Post by Queen Coretta de la Courcel on Dec 20, 2010 0:37:03 GMT -5
For the past few months, I'd kept largely to myself, as out of character as it was for me. I did little in the way of shopping or celebrating dinner parties, didn't attend a single fete, nor did I attend many social functions. I'd heard it rumored that mayhap I was sick, but rather than that, it was more of a discontent. Fredric had kept me more than entertained, the silly little games we played, but neither of us had done anything since that night that he'd pinned me to a wall. For all I wanted him, for all my body yearned towards him, I'd had nightmares for several nights after of Cassiel, nightmares that I couldn't run from, and I'd shied from anything unsavory with Fredric since. It wasn't my right... it wasn't my place.
So, given the quietness of my antics, it came as a surprise to me when I was called to a private audience with a few high ranking nobles; even Azabel was there, her face solemn, almost sad, but oddly committed. I'd stood and listened, given little chance to get a word in, and by the time I left I was near bristling as a cat, fighting to keep the angry tears from spilling down over my cheeks.
I was to marry.
Marry! Me! At seventeen, it was hardly an unknown thing to do; very likely I'd be eighteen by the time the wedding bells sounded. They wanted to settle me, to ground me; oh, they never came outright and said it, but that's what it boiled down to anyway. I was to settle down like a good de la Courcel, mind my manners, and become a doting little wife. I couldn't believe it.
Three days later, I received a list of men who they found suitable. What Sabrina thought of it all I didn't know, but I was sure she had her hand in it somehow - it was too unlike her to miss an opportunity to strike me down, and what better way that to saddle me with a husband! It took everything I had in me not to scowl at the papers I held in my hand as I strolled along a lesser used path in the gardens, and though I kept my face smooth, my body trembled with the effort. The list was full of dusty old men, some old enough to be my father or more, others somewhat younger, but none near my age. I wasn't even to marry someone who I could laugh with! Oh, no - they were sticking me with a man who knew how to keep me in line. I wanted to cry, I wanted to laugh, but I knew if I did either I wouldn't be able to stop. My heart ached, and I needed Christien, but I'd lost track of where he was today, and I was too afraid I'd lost the tenuous hold on my emotions if I tried talking to a servant. Deeper into the gardens I went, trying to lose myself among the spring blossoms, my eyes eating the papers of the men chosen.
Duc Antoine Beldany de Silvain, Age 33, of Namarre
Comte Guy de Mereloit, Age 33, of Eisande
Henri L'Envers, Age 40, of Namarre
Marquis Azriel Shahrizai, Age 30, of Kusheth...
The list continues, spilling on and on - those were the best I could find, save for one last; Marcel de Layne. Thirty years old from Eisande; he was the one they spoke of least, one they almost brushed over as if it were nothing. I stared at the information they'd lain out about him, stark ink against thick ivory parchment, feeling like a broodmare. The thought alone was enough to make my hand travel to my stomach, and in disgust at myself I dropped my hand away again, my mind made up. Turning, I glided back to the Palace again, my head held high, papers cradled in one hand. I returned to the office I'd been first delivered the news of, catching two of the same people who'd been there against me in the beginning.
"Him," I said curtly, slapping the papers down in front of them. "Marcel de Layne. Invite him to the Palace so might meet him in two weeks time. Good day, gentlemen."
Giving them an inclination of my head, I turned and swept from the room before they could so much as respond, not wanting to hear what they might have said given the chance.
So, given the quietness of my antics, it came as a surprise to me when I was called to a private audience with a few high ranking nobles; even Azabel was there, her face solemn, almost sad, but oddly committed. I'd stood and listened, given little chance to get a word in, and by the time I left I was near bristling as a cat, fighting to keep the angry tears from spilling down over my cheeks.
I was to marry.
Marry! Me! At seventeen, it was hardly an unknown thing to do; very likely I'd be eighteen by the time the wedding bells sounded. They wanted to settle me, to ground me; oh, they never came outright and said it, but that's what it boiled down to anyway. I was to settle down like a good de la Courcel, mind my manners, and become a doting little wife. I couldn't believe it.
Three days later, I received a list of men who they found suitable. What Sabrina thought of it all I didn't know, but I was sure she had her hand in it somehow - it was too unlike her to miss an opportunity to strike me down, and what better way that to saddle me with a husband! It took everything I had in me not to scowl at the papers I held in my hand as I strolled along a lesser used path in the gardens, and though I kept my face smooth, my body trembled with the effort. The list was full of dusty old men, some old enough to be my father or more, others somewhat younger, but none near my age. I wasn't even to marry someone who I could laugh with! Oh, no - they were sticking me with a man who knew how to keep me in line. I wanted to cry, I wanted to laugh, but I knew if I did either I wouldn't be able to stop. My heart ached, and I needed Christien, but I'd lost track of where he was today, and I was too afraid I'd lost the tenuous hold on my emotions if I tried talking to a servant. Deeper into the gardens I went, trying to lose myself among the spring blossoms, my eyes eating the papers of the men chosen.
Duc Antoine Beldany de Silvain, Age 33, of Namarre
Comte Guy de Mereloit, Age 33, of Eisande
Henri L'Envers, Age 40, of Namarre
Marquis Azriel Shahrizai, Age 30, of Kusheth...
The list continues, spilling on and on - those were the best I could find, save for one last; Marcel de Layne. Thirty years old from Eisande; he was the one they spoke of least, one they almost brushed over as if it were nothing. I stared at the information they'd lain out about him, stark ink against thick ivory parchment, feeling like a broodmare. The thought alone was enough to make my hand travel to my stomach, and in disgust at myself I dropped my hand away again, my mind made up. Turning, I glided back to the Palace again, my head held high, papers cradled in one hand. I returned to the office I'd been first delivered the news of, catching two of the same people who'd been there against me in the beginning.
"Him," I said curtly, slapping the papers down in front of them. "Marcel de Layne. Invite him to the Palace so might meet him in two weeks time. Good day, gentlemen."
Giving them an inclination of my head, I turned and swept from the room before they could so much as respond, not wanting to hear what they might have said given the chance.