"Come in, Eda."
The door to your chambers sweeps open. It is in fact a young woman wearing the regulation red and black clothing of an attendant, but her face is not one that is familiar to you. She enters shyly with her hands clasped politely in front of her and her head low, eyes to the ground. She is far younger than your own attendant, this much is clear, and is likely new to the staff.
Her blond-brown hair has been swept up neatly in a low bun; far too neat for a girl so young and so new to the palace. It is likely the work of one of the older girls who have encouraged her to make a good impression. How nerve-wracking it must be, to be new to the job and suddenly be expected to wait on the queen.
"Who are you?" You speak plainly.
"Talea," she replies in a timid voice. Her head lifts and her blue eyes suddenly widen. "If it please you, Your Grace."
Her nerves are no secret to you. Not wanting to terrorize her, you offer her a kind smile. "Good morning, Talea."
Relieved that you are thoughtful of her shyness, she relaxes and offers a soft, "good morrow, Your Grace."
The remnants of your breakfast sit on a silver tray atop the table. The polished tray glitters and shines in the rays of light that beam through the curtains, casting shimmering reflections onto the ceiling above. Gone is the icy wind and the strange humidity that had swept through the kingdom and muddled the air with its stench. A pleasant warmth accompanied by a cool breeze had settled when the sun rose over the city and cast its rays through white cotton clouds.
Auspicious weather for a day you had been looking forward to for many nights.
Today, Cerelia would return from her honeymoon with her new lord husband. You have longed for the presence of a true friend for many nights. The company of the lords and ladies of the court has grown tiresome and you find yourself drained of energy from plastering a falsified smile on your face until your cheeks ached. Their simpering grows more exhausting by the day.
"You aren't one of mine." You observe as she approaches you. "Where is Eda?"
"She's not feeling well, Your Grace. May I?" Her hands reach nervously for your chemise.
For a moment, her hands still just above the delicate fabric. It certainly must have been strange, you think, for a young girl who had been told that queens and kings were closer to the gods than to men to be required to change the clothes of one. The moment her fingertips brush over the material of your dress and she finds that it had not burned her in any way, she busies herself in undressing you.
Having done your own hair this morning, you stand in front of the full-length mirror and wait for Talea to dress you while you fiddle with a meddlesome earring. The servant doesn't say much as she quickly tugs at and loosens the ties of your chemise. Despite the warmth, your skin pebbles when it is bared to the room.
You frown at Talea through the mirror, watching her fumble with the inner layers of your clothing. She appears to press her lips together and hold her breath in her cheeks. "Is everything alright?"
"Apologies, Your Grace." Her fingers jump anxiously. She sniffles as she pulls the cloth back over your head. "I've just been brought in as a replacement. A lot of the girls are sick this morning. I have never... served royalty before. I thought if I spoke less, it would please you."
"And if you held your breath you would not breathe out whatever sickness you may have caught?" You muse, raising your brows at her innocence.
Talea swallows and exhales slowly. She must have realized just how ridiculous it sounded. "I'm sorry, Your Grace."
"I cannot speak for the others, but I would rather not be dressed in silence," you tell her sympathetically. "Speak."
Talea clears her throat. When she draws closer to fasten your bodice, you notice the red tint rimming her eyes and the pink splotchiness of her fair cheeks. "The healers are worried. Whatever it is, it is spreading quickly among the staff. I will offer myself for quarantine with the others once I've dressed you."
"What are the symptoms?"
"Just a chill, at first. Then dizziness. Some of the girls have fainted, others have been throwing up. They found a young page in his bed this morning. They say it was a seizure that took him. Only the healthy ones will be permitted around you and His Majesty." Talea shakes her head and pulls her trembling hands away. "I'm foolish. Foolish for putting you at risk like this, Your Grace. What if I have it too?"
"If you are here, dressing me, then you aren't sick."
"But-"
You brush her worries aside. "Help me tie my dress. The rest I can manage alone."
"Yes, Your Grace," she mumbles apologetically.
"See to it that a small table, food, and drink are brought onto my balcony. Lady Cerelia is going to join me soon." You brace a hand against your ribs as the teal bodice is fervently tightened.
Today's dress is a pretty one. Made of teal silk and lined with gold fabric that glitters when the light catches it. A thick, woven chain of gold droops from the planes of your neck, dipping from the weight of the heavy pendant and the teal gem attached to it. Matching earrings hang heavy from your earlobes.
You say nothing as Talea takes a step back. She waits a moment for another command and quickly realizes she will not receive one when she takes notice of your silence. As she flees from the room, you feel the swell of guilt wash over you. She must have thought she had done something wrong to displease you.
It is not her doings that have displeased you.
Nowadays, you feel you can scarcely recognize the woman in the mirror. It has been some time since your wedding and your coronation now, but you fear it has not been long enough for you to feel so poorly about your own performance as queen.
You take a deep breath and skirt your hand over the tight bodice. You meet the eyes of your reflection and run your fingertips over the softness of your cheeks and the plane of your temple. You look grey, you think to yourself, no longer enjoying the wealth and prestige your reflection is bathed in.
As you ponder this change, you wonder how long ago it took place. When had you gone from being a little girl who only saw loose teeth in her smile to the woman who stood in front of the mirror and criticized everything dull in her eyes and plain in her features? If you cannot accept yourself, how will your people?
How will your husband?
You tear your gaze away, unable to take much more of it. Instead, you pull your attention to the balcony doors. The handles curve beneath your palms and click when you push down, pulling them inwards to reveal the suspended platform overlooking the city.
Talea's presence has not left you for long; there is another knock on the door that draws your attention from the beauty of the sights of the city. Your city.
The door groans open. A soldier accompanies two servants who have carried up the little, round table for your meeting with Lady Cerelia. The soldier bows his head and glances back at the two twitchy-looking boys. "Did you call for tables and chairs, Your Grace?"
"Let them through." You interlace your fingers and step aside.
The two boys bow to you before they bend to pick the table up by the edges and make haste to carry it through your chambers. As they return for the chairs they'd abandoned by the door, the soldier who had accompanied them steps forward, carrying a rolled note in his left hand.
"I was instructed to give this to the queen." He says flatly.
"By who?" You ask cautiously, gently pulling it from his grasp.
"His Majesty, the king."
You freeze a little, fingers twitching against the little parchment. It scratches quietly as you unroll it to reveal his swirling scrawls in black ink. It simply reads:
Working late. Do not wait.
At least he thought to send it, you think with a frown. You inhale and force a smile onto your face. "You may go."
"Your Grace." The soldier bows and turns sharply. He pulls the doors shut behind him promptly.
The paper crumples in your iron grip. What else had you been expecting from your absent husband? His tender words? His attempt at romancing you? You fling the balled parchment into the fire. You will eat your dinner alone, as you have done many times.
You turn on your heel and stroll onto the balcony to admire the work of the servants. A soft white tablecloth adorned with frills and lace lays across the round surface of the table. It carries gold cups finally stamped and pressed with patterns, gold plates, and polished silverware.
Two women bustle past you, pausing only for curtsies, and begin to set the table with the food you'd requested. They make haste of their work, setting down plates of cookies and tarts, warm pastries, a pitcher of wine, a hot tea Cerelia likes to drink, fruit from the gardens, and crackers with fresh cheese.
"Will you be needing anything else, Your Grace?" One of the women asks politely.
"You may go."
The other stays behind to serve you appropriately. She makes herself scarce, pressed to the left-hand side of the balcony with her hands clasped together tightly and her eyes dropped low onto the stone below.
As the warm air sweeps over the balcony, the doors abruptly open. You rise to your feet eagerly, unable to keep the smile from breaking across your lips, and lift your arms to welcome your friend home from her travels.
Cerelia accepts the hug eagerly, sighing in relief as she does so. When she pulls away, still grasping your arms tightly, you look her up and down. Her warm skin has darkened underneath the sun of her husband's home. Time with House Yavin has done her well; she is positively radiant. The soft pastels she is usually encased in have transformed into deep orange silks, the House color of Lord Dameron. Her hair is swept back in their traditional style, with her dark tresses held up by pins of gold, and is scented by vanilla and citrus.
"If Yavin had a queen," you tell her fondly with a squeeze of her hand, "you would certainly fit the image."
"There isn't a queen in this world who can outshine you." She looks you up and down, shaking her head as she admires the teal fabric of your gown.
Beaming, you pull away and gesture for her to take a seat at the little table across from you. It has been well prepared for her return; covered in fineries and foods you had requested from the kitchens late last night.
"I've missed this," she sighs, watching the servant bring a fresh tray of pastries. "The food Yavin serves is excellent, but it's not from home."
"How was it there?"
Cerelia leans back in her chair, raising a goblet of red wine to her painted lips. "Warm. Far more... enriching, I would say, more culture to be found. Their traditions are fascinating. You should have seen the look on my face when Poe told me we'd be having another wedding ceremony in the traditions of his House. One wedding is enough excitement for me."
You chuckle. "You enjoyed two wedding nights, then?"
"Lord Dameron makes a fine lover." She admits as a faint blush crosses her cheeks. "I was a maiden that first night. He was gentle enough."
"Good."
"And your wedding night? I've heard the stories. I can only assume he was as rough as they say?" Cerelia tilts her head, chasing eye contact when you look away.
Your grip on your goblet tightens. An unconsummated marriage between a lord and a lady was scandalous, but an unconsummated marriage between a king and his queen was unspeakable. It certainly gave any naysayers enough grounds to pick apart your claim to the throne or force you to abdicate it entirely.
"He was... fine." You decide to lie stiffly.
"Fine?" She echoes, eyebrows darting up. "The infamous Kylo Ren was just fine? You're being modest."
Swallowing thickly, you give her a weak shrug. "He didn't say much." The red wine spills down your throat to alleviate the nervous tightness.
"Oftentimes, there isn't much to say." Cerelia giggles, hiding her laugh behind her hand. When all you can muster is a weak chuckle, her smile falters a little and she reaches across the table to place an encouraging hand atop your own. "Then I pray you will find as much happiness as I have with mine own husband. If the Gods wish it, we will both be with child before the year's cold end. An heir for his throne would certainly please him. I would hate to have it pass down to the next fool in line; whatever distant relative of his remains. His family was put on the throne for a reason."
"You have a lot of faith." You tell her softly. "The king doesn't acknowledge me much. We went for a ride just days ago, but I've hardly seen him since. He disappears in the mornings and returns just before dinner. We eat in silence. He'll only ask about my progress in my lessons or demand to hear how my Sith is coming along. As if it isn't humiliating enough speaking in front of the tutors."
Your friend sighs, letting her shoulders slouch. "The king isn't known for his kindness." When she notices your discontent, she hoists her goblet into the air. "Let's not overshadow this reunion with talk of the macabre. Tell me what the palace has been like."
With a shake of your head, you tell her, "I'm afraid you've come at a bad time. A sickness has spread through the staff. One boy died just this morning. I fear Eda has it too."
"Someone has certainly angered the Gods." Cerelia mutters in disbelief, clutching at the pendent on her gold necklace. House Kamino is known well for their wisdom, but I'll admit that I've wandered into superstition instead. The sickness is a bad omen."
"War is on the horizon." You muse humorlessly, taking another long drink of your wine. "Viceroy Hux has fled with Rowena and a dozen more loyal men."
She chews her lip anxiously. "Not war. I can't explain what I feel but I... I dread it."
Your gaze lowers to the deep red wine in your cup. "Whatever it is, it has cast a shadow over the first month of my rule. Exegol crowns a new queen and within weeks we already face an illness sweeping the castle and war in the future. The plays they must write about me now..." you shake your head and push your goblet aside.
Cerelia's head tilts and her dark hair glitters in the sunlight. "The plays?"
"They erect stages in the streets," you explain sullenly, tearing your gaze away from the table. "To turn my life into their own comedy."
"The king allows you to go to the city?"
At the mention of your secret trip down into the city, your heart races. There was not a soul who knew about this illicitness, save for Vicrul, though you are sure the king suspects something. He even questions you when you have been out in the gardens for too long. You don't understand his suspicions; he hardly cares for your presence.
It would be nice, you think, to unburden yourself and let Cerelia in on your secret. You are confident she will not tell a soul. Even so, you do not dare tell her about what happened between you and Sir Vicrul on the same evening.
"No." You start slowly.
Sensing there is more to what you are letting on, Cerelia leans forward excitedly. "Oh?"
"I have only been once." You emphasize with a stern glare. "And it was the eve of our wedding. I wanted... I don't know... I suppose I wanted a taste of freedom before I was to be bound to that man. I returned before midnight. Bruised and scraped up, but safe."
"Surely you didn't go unaccompanied! You could have been seriously hurt or killed." Concern creases her features.
"I was accompanied by a knight."
The concern quickly fades and a slow smirk begins to stretch across her lips. Cerelia's eyes glitter as she weaves her arms before her chest. She glances back to ensure the servants were out of earshot, before lowering her voice a whispering, "a knight?"
"It was nothing."
"Liar." She grins. "You liar. Who was it?"
"I swear to tell you everything, but I cannot tell you who." You reply apologetically. "I'm sure you understand why."
"Yes, of course. Your secrets are safe with me."
~
Whatever comforts you had found in Cerelia's presence have been entirely forgotten. The two of you must have spoken for another hour, before she politely excused herself and went to see after her new lord husband. A message had arrived from him, informing her that her own attendant had caught whatever illness was creeping through the palace.
It will not take long for it to reach the city, if it did not originate from there or has not already been spread.
Your own husband has been sitting in with the council for hours now. The sun has begun to set and they have yet to retire from their meeting. You are sure it is concerning whatever plague has decided to sweep the lands.
While you sit in your chair by the fire and embroider a pink flower onto a handkerchief, you find your thoughts drifting to the council and their secret discussion. Kylo has been busy for many days now. When he returns at night, exhausted and in need of rest, you cannot help but feel guilty for indulging yourself at court or taking strolls through the gardens.
Socializing only wears out your energy, not your entire body. Still, it is a role that has been forced upon you and you cannot blame yourself for it. It is difficult to keep yourself from wanting for more. Wanting tasks beyond something so menial and slightly degrading. They do not trust you enough yet. While you understand it is partly because you are an outsider, you are also convinced it is because you are a woman.
Frowning at the thought, you look down at the handkerchief and the beautiful pastel stitches of pink, green, and blue. The fabric pops a little as you press the needle through, followed by the hushed scratching of the thread being pulled through the material. It calms you, this task, though you suppose it is because it reminds you of home.
Your gaze drifts onto the flames of the fireplace. They dance so freely and boldly. You envy them. You envy many people here; the king, the councilmen, the lords, the knights. All freer than you, to some degree, and all because of a spare part between their legs.
A sharp pain stabs through your finger and you wince, hastily drawing your finger back. The needle falls into your lap. You hold your thumping finger up into the light, scowling at your carelessness and the red that beads at the tip of your digit. You push your finger between your lips and suck the blood away. The coppery taste smears over your tongue.
With a thunderous bang, the door to your chambers suddenly flies open, sending you scrambling to your feet. The handkerchief--needle and thread still attached--flutters down to the floor by the legs of the chair. The walls seem to rattle when the door is slammed back shut.
Kylo now stands in the center of the room, shoulders tense with anger and one hand pushed through his thick, dark tresses. Your shadow is cast across the floor as you stand nervously with your back to the fireplace, squeezing your wounded hand in front of you as you silently beg him to ignore you. As if he could read your mind, Kylo's deep eyes flick over to you.
"What are you doing?" The question takes you by surprise.
Feeling uneasy, you answer carefully, "I was embroidering a handkerchief."
You quickly take a step back when he suddenly approaches you. The height and breadth of him looms over you like a black shadow. It's menacing, seeing him stalking towards you like this, even when he has turned his attention to the white kerchief on the floor. He bends at the waist and scoops up your abandoned project. One thumb runs absentmindedly over the pink stitching of your favorite flower.
Those cold eyes lift from the kerchief to the hand you have clutched in front of you. With one quick swoop, he has your wrist trapped in his strong grasp. You shudder at the feeling of his warm, rough skin against yours. Kylo slowly turns your hand over to find the blood still beading atop your pointer finger.
"I was being careless," you say softly.
His eyes find yours. "That, you were."
When he releases your hand, Kylo turns on his heel. His leather boots thud on the stone floor as he stalks his way over to the bookshelf on the opposite side of the room. He does not search for long before he pulls a singular book from somewhere in the middle.
"How is your Sith coming along?"
Your heart sinks at the question and only drops further into your stomach when he presses the dusty old book into your hands. "It's challenging."
Kylo flips the book open for you and turns to a page near the front end. "Start here. Try not to use the book until you have to." He takes a step back and sinks into the chair you'd abandoned. "Ask something."
You take a deep breath and pause for a moment, thinking out your words. "Kam did tu'iea... tu'iea komunal... deretis lig?" What did your council talk about?
Amusement glitters in his eyes for just a moment before they harden again. "No."
It was worth a try. "Eda kash siund." Eda is sick.
"Anas kash nenx zo falykas," he replies smoothly, his voice low. That is not a question. Annoyed with your stalling, he asks a question instead. "Kuris aras tu?" Who are you?
The words blur together on the page in front of you. The language is rough and jagged, feeling so foreign and heavy on your tongue. Every word you speak sounds strange. Not at all like the elegance your new husband had mastered while he was growing up. No, not mastered. He had been very clear with you, saying he could never truly master it and he wouldn't until he was old.
"Queen iv tave capitol miestas." Even the words in your native tongue must be altered to fit the harshness of the dialect. "Miestas."
"Miestas." Kylo snaps, emphasizing the short 'a' sound.
"Miestas."
"Again."
You sigh. "Queen iv tave capitol miestas."
"Tave." His patience wears thin. "Are you even trying?"
"It's difficult, you said so yourself." You say indignantly. The paper flutters as you go to flip the page, only to be cut short by Kylo ripping the book from your hands and snapping it shut. "I need that."
"It'll only confuse you."
"You're confusing me." You retort.
Kylo scowls at you and rises from his seat. "Why are you so disagreeable?" He tosses the heavy book onto the table and crosses his arms over his chest. "Tikurzi aras tu sulig?"
The words only sound like nonsense when he speaks so quickly. "You have to speak slower."
"Natives won't speak slowly." He only repeats himself at the same speed. "Tikurzi aras tu sulig?"
Tu, you recall, is 'you,' and aras is 'are.' Tikurzi was the start of a question, likely the word 'where.' "Naboo," you answer hastily. When he only glares at you, you try again. "Nu sua sulig Naboo."
"What is your position?" He asks in your native tongue.
"Nu sua... zo Zeon." You say slowly.
"You were a Lady."
"Nu... Nu kash zo Zeon."
"Meo." Kylo corrects impetuously. "Kash means 'is'. Meo means 'was'." He pushes away from the table, signaling to you that the lesson is done. "You need to study more."
Exasperated, you frown. "How many times am I going to have real conversations with someone in Sith? The language is ancient, nearly forgotten."
"There will be times when we address our subjects in Sith. Even if they do not understand it, they expect it from us. From you. I'm sure they are already wary of you as an outsider. Convince them. Better yet, convince me that you have become one of us." He tilts his head toward the door. "Go. Your tutor expects you."
"My lessons have been canceled." You childishly echo his snippy tone. "A sickness has swept the palace. My tutor would rather I not risk my health."
Kylo's jaw clenches in annoyance and his chest expands with the heavy breath he takes to calm himself. With his fists clenching and flexing at his sides, he returns to the table where the book lays abandoned and begins to flip through the pages so fast, you are sure he will cut himself on the weathered edges. The paper, yellowed by age, is sprawled with ancient Sith text from cover to cover. When he finds the page he is so fervently searching for, he tosses the heavy book back onto the table with a dull thunk that sends up a cloud of dust.
Waving aside the cloud that reeks of mildew, you approach the table and brace your hands against the smooth surface, ducking your heads to scan the words of the harsh language. "What is this?"
"An ancient prophecy. It foretells that a single soul will destroy the evil in our world and bring balance to our kingdoms. You'll learn to recite it." He says coldly.
Your eyes widen at the sheer length of the prophecy. "Memorize all of this? I can hardly speak Sith, let alone read it."
"That is what this is for-" he snaps and yanks a smaller book from the shelf. Kylo tosses it toward you carelessly, letting you scramble for it. "-you'll have to cross-reference everything yourself. You won't skip a single word." As you reach for the chair at the end of the table, Kylo lifts a firm hand. "Not here."
"Where will I-"
"Not. Here."
You stare at him for a moment, as if trying to understand his madness. When you realize he is deathly serious, you give him the coldest glare you can muster and snatch up both books, storming out of the door that you kick shut with your foot for emphasis.
~
"Your Grace?"
The words seem to melt into your ears, echoing like a distant memory.
"Your Grace."
A low groan leaves your parched throat. Something uncomfortable and scratchy presses against your cheek. Your brows furrow with discontent as you begin to shift and stir from your deep sleep that has left you embarrassingly sprawled over the library table.
"What..." you grumble, slowly lifting your head. You brush back the hair that has fallen in front of your eyes and run a hand along your sore jaw. When you manage to press yourself upright, you blink away the sleep from your eyes and squint into the flickering ball of glowing gold. "What time is it?"
"The hour is quite late, My Queen." The deep, leathery voice of the historian says gently. He clutches a candelabra with one wrinkled hand and is dressed in an unattractive brown robe.
At first, you find it difficult to recall why you had ended up slumped across a table in the library. With the moon spilling its light across the stone floor of the library and the buzz of the crickets from the gardens, you deduce that it must be close to midnight. As your gaze is cast downward to the open book you had decided to use as a pillow, you quickly come to realize what had led to your involuntary sleep.
Cursing in a manner that has even the historian wincing, you shove back your chair and scramble to your feet, snatching up both books with gusto. The king will be furious with you. You quickly thank the old man as you rush past him and burst through the library door.
Servants and palace guards watch you dart past them in a mad rush. It is just like the king to do this; to not send guards to find you and let you fall asleep so he can be even angrier with you. His pettiness outshines that of the most conceited lady of the court.
He had been expecting you to memorize the old prophecy, you realize as you scurry up the steps towards your chambers. All you can recall now are the first few words, followed by whatever nonsensical dream you must have had. Your hurried footsteps echo along the empty halls. With every sharp breath, your chest expands and presses painfully against the tight bodice of your day dress. At least you hadn't been discovered by the historian in your chemise.
Cerelia has likely retired by now and Eda will be in quarantine with the rest of the attendants. There is no need to stop in their rooms in hopes of loosening the oppressive bodice you so often find yourself constricted by.
As you draw closer to your chamber, you find yourself faltering a little as the memory of what occurred in the library suddenly returns to you. After you had read the first sentence of the prophecy--before your nap--you had been considering your position as queen and how insignificant it had been feeling. You'd been planning on bringing it up to Kylo once you returned to your rooms.
There will be little hope of his mood improving now that you have ruined it.
"Your Grace." The surprised voice of the knight guarding your door finds your ears. "It's quite late."
"Is the king awake?" You ask breathlessly, tightly hugging the books to your chest.
He only nods stiffly in response.
The door to your shared chambers creaks open under the hands of the guards outside. As you step inside the room, they fall back shut, sealing you inside the tomb with a madman. It is dimly-lit today; all of the curtains drawn and the torches snuffed, with only the fireplace casting shadows. The flames dance in the hearth, licking up at the stone with gold and yellow. The fire crackles and pops, filling the silence with its melody.
Your eyes search the room for the figure of your wrathful husband, but they don't have to roam very far. Flames hotter than that of the fire sear at your cheeks when you find him sitting in the tub.
He pays no mind to you, only sitting with his arms laying on either edge of the tub. A male attendant kneels behind him to scrub at his skin with a rag, but is clearly reluctant. The king's dark eyes finally lift from the sudsy depths of the waters to land on you.
"Forgive me." You say sincerely, dropping your gaze to the floor.
The attendant scrambles to his feet and bows his head deeply to you, flustered when he straightens up again. The king lifts a rather bored hand to signal the servant to give the two of you some room. He snatches up his bucket, rags, and bottles, and scrambles from the room muttering his apologies to you as he flees. The doors fall shut once more, leaving you alone with the king.
"I should return later. Let you finish up with your bath." You say apologetically.
"Nonsense." You can hear the annoyance in his tone. "Say what you mean to."
Huffing, you reply, "I would rather have a conversation when you are fully clothed."
Kylo scoffs. "Then look away." His gaze is cruel when he asks. "Are you sure you're not still a maiden?"
"I'm sure." You snap.
"You could have fooled me."
You tear your eyes away from him when you hear the water sloshing in the tub. He pushes himself to stand and climbs out. The water spills from his body onto the cool stone below. You hear him cross the room to fetch the towel that had been hanging beside the fire for warmth.
"I want to apologize." You start very slowly, as if waiting for his explosive reaction.
Another scoff. "For falling asleep in the library? Or for ignoring my wishes?"
"Both."
"You've apologized." His cold voice seems to cut through your heart like a spear. "Now I want peace."
"I..."
You feel his angry eyes land on you, but you do not dare look up to meet them. "I'm tired. Conversation can wait until morning."
"I came to discuss my position with you." You say quickly.
"How lucky I am." He mutters.
Despite your anger, you lift your eyes from the floor. The heat from your face instantly slips down into your stomach at the sight of him. He stands with his back to you, pale flesh glowing warmly in the firelight. The muscles in his back ripple beneath his damp, shiny skin, giving you a view of the constellation of freckles and scars you didn't know he had. You let your eyes travel over the curve of his spine and the dimples of his lower back.
"Well?" His cold voice tears you from your impure thoughts.
"I..." you falter and stammer for a moment, "I don't just want to be your queen."
"What?"
Realizing how that sounds, your eyes close and you shake your head. "No, sorry, I only meant that I don't want my role to be diminished. I want to do something with the position that I have been so generously given."
"What do you want?" He rubs the towel over his arms. "You clearly came to me with an idea in mind."
You take a deep breath. "I want a seat on the council."
A pause.
"What do you know about politics?"
"I can learn." You reply eagerly, dismissing the back-handed nature of his question. "I will learn. Furthermore, I can provide a new perspective."
Although he already knows the answer, Kylo asks anyway. "And what perspective is that?"
"A woman's." You say crisply, scowling at the ground beneath you. "I'm sure you could all use a touch of empathy. A realistic perspective on life."
"You think your perspective is realistic?" He mocks. "Being sheltered in a fortress and fed by a silver spoon? You're an outsider. You don't understand what my people need."
Bitterly, you shoot back. "Perhaps you're only afraid of being undermined by your own wife."
At this, he turns quite abruptly. The quickness of his movement draws your eyes upward. Unfortunately, he is still more nude than you would have preferred. You swallow thickly as your eyes get carried away again. They roam over the firmness of his chest and the scars that live there. Over the planes of his shoulders, the corded muscles of his arms, and the veins in his forearms. Across the moles splattered across his skin, the divot of his chest, and the strength of his abdominal. Down the slight taper of his waist, to the V-shape between his hips, and the prize just below.
"You're staring." There is a hint of smugness within his derisive tone.
You rip your eyes away with the speed of light, turning your entire back to him instead. "A-And you are avoiding my request."
You hear him cross the room, followed by the rustling of clothes. Relieved that he is finally somewhat decent, you turn back around. Perhaps seeing him without a shirt is worse, you decide.
"Nervous?" He muses. You try not to stare at the way his muscles flex and contract when he bends to pick up his shirt from the edge of the bed.
"Answer me." You could have stamped your foot in frustration.
"Alright." Kylo says calmly. "No."
"Why not?" Oh, how you're practically seething at this point.
He shrugs. "You don't have what it takes. You would shudder at some of the things we discuss in that room. How could you expect to make decisions for this kingdom if you could hardly decide whether or not you wanted to be queen?"
"But I am queen now." You argue. "I am your wife. I won't be cast aside. I refuse to be."
"That isn't up to you."
"It has never been up to me." The tears threaten to spill over in your eyes, but you force your sorrows back. Still, that doesn't prevent the slight wobble to your voice. "For once in my life, I thought my opinions could matter. I can make a difference."
Kylo's coal eyes flicker over your determined face. "No."
Furiously, you storm across the room towards him. "What can I do to prove myself?"
"Even if you learned all of our customs, our politics, our economics, our social system, and our culture, you would still be an outsider." He snaps. "You are putting in no effort. If you cared, you wouldn't have fallen asleep while you were studying."
"So what would you have me do?" You demand. "Smile and be the pretty face beside you? Sit back idly and allow myself to be painted like a leader, all while I roll over for you or-or do some stitching with the other women?"
"Your role is important in another way. By keeping the nobles happy and entertained, you are ensuring our social survival. Our alliances."
"And I am not denying that strength. I will happily entertain noblewomen and stroke the egos of their husbands, but that will not be my only task." You step closer to him, chasing eye contact. "Please, Kylo. I can't survive in this palace doing nothing when I could be doing everything."
Kylo clenches his jaw, pressing his lips together intently as he studies your desperate expression. It is certainly intimidating to be locked beneath his fierce gaze, but you cannot falter now. A deep sigh leaves him. "I will see what I can do."
Relief floods you. "Thank-"
"I won't guarantee anything." He silences you with a lift of his hand. "You must be willing to accept your fate if this does not go your way."
"You are the king. Surely they will listen to your recommendations."
He runs a hand through his damp hair, giving you a brief glimpse of his ears peeking through the dark waves before they disappear. "Even so, they will do everything in their power to keep you from gaining a seat. There has not been a woman on the council in decades. Centuries, perhaps. It's unheard of."
"Viceroy Hux left a shadow," you agree bitterly. "It will take some time to undo his work. Am I right in hoping you removed his hold on the city guard the moment he left?"
"Do you think I would have left my people to fend for themselves?" A cold glare flies in your direction.
"No."
"Have you had your dinner?" Kylo changes the subject swiftly before you can get another word in. He tires of politics quickly, you have noticed. When you nod, he scowls. "Where is your lady's maid?"
You wince. "I granted her leave for this evening. She's fallen ill. I would hate for one of us to catch it."
"And Lady Cerelia?"
"Retired in her chambers. It is late."
"Turn around."
Pausing for a moment, you only stare as you process his strange request. Then it clicks quite quickly. Without your lady's maid or your lady-in-waiting, you would have no help undressing. The buttons and ties on the back of your dress are quite impossible to undo yourself and it seemed that the king was far too proud to call for assistance. What use was there requesting aid when he could undress his queen consort himself?
Your feet slowly turn beneath you as you face your back to the fire. The beating of your heart grows a little louder in your ears when you hear the king quietly cross the room, and feel his immense presence behind you. He could have swallowed you whole with the shadow he casts, let alone his dark spirit.
You inhale sharply when you feel his hands gently graze the space between your shoulder blades. The bodice of your dress tightens momentarily as he tugs on the buttons, loosening them one by one. The warmth of embarrassment floods your cheeks as the back of the bodice falls apart, revealing the soft fabric of your thin shift to him. A shiver pulls through your spine when his fingers brush over your shoulders, pulling down the gown that slides off your arms and pools around your ankles.
As you move to step out of the dress heaped on the floor, you are suddenly stopped by his firm hand on the curve of your waist. You swallow hard. When you feel his hands collecting the satin fabric of your slip, your heart nearly explodes out of your chest. This part, you could have done by yourself behind the privacy of the changing screen. Gods, was this it? Was he finally tired of waiting?
Cool air rushes over your bare skin when he slowly pulls the slip over your head. You hear it flutter onto the floor beside the abandoned gown. You wonder if he can see you trembling. All you hear is his soft breathing as you slowly will your feet to turn around.
Kylo Ren's hard gaze meets yours. His pupils have expanded; you can hardly make them out against the darkness of his irises in this lighting, but they are undeniably blown wider. His lips part as his eyes leave your face. You grit your teeth together to keep them from chattering as his prying stare roams over you.
Across the planes of your clavicle. The soft curves of your breasts illuminated by firelight, and the stiff peaks off your nipples in the cold air. His throat bobs and you almost miss it. He studies the contours of your stomach and the way it travels to your hips. To the slope of your hipbones and your thighs. Your nails bite harshly into your palms with the fierceness of your nerves. You are sure they draw blood when you see his hand twitching towards you.
It is always so difficult to read his expressions. The hard lines of his face hardly shift, but you are slowly becoming an expert. You notice the softness of his lips as they part and the slight furrow of his brows. The way his eyes drink you in and the muscles of his arms flex and strain. He is holding back. It is harder to say if you want him to.
Those dark, endless eyes suddenly flick up to your face. You suddenly realize there is a questioning stare behind them. He is asking. Wordlessly--breathlessly--you nod.
You try not to flinch when you feel one large hand find the small of your waist. His hand is calloused and warm. It devours the surface of your flesh beneath its touch while his gaze drinks you in. You shudder when his hand coasts across the softness of your stomach and the lines of your abdomen. A gasp nearly pushes through your lips when his thumb is suddenly grazing the bottom of your breast. Warmth fills your belly, forcing you to press your thighs together. Your teeth nearly shatter from the tight clench of your jaw when his thumb travels higher and momentarily brushes over one stiff nipple. When you inhale deeply, it pushes your breast further into his hand.
Lust clouds your mind. You are sure it clouds his two. Any animosity or hatred you are harboring suddenly disappears into that thick, heavy cloud of desire that controls your thoughts. You want him. Perhaps not even him, but it. You need it. That pleasure. He needs it too. You can see the outline of his hardness against the thin fabric of his pants. Gods, he's big. When his thumb shifts slightly over your sensitive bud, a whimper escapes your throat.
Suddenly, as if your skin had suddenly turned into molten lava, Kylo yanks his hand back. He exhales shakily. A haunted look is etched into his features. Without another word, he abruptly turns on his heel and storms towards the door, bursting from the room and slamming the door loudly behind him while you flinch at the sound.
In a single breath, he had left you confused and desperately wanting more.