My Beloved Queen

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

xxi. the queen

wife
// marriage can bring peace; marriage can breed love. it is a promise forged between partners—a treaty made at the altar. and in the bed, it shall be ratified.

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The night was not yet over; after the fanfare came the quiet, and it was in such attire that a wedding's true intention would surface. It would enter like a thief: without applause—without clapping or shouting or any manner of joyful music. There would be loss; there would be something gained. Something small and hopeful; something to replace all that was to be taken.

The maids helped you change into something more appropriate for the night. They stripped you of the extravagant wedding dress and replaced it with a simpler gown—one that was perhaps easier to remove than it was to slip into—and though they removed only fabric, they left less than skin.

It was a strange bareness, a nakedness the nightgown did not—could not—rectify. The last few rays of the day left with the wedding dress, and yet, in its place, the night was hardly as comforting—as protective. It could hardly stave off the wolves or their fangs; in fact, its shadows coaxed them from their dens—invited them to walk freely about the halls, to gallivant and meander as readily as man.

You could hear them rejoicing in the night, screaming and shouting for joy that was not theirs to have. Their terrible howls echoed in your skull, and when the maids took their leave, the awful barking grew only louder.

There was a weight on your shoulders—a terrible pressure, like all the mountains of Ceorid had been thrown upon your spine. A tremor racked your frame, and you tried to move to the window, to steal the cold stones' unyielding strength. Your knees shook, and your feet moved as though through water; you could feel it sloshing about you, rising until it lapped at your neck.

Mother's voice was in your head; her lessons and her words, warning you of your future—instructing you in the manner with which to fulfill it. You were here, now, standing at the edge of the night—watching the beginning of what would, with luck and perseverance, become the first of many. But there was a nettle in your heart—a painful shard of something strange, slipping in behind the flickering flame.

You reached the window, and your fingers curled tightly about the sill. The stone edge dug uncomfortably into the soft flesh of your palms, but when you pressed your forehead against the glass, the chill of the panes somewhat dulled the discomfort.

Cold moonlight dusted your face and hands, but the pale illumination was somehow warmer than the flickering candlelight that brightened the bed-chamber. Atia must be watching; perhaps she would take pity upon you and hasten the night's end.

The air in your lungs stilled, and the mountains that rested upon your shoulders curved your spine forward until your forehead pressed painfully up against the cold window panes. Your eyes fluttered close, but you dared not lose your grip upon the mask. The shadows were creeping, and something beneath the surface of the water was stirring; you could see it moving, creating ripples across the black sea.

But this was your duty—your fate.

A breath fell from your lips, and when you inhaled, the air that filled your lungs tasted of cold moonlight. Slowly, you opened your eyes and pulled your face back from the window, and the night rose to meet your gaze. Stars dusted the sky like snowflakes, and the mountains of Ceorid rose to meet them like teeth—the fangs of the great bear himself, reaching up to snatch the last glimmers of sunlight from the sky.