Not Your Little Bird [Self-Para]
“… are you listening to me, Wren?”
Wren sat before her parents, the whole world buzzing around her. She felt surreal, like she was looking at them from underwater. Everything they said sounded like rushing water, and when she tried to make herself concentrate, to force herself to look at them, her vision was so blurry that her head hurt.
“Wren, dear, are you crying?”
Wren viciously wiped at her eyes. That would explain it. Of course she was crying, what else could they expect of her? Her head was swimming and her heart had sunk so low she felt it in her stomach. “No, I just… I don’t understand.” Her father frowned. “What don’t you understand? I’ve just told you everything.” “I don’t understand what you mean by betrothed.” “Do not raise your voice at me, young lady.” “I’m not!” Wren’s voice broke, conscious that now she had raised her voice. Tears were streaming down her cheeks in rivulets, but she was far beyond caring about behaving now. “… I don’t understand what I ever done to you. I have done everything that you have ever asked me to do, why do you see fit to take from me the only thing that I have ever had control over!” Wren stood up, too furious to sit and remain complacent, too infuriated to allow her parents to look down at her while they planned her life regardless of what she wanted. She would make them look up at her, damn it. “Why wasn’t stealing my childhood good enough for you, that you have to deprive me of the most important decision an adult can make!” Wren’s father rose. “Keep your voice down.” “Why?!” Wren spat back. “Are you afraid of what the neighbors might think? God forbid they think the less of you, while your daughter is here in tears before you!” George simply pursed his lips. “I will not speak to you while you are working yourself into a frenzy.” He walked over to the crystal bottle of brandy on the sideboard and poured himself a drink. Wren’s angry gaze turned to her mother, who refused to meet her eye and had remained completely silent during the entire ordeal. Molly had fixed her eyes upon the crystal bird that sat in the china cabinet. It’s a wren, just like you, my little bird, Molly had said to her once upon a time. It will sit just there, to remind me of you always, even when our own little songbird has long left our nest. The mere fact that Molly was looking at it now, instead of her, only further enraged Wren. Wren sat back down on the sofa, obstructing Molly’s gaze. “Mother,” She began, softer, “how could you let this happen to me?” Molly did not reply; her gaze was distant, un-noticing, still fixed upon that silly crystal bird. “Mother!” Wren cried, finally attracting Molly’s attention. She looked at her daughter with a practiced expression of blank resignation. “Mother… how could you? You said–” “It’s what is best for you, Wren,” her mother breathed, eyes now flitting about the den to tiny mirrors, trinkets, a dainty ring Wren had worn as a little girl, and finally to the lacquered jewelry box nestled into the crystal cased hutch. It had been passed down among the Aster women and one day, it’ll go to you, Wren, my little bird. And Nana’s rings too, if there’s a boy lucky enough to give them to you. An absent smile crossed Molly’s face. Yes…. Nana Aster would have liked that. But Wren, caring nothing for her mother’s romantic reverie, barreled through Molly’s breathy admission of defeat, and reminded Molly that she promised it would never come to this, that Wren would never have to see this part of a courtier’s life, until she finally saw that she was speaking to a blank face.Wren realized she could not quite recall when her mother stopped fighting these battles. Was this the first? Was it when Wren had to move home? How many times had poor, tired, Molly Darling brawled and lost on her first born’s behalf? Molly interjected, looking at Wren, but not really seeing her. “You need to be provided for. Taken care of.” Wren gaped at her mother, appalled. Wren, whose independence since the day she could walk had always been her mother's pride and joy, couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Mother, I—Mother!” Wren cried again, finally gaining her mother’s attention; Molly’s quiet fortitude wavered for just a moment. “Mother.” Wren took her mother's face in hand. “I am not your little crystal bird, to be shut up in a cupboard and taken out when I’m needed! I am not yours, either of yours, to command at will! I am a woman, and I will not accept this!” “It’s too late,” Molly murmured, withdrawing from Wren’s side as if the knowledge stung her. “The match has already been made, and the proposal accepted.” “Well, then unmake it!” “It’s too late, Wren. Please, dear, try to calm yourself.” Wren’s mouth hung agape. “Calm myself? You have no idea how this feels! It feels like I’ve been sold, like land or cattle!” George huffed into his glass of brandy. “Don’t be so overdramatic. This is a common arrangement.” “Oh? And what about you two? You chose each other, you married because you loved each other! Why am I not afforded that same right?!” “You do love each other. Don’t you think the court sees the two of you, traipsing around the palace, calling each other pet names. Wife to the brother of the Queen herself, sweetheart, imagine it!” Wren, who had by and large been trying to ignore her father, finally accosted his reasoning. “You would have me marry my own closest friend?? The only sort of person who could help me through a nightmare such as this? What sort of logic is that?!” She then swiveled to her mother, a woman who had in the face of conflict faded away into a shade of the protector Wren had once known. “How could you let him do this? You promised me!” “It’s a fine match, Wren,” Molly mumbled again. “He can take care of you, provide for you, and the dear boy loves you well, even if he doesn't know it yet. It’s a good match.” “I don’t care!” “You ought to,” George fired back at her. “George Yensid is–” “Ferdinand.” “What?” “He goes by Ferdinand so people won’t know who he is and how well off he is. He doesn't want people treating him differently. He wants a normal life.” “Yes! He’s well-paid, in excellent standing with the court, unmarried, and the Queen herself approves of the match! Hell, she arranged it! She wants you to be her sister in law, do you realize how unwise it would have been to reject this proposal? You’ll be a damn Yensid, Wren!” “Ferdinand,” Wren stubbornly replied, in her best friend’s favor. “The man I know, the man you are trying to force me to marry. He’s not the queen’s brother, he’s not some nobleman, he is my oldest and dearest friend, and he buys me bluebells on days when I am sad, and he’s in--” Wren bit her lip so sharply it could have bled. Yes, perhaps if she admitted to her parents that she knew the Prince’s affection lay elsewhere, planted in such deep soil that Wren believed he would never truly be hers, even if she begged him; perhaps that could save her. And yet… To reveal George’s love, who ever she was, would be dangerous business. What if impending courtier life scared her off? What if she had also been promised in an unhappy betrothal, but found herself in much less forgiving arms than Wren had? What if those who were ‘in the Queen's favor and favored this marriage’ found out about her?’ Suddenly Wren’s mind was racing with a thousand thoughts, but none of them were in celebration of the day that was to be the biggest of her life.
Somewhere, small inside her, there was a voice. ‘I am to be a princess.’
Someone, louder, inside her roared, ‘No, girl. You are to be a prisoner.’
Finally returning to her father's side, Wren placed the letter at his hand. ‘I will not marry him. I cannot.”
George simply fell silent. He placed his glass on the sideboard, and poured another drink. “Tea with her majesty and her brother is tomorrow. Look for best for your future sister in law.”
“I’ve just told you I’m not going!”
George turned around, placing his drink down onto the mahogany sideboard with a crack. “You will. For this family. For your Queen. For this country. It’s time that you grow up, Wren. You aren’t a child anymore.” He looked to his wife, and gestured to her. “Come, Molly.” Molly stood, and looked down at Wren. “… It’s what’s best, Wren. It really is. You’ll see.” And then she left Wren alone in the room.
It wasn’t until Wren closed the door to her bedroom that she realized she had fallen all the way up the stairs. She felt the pain in her knees but knew it soon would spread. She paused, and found herself laughing hysterically, and unable to stop. How appropriate. She stood against her door, laughing, as her tears streamed down her face. Her laughs had her clutching to her chest, violent jolts wracking through her as they became gasps for breath, and she crumpled to the ground against her door with wracking sobs.
The match is made, Wren.
