Congratulations | Roderick & Guinevere
"Come here, my girl," commanded the emperor. "Thank your father for your good fortune."
A kiss on the cheek he expected and a demure, blushing thanksgiving. This is how a dutiful daughter ought to react to such as Roderick had this day given to Guinevere. A husband! A House! Another title to add to her coils of rippling golden tiaras. Such had been the glories he had bestowed upon her. But so far all that had loomed between them had been silence.
He did not entirely blame her yet for any particularly egregious ingratitude. He knew he had -- by design, no less! -- taken her quite by surprise. Should would see none of this coming. Girls, after all, loved surprises. How often had he heard Cassandra squealing her delight over a fine gown she had not expected to receive? Guinevere had always been more dignified than her little sister, as she ought to be, and more reserved. She did not leap ahead to give herself airs, either. And there had been much to happen thereafter, returning to the palace only to change before embarking for the Malconaire event.
Now that they were at last ensconced afterwards in the castle, though, the time was right. But perhaps her natural feminine quietude prevented her from approaching his august presence uninvited. So, now, he invited. He expected all due gratitude.
"Your cousin will be a fine husband, my dear. You need have no fears of the married state, either. It is for your mothers to prepare you for what is to come, of course," he added, quickly. Though her only living parent, he was no woman to give her such advice, but he had no doubt his wives would be more than eager to impart knowledge...or Marian would be, at any rate. Amira's character was perhaps not so...generous. But he need not warn Guinevere of such. She knew it well enough, already.
"But know I wish you very happy, indeed, daughter. Your future husband will be kind and, I suspect, biddable. See you remember that you are no ordinary woman, born to be meek and obedient: you, my Guinevere, are of a different kind." Elaine lived in her, still, he saw, that same fire burning in the grey of her eyes, in the set of her soft pink lips, in the shape of her brows as fathomless eyes lifted to his. Yes, Elaine lived still and slowly, slowly, he raised his hand to her cheek, felt the living heat of her skin beneath his palm.
"You are mine."
He paused. Stiffened. His hand fell away. Elaine was not there: she was not Elaine. No one would ever be again. Not in this lifetime. Not, perhaps, for many more lifetimes to come.
His shoulders felt tense. The room, in the summer heat, felt too close. A low, scratching voice in the fireplace was laughing at him. His head ached.
Roderick paced to the long, low table, so often featuring maps of war, but now instead scattered with paintings of wide swaths of picturesque land and strange Astairan castles. He sometimes felt that, in conquering the largest country in the world, he'd somehow captured, instead, a pastoralist's dream: oblitering an army of farmers to seize the world's largest grange.
"There is the matter of a betrothal gift, my dear. The final decision, of course, shall be mine," he added, airily. "But, as it shall form a future seat of your own here in Astaira, what say you that I give to Eoin: mountain, fens, or heathland?"
"Will you marry me, Alistair Grey, wolf that has always guarded my door, and save me from a life I never desired?"
The words pounded in Guinevere's head over and over and over again as her carriage bore her back to the imperial palace. A chorus of rebellious treasons echoing backwards unto infinity. Her heart was stone. Her determination steel. Her path was set forward. She found she did not regret a single word of it.
Now the danger only came from ensuring no one discovered their plans before the time was right.
Guin smiled warmly at the footman who assisted her in alighting from the carriage, murmuring a quiet thanks to him as he bowed in deference when she walked past and into the castle. Finally, some peace and quiet after all that had happened.
Her heart ached a little knowing she would have to avoid Alistair for a short while. She had been gone too long from her father's eye and Eoin's side during the Malconaire Ball. Perhaps Roderick would not connect this fact so quickly to the lack of his Master of War's presence during most of the festivities, but it would still likely be prudent to distance herself.
Hah! As if you could go a single day without speaking to him. We shall see, little fox, if you can manage to avoid the temptation now that such plans are set in motion. Now that you once again remember what it is like to be kissed by the Grey Wolf. Guinevere's cheeks flushed at the thought, knowing this all to be true. Perhaps continuing to hide her feelings would be the hardest task yet. Yet even as she reached to remove the crown from her head in order to rub at her sore temples where the gold squeezed too tightly, the voice of her father rang out over the stones, calling his eldest daughter from the door of his study to his side.
Instantly her blood turned to ice, the color draining from her face. How could he have already guessed? How could he have known? Had she made a misstep in the tilt of her smile at Eoin? Had she looked for a fraction of a second too long at Alistair as she had been escorted away?
Every muscle in her body tensed. Her face settled into her most well-worn mask of bland complacence. She replaced the golden crown back upon her head, lifted her chin, stiffened her spine, and walked calmly but quickly to her father's side as he demanded. The show must go on. If she had any wish to live her own life and keep those she loved safe...
"Father. You bless me with your attentions." Guinevere greeted him with a gentle, soothing smile and a kiss on the cheek before curtsying, bowing her head in deference. When she raised her eyes once more, it was easy to flicker her gaze over his face and read what he wanted from her. Guin had long ago memorized the smallest movements of his facial expressions -- or at least she hoped so.
"My apologies for not thanking you properly sooner. It was a sore misstep on my part. For what it may be worth, at the Malconaire Ball, I was so enthralled with learning more of my husband-to-be that I found myself quite losing track of the time." She placed a hand over her heart and tilted her head downward once more. "I shall endeavor to not repeat the mistake again."
Guinevere followed her father into his study and tried her best not to cringe at the oppressive heat from the roaring fire. She had always assumed the extremes in temperature was intentional -- so warm in summer and freezing in winter -- to put those with him in the room on edge and more likely to reveal something they wished to keep hidden. Guin remembered training herself to withstand such extremes, holding herself close to the fire or pressing snow and ice to her wrists and chest, until she could school her features into the same expression no matter the environs.
"You are quite correct, of course, Father. I, too, believe that Lord Eoin will make a fine husband and that we shall be quite happy together. He seems quite taken with me. I believe I shall find no resistance from him in deferring to my judgement in all things." She said as she stood before his desk with her hands clasped loosely in front of her.
He had not gestured for her to sit in one of the various chairs that scattered the room. She knew better than to sit unless asked. For all Roderick proclaimed she was to remember she was no ordinary meek and obedient woman, for all of his gentle gazing into her eyes, for all of his gentle touches upon her cheek --
"You are mine."
Those three words were the mantra Guinevere knew to remember above all others. She was his to command, his to control, his to point in a direction and set off like a wind-up doll. She was to bow to no man. No man, of course, except for him.
It terrified her. It enraged her. It made her sick.
Instead of letting any of this show, Guin pushed a soft pink flush to the apples of her cheeks - a bashful daughter overwhelmed by her father's generous compliments. Her long eyelashes fluttering as she looked to her golden slippers peeking out from below purpled skirts.
"You honor me, Father, with such a claim. I find I am speechless in the face of your generosity and kindness. I pray each morning and before I sleep at night that I shall be able to achieve even a fraction of your accomplishments, so to hear you speak such praises of me..." A small laugh echoed about the chamber, another bow of her head in deference. "It is truly the greatest gift. I thank you once more."
He stiffened suddenly. He dropped his hand from her face. A cloud passed over his eyes and he stalked away. A tremble began in Guinevere's hands and her heart beat heavy in her chest. It took all of her strength to stand still and tall instead of doubling over herself and beginning to hyperventilate at the sight of his discomfort.
Oh no... Perhaps this had not been the right thing to say. Had she angered him? Had she been too cowed? Had the lilt of her voice not been deferential enough? Should she have puffed her chest and crowed about her own greatness? What did he even want from her?
Blackness dripped in the edges of her vision as the anxious monster in her mind screamed and howled of the many fractured possibilities of danger coming fast and furious towards her.
He is going to toss over that table. He is going to throw a goblet at your head. He is going to scream in your face. He is going to toss you out into the cold. He is going to cut Alistair's head from his neck. What have you done? What have you DONE? Useless! Useless! Useless! Run now! Run fast and run far! Cunning as the fox, fast as the wolf!
It took Guinevere a moment to fully process that instead of any of these things occurring, her father instead was--giving her a choice? She smothered the terrified whine that threatened to climb up her throat and instead took a deep, quiet breath. This was a boon not to be trusted but perhaps still could be used. She was used to her father's tests. This was a far steadier ground.
"Hm. Which is the most useful for enriching the empire? Is one over the other likely to bring us more in taxes?" She asked as she walked across the room to join her father, brushing a hand over the paintings in order to fan them out and get a better look. Guin's analytical gaze flickered over each painting, tilting her head this way and that to try and pull further information. "Or, which one is most easy to fortify against attack? Choosing which to gift Ser Eoin should be far more about what would be best for the Varmont name than a beautiful setting. His lands will be his in name, but if he is to be my consort it would behoove us to give him something that will be to our benefit as much as his."
