Give Her His Heart
Varbridge Palace, Ember's Rock, Saprea
"Her Majesty told me that you are a woman, and should not dress like a little girl—hold out your arm. Your bosom should not be hidden," the seamstress said, looping her measuring string around Desyrae's chest. "Even so, you're being married to the next High King. Marrying yourself into such a powerful family requires a grand gown."
"I can't imagine how hefty her coronation gown will be," Queen Isannah said.
"Darling," Queen Irene called out soothingly, "I hope you have a steel rod as a back. No one ever tells you have heavy the gown will be."
"Nor the cloak or the crown," Isannah hastened to add before Irene could even exhale.
"With all the fittings I'm sure Desyrae has had for her wedding gown, she probably feels like a pincushion," said Irene with a pout.
Desyrae spent the past day surrounded by her family but she felt so distant from everyone. It was decided that the wedding must take place with all possible haste long ago, but as it came closer to the ever of her wedding, she became melancholic.
Desyrae felt a rush of something utterly foreign fill her lungs. It was air, she realized dumbly. She'd been holding her breath. She hadn't even realized that she'd been holding her breath which posed as a problem for Lady Maglova, the seamstress.
"I'd like a moment alone with my daughter."
Isannah noticed that her daughter's face was strangely devoid of emotion. She begged for a moment alone with her daughter, ushering out Desyrae's bridesmaids and closest friends. The High Queen understood and walked the girls out.
"Come girls, we'll see your personal couturiers while Desyrae gets her dress made," Irene said as her hands came up in a hurry-along-girls sort of gesture.
"Are we sure that the gowns will be ready in time?" Desyrae asked again, though not out of pure curiosity. She hoped that the dress wouldn't be ready in time so the wedding would be delayed.
Lady Maglova nodded through her concentration, taking the last measurements before assembling her things together. "Oh, sooner, much sooner. Her Majesty insists. I have six seamstresses and four apprentice prolee girls working, and we have set all our other works aside for them. Many ladies will be cross with us, but it is the High Queen's command."
The woman collected her things and Desyrae's maid helped carry a basket of fabrics out of her room after the dress was removed and laid out on the bed. The other seamstresses curtsied and took their leave so that the queen and her daughter could speak in private.
Desyrae got off her platform and walked behind a divider to change into a robe.
Isannah poked her head in, an awkward smile pasted on her face. "Thank Her Majesty for her thoughtfulness. She is too kind to you."
Desyrae's nod was barely perceptible. "Of course."
"You aren't worried about your wedding, are you?" her mother asked with begging eyes.
"Why would you suspect that?"
"By all the gods," Isannah replied immediately. "I see it in your eyes. The last time we spoke was before you left. You were crying yourself to sleep during the night I tried to speak with you. You didn't even greet me or your father yesterday."
"I am fine," Desyrae said quickly.
The queen's lips parted slightly, her short indrawn breath the room's only sound. "How are they treating you?"
"Well," Desyrae replied, throat so tight, she could barely breathe.
Desyrae could see the guilt in her mother's eyes, as if she wasn't doing enough, as if she was the evil. "Desyrae, I am truly sorry."
"Don't apologize for anything. I'm perfectly fine," Desyrae said with a half-hearted smile.
"You don't look well," Isannah said, her voice turning quite brisk at her daughter's lies.
"I had too much champagne the other night," Desyrae muttered.
"I don't like it when you lie to me."
"You don't believe me?" Desyrae asked, acting shocked. Tears welled through her eyes even through the jape.
"The last time I was in this palace, I watched my daughter die. If it is hard for me to walk on the same soil as the High King, I imagine it is harder for you to live with him. Are you afraid?"
Desyrae's smile faltered before admitting, "Yes," as she didn't quite want to let go of the words.
"You will endure and you will survive," her mother swore. "It won't be long until we see each other again."
Isannah looked at Desyrae, and she saw it then—the fear in her eyes, the uncertainty about what was to happen. As Isannah stepped into her, holding her as tightly as she could, Desyrae squeezed her fiercely, pressing her face into her mother's shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of her. Warm tears rolled down Isannah's cheeks, and she could her daughter's breath hitching as she tried to choke back tears.
"When spring comes, we'll be in Naparios together and you will have a child," her mother declared, her voice thick with emotion. "I swear it."
"In the spring," Desyrae echoed.
Resolutely pulling back, her eyes shining with unshed tears, Isannah lifted her free hand and brushed tears from Desyrae's cheeks with the backs of her fingers. She caught her daughter's wrist that tried to swat her away, and pressed a kiss to her fingers.
As Desyrae's eyes sagged shut, she felt her mother move closer, encircling her body with frail arms. She was nearly asleep when she heard her mother whisper so softly it was hardly audible, "You are like your sister in so many ways."
"When I am the High Queen, my first order will be to toss that man out of the palace," Desyrae muttered.
"You make it sound as if it is easy. It is over now and there's nothing you can do to stop that man. He is the father of your husband, need I remind you," her mother said firmly.
"It is not possible for the King to understand what you or I feel," Desyrae said after exhaling a sad-sounding sigh.
"He understood the consequences of his actions," she replied.
"Then why is he so perverted towards me?"
Her mother's lips tightened, then relaxed as she let out what she hoped would be a calming exhaled. "He can do anything, I suppose."
Desyrae shook her head, more tears brimming in her eyes. "If he can do anything then I compel him to give me his heart."
"Desyrae, this is all for diplomacy," her mother said calmly.
Desyrae angrily walked away from her mother and unsheathed a dagger from her dresser.
"I want him to carve it out and hand it to me so that we might understand one another," she seethed. She smacked the blade onto the table. Her mother flinched. "That is diplomacy; to understand our family's loss and carry the weight of his dead heart with him every night and day until he finds his grave!"
Her mother quickly disarmed her and flung the sword to the ground, scared that her daughter might hurt herself.
"Desdemona. Give me Desdemona."
"Desyrae! You are not a queen, not yet! This is not your home nor your kingdom. The last thing we need is someone thinking that we are traitors," he mother spat in a clipped voice.
"I want some privacy, please. I must have it."
Isannah remained graceful as she walked out.
Desyrae lurched forward and sank to her knees. She couldn't stop worrying about the wedding night. Desyrae found out in a daunting fashion what happens during the wedding night when her sister died. She kept this skewed notion of consummation in the back of her head, finding it distasteful. She feared constantly that she'd meet the same fate as her sister.
And as for Arsinomé, she was still clueless about what acts were performed in consummation and what the result of it was. Desyrae envied her younger sister's innocence. Every time Arsinomé would try to get one of her lady friends to reveal the acts, they giggled and smiled. Every time Arsinomé asked Desyrae, Desyrae shut down the discussion with haste and refused to speak anything of it.
Desyrae raised her head as she heard heels entering her room. She stood up at once and placed the blade away from her reach.
Evadne smirked. "Desyrae, you look miserable. Did something happen, are you sick?"
Her breath left her in a short punch of exasperation. "You seem so hopeful."
Evadne stood in the doorway, silvery hair coiffured into an elaborate hairdo held together with pearl combs. The situation was not in Desyrae's control. The reigns were firmly in the silver girl's hands. Desyrae was frozen in time, thinking, mostly about how the light showering Evadne made her look holy.
"Princess Evadne," she greeted, still at her knees.
Evadne's charcoal grey eyes traveled along her figure, before meeting her eyes with triumph. Clearly she saw no competition.
"Desyrae." She repeated in a playful tone, walking through the threshold and propping herself on the foot of Desyrae's bed delicately. "This must be the wedding dress. Imagine walking down the aisle in this beauty. Ah, but rumor still says you both aren't the most compatible."
Desyrae's narrowed eyes matched her crossed arms to perfection. "You're cheekier than you look, did you know that?"
"Yes, well I am perfect," she replied confidently.
"And I wonder what my marriage will become with all the bickering between us. Some might say normal," Desyrae said in a dry voice.
Evadne's dry expression changed, relaxing into a winning smile. The shift in her emotions was eerie, and Desyrae decided to stand against the wall farthest from her.
"The tension in this room is crazy," Evadne whispered in a childish tone, her eyes gleaming. "What, did you guys have an argument?"
"Just see yourself out of my rooms," Desyrae said as she stared at her with unabashed indifference.
Evadne frowned, her pouty lips set in a hard line. She was used to getting her way and was not above using extreme methods to get her way.
"Whatever. I have to dress for the dinner tonight." She sent her a languid smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, and Desyrae watched nervously as she lounged in her bed. "Why don't you sit next to me?"
"No."
"I insist." She smiled, hopping off the bed. "It's going to be thrilling."
"Get out."
"You know, I'd never guess that you could be so jealous," said Evadne.
"Of you?" Desyrae scoffed. "No, I think it's the other way around. You have no dignity for yourself. Especially given the fact that you tried sleeping with Cassius. One ought to have morals."
"I was ready to risk everything and you are not. You are scared, aren't you?"
"Of what?"
Evadne shrugged as if it were obvious. "Your own passion. You're scared that if you give in to it, you will be betraying yourself. You take refuge in piety and denial. But behind that mask, I know how badly you want to marry him. And I will take him as my own and you'll be bitter and sad."
Desyrae prepped for her bath. The water was drawn and the basin was filled with oils and flowers that Isannah insisted on giving to the maids. She believed that it would encourage fertility, and it wasn't for anyone to doubt. As a fleurie, she had much knowledge of plants so perhaps there was a great chance that she was correct.
The maids undid the back of Desyrae's dress and pulled her sleeves off for her as she argued with her mother.
"I don't want to marry him. Besides, I don't love him," Desyrae bristled at her mother's words.
"Now don't be childish," Isannah sighed exasperatedly, though her round face betrayed the appearance of weariness.
Desyrae stepped out of her dress and stepped into her bath. Instead of the long-awaited peace and silence, she received a lecture. She sunk into the water and rubbed her face with water as if it would wash away her anger. "Then should I keep it like you with Father?"
"Would that be so bad?" Isannah said as if it were a statement. She was upset with her daughter's fit of temper, the worst part of her father that she inherited. "Your father was very considerate. He barely claimed me."
Isannah reflected on her past with her husband. The only reason why they married was that after King Ptolemy died and she was without an heir for him, her dowry would have to be given back. So Azariah wedded her and kept the sizable dowry that was given to his brother. There was no love.
"Yet you had six children," Desyrae told her, and not for the first time. She lowered her eyes when her mother leered at her. "What if my future husband knows no measure and wants me every day, all the time? I am sensitive."
"That will be over. One gets insensitive," her mother said.
"But not me."
"Yes, all women do or they perish," her mother said quietly. "It's a weapon and a tool. As is your femininity."
Desyrae had no reply—at least nothing that wouldn't sound condescending, so she just waited for her mother to continue.
"I prefer to use my head."
There was a long silence, not awkward, but strange nonetheless, and finally Isannah said brusquely, "Unfortunately, that's not enough."
"What is this supposed to be? A guide for whores?" The tone of Desyrae's voice seemed so out of place in the conversation that Isannah could do nothing but stare.
"Desyrae, you have the temper of a thunderstorm—and do not pride yourself in that, for that will be your downfall. You will be a mad woman that begs for unattainable love. Is a fallacy worth crawling on your knees for?"
"I'd rather be a madwoman. A madwoman is unmatched, untouched."
"And unwanted—" Isannah stopped, staring rather blankly toward the window before finally turning back to her and saying, "Do not be bitter. It's rare for a chance to marry into such a powerful family to come by, so when you do, you take it. Happily."