Of Whispers and Daggers ✓ [TLRQ #2]

Chapter 49.1 - Aster

Ollem wakes me before the sun breaks the horizon. In the dark, I can almost imagine Leavi still here—surely she's sitting in my chair, watching the dying fire. Or perhaps she fell asleep at my desk. She sat on my rug only a couple hours ago; it seems cruel there is no trace of her now. Regret aches in my chest: for Leavi, for how I treated her, for how I acted last night. For never having been strong enough to be cold. I try to leave the pain behind with the suite.

On the way to the wedding attendants, Ollem gives me a small meal to eat. After yesterday's casting and the late night, my growling stomach is grateful no matter how meager it is. The two women in charge of making me presentable order around Ollem and another man, who work quickly but none-too-gently. They cut my hair, trim my nails, and—when the women step out—douse me in oils and fragrances.

As they pull the wedding clothes onto me, my gut churns, and I can't decide whether it's because of nerves, frustration, or the building feeling of exhaustion. Everything I imagined my reign would be like is slipping through my fingers like dust I foolishly thought I could hold. The coming ceremonies mark the beginning of much faster loss, and soon, nothing will be left in my grasp.

Yet it is not mine to decide or mine to question. Solus will do well for the Corps when I leave. I will face my fate with a patriotic head held high, trusting that every step away from my country is one taken for my country.

Even so, walking to take my place in the Morineause wedding feels more like stepping up to a funeral pyre. I wonder if every man that marries a court woman, a Lady, any girl of position even, feels like this. Married off by his mother or sister for financial and relational gain, no chance to object, no choice.

I don't feel like I'm really here. Riszev let herself be wrestled into a proper Morineause dress, and exotic and gorgeous, she takes her place at my side. It's distant, though. This isn't reality. This is a strange, numb nightmare I'm only watching. Even when I speak—rote, memorized, meaningless words that feel like foreign shapes in my mouth—it's not my lips, not my tongue. Some spell has taken my body, some illusionist is making everyone think this is me, but it's not.

If I got to choose who to marry, if I wasn't worried about my country or my people, I would be fleeing down a tunnel with a different strange girl. I would forget all the pain of my family and the court, and when I decided to propose to her, I would mean it. I wouldn't let anyone force my hand, not even her, and she wouldn't try to. Maybe we would travel for years, penniless vagabonds, before I chose some copper treasure that we'd both prize above gold to offer her. We'd marry in some warm, chaotic festival like the peasants, or quietly under the stars, or—

I slam the door on the deceitful thoughts and snap the key lest they coax me into freeing them. Leavi is no more. I don't know the girl who serves the woman that will shortly be my wife. That is my new reality. It must be.

It's still hard not to steal glances at her distant face once I spot it in the crowd.

The ceremony ends with me and Riszev's wrists bound to each other, and we leave the Auditorium amidst deafening well-wishes. She glances at me while we walk, but I don't speak. Once we're down a few silent halls, we unbind the ribbon and part, adjourning to the same rooms we previously readied ourselves in. The attendants' adjustments for me are minimal. True Retran tradition would demand clothes Sela found demeaning, so the aunt agreed to let me remain clothed mostly the same. The real change will be Riszev's attire.