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December 31, 1165
Three-year-old Cladelia squirmed as Nythran lowered her into her bed. "Papa! Let's play longer! Please?"
"Sorry, angel," Nythran laughed, planting a quick kiss on her cheek. "Your sisters have been asleep for an hour already, and your mama is probably wondering where I am."
The little girl shook her head in protest. "No, she's not."
He had to admit, that probably was the case. Some of Nythran's friends spoke of women who enjoyed their husbands' company, but other than the occasional secondhand piece of information, this species was a mystery to him. In all likelihood, Riona had been fast asleep long before the year-old twins, but he wasn't about to confess his marital woes to his young, impressionable daughter. "Good night, sweetheart."
"Night!" mimicked Cladelia. "Good dreams!"
The base of Nythran's neck shivered. "Sorry?"
The little girl's eyes widened in concern. "You had bad dreams. Hope they go away."
He had been having bad dreams, in fact, but he didn't know how Cladelia would have known about them. Perhaps he'd taken to screaming and moaning in his sleep? In any case, that at least gave his wife an excuse to leave halfway through the night and sleep in the guest chamber, but if the dreams were disturbing his children, then perhaps he should have been the one to take up night-time residence somewhere else in the castle; he doubted relations with Riona's side of the family would improve if three girls under the age of four knew that their father was nightly bound in his own dungeon by their Uncle Searle, who would then proceed to cover every surface in the castle with oil and throw down a torch at Nythran's feet. "Uh... thank you, angel. Sweet dreams."
Perhaps it would help to discuss these dreams with someone, he considered as he left the nursery and stepped into his bedroom, but who was there in which to confide? Surely not his friends, who might think him mad; surely not his family, who had enough troubles as it was. It didn't seem like a good idea to bring it up with Riona, as she always seemed so uncomfortable talking about her twin brother. No, the only reliable listener he could think of was his horse, and Nythran doubted that he'd have much useful insight; it seemed he would just have to deal with the problem himself.
"Riona?"
A glance toward the bed assured him that she had not yet left. She lay above the covers, peaceful and unmoving, as though she had no intention of doing anything other than simply breathing. "Riona? I think I'll sleep elsewhere tonight; I don't want to risk waking the children."
She didn't respond; perhaps she was asleep after all. Regardless, he doubted she would miss him in the morning, so he chose not to wake her.
Even though she wasn't fond of him, however, he figured it would only be rude of him to leave her in a lit room. He did try to be a good husband, even if he was never good enough for her, and he would not have her waking up to a flickering candle--or worse, a burning table.
He made his way to the desk and began by dousing the candles there. He then backed away to proceed elsewhere in the room, but caught sight of his Riona's slanted cursive on a nearby piece of parchment. That was odd--Riona never cared to write if she didn't feel obliged. Nythran's curiosity struggled against his respect for his wife's privacy; he allowed himself a quick glance, only to find that the note was addressed to him anyway.
Nythran,
I'm sorry about everything. Please tell Searle that I am not the stronger one after all.
Searle? Her brother? What could that have meant? For all she was cold and quiet, Riona was as strong a woman as any--much stronger than her sighing, woebegone brother, at any rate. This didn't make any sense. "Riona? Riona, if you're awake... can you please explain this note?"
No answer. He turned around and headed toward her bedside. "Riona, please wake up."
Not even a twitch of her slipper. As he stopped at her side, he couldn't help but notice a half-full glass of wine on the bedside table. In their entire four years of marriage, Nythran could only remember Riona ever having about three glasses of wine over the course of that time, and always in the afternoon--never before bed. Also, this wine had a peculiar, acrid odor he could smell even with several feet between his nose and the source; had it perhaps been exposed to the air too long? "Riona?"
Again, there was no reply. Shaking his head, he turned to look at her, only to stumble an inch or so backward in shock.
He had been led to believe that she was asleep, but her eyes were wide open--moreso than they ever were even during the day. Their teal depths were both glazed and glossy, and her ordinarily neutral mouth was curled into an almost taunting smile. He tried making a sudden hand movement; she didn't blink. So far as he could tell, she wasn't even...
...breathing.
"Oh, God! Guards! Somebody! Help!"
NEXT CHAPTER:
WARNING: This post is, um... not for everyone. You'll see what I mean. I'm not trying to be political or anything, I've just had this idea in my head for God knows how long, and there's been plenty of (probably forgotten) build-up, so... yeah. Proceed with discretion.
December 14, 1163
"She's beautiful, Searle," breathed his older sister from the couch, her husband's arm slung over her shoulder. "Just... beautiful."
Cambrin nodded in agreement, but there was something in his eye that differed from Lileina's. Perhaps he had sensed Searle's discomfort; Searle himself hoped this wasn't the case. "Searle? Are you all right?"
Damn. He had.
Searle gently lifted his daughter to his shoulder, careful to support her head. She had his father's own violet eyes, as he had been secretly praying against since the day Danthia had announced her pregnancy; he did not think he could bear to live in the same castle as those eyes again. It was difficult enough living in the same castle as his mother's eyes, set upon his own face, reminiscent enough of both of his parents to bestow in him an almost religious aversion to reflective surfaces. "I'm fine," he lied, "just... a little tired, that's all."
Lileina frowned. "I can take her for a while, if you want."
"Oh, no. Really, I'm all right," insisted Searle. Then, as an afterthought, he added, "Thank you for your concern, though."
He had barely finished acknowledging her before she had planted herself upon Cambrin's lap, allowing him to run his hands up and down her back as she inhaled a nose-full of whatever spice he wore in his hair. Searle rolled his eyes; as much as he loved both of them separately, he hated to see them together. He had half a mind to ban all happy couples from his castle henceforth. It was too painful to see others with what he had once had and lost.
Or no... he hadn't lost it. It had been taken from him.
He hated to see them as they were, with all their touching and kissing and snuggling. He could never decide if it made him want to cry or vomit--perhaps it did both. It just wasn't fair. How had their father managed to choose for Lileina someone she would grow to love, while he got stuck with a girl with whom he could only be friends, and that at best. He supposed he did pity Danthia somewhat--he did like her as a person, and felt rather guilty about depriving her of the only love she could attain without becoming an adulteress--but she couldn't understand. He hoped for her sake that she never would.
Cambrin and Lileina did not look as though they would relent with their display any time soon; defeated, Searle resigned himself to counting the floor tiles, starting from the far wall. One... two... three...
"Searle?"
He knew that voice.
Mindful of the baby, Searle turned around to come face-to-face with his twin sister. He had not seen her since her wedding; he was rather shocked that their father, who had stationed himself in the front room, had allowed her entrance. "Aren't you a sight for sore eyes?"
That she was. He took a moment to memorize her, as he did not know when he would see her again; though Riona had haunted his thoughts and dreams since he was a child, he marveled that he had forgotten her magnificence. Or maybe he hadn't--maybe she had simply grown even more radiant in their time apart. If that was the case, he would not have believed it had he not seen it for himself. Their mother's eyes sparkled as she gazed upon him and shyly smiled. Hers was the only face upon which those eyes were not a blasphemy.
"This is Tivalia?" she cooed, leaning toward the baby, exposing the bare flesh of her swan-like neck. Was she taunting him? How he longed to run his fingers against the curve of her shoulder, press tender kisses under her ear; surely she knew that.
"Oh, Searle!" swooned Riona, her sacred eyes still resting upon the baby. "She's lovely! She has Father's eyes!"
How could she say that with such a smile? How could she look into those eyes and not want to hang herself? Did she not remember anything?
She seemed to shield her breasts with her arms as she reached to stroke the infant's face. Silly girl. He was not other men, who stared shamelessly at such a perfect bosom as though it were a separate entity; to him, it was only a part of the whole, no greater or lesser than any of her other features. Whether he saw all of her or not, she was nothing short of pure divinity. His father had pushed an angel from the heavens, and he had caught her before she hit the ground. It was not right that she had been so ruthlessly sold to her husband.
She looked away; he looked at her. He would not let pass an opportunity to engrave the sight of her upon his mind's eye, to absorb this new beauty and splendor even vaster than that which he remembered. As was their fate, she would not be with him long.
And as was his fate, at least she would be with him in his dreams.
NEXT CHAPTER:
