1712, Aethiel Palace, Kestramore City
Demitria stood aghast by her study table, stunned by the contents of the letter. It was a simple letter, three sentences in all, written on a piece of blue-tinted paper that somehow smelled like the ocean. Those three sentences that came from the tip of Maximilian's quill, were enough to throw her world into a state of chaos.
"Demi, have you seen Pouf? Ursula said that she saw him near your room-"
Marcus's words came to a stop when he noticed how red his sister's face was, and then he saw the piece of paper in her grasp, which was clenched so tightly that he thought it would just disintegrate into nothingness.
"Sister, are you alright?" he asked cautiously.
Still in disbelief, Demitria turned to face her youngest brother, and shakily, she said, "I believe that the king of Amaris intends to ask for my hand in marriage."
Never in her life had the prospect of being married come so close to her. As a child, she was told by her mother that she would someday marry Prince Dominique of Phoenicia, and so, she spent all her childhood days learning the customs and language of the kingdom.
"Na vi et voleur mer," was one of the phrases that Demitria remembered best. What does it mean, you might ask? I like to eat shellfish. Well, to be fair, Demitria did fancy herself some clams and scallops.
Then, out of the blue, when the wedding arrangements were being made, Dominique went ahead and eloped with a Lecarrian duchess, claiming that it was love at first sight, and that an arranged marriage will only bring pain to all parties involved. Which is true. Demitria respected their courage. Hell, she even found it admirable. But what she did not find pleasant was being seen as the other woman, the foreign princess who was abandoned despite her family's great expanse of wealth. To further add fire to the flame, the Lecarrian duchess in question was raised in destitution, and despite her lack of expensive brocade and jewellery, Prince Dominique was struck dumb by her beauty.
Again, fairytale material. For months, Demitria would stare at the mirror for hours on end, wondering if there was something wrong with her face. Of course, she found nothing wrong, only an abundance of beauty, but that is another story. To tell the truth, Demitria had not been so keen on marrying Prince Dominique. She had seen his portraits and corresponded with him, and he did seem like a decent man. However, she did not love him, and he did not love her. It was a marriage of convenience, and he had the courage to pursue his true love whereas she did not.
But now, the flames have come alight again. Everyone knew that Maximilian was in search of a queen, and Ravaeryn happened to have an unmarried princess. It seemed that this time around, the princess would actually get herself a husband.
Two days after the letter arrived, an entourage came knocking at the gates of Aethiel Palace, and on its flags and banners was the three-pointed orchid, the insignia of the royal house of Amaris. The guards quickly made way, presuming that the king of Amaris was inside. However, the coachman insisted that they came here bearing a proposal of marriage, and that the king would arrive later on.
Demitria watched the procession from her bedroom window, her heart conflicted. She could never love this man, she knew that, for her heart belonged to a dead man. But at the same time, this marriage would bring her kingdom great prosperity, and she would not have to hear her mother whine about her apparent state of spinsterhood. It was a win-win situation, but Demitria could not help but fear that the occurrences of the past would somehow happen again.
She could bear living without a husband, but what she could not bear was to be dubbed 'The Woman Who Was Abandoned Twice'. To tell the truth, Demitria had wondered why her worth was ultimately tied to the man who had ditched the marriage alliance. Why was she nicknamed 'The Abandoned One' and 'Leftover Woman'? Why had he not been called 'The Reckless One' or 'The Prince Who Acts Before He Thinks'? There was none of that. Instead, he was called the Rebel Prince, truly a fleshed-out character from a fairytale.
It was ironic, to say the least. She had gone along with the arrangement to ensure peace, while he left to pursue his own personal desires.
"Why was he celebrated, when all I had received was humiliation?" she hissed bitterly under her breath. "Is it such a sin, to be a filial daughter?"
Moments after the entourage arrived, Ursula came knocking at her door.
"Your Highness, your presence is required downstairs. It is a matter of utmost importance," she insisted.
Demitria knew she could not simply refuse to show up. That would be a huge disservice to their efforts of forging an alliance, and instead, dooming the two kingdoms to yet another round of conflict. Sighing, she stood up from her bed and smoothed out the creases on her skirt.
Downstairs in the receiving hall, both her mother and father were already awaiting, and the Amarisian ambassador, a tall, dark-haired man with a splendid moustache stood in the centre of the hall with a scroll tucked in his hand. Ten young men and ten young ladies stood in the background, each carrying a golden tray filled with an abundance of riches. Their clothes were made from the most exquisite material known to mankind, seasilk, which according to legend, was woven by mermaids themselves. Unsurprisingly, on those trays were rolls of seasilk all stacked up, with colours ranging from bright yellow to the darkest of blue.
"Your Highness," the ambassador greeted, his words thickly laced with the Amarisian accent. "I have come here carrying the message of my king, Maximilian IV of Amaris."
Demitria faked a prim smile. "Let us hear it, then."
The ambassador nodded as he opened the scroll. "To Princess Demitria of Ravaeryn, as I have expressed in my letter, I intend to take you as my bride, my queen. But fear not, for our marriage shall not simply be a union of convenience, and I, as your husband, shall remain true to you for the rest of our lives.
As a betrothal gift, my people have brought with them one hundred rolls of seasilk, one opal locket, a pair of opal earrings, ten Amarisian court gowns, one hundred saltwater pearls, a set of bow and arrows crafted by the famous blacksmith, Sir Tornington, and lastly, a black opal ring."
Demitria's expression was stiff from beginning to end, much to Queen Isabel's chagrin. However, that was just the tip of the iceberg. To her absolute horror, once Demitria opened her mouth, the first thing she said was, "There is no need for a betrothal gift, for there is no betrothal to begin with."
"Pardon?" the ambassador guffawed, flabbergasted.
"You heard me right," Demitria retorted. "But to clarify, I am not refusing him. I am simply giving him a chance to reconsider. At the ceremony, there will be countless other ladies and princesses from the neighbouring kingdoms, women who are more beautiful than me, who are younger than me. He may intend to marry me now, but in a week from now, will his heart remain unchanged? Or will he abandon me and run off to pursue some other lady?"
The ambassador shrugged. "I am not fickle-hearted. Once I fall in love, that is where my heart shall remain for the rest of my life."
Instead of focusing on his words, the King and Queen were spotted whispering to one another, "Where did his accent go?"
For Demitria however, it was an entirely different story. She recognized that voice, and oh, how she missed it dearly. But how could it be? He was dead, she knew he was dead. But as she lifted her face to meet the piercing gaze of the ambassador, her words died in her throat, because a pair of greenish blue eyes were staring back at her.
"I thought that it only worked in books and operas, but it turns out that it also works in real life," Rafael sighed as he ripped away the black moustache that had been stuck above his upper lip. "I can't believe you did not recognize me, Princess. My fake accent must be quite believable."
Unlike Rafael, Demitria had not been in such a jovial mood. There he was, back from the dead. But did he even die in the first place? Evidently no. It all felt like a cruel joke, and Demitria, who had been bearing the brunt of it all for the past few months, snapped.
"Is this a laughable matter to you?" she blurted out. "I thought you were dead. Dead! I cried for you, I mourned you! And now you return laughing! How dare you, Rafael? How dare you!"
"I did what I had to do! The bear attack was a farce to lower my uncle's guard, and look, hasn't it worked?"
"Yes, you did what you had to do, and it worked! But for me, I lived through Hell, Rafael. I lived in guilt, wondering if our last conversation had led you to enter the military and ultimately die!"
Rafael shook his head. "You could never hurt me, Princess. I did it all for you, so that we could be together. I knew that your father would never allow you to marry the poor, rankless Master Lombardi who lives off of his uncle's charity. But for the king of Amaris, anyone would be more than willing. I now sit upon my rightful throne, but I find it quite lonely, for the throne beside mine is empty."
Demitria remained quiet, her pride preventing her from responding to him.
"Princess?" Rafael called out softly as he reached for her cold fingertips. They were despondent to his touch, but he noticed how red her cheeks had suddenly become. "Demitria?"
This was the very first time he had called her by her given name, and oh, she wished nothing more than to hear it again. Her fingers subconsciously curled into his, and slowly, he brought a hand to her chin, gently lifting her face so that he could look into her eyes.
"When I was fighting for my life in Amaris, did you know who I thought of the most?" he whispered. "I thought of you, Demitria. I swore to myself that when all of this is over, I would return to Ravaeryn and ask for your hand in marriage. Now, I ask you again, Demitria de Lavilliers, will you marry me?"
Much to his surprise, instead of giving him an answer, Demitria went ahead and buried her face in his chest, her fingers tugging on the velvet material of his tunic. There, she finally allowed her tears to fall freely. They were not the tears of sorrow, but rather, the tears of joy. Happy that he was not dead, happy that he had come back to her.
"Demitria-"
"I will marry you," she murmured in between sobs, her voice muffled by tears. "But you have so, so much explaining to do."
Rafael smiled as he gently stroked the crown of Demitria's head. "I know, dearest. I know."