She sat in the room trembling, a hundred miles from home. The bed was unfamiliar. The drapes on the windows too dark. Her dress was white silk. Her hair had become dishevelled from the stress. She tugged at the blonde curls, chewing her lip in restless motions as she went from door to window, door to window.
"Why does he not come?" She asked the servant. She then fussed with her slippers, too tight.
"He will come when he wishes to, my Lady. The master is often busy."
"But it is our consummation? Should he not... at least have a word with me beforehand? To let me know his thoughts? If he values me... If he loves..." Her voice trailed off. She could not continue. A worried nip of her finger spoke the rest of her thoughts.
She felt so small in that tower. Dumped there by her father. Given like a dowry, a prize to be won. She had caught a fleeting glimpse of her husband. Tall and powerful, with dark luscious hair and an open, tousled shirt. He walked with broad shoulders, curling fists, and had the slight gruffness about him of a man who spent his days unshaven. Even now, the thought of his rough hands taking hers in even a minor curtsey made her tremble. She resolved to be strong, at least, for their first encounter. She owed it to herself. Even if this was against every value she held dear, she would at least present herself as propriety demanded.
There was a sudden knock at the door, and the maid shot her a warning glance. She turned at once, tugging at her skirts, trying her best to seem attentive and alert. The maid went over to the door and opened it, bowing her head at once.
"Master--"
"Leave us."
"... Yes."
The maid threw her one last glance over her shoulder. She felt her hairs stand on the back of her neck, like a cat faced with a particularly vicious predator. Then it was them and them alone.
He walked in and closed the door. He was in a navy silk shirt, with frilled sleeves, an open front, and dark filigree trousers. His riding boots were speckled with mud. He was yet wearing gloves. He took them off whilst eyeing her mildly past his hair. He did not look pleased to see her. She wondered if he ever looked pleased.
"My Lord, I--" She began, her voice a pathetic notion, bordering upon superstitious fear.
"Quiet," he advised, walking by her. He took the candelabra from by the window and lit a few more braziers hanging about the room. This threw his tan, unorthodox features into sharp relief. His face was smoothly lined, with thick lips, dark eyes, a light scar or two by his chin and eyebrow, and the intense seriousness of his complexion. She fell away from him almost naturally, staggering into the wardrobe.
"I frighten you? How convenient. That your father should send me a meek bride."
Her breath lurched. It thrust itself into her throat. The indignation of it made her blush wildly. She was a small thing, a willowy blonde of no great proportion, but meek? She went to argue, yet he reached up and rested his fist about the small of her throat, and she fell into his palm helplessly, clutched by him.
"Wives..." He began. He then seemed torn. Torn either by satisfaction; or disappointment, she did not know. "... Are for breeding. I will return. Perhaps by then you'll have grown a stomach..."
He shoved her off, and the porcelain fell from the cabinet. As she gasped, it shattered. He had already strode from the room, but he stopped at the door to check on her. She did not know whether he stopped to see if it had harmed her, or if he was simply stunned by the noise. But he gave her a brief, fleeting look before staggering off down the hall.
Once he had left, she sat there in the shattered porcelain, feeling numb, groping at her throat, too warm in her belly and paralysed in her mind. She felt both cold and eerily numb from the excitement, as if the adrenaline had left her struck dumb. His words repeated themselves, callous as they were: "Wives... are for breeding." The very thought gave an ill sort of apprehension she could not escape. And as such, she pressed her fingers to her lips, then got up, ran, and immediately locked the door, as if she were afraid he might return.
"Why, father?" She whispered to herself at the window, curling herself into her hair. "Why leave me with this monster? This... shadow of a man? Can't you see, you have done me no favours." She then rested her face to the sill, dreaming of home, alone with her thoughts; and of the man who moments ago had placed his hands upon her....
"Why does he not come?" She asked the servant. She then fussed with her slippers, too tight.
"He will come when he wishes to, my Lady. The master is often busy."
"But it is our consummation? Should he not... at least have a word with me beforehand? To let me know his thoughts? If he values me... If he loves..." Her voice trailed off. She could not continue. A worried nip of her finger spoke the rest of her thoughts.
She felt so small in that tower. Dumped there by her father. Given like a dowry, a prize to be won. She had caught a fleeting glimpse of her husband. Tall and powerful, with dark luscious hair and an open, tousled shirt. He walked with broad shoulders, curling fists, and had the slight gruffness about him of a man who spent his days unshaven. Even now, the thought of his rough hands taking hers in even a minor curtsey made her tremble. She resolved to be strong, at least, for their first encounter. She owed it to herself. Even if this was against every value she held dear, she would at least present herself as propriety demanded.
There was a sudden knock at the door, and the maid shot her a warning glance. She turned at once, tugging at her skirts, trying her best to seem attentive and alert. The maid went over to the door and opened it, bowing her head at once.
"Master--"
"Leave us."
"... Yes."
The maid threw her one last glance over her shoulder. She felt her hairs stand on the back of her neck, like a cat faced with a particularly vicious predator. Then it was them and them alone.
He walked in and closed the door. He was in a navy silk shirt, with frilled sleeves, an open front, and dark filigree trousers. His riding boots were speckled with mud. He was yet wearing gloves. He took them off whilst eyeing her mildly past his hair. He did not look pleased to see her. She wondered if he ever looked pleased.
"My Lord, I--" She began, her voice a pathetic notion, bordering upon superstitious fear.
"Quiet," he advised, walking by her. He took the candelabra from by the window and lit a few more braziers hanging about the room. This threw his tan, unorthodox features into sharp relief. His face was smoothly lined, with thick lips, dark eyes, a light scar or two by his chin and eyebrow, and the intense seriousness of his complexion. She fell away from him almost naturally, staggering into the wardrobe.
"I frighten you? How convenient. That your father should send me a meek bride."
Her breath lurched. It thrust itself into her throat. The indignation of it made her blush wildly. She was a small thing, a willowy blonde of no great proportion, but meek? She went to argue, yet he reached up and rested his fist about the small of her throat, and she fell into his palm helplessly, clutched by him.
"Wives..." He began. He then seemed torn. Torn either by satisfaction; or disappointment, she did not know. "... Are for breeding. I will return. Perhaps by then you'll have grown a stomach..."
He shoved her off, and the porcelain fell from the cabinet. As she gasped, it shattered. He had already strode from the room, but he stopped at the door to check on her. She did not know whether he stopped to see if it had harmed her, or if he was simply stunned by the noise. But he gave her a brief, fleeting look before staggering off down the hall.
Once he had left, she sat there in the shattered porcelain, feeling numb, groping at her throat, too warm in her belly and paralysed in her mind. She felt both cold and eerily numb from the excitement, as if the adrenaline had left her struck dumb. His words repeated themselves, callous as they were: "Wives... are for breeding." The very thought gave an ill sort of apprehension she could not escape. And as such, she pressed her fingers to her lips, then got up, ran, and immediately locked the door, as if she were afraid he might return.
"Why, father?" She whispered to herself at the window, curling herself into her hair. "Why leave me with this monster? This... shadow of a man? Can't you see, you have done me no favours." She then rested her face to the sill, dreaming of home, alone with her thoughts; and of the man who moments ago had placed his hands upon her....
