When she met Mark, she only knew two things: according to rumor, he was the bastard son of King Garon, and that her father had arranged for them to be wed. She didn’t mind too much; as long as he didn’t expect her to love him and didn’t dare interrupt her naps, she could survive anything he would hurl at him.
Their first few meetings went well enough, although her stubborn laziness showed through more often than not. He seemed nice, if not a little shy, which suited her well enough. Most importantly, he seemed easily-manipulated. As long as she played her cards right, she could get away with almost anything
It was on their fourth date–although Mitama was hesitant to call them “dates,” they were really just meetings set up by her Azama–when Mark asked her about her poetry, and just watched her with a little smile as she launched into a half-hour long monologue about the importance of punctuation in haiku that she realized that she might feel something for him. He was quiet, yes, but he listened, and that was more than she could say about anyone else in her life.
A wedding date was never formally set; Azama was content to just let the pair figure it out, as long as the union was eventually solidified. They were left with more time to get to know each other, and with every passing meeting, Mitama found other little things about Mark that deepened her appreciation. For their seventh meeting, he cooked her dinner, and she watched the genuine pleasure spread across his face when she complimented the flavors. On their tenth meeting, she listened, enthralled, as he explained the history of war between their countries. Later that night, when she brushed her hand against his, she watched with interest as a violent blush erupted across his cheeks. It was cute, really.
She lost track of their number of meetings--no, dates. It was late one night, after a lovely dinner out, that the pair noticed an older woman struggling to get home. Mitama, as lazy as ever, was about to suggest they find someone else to help her, but Mark jumped in before the words could even get out of her mouth. Despite not being strong, he insisted on carrying her belongings for her. Their evening was put on pause for at least an hour as the woman demanded she rewarded them for their troubles, resulting in a tupperware of cookies shared between the two of them.
Mitama couldn’t have imagined a better evening.
As they meandered back toward Mark’s tent, which Mitama knew she would eventually be moving into, she rolled her thoughts around on her tongue. She’d never had trouble crafting her thoughts into poetry before, but now, when they were the most important, she found herself stuck. Unable to come up with anything better, she simply reached out for his hand--the one not holding the cookies--and pulled him to a stop, if only so she could look him in the eyes.
“Mark,” she began, and stopped to clear her throat. “I... I think I’m ready.”
He didn’t need to ask her what she was ready for. Judging by the light in his eyes, he, too, was ready to get married.
