Alizavetta
I was being strangled. Gloves. Corset. My Grandmother's sapphire choker, doing as it intended, choking. I tried and failed to take a full breath. Is this how every sacrificial lamb feels before slaughter? No, the lambs are blissfully ignorant of their impending demise. I envy the lambs.
My hands were shaking like a child left out in the cold. And isn't that what I am? A child being sent away, abandoned to the frigid halls of Banmoore Abbey. Did mother just ask me a question? I snapped to attention.
"Aliza, stop fidgeting. You are a representation of this family. Anxiousness is weakness. The Alexandrov's are not weak."
But that wasn't really true was it? I knew the Alexandrov blood ran thick through my veins, but I was proving weak as a kitten. Is that why I'm the one being put on the chopping block instead of my sister? Sacrifice the weak lamb and keep the strong.
I jealously eyed my sister, Irena, across the carriage. A picture of composure and strength. Would Irena's hands shake if she was the one being bartered away?
The carriage jolted to a stop. We were here, Banmoore Abbey. My doomed future stretched before me in ornate gothic aches and rows of imported stone steps. It's beauty a recessed fog masked by the harsh and intimidating exterior. This would be my home. This was purgatory. Reparations for sins others committed.
When crossing the front threshold a resolute nod passed between the rival patriarchs. An unwelcome welcome of two powerful fathers protecting their legacy under the falsehood of familial loyalty. Peace was a dandelion in the wind but tonight was their brief ceasefire. A standoff between the Alexandrovs and Solveigs.
I focused my eyes at the bustling ballroom ahead, fighting my need to gaze at the floor. Strong people held their heads high, even when half the eyes were mocking them.
I could sense my captor in the shifting chemistry of my skin, like a foreboding monster lurking in the alcoves of these grand echoing halls. The alluring sound of deception dripped from his gruffly melodic tones. "A pleasure to have you here Miss Alizavetta." Count Hagan Solveig greeted, an aura of dark hostility painted over with blonde hair and ice blue eyes. "May I take you for a walk?"
I instinctively looked to father who nodded his approval. Were this a month ago, father would have roared at the eldest son's mere gaze in my direction. Now I was permitted to wander off with this viperous man? A lamb left to roam with a wolf. Doesn't father know how that story ends?
I wordlessly placed my hand atop his proffered arm. Hagan was arrayed in the finest military garb, more honors than fabric decorating his gilded white coat. A murderer isn't a murderer as long as you receive a medal for it. I've heard the sort of man Hagan Solveig was, the shiny apple with a worm rotted core, fooling even the most discerning of eyes. And this would be my husband.
We walked in forced silence. I focused on the swishing sounds of my dress rather than the warmth emanating from his formal hold. Hagan stopped and dropped my arm as we stood in front of a long portrait gallery. Frames of various sizes and subjects obstructed the pale green wallpaper spattered with delicate filigree. I wondered how many galleries Banmoore Abbey possessed and whether my portrait would ever stain these walls.
"Do you think I look like him?" Hagan asked, staring up at the portrait of a similarly decorated soldier. When I didn't answer he turned to look at me, assessing, "You look like your mother."
I held tight to a smirk that threatened escaping. My mother was considered beautiful by most standards. Thick brown waves and dark blue eyes were just two of our many physical similarities. Hagan's observation, however, quickly took a turn, adding, "I hope that's where the similarities end."
I may not share the impenetrable defenses of my family, but I wasn't without a backbone. My voice was mild but sure. "You cannot draw your sword on me, so you wish to battle with words? That's a fight you risk losing."
Hagan stepped closer backing me into the opposite wall, every bit as formidable as the portraits hanging behind him. In hushed tones he leaned in asking, "And if I were to give you my literal sword Miss Alexandrov, would you have the courage to use it?" His predatory gaze was unflinching, daring me to first break the contact. An awakened current flowed between us, fueled by revenge and challenge. It was as if his ancestors were battlefront spectators, watching from their elevated positions on the wall.
I felt the brush of his elbow against my side as he reached into his belt, eliciting my sharp inhale. I didn't dare look down at the small dagger he pulled. The short sound of sharp blade being withdrawn racketing through my nerves. Next came the carved ivory handle being pressed into my palm. It's cold surface rattled my composure. Hagan closed my fingers around the offending object.
"Your move," he simply said. No trace of fear, rather an underlying amusement sparked his expression. I slowly lifted the dagger holding it at the base of his well formed throat. I tried to steady my trembling hand while his eyes bore into mine.
I could end this all with one swipe. Would I no longer feel as an outcast among my family? Was I the real wolf and Hagan the lamb? No, my cowardice was still firmly intact. Or was it compassion? I hate the suffering of others. My reasons for condemning this man may also be what saved him.
Hagan took advantage of the hesitation, engulfing my dagger-laden hand within his own. With words as soft as velvet he observed, "You hold a knife to my throat, and yet yours are the hands which tremble. Do I frighten you Aliza?"
Did he frighten me? Yes, yet with an added air of exhilaration. If I were a soldier terror would have consumed me, but I was the soon-to-be wife. Did his aggression extend that far?
Hagan carefully pulled the hand away from his throat, pressing my wrist firmly against the wall above my head. We both glanced at the dagger still clutched inside my palm.
He continued, "Neither you, nor I can alter a King's decree. As I see it, there are two paths forward. Which one will you choose Miss Alexandrov? Friend or foe?"
"Neither. Only a fool limits his outcomes." Hagan appeared surprised by my answer. Husband or not, he needed to know where I stood. "And you're right. I cannot reverse the King's decree. We will be married. But you will be neither friend nor foe. You are a duty that I must begrudgingly serve in order to preserve innocent lives."
Hagan's eyes volleyed back at forth between mine. I wasn't sure what he was looking for. Weakness? Lies? He softened and let go of the hold on my wrist, then gently extricated his dagger, resheathing it. I crossed my arms to fight a sudden chill.
"The King has betrothed me to the wrong sister. Of all things, I received a diplomat." He sounded amused.
"Irena wouldn't have hesitated. My sister would have sliced you ear to ear."
"She sounds charming," Hagan sarcastically replied, stepping back to offer some much needed distance, making it easier to breathe. "I suppose a diplomat is preferable to a murderess."
I stared at his profile while he reobserved the gallery wall. My future husband. A handsome, ethereal creature exuding lightness while cloaking blood-stained hands. What do I really know of the eldest Solveig son? A war-monger, thirsty for power and bloodshed my father had said. Tread carefully
If the medals decorating his chest were any indication, countless Alexandrov lives were lost to this man. A fact I needed to keep at the forefront. Marriage, even to a savage, can muddy the waters of distaste. Proximity the enemy of resolve.
"I'm not keen on becoming a husband, no matter who the bride. But, if I make a vow I keep it. Do you understand?" Hagan said, without turning to look at me.
Did I understand?
He went on to explain, "We are both following orders. Albeit, begrudgingly. But once I have made a vow to honor and protect you. I will keep it. I expect the same from my wife."
I was brought up to never trust a Solveig, his word or otherwise. But Hagan spoke with the kind of sincerity that made you hunger for lies. Who needs bland truth when the alternative is delectable? This man was more dangerous than I imagined.
If he viewed me as a diplomat, I would oblige him with a diplomatic answer. "I will not lie and say I can live up to the marital vows. To love, honor, respect you. But I can promise to live each day making the most of this responsibility I've been given. I offer you a genuine truce and honesty. I expect little and require even less. Will you accept that?"
Hagan turned to face me again, stiff in his regimentals, asking, "Is your duty to your father or King?"
"I could ask the same of you," I countered.
"And I think our answers would be the same."
We stood in heavy silence, the gravity of our circumstances holding us still. One month ago this man was all smoke and eerie folklore. A phantom in my father's stories of rivalry and war. But Count Hagan Solveig was as real as the deaths marring his career. I preferred the fictionalized version, somehow that savagery felt safer than the man standing before me full of empty promises.
He finally spoke, "I accept your assurance. But know this, if you disregard this marriage and your loyalty to me as a husband, I will not stand for it. You will answer for your actions. Am I understood?"
I swallowed. Hagan spoke with the authority only a man who has commanded thousands of men could. I responded, "And will I truly have your loyalty?"
"On my honor, you will have it."
"And what honor does a Solveig even possess?" The challenging words felt foreign on my tongue.
At my question, Hagan deftly stalked over, making it clear who was the real wolf. He grabbed my jaw, placing his thumb beneath my chin and tilting me upward. "Never question my family's honor. You are a Solveig now, and if we have no honor, nor do you."
We were both taking in labored breaths. His out of anger, mine born of fear. This wasn't a man to trifle with. My father's estimation became more evident. Tread carefully
Hagan slid his hand down my neck provoking chills in it's wake. He was fire and ice, while I froze or melted.
"Why do I feel like you will be my downfall?" Hagan whispered.
I couldn't move, the weight of this man and my duty locking me down. Would I survive this marriage?
"I will be there in the morning," he simply stated, unhanding me, and leaving me alone in a hallway filled with his predecessors.
In the morning I would become Alizavetta Solveig. And I had never been more terrified.
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