrowed his brows. "Mine?" He turned to you, "If you don't like it you don't have to eat it."

"I'm not picky, love. It's fine."

Somewhere between your nickname for him and your fingers brushing against his arm had his ears turning a darkened shade of pink. "O-Okay. Well, we were gonna make cookies for the staff."

Jungwoo smiled in the endearing way he always had. "For me too?"

"You're staff, aren't you?" Yukhei teased, then added as an afterthought, "But I'll be sure to make extra for you, if that's what you're wondering."

At that, Jungwoo kicked out the cooking staff, giving the two of you a solid hour before they had to be back in again. "That should be enough," you murmured, already reading over the recipe Yukhei had jotted down for you. "This looks fairly simple."

Yukhei interrupted your reading by draping an apron over your head and tying the back of it for you. His kind gestures always made you feel giddy.

Maybe it was just him who made you feel giddy.

The two of you worked in harmony, silent save for random bouts of "Can you pass me the flour?" and "We should steal some cookie dough and take it up to our room."

Only when four complete batches were in the oven and the two of you had time to rest did you bring up something you had been thinking about for awhile. "Yukhei, do you bring strangers into this castle? Like villagers?

"Sometimes," Yukhei perched his chin on his palm. "Why?"

"Well, I was just thinking about how, if I stay, I might be busy with a lot of royal stuff. I might not have much time to use my beautiful dance studio. I was just wondering if maybe we should open classes? For the little boys and girls in the kingdom who would like to learn dance? And if you couldn't find a teacher or didn't want to pay one I could take time out of each day to teach them. I really wouldn't mind. And if you say no, I wouldn't mind either. It's just something I was thinking about." You bit your lip and waited for him to say something.

At the moment, Yukhei was licking the mixing spoon, but you could tell by the look in his eyes that he was trying to think of what to say. He finally grinned. "That sounds like a great idea! You never told me you wanted to teach dance!"

You shrugged. "I didn't know myself until a few weeks ago."

"We have to do it," Yukhei said. "Even if we can't do it in the castle, we have to open up a dance school in the village somewhere. The kids would love it."

"We should visit them soon," you said. "I miss them."

Yukhei's eyes softened as he watched you pick at the loose seams in your apron. "You do?"

"Of course I do. And I didn't get to hang out with them much at all last time."

The timer dinged then, just as Yukhei jumped out of his stool. "Does this mean you're staying?"

"If you're okay with it," you said.

Yukhei cupped your face, squishing your cheeks as he pressed his forehead against yours. "Of course I'm okay with it. I'm more than okay with it."

♡

"I swear I had nothing to do with this."

You eyed you and Yukhei's new bedroom, decorated in a rich array of all the colors and textures the two of you liked. The high ceilings were decorated with strings of lights and opals. There were two large windows — one on either side of the bed — each looking out to both the garden and the small cerulean pond just big enough for a family of swans to live in.

The two of you now shared the majority of your furniture. Like the elforyn armoire that stood high against one wall, or the large writing desk pushed against another. The conjoined bathroom was large as well, though you hadn't had the chance to examine it yet.

Not when the large bed was in the way. Nestled between the two windows, the king sized bed was large enough to make anyone want to fall asleep in it. The silky sheets of rose gold practically welcomed you with open arms.

The surprising thing was the cascade of pink rose petals across the blankets.

You giggled. "I wonder who did this. It wasn't like that this morning when we unpacked."

Yukhei suddenly cleared his throat, and redness crept up his neck as he answered. "Uh, probably Jungwoo? I may or may not have confused in him about certain romantic scenarios I've wondered about... but I didn't know he'd do this, I promise!"

Yukhei was surprising, in more ways than one. Like the sun peaking through the clouds after a rainstorm, or a warm breeze guiding you through winter, he always kept you on your toes.

Then there was the fact that he apparently had once told Jungwoo that he thought rose petals on a bed were romantic.

For a moment, you caught a whiff of vanilla. "Oh my goodness. You told him about candles, too?"

He followed behind you like a scolded puppy, somehow not noticing your look of endearment. You stepped into the bathroom and smiled at the candles surrounding an already filled tub. "Wow."

Yukhei ran his palm across his face and brushed his hair back exasperatedly. "This is so embarrassing. I told him this in confidence, and it wasn't for him to decide when was the right time, and I wanted to ask you first, for crying out loud, and—"

You kissed his cheek, shutting him up. "You're the sweetest boy I know. Don't overthink so much."

Yukhei nodded and took a deep breath. "I won't. I just... I want us to be perfect."

"We are perfect, love. When we're together, we're perfect."

♡

Once a warm fireplace, now you felt love for Yukhei in your heart like a wildfire. Racing and large, tearing down any obstacle in its path. Loud and proud, heated and haunted, Yukhei made you feel it all.

You giggled softly at the thought of him and brushed the flower petals off of the bed. Yukhei was washing up for the night, as you already had. Now you were in your comfortable pajamas — cotton shorts and a t-shirt to keep you cool at night — and ready to finally get into sleep and go to bed.

"Hurry up, Yukhei! I'm sleepy!"

"I'm coming, baby." He yawned and walked out of the bathroom. He grabbed your hips and turned you around to capture you in a hug.

You stilled. "Baby?"

"Yes," Yukhei said happily. He nuzzled your nose with his own and hummed, "You're my baby, and I love you."

And like a wildfire, he touched you and a million flames and sparks ran through your body. Like a wildfire, he invaded your world and tore down your defenses.

He pulled your body against his and smiled against your lips. Each kiss was accompanied by a giggle and a squeeze as Yukhei held you against him. "I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you."

You chuckled, unable to keep yourself from breaking the kiss. Holding his face between your hands, you looked into Yukhei's eyes. They were the darkest brown you had ever seen, glazed over with love and care. "Yukhei, I love you so much."

"Good. Because I bought you something." The prince escaped your hold and walked over to his nightstand. He opened the drawer and pulled a little velvet box out.

"Yukhei, sweetie, we're already married."

"Shush, I know," he said. He walked up to you and grabbed your hand, pulling off your wedding band and replacing it with the ring he just brought out. "I bought you a promise ring. Because I know we're married for political reasons, and even if you love me now you might choose a different path in the future. I bought you this ring as a promise that I'll love you forever, or until you wish for me to stop. That's my promise to you."

Like a wildfire, or a fireplace, or a campfire, Yukhei was warm. He was a pull in the best direction. The direction filled with love and hope and passion. He was everything you wanted and everything you could've ever wished for. "I promise, too. I don't want to love anyone else but you."

Maybe spontaneous vows and hidden promises meant more than a public ceremony. Maybe a ring of morganite stones meant more than a golden band chosen by Yukhei's father. Maybe Yukhei's kisses and love meant more to you than broken promises and crowded banquet halls. Maybe freedom was found in the prince of the Southern Kingdom, hidden in the crevices of flowers and strawberry ice pops.

Maybe you loved Yukhei more than you loved anyone else, and you wanted more than anything to be by his side until the end of time.

#ps he gave the og wedding band to emrys :')#yukhei fluff #yukhei angst #yukhei scenarios #yukhei au #nct fluff #nct angst #nct scenarios #nct au #nct prince au #seasons au //#prince!yukhei #destwrites

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writingrampant · 5 years ago

Text

The Keep of the Demon-King

Prompt: a young woman is kidnapped by her own father and sent to a demon-king in hopes of finding a suitable warrior to be his successor

The raven made a streak of black against the turbulent sky. Heavy clouds roiled, sheets of rain drifting across the barren bowl of the caldera. Pungent steam escaped the tormented ground with a hiss and wail.

The raven’s claws scraped the stones of the demon-keep as it landed. A gnarled hand reached up for it, coaxing it closer. It dropped into the darkness within.

“There, now,” its master murmured. “What secrets do you bring?”

A bell sounded from deep in the stronghold. The raven baulked, clutching the bare arm under its feet.

“Be still, my pet.” The air of the keep was cool and sulfurous, the ancient volcano beneath sleeping, but not dead. The bent figure stopped beside a heavy curtain.

“Yes, lord?”

The answering voice was deep and rough. “What news, Hach?”

Hach stroked the sleek feathers on the raven’s head. “Someone approaches.”

The curtain stirred, drawn aside so Hach could see into the room beyond. He lowered his eyes respectfully.

“When?”

“By nightfall. Two riders.”

“See to it.”

Hach transferred the raven to his shoulder. The sharp tips of the scavenger’s talons bit through the wool. Hach hurried to the lower levels of the stone keep, the raven’s wings half-spread to keep balance.

The clouds hid the passage of the sun and the dark thickened as the day closed. Soon they are ready; they had dealt with similar invasions many times. Hach waited with the rest of his Lord’s horde, caressing his pet in silence.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

Three heavy thuds sounded on the tall keep doors. Hach signaled and the winches creaked. Slowly, shrieking, the doors moved. Cold air oozed between them, damp and smelling of deep, lonely places.

In the glow of the torches waited a girl.

She was sitting on a horse, who stood phlegmatic before the leering horde within. Her hands were tied in front of her and she was blindfolded. Not how encroaching warriors usually approached the demon keep.

Hach and the horde hesitated. The second rider had already cleared the bridge, the clatter of hooves growing faint under the wind. Hach spoke softly and the raven leapt forward, rising to tail the rider and report back.

“Hello?”

Hach nearly jumped. The girl, a young woman, was leaning forward, head twisting as she tried to peer around her blindfold.

“Hello?” she repeated. “Frantu? This is ridiculous! Untie me!”

Hach found refuge in his script. The arched ceiling above made his voice grumble dangerously. “Who dares disturb the Demon King?”

Her mouth looked surprised, then angry, compressed to a thin line.

“Of all the-” She broke off in a coarse curse. “That lying, back-stabbing, useless puddle of milk water!”

The horde shifted uncomfortably. They looked to Hach. Was she insulting their lord? Should they attack?

Hach grew more bewildered each moment. He cleared his throat.

“Who comes before the Demon King?” That was less threatening, but still stern.

Her voice was tart and scornful as she retorted, “Obviously, I did not choose to come here! And would someone get me off this thrice accursed horse? I can’t feel my butt cheeks.”

One of his underlings whispered to him. “Master Hach? What should we do?”

There was no help for it. One couldn’t order a girl dragged screaming to the dungeons when she clearly was not terrified of being so abused. Hach signaled. Three or four of the horde pointed to themselves, then each other, none wanting to be the one. Hach glared and the group of them shuffled forward.

With the help of a horny hand, she slid to the ground. Her legs wobbled and she leaned on the creature half her height.

“Be a dear and cut these ropes?”

The poor goblin was too bemused to disobey. Once free, she shook out her hands, swept off the blindfold, and looked interestedly around her.

Hach was impressed. She was quite the ugliest human girl he had ever seen. She was brave, too. She gulped a little as she looked over the horde massed in the twilight. But she swallowed it down and stepped forward.

“Hello,” was her friendly greeting. “I’m Kasha.”

Hach said nothing. His lord’s voice rumbled from above, a trick of the channels cut through the stones.

“What is taking so long?”

This Kasha jumped. Hach sighed.

“Bring her,” he ordered. The horde again was unsure. Should they leer at her and harass her as they marched her though the keep? That seemed suddenly impolite.

Hach bypassed the tunnel down to the dungeons. Instead, he led her to an anteroom in the south tower. A fire had been laid and lit easily. After milling about in the corridor, the horde dispersed back to their normal duties.

Kasha sat gingerly on a wooden chair. Her face was more pinched than before and Hach somehow didn’t have the heart to glower.

“Are you hungry?” he asked stiffly.

“Famished!”

“Wait here.”

By the time he had arranged a tray, his lord had heard the whole tale. He stormed into the pantry.

“What is this nonsense?”

Hach arranged a wedge of cheese on the tray. “A young woman, my lord. She was left.”

“Left?” The Demon King scowled down at his second-in-command. “Another sacrifice? It is months from the equinox!”

Hach shook his head. “It does not appear so, my lord.” Those were usually beautiful maidens, adorned in ridiculous outfits, draped in jewels and pearls. After a ‘ritual’ goblet of drugged wine, Hach could generally dispose of them to a neighboring kingdom in need of a damsel in distress.

“Well, then?”

Hach admitted his own bafflement. “She seems more annoyed than anything.”

Phytos, Lord of the Demon Horde, Master of the North, rubbed his temples. “Just get rid of her.”

The girl was standing at a window. In the south tower, the windows were leaded and filled with thick glass. She peered out into the night, the shifting clouds above giving tantalizing glimpses of the early moon.

She squeaked as Hach entered with a lantern but tried to speak normally.

“Thank you, um…”

“I am Hach, Master of the Demon King’s Keep.” He bowed. Three of the horde carried the tray and a fresh gown into the room. They also bowed and backed out.

Kasha giggled. Hach scowled up at her and she hastened to cover her mouth.

“I am so sorry,” she said. “I mean no offence. Just, I was expecting…”

He scowled harder. “I assure you, lady, no harm will befall you here.” He managed to impregnate his words with extreme disgust for such barbaric imaginings. “Please, eat.”

She hesitated, but then moved to a chair within the circle of light. Hach served her and settled across from her. She examined him frankly, chewing mouthfuls of bread. She swallowed and grinned at him.

“Thank you. Frantu hogged all the food.”

He said nothing. She chewed some dried dates and tried again to make conversation. “I am sure you’re wondering why I am here.”

Hach was burning to know, but only raised his bushy eyebrows.

Kasha nibbled at the sharp cheese. “Honestly, I think father was hoping you’d kill and eat me.” She eyed the food with sudden misgiving. “You’re not going to, are you?”

Hach could not help a small smile. “No, fair lady.”

She flashed a grin. “Nothing ‘fair’ about me, Master Hach.”

That was perfectly true. Her nose was too large, her forehead too broad. Her eyes were wide and had a friendly twinkle in the firelight, but they were muddy colored. Her hair was a tangled mess and no amount of silk, pearls, or gold would transform her into a beauty. He doubted even the strongest Beauty Elixir would make much of a dent.

The girl was glaring at the olives she was holding. “That’s probably why my father dumped me up here.” She crushed the olives between her teeth and spoke around her mouthful. “He hates me.”

Hach didn’t know what to say. She guessed at his unease and smiled again.

“Don’t worry, I hate him, too. He’s a nasty, grabbing pig. And I clearly wasn’t going to bring in any dowry. I’m surprised he didn’t just have Frantu slit my throat once across the border and toss my body in a river.”

“That would certainly have been more efficient.”

Her laugh tried to be merry; it fell bitter and disillusioned to the stone floor, too old for her still plump cheeks. “I thought so, too. Which is why I didn’t try to escape. I figured wherever Frantu was taking me had to be better than my home.”

Suddenly, she yawned. Hach signaled her to follow him. The sleeping chamber was simple, but snug. She kicked off her boots and curled up in the bed.

“Thank you, Hach,” she said, eyes half-closed. “Good night.”

Hach seemed to have lost his voice. He made a dignified bow and retreated before he succumbed to the impulse to tuck her in.

Phytos was displeased. “How soon can she be shipped out?”

Hach trembled slightly but drew out the unopened vial from his pocket. “I…that is…”

Phytos peered at his loyal servant. “What on earth am I going to do with a girl?”

Hach tried to explain what Chrrrirr had told him, what this Kasha had said. “The girl’s father is Ghrent, Lord of the Shadow Woods.”

Phytos scoffed. “’Shadow Woods.’ And?”

“And it seemed he needed a way to rid himself of a useless daughter.”

His lord’s face darkened. “Thinking we would do the deed for him?”

Hach did not want to commit to an opinion. Phytos pushed back his chair. “Where is she?”

“Asleep in the south tower.”

Phytos paced the room. “Have any if the Triumvirate indicated a need for a maiden?”

Hach shook his head.

“What is so ‘useless’ about her?”

“She is…” Hach hesitated. “Not beautiful.”

Phytos rolled his eyes. Hach explained further. “And I fear of a frank and -erm- inquisitive disposition.”

Phytos continued to pace, eyes distant and thoughtful.

“Leave me,” he said finally. Hach bowed himself out and spent the night thinking of whom among their clients could do with a such a girl. ***

He presented his solution to his lord while the sorcerer breakfasted.

Phytos waved this aside. “I will see her, then decide her fate.”

She was awake and dressed in the gown, which fit her better than her own frock. A simple spell, but worthwhile. She was munching an apple when Phytos swept into the room, Hach hurrying in his wake.

She leaped to her feet and paled perceptibly under Phytos’ hard stare.

“I am Phytos, Demon King of the North.”

She stood paralyzed for a moment, swallowed mightily, and gave a wobbly curtsy.

“Your Majesty,” she squeaked.

Hach was relieved to see his master’s mouth thin to hold back a smile.

“What are you doing here, girl?”

“I am so sorry to impose on you,” Kasha rushed to explain. “My father – I assume it was he – had me abducted and carried here. I will leave at once, if I may beg some food from you, and perhaps a horse. I…I cannot return to my home…if perhaps you could suggest somewhere I could seek asylum?”

She was so pathetically brave. Phytos stood in silence a long moment.

“I must consult with my oracle,” he said finally and swept from the room. Hach hurried to follow.

The furrow in his master’s brow stilled the many questions Hach was eager to ask. Up a steep stair and into a wide tower chamber led to the oracle.

Phytos leaned over the silver basin, only a finger deep and polished so it resembled a mirror. The water that filled it had come from a high mountain spring and was perfectly clear.

The demon-king gestured and the water stilled its restlessness. The sunlight reflected off the basin and highlighted the sharp features of Phytos’ face.

Hach moved so he could see into the scene below him.

No sound, but he could well imagine the clamor of the horses and men in the courtyard. They shouted, weapons raised in assent. A man stood on a balcony, gesticulating, his face red with emotion. More cheering and the men mounted. The activity blurred and the scene narrowed, following the man, a king.

He had a surly face, not unhandsome but spoiled by chronic displeasure. He sat and shouted at the other men in the room, advisors of some sort.

“Ghrent?” Hach asked.

Phytos grunted, concentrating. He watched the man a moment more, then the oracle whisked forward in time to follow the riders. They were moving fast and not waiting for those who fell behind. Ahead of them, a distant shadow in the sky, was the Demon King’s mountain keep.

“Why on earth are they coming here?” Hach demanded. It was sheer lunacy to launch an attack on the most powerful sorcerer East of the Hyperan Sea.

Phytos stroked his chin thoughtfully. “They come to rescue the girl.”

Hach mentally juggled the conflicting facts. “Ghrent abducted his own daughter just to rescue her?”

“And so find a warrior to be his heir.”

Hach added, “And dispose of an unappealing daughter in marriage.”

Phytos laughed. “A stupid and convoluted plot. I like it.”

“You will allow them to come?”

“Of course. Though they may find their task harder than they expect.”

Kasha was bouncing on her toes when they returned to her.

“You, girl. Kasha. Can you read?”

She cringed under Phytos’ barking question but nodded.

“Do figures?”

“I had a tutor until a few years ago.”

“How old are you?”

“I will be seventeen years at the Rabbit Moon.” Hach remembered the rough faces of her father and the men sent to fetch her and winced.

Phytos snorted. “Follow me.”

She had to jog to keep up with Phytos’ long strides. Hach hovered in their wake. The front of the keep was towering and filled with twisting corridors, empty rooms, and ominous echoes.

Phytos unlocked a door and waved Kasha through to the main wing.

“Oh!” Kasha’s eyes opened wide. The courtyard was filled with blooming roses, kept in perpetual summer. The far half was tidily planted with vegetables. The goblins assigned to tend the beds bowed to their lord and cast shocked looks at Kasha.

Phytos entered the workroom, where the goblins prepared powders, potions, and elixirs from carefully measured ingredients. Their lord leaned over them to sniff a vial here, finger a bright blue powder there. The kitchens were busy with preparation of the noon meal.

Kasha seemed to shrink smaller and smaller as Phytos led her to his own workroom, a large room with high windows and shelves filled with the bits and pieces of his magic. She sat on the edge of a stool and jumped when Phytos spoke to her.

“You will attend me in the mornings for your lessons. It is well you can read, though I doubt it has been of any use to you. In the afternoons, you will take your instruction from Hach. He manages my keep and my goblins. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Hach will see to your comfort. You may go.”

“Excuse me, my lord?”

“What?” Phytos was less threatening wearing reading spectacles, but still quite ferocious.

“What about my father?”

Phytos dismissed the man with a negligent shrug. “He means nothing.”

Hach wanted to draw his lord’s attention to the sudden swell of tears in the girl’s eyes, but instead gently led her to her own room. Certainly more appealing than the cell she inhabited last night, she looked around with a watery but smiling face.

“Thank you, Hach,” she said, running the back of her hand across her eyes to rid herself of her sorrow. “It is lovely.”

It had been many a year since a woman had stayed in the castle walls longer than a night. The room would do well enough for now. The bed was narrow, but comfortable. A wide window looked north. Rather than the rocks and wasteland to the south of the keep, one could see the fields growing the Demon King’s grain and hay. The goblin workers were darker dots moving along the gently rustling rows.

Kasha made a quick inspection of the room, then followed Hach as he returned to his long overdue tasks. ***

Over the next few weeks, she learned how the gardens were managed, the produce dried, salted, and milled for winter. She eagerly learned the name of each plant, both magical and not. She helped, clumsily at first, but with growing skill, to ready the leaves, roots, and stems for the workers.

They were shy of her. But her infectious giggles soon became a normal part of the hum of activity in the keep.

The field workers proudly showed off their herds of tiny sheep and goats, pigmy cattle giving rich, warm milk. She spun the golden fleece from Phytos’ prize herd into glistening strands, a chore she declared she hated but showed remarkable dexterity for, for a human.

She continued to be meek and silent in Phytos’ presence but attended her lessons and was soon reciting on the movement of the planets and their earthly effects. Her spelling was atrocious, but she had a quick head for figures and loved to plot charts by the hour.

***

Ghrent’s warriors reached the castle after the next full moon. Phytos stood on the highest reaches, watching them through his spy glass.

“Swine,” he muttered. “The lot of them.” The telescope clicked as he slammed it closed. “I should turn them into swine and let them loose to be eaten by wolves.”

Chrrirr had been reporting to his master of these ‘rescuers’ and their activities. Their journey across the countryside had left several villages weeping after their passage.

Phytos stilled his restless pacing. A slow smile curved his thin lips. “Or…”

Kasha trembled when Phytos told her of the approaching riders.

“You aren’t-” She gulped. “You aren’t going to give me to them, are you?”

Phytos gave her the softest smile Hach had ever seen on his face. “No, little one. But I will need your help.”

Her eyes popped as Phytos opened his Book of Spells, a tome she had been expressly forbidden to touch.

“Read this, child.”

She mouthed the words. Her grin lit her face and made her almost lovely.

“Can you remember it?”

She nodded and hugged herself.

They had kept some of the ‘sacrificial’ garb worn by the girls dumped here in the past. Kasha squeezed into a glistening, gossamer gown. She hitched up the bodice and scowled.

“How did they ride a horse in this thing?”

Hach dressed her hair with gems, adding a few muttered incantations to aid in her costuming. She in turn rehearsed her own lines. When Hach finished, he paused a moment to press her hand. She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and followed him to the south wing of the keep.

The wind was howling, encouraged by Phytos’ spells. The horde had gathered and their chuckles of delight were truly terrifying. Kasha stalked through them, a scowl of determination on her face.

It was not long before a rumble of hoofbeats could be heard. Hach appreciated the clouds tumbling overhead and hoped the men’s ride was wet and miserable.

They drew up before the massive gate. One braver – or stupider – than the rest dismounted and came forward.

“Demon King! I am Fhrynheld. I come to reclaim the maiden you stole from King Ghrent!”

“Ha!” Kasha muttered in the shadows.

“Come forth at once and face my blade!”

Hach let his echoes fall to silence, then signaled to begin the spectacle.

***

The great doors groaned as they opened, thunder laughing mockingly overhead. The torches writhed as a gust of wind nearly swept Fhrynheld’s feet from under him, cold and merciless.

He kept his feet and readied his weapon, his comrades doing likewise behind. A few muttered useless prayers. Something gathered in the shadows, a figure. He tensed his legs to spring away when…a woman came out.

He stared, unable to move as she glowered down at him. Her arms spread wide and her voice shook the earth below their feet.

“Behold! I am Kasha whom ye seek.”

Fhrynheld could only gape. He had seen Ghrent’s whelp; this glorious, glowing creature could not be she. He found his voice.

“Hold your tongue, witch!” he snarled. “Bring forth the girl!”

She threw her head back and laughed. It was a musical but dark sound and Fhrynheld was suddenly uneasy.

“Do you not recognize me, Fhrynheld, Brenheld’s son? Have you forgotten me so soon?”

He felt markedly alone before her, the others drawing back. She did not forget them. Her eyes found each one and gleamed her displeasure. She named them one by one and showed her teeth. “What a mighty band my father has assembled. A pity he did not join you.”

Who else could it be? “Lady Kasha, whatever the Demon King has done to you-”

“Silence, dog!” she shrieked. Lightening cracked, so close it and the thunder were one sound. “You think I would return to my father’s keep? Do you think I would suffer to join with such as you! I, who have been given such power by the Demon King himself? You are nothing! Worms! Dross! Swine!”

She pointed at them and spoke terrible words, a mass of glowing, hateful eyes surrounding her. Fhrynheld scrambled to escape her spell, but it twisted his bones, pulling him down to his hands and knees as he desperately tried to crawl away.

“Go! Run like the stinking cattle you are! Tell my father he will rue the day he cast me aside, hoping the Demon King would do the wicked deed he dared not. Tell him that Kasha, Queen of the North, will cause him and his seed to suffer into eternity!”

Fhrynheld ran with the others, fleeing her taunting, hysterical laughter. He could only crawl, the grunting, braying noise tearing his throat mixed with the others’ panicked cries. His hands and feet were twisted in pain, the icy rain soaking his back.

They ran for the edge of the caldera, the horses towering over them as the mass of cattle and swine escaped the wrath of the Witch Queen. ***

Kasha ran up the stairs, lifting her dress so she wouldn’t trip on the trailing silk. She burst into Phytos’ study, face flushed and sweaty, the dazzle enchantment starting to wear off.

“Have they reached the wood yet?” she demanded. “How did I do? I thought I stumbled over the second phrase, but it worked! I turned them into pigs! You weren’t helping, were you, Lord Phytos? I did it myself?”

The Demon King smiled kindly on her. “No, child, you did it yourself. Though I may suggest my work in the heavens added to the general atmosphere.”

Kasha hugged Hach and danced around the room. “Can we watch them? Do you think they will make it to Ghrent’s castle? Will they turn back in front of everybody?”

A quiet voice interrupted her rapid queries.

“Pray, tell me what devilry you’ve been up to, Phytos.”

Kasha peered into the corner. “Who are you?”

Phytos chided her, but it was easy to see he was mostly amused. “This is Daem, an associate of mine.”

Kasha curtsied perfunctorily. “How do you do? Lord Phytos, will you show me how to use the Oracle next? So I can see them when they turn back to human? Oh! Will they be naked? Oh, how funny! I think Cousin Belina might faint!”

Daem nodded greeting to Hach as the goblin came to him. “Who is this creature?” Daem asked, watching her spin around the room.

“A sacrifice,” Hach summarized. “An unwanted daughter, by the sound of it. She’s just been ridding herself of her rescue party.”

“And quite pleased to do so, it appears.”

Hach still had trouble with human expressions but noticed the bright gleam in Daem’s eyes as they followed Kasha. She settled on a cushion at Phytos’ knee and preened over her accomplishment. Her hair was a snarl, her features as uneven as ever. But her eyes glowed with a light not quite natural, some magic still burning inside her. Her smile was quick and cheerful. With the scant gown falling off her shoulders and the ruby headpiece cast aside, she looked a grubby, rumpled mess.

Hach met Phytos knowing glance and asked the young man, “How long do you stay this visit, my lord?”

Daem dragged his eyes away. “My uncle made no orders for my immediate return. Perhaps I may impose upon your hospitality these next few days?”

“You are always welcome here, my lord. Did you find the Scroll of Inzeri?”

“I did,” Daem said. “Paid a fair amount for it, too.” He drew a tightly sealed scroll from his bag.

Phytos, never missing a detail, broke into Kasha’s gloating. “Child, go change that ridiculous outfit and fetch us some refreshments. I wish you to see this scroll Lord Daem has travel so far to recover.”

“Yes, Lord Phytos!” She skipped out of the room, calling to the goblins to hear her thrilling news.

Phytos held out his hand for the scroll. “An engaging child, yes? Ugly, which is a pity, but certainly gifted. Turned twenty men into pigs with the barest education in the Magical Arts.”

Daem’s tanned face was a little darker than usual. “Certainly a prodigy, my lord. I have started a translation.”

Hach watched the young man closely as he argued linguistics with Phytos, as Kasha interrupted them with eager questions, as the confused, but interested look in Daem’s eyes grew softer and warmer over the following days.

The young human took his leave a week later. Kasha begged him to return soon and bring her a present from his home by the sea. She peered longingly through the door that led, not to the fields beyond the castle walls, but to a warm and sunny city, the tangy sea air blowing fresh and crisp into the keep.

Daem waved farewell to them and Phytos shut the door and locked it.

“Can I go to the sea?” Kasha begged. She had a smudge of dirt by her nose. “I’ve only heard stories of the sea. Please, can we visit Daem in his home soon?”

“We will visit one day soon, child. Now, you have delayed your lessons long enough.” When she made to complain he raised a thin eyebrow and stated, “Lord Daem was only fourteen years when he mastered all the of Third Lexicon. Surely you do not want to be outdone by a mere scholar. You, who has the Gift?”

Determination set her chin in stubborn lines. “When is he coming back, do you think?” It asked was so casually that Hach had to turn away to hide his grin.

Phytos had a look of extreme pleasure in his own machinations. “Oh, I am sure we will see him soon enough. Now, go to my study and copy out the First Incantation. Neatly, if you please.”

Kasha scampered away and Hach gave into his laughter.

#shortstory #writingrampant #writingprompt #writing

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barpurplewrites · 6 years ago

Text

Not in the romantic fashion - Ch 5

Story So Far (HERE)

Okay this is a long one.

WARNINGS for ANGST : REFERENCES TO PAST ABUSIVE RELATIONSHIP

If you are okay with having a bit of a weep then please read away, if you’d rather know there is happy on the other side of the angst then please wait until the next chapter is up okay?

For those of you who are gonna do this now, you got your tissues, comfort food/drink of choice? Good then you’re set.

-x-x-x-

Belle looked at her wardrobe and decided on the blue gown. For the past three days her mind had been churning, but she had now reached a decision. She was a married woman and she could not spend the rest of her days hiding from her husband. This morning she would breakfast with Mr Gold and they would discuss the events of Lady de Vil’s ball.

Laid out like that her plan was such a simple one, but there were so many variables that she could not predict how such a frank conversation would resolve. As Merida helped her dress there were three words echoing in Belle’s mind; bait and switch. The phrase was one that a fine lady should never learn, and yet Belle had personal experience of the confidence trick, and the devastating after effects.

Count Gaston had worn the face of a sweet and caring man when he had come into her life not long before her mother’s death. For a time, all expected that he would speak with her father and request her hand in marriage. He had listened to her fears and worries for her mother’s failing health. At time when her father had become distant under the weight of his own sorrow the attention of Count Gaston had been of invaluable support to her. He had encouraged her interests, at least she had thought he had. In hindsight many of their conversations had ended revolving around the Count, but she had not noticed the shift at the time. When a series of poor investments caused father’s fortunes to wane not long after mother’s death Belle very quickly saw the other side of the Count.

“Which hairpins would you like today Mrs Belle?”

Belle caught Merida’s eyes in the mirror and exchanged a smile with her; “Mother’s pearl ones, thank you Merida.”

Merida had been a godsend during those terrible days. On hearing rumours of father’s change in fortune the Count had become sullen and short-tempered. The final straw had come one day when Belle returned from a ride. The Count was waiting for her in the stables and Belle still shuddered to recall the anger in his eyes. Furious that father could not offer a decent dowry for her marriage the Count had raised his hand to her. The blow he could have landed would likely have knocked her senseless, but for the timely application of a shovel to the back of his head by Merida.

Belle had been terrified, it was not the threat of violence that had shook her to her core, but seeing the mask slip from the Count’s face to reveal the true monster beneath. That she had been so mistaken in the Count’s character caused her to doubt herself. Similar feelings had wracked her after Mr Gold’s outburst at the ball. Doubt and fear had been her immediate companions that night. Over these past three days she had reconsidered every conversation, every interaction, with Mr Gold, and yet she could fathom no ulterior motive for him to have been anything other than himself with her.

“Mrs Belle?”

Merida’s quiet voice pulled Belle from her recollections. There was only one way to understand Mr Gold and that was to speak with him. Merida had dressed her, and she was as ready to face the fire as she would ever be.

“I will breakfast downstairs today, Merida.”

Merida smiled in encouragement; “Very good Mrs Belle.”

Merida watched as Mrs Belle squared her shoulders and lift her hand to touch her hairpins. The pearl set had been Lady Colette’s, and Mrs Belle only wore them when she felt the need to draw on the strength of her mother. As soon as Mrs Belle had left the room Merida darted down the back stairs, she wanted to let the rest of the staff know that the much hoped for conversation between wife and husband was about to happen. Once Mrs Potts knew what was going one Merida had some very important dusting to do in the hall outside the breakfast room.

Lumiere had been rather jovial this morning as he fussed to ensure Gold was looking his best. Gold suspected that it was an attempt to raise his spirits and lift him from the funk he’d wallowed in these three days, but when Lumiere suggested that he wear the sapphire blue cravat that Mrs Gold favoured he found himself hoping. He dared not to ask Lumiere for confirmation of his hopes, but he walked into the breakfast room with his head held high and his heart thumping in his chest. Mrs Gold was not there, but there were still several minutes until eight o’clock. He took his seat and waited. Optimism was not his natural state, and the flicker of it in his chest was unusual, but he found not unwelcome.

Belle paused at the foot of the stairs and collected her thoughts. Mr Gold was not the Count. She needed to give him a fair chance to explain himself before she judged him. She walked into the breakfast room with a confidence she did not entirely feel.

Mr Gold leapt from his chair as if he had been burned, it was puck luck she thought that he managed to catch the back of his chair before it toppled over. Once he had righted the chair he gave her a stiff bow; “Good morning Mrs Gold.”

He stood stiff and awkward, his fingers rubbing across his thumb as he watched her walk to the sideboard, and then asked; “How, how have you been Mrs Gold?”

Considering the current tension between them she chose to let that question go unanswered, from the corner of her eye she saw Mr Gold thump his fist against his forehead. Prior to the ball she would have laughed at that, but now she wasn’t sure how to react. Once she had poured herself a cup of tea she turned towards the table and saw that it was laid with three place settings; as usual Mr Gold’s at the head of the table; the one to his left where she had habitually sat; and also the more traditional place for the lady of the house at the opposite end to Mr Gold.

“Are we expecting a guest?”

He shuffled a little on his feet; “I was not certain that you would appreciate our former familiarity, so I instructed the staff to give you options.”

His consideration for her comfort was in keeping with the man she had come to know over the past month of their marriage. She almost took her usual seat at his left, but then decided that the nature of the conversation they must have required more space.

He remained standing until she was seated; “Would you prefer to summon your maid to chaperone?”

Belle suspected that Merida would have found herself a task that placed her within shouting distance of the breakfast room. She would never accuse her maid of eavesdropping, but she would certainly be close enough to hear if their voices raised beyond a normal conversational level. It had become their custom to breakfast alone, and as wary as she was of a reappearance of Mr Gold’s temper Belle decided that their custom should stand. She declined his offer and he acknowledge her with a nod of his head. Mr Gold finally took his seat and began toying with his tea cup but did not speak. If they were to move beyond their current difficulties Belle would have to make the first move.

“I would like to thank you for intervening with Mr Jones.”

Gold gave her a hopeful half smile, but Belle raised a hand to halt him from replying before she had finished; “However there were many less violent methods you could have employed. I would like you to explain to me why that violence was your first response.”

Mr Gold studied her face for a long moment; “I scared you.”

It wasn’t a question, and he must had suspected the truth by the way in which he had ensured she could keep a distance between them and offered her a chaperone. He knew what her reaction to his anger had been, he was simply seeking confirmation.

“Yes, you did Mr Gold.”

Mr Gold swallowed deeply; “Then first may I offer my deepest apologies. I take our marriage vows seriously, you should never know a moment of fear because of my actions.

The sincerity and regret were thick in his words. The soft trusting part of Belle wanted to instantly grant him forgiveness so they could put this matter behind them. The sceptical and slightly cynical part of her reminded her that pretty words were easy. She needed more from him.

“I want to accept your apology Mr Gold, but before I do, I need to understand why you reacted so violently.”

She hoped her words would encourage him to explain, but she had not expected him to lift his watch from the pocket of his waistcoat. She bristled at the thought that he had an appointment that was more important than the sorry state of their marriage. He unhooked the chain and held the watch out to her.

“May I?”

At her nod he slowly walked towards her and placed the open watch by her elbow. He walked backwards just as slowly as he had approached and took his seat once more.

“If you would take a look Mrs Gold.”

She frowned slightly wondering why he would want her to see the time. When she picked up the watch, she found that it was the back door that was opened. Curious she looked inside the case and found a portrait.

“Who is this young man?”

“His name was Baelfire.”

Belle’s fingers tightened on the metal case. She once again cursed this ridiculous fad for blind marriages. Was she now expected to acknowledge her husband’s son? A secret son, at that?

“Your son?”

Mr Gold shook his head; “No, no Mrs gold. Baelfire was no blood of mine, yet I cared for him as a father, as a good father would care for a son.”

His use of the past tense screamed at her. She waited, the familiar tension of a sad story to be told hung in the air between them. Belle was reminded of the occasion when her mother had told her of the illness that was already eating away at her. She had the uncomfortable feeling that Mr Gold’s story would have a similar unhappy ending.

Mr Gold took a deep breath; “I first met Baelfire when he attempted to pick my pocket.”

Belle’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

“I caught him at it, even though he was very good, light-fingered little beggar was skilled at his trade. But I confess that I have some experience with performing the old dippity-do-dah myself.”

That statement was going to require closer questioning, but for now Belle kept her questions to herself.

“I grabbed his hand, but he struggled, and my watch dropped to the ground, hence the dent in the case.”

Belle ran her finger over the dent in the metal. She had wondered why Mr Gold, a man meticulous in his appearance, would carry a dented watch. She’d not found the moment to ask, and now she didn’t have too.

Mr Gold smiled fondly, his eyes hazy with memory; “He was a firecracker, bold and brave. Used language that I shall not repeat and dared me to call the law.”

“I suspect you declined?”

“Oh yes, indeed I did Mrs Gold. I saw something in Baelfire that I wanted to protect. Something of myself in him one could say.”

The coarse accusation of Mr Jones that her husband was baseborn surfaced in her mind. Similarities in birth were not the only reason that Mr Gold might feel compassion for a street urchin. She shook Mr Jones’ words away and focused on her husband and his story.

“It took little persuasion to encourage Baelfire to come home with me. The promise of a good meal was far too tempting for him. He told me straight to my face that I was daft and he wold rob me blind. I told him that was his choice and that I would let him take what he could if that was the route he decided on. First time I saw surprise on his wee face.

“I found him that night in my study, his pockets filled with whatever he’d be able to sell. I told him he could go, but if he wanted something other than a life of uncertainty on the street then he could stay, and I would find him work and he’d have three square meals a day of a better quality then he would get in the nick.”

Mr Gold paused to take a sip of tea and his nose crinkled. Belle recognized that look, Mr Gold’s tea had gone cold. She rose from her seat and gestured towards his cup; “Would you like me to pour you a fresh one?”

When she had stood, he had half left his seat. Caught between manners which dictated he should stand when a lady did, and the easy intimacy of a husband whose wife was waiting on him, he dithered half-standing in a way that brought a small smile to Belle’s lips. He nervously sat down and nodded; “If you would be so kind, Mrs Gold.”

He appeared tense as she approached, almost certainly a shiver passed over him as she took the cup from the table. The distance between them was closer than they had been since the ball. Belle noticed a tremble in her own hand and quickly turned towards the sideboard in order to conceal her reaction. The soothing rhythm of pouring tea calmed her enough that once she had added the sugar and milk Mr Gold preferred her hands were steady again.

As she turned back to the table, she found Mr Gold watching her. In his features she saw the gentle man she had come to know in the month since their wedding. In that moment she realised that he looked at her as if she hung the moon. The heady sensation that he likely returned the affection she had begun to feel for him caused her hands to tremble once more, but she managed to set his cup on the table without spilling the tea.

“Thank you Be, erm, herm, erm, thank you Mrs Gold.”

A blush rose to his cheeks at his near slip of using her given name, an intimacy she had not yet granted him. As she returned to her seat she wondered if he referred to her as Belle in his mind. She had no idea what to call him other than Mr Gold. His reaction to his given name during their wedding suggested that he would not welcome it if she were to call him Barbara, but her husband must have friends who called him something other than Mr Gold. As she pondered what he would accept as a name from his intimate circle, Belle smoothed her skirts and then asked; “So, Baelfire stayed with you?”

Mr Gold blew on his steaming cup of tea and took a small slip before smiling at her in thanks, and then saying; “Yes, yes he did. He was worried about that decision, and when I asked him why, that was the first time I heard the name Killian Jones.”

A dark cloud passed over Mr Gold’s features at the mention of the man. Belle held herself still. The fear she had felt at the ball was trying to rise in her again, but she refused to be engulfed by it again.

From her seat at the other end of the table Belle could see Mr Gold’s knuckles were white from the grip he had on the fine porcelain. She saw his hands shake as he returned the cup to the saucer.

“Baelfire wanted to stay with me, his exact words were ‘If you can help me get outta the gutter then I’ll stick around, but Jones ain’t gonna like losing his best pick-pocket.’ I must ask Mrs Gold; how much do you know of the workings of thieves?”

Belle blinked, she had not been expecting that question; “As you know Mr Gold, I read the broadsheets and tabloids more than a woman of my station is expected to, but I can not claim any personal knowledge of the inner workings of such people.”

She wanted to kick herself for the pompous tone of her words, was it possible she could sound anymore superior? Mr Gold took no exception to her words, he simply gave a brief nod and continued with his story.

“Baelfire was one of a circle of pickpockets, thieves and, erm,” – Mr Gold cleared his throat and shot Belle an anxious look, -“erm prostitutes that Jones ran. Jones was at this point advancing in society off the backs of those in bondage to him like Bae, and by employing blackmail in order to claim a naval career.”

Mr Gold made to stand but paused and dropped back into his chair; “Mrs Gold, this portion of my history makes me restless. With your permission I will stand and pace. I will remain at this end of the room and make no advances into your space. Again, if you wish to summon your maid, or the entire household staff to ensure your safety and comfort I shall not move from this chair until you have done so.”

His focus was so intense on her that she suspected that he didn’t hear the not so subtle cough from the hallway. Belle recognized it as Merida, less than four steps away if her guess was right. She would not have to raise her voice should she want another by her side, and yet this moment, this first difficulty in their marriage, she wanted to keep between the two of them.

“By my leave, pace the room as you will Mr Gold.”

If Belle had not been focused on him, she would have missed the way his eyes darted towards the door. He knew how close aid was for her and that gave her confidence. He gave her a bow and slowly rose from his seat. He traversed the width of the room behind his chair four times before he stopped to the right of the seat and stared at the wall. Belle had been hoping to change the wallpaper in this room as she found the black and silver flourishes to be too austere for her taste.

After a long moment Mr Gold said; “Jones waited six months before he approached me to demand payment for Bae. He claimed that I needed to satisfy a contract he had on the boy. I refused to give him a single copper.”

He turned very slowly to face her but would not meet her eyes, his collar length hair obscured his face from her view; “I should have paid him what he wanted, and double that, triple it, because then Bae would be alive.”

He raised his head and Belle gasped at the sight of tears running down his cheeks.

“And if I had paid him and paid him every day since then you would not be in danger, my dear sweet Belle.”

#rumbelle #ANGST #more angst #it will get better #not in the romantic fashion

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