She is king, he is a warrior and a natural in power. She goes to hell. He goes to heaven. She is destined to be burned at the stake, he is destined for greatness and glory, only for it to break into madness and heartache. she has a heart of stone, h...
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The way he played along almost immediately made me quite infuriated. Men are skilled enough at one thing and one thing only; and that is ridding themselves of the responsibility of any actions they've done that people deemed unacceptable. They will always, without fail, pretend as if they've forgotten what they've done, or they would disgustingly and shamelessly deny that it ever happened. I hated them and I hated that they were all the same.
He thought I could not look at him differently because I had a lover, and he is solely mistaken, for I was no fool, and I knew 'loving' or caring for him would gain me all the more power, and get me all the more closer to my goal, yet, for the life of me, I could not seem to accept him whatsoever, not because of his foolishness, but rather because he is quite the repulsive example of a man who is nothing without the protection of his authority, or without the power that was handed to him by pure birthright and nothing but. Amadeus was a warrior through and through, Amadeus did not care for what people thought of him, he did whatever he wanted and thought of the consequences later. Roman, and all men like him, cared too deeply for the opinions of men who watched his every step ever since he was a child, men who cared about the crown, men who wished, night and day, that they were in his shoes, and he would never risk upsetting his godly 'council' over matters of the heart or anything of the sorts. He was a lifeless, soulless man who is the same as any other rich, greedy nobleman. And that was why I could never fall in love with the likes of him. Not now, not in a lifetime.
I would never tell him this, for he would never understand, and even if he ever did understand, he would dismiss it all and pretend i was 'mad' and demand I was punished or something of the sorts. Just like how father would react in the past, every time he felt as though I was gaining more knowledge and power over him, or if he felt the slightest bit of disrespect coming out of my mouth, or if he was simply bored and wanted to put me to blame for the passing of his beloved wife. I was a young, helpless girl who would get tormented for hours in a disgusting vile dungeon under the fake mercy of the most heartless and cruel men getting the utmost pleasure out of seeing my blood run like a fucking river on the smelly, dirty floors of that cursed place.
Years and years went by, and he would not stop, he would only get angrier, and it got too inhumane with time, for he would demand I was punished and 'disciplined' three, four, five times a day for the most foolish reasons, as if me finishing a meal without waiting for him was quite the disrespectful act that i needed to be punished and tortured for hours at a time.
The cruel men demanded I showed them my scars of the old punishments, they demanded I hit my own bruises, dig at my own fresh wounds, inflict pain on myself and demanded I did not make sound. Any sound was punishable by a very hot, well sharpened sword. It burned like the hellfire, I imagined.
I remember one time it got too viscous and too barbarous I cried, I hated crying, yet at the time I could smell my own blood mixed with sweat and urine and who knows what else, it made my guts scream for help, any help, but no one helped. I was in constant agony growing up, and it seemed as though I was not allowed to exist unless I experienced thousands of agonies and horrors, at the very least. Yet my life experience was much better than the poor women who had no title to protect them from the strange deranged hatred men had for us for merely existing. I was aware of that tragedy all too well.
