Marriage of the Moon 01
Zenothe—a kingdom known for its cruel monarchy over the people. Whisperia—a kingdom built on peace and harmony with all. These two kingdoms will come together in a peace treaty through the marriage of Princess Darcy of Whisperia, and Lady Iorda of Zenothe.
Darcy wants a tolerable marriage.
Iorda desires safety.
TW: Scars, bruises, lash marks, signs of physical/mental abuse/neglect, stress over food (not in an ed-way)
@melissatheshowgirl the lover of angst. @rerarlo @s12-kittie @thewillowofveles @darlenicy
°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°
Some prisons came from cages, some were built from one’s own perception, and some were created from simple objects. Iorda kept her head bowed even as her pitch black dress rubbed at her tender skin, and her tight braid tugged at her stinging scalp. A dress was a prison for her, of sorts. Many things were.
She glanced around the royal hall of Whisperia; white marble, dark violet drapes, and gold detailing. The only thing the architecture had in common with the dark and dreary Zenothian palace was the gold. Nobles and palace staff dressed differently, too. Loose fabrics and oriental jewelry.
Iorda kept much of her focus on the Whisperian carpet at her feet, depicting crows and many types of flowers. So soft looking. Divya—the ambassador standing a step ahead of her—spoke with the three figures on the throne upon the dais.
“So this is the girl meant to marry our daughter in three months time?” A woman with her dark violet hair falling from her shoulders, and a golden crown with a green gem in the center. Queen Griffin. “You two certainly are on time.”
Divya tilted her hand and bowed. “I thank your highnesses for your… opportunity.” A note of disdain was clear in the ambassador’s voice. “And yes, Lady Iorda is the one we agreed to marry the princess. She is quite the lady, and as her mentor for the past six years, I have great confidence in her potential to benefit the state between our kingdoms’ alliance.”
Queen Griffin’s golden eyes moved past Ambassador Divya to Lady Iorda. She had expected the girl to be wearing traditional Zenothian formal clothing, though in her many years of rule over the Whisperian throne and her meetings with the Zenothian, she had never gotten used to seeing that gold and amethyst diadem and the braid.
She wanted to call it as it was, an offence against psychic witches. But learning to keep her opinions to herself—something her daughter, Darcy, still needed to learn and adapt to—was something necessary when faced with a woman such as Divya. Iorda seemed abnormally subservient. Griffin wasn’t surprised. She’s heard stories of how much Zenothe broke fiery spirits until they became dust.
There was a chance Iorda wasn’t taught the sacred nature of hair to psychic witches. Or that her powers shouldn’t be suppressed. Griffin trusted that when Lady Iorda remained in Whisperians after the meeting, her daughter would get some sense into the girl.
“She appears to be quite quiet,” Darcy said calmly, her arm draped over the side of her throne.
Darcy and Iorda looked to be from different worlds apart, despite their proximity. Darcy’s loose clothing, confidence, loose hair, and her forehead's lack of a repressive diadem further reinforced the differences between the manner the two were brought up.
“Apologies, princess,” Divya said through gritted teeth. “Lady Iorda is just quite shy.”
“Or is it you speaking for—”
“Regardless…” King Valtor gave a subtle look to his daughter, asking her to play nice. “We are pleased with this alliance between our kingdoms. Very.” He leaned back. “I assume that the palace staff have taken Lady Iorda’s belongings to her chambers, and I would hate to keep you away from your duties on Zenothe for longer than needed.”
He would hate to have Divya on Whisperia longer than needed, more like it. Divya either didn’t hear or didn’t care about the passive-aggressive comment, for she let go of Iorda’s shoulder before making a swift turn to the exit of the throne room.
Iorda inhaled deeply, not raising her gaze from the carpet. Divya’s presence at least took any social stress away from her mind, which didn’t quite know how to navigate this situation when so many things were unsure. Despite her ‘status’ as a Lady, she hadn’t been treated as such back in her homeland, so she didn’t know how to speak to the three Whisperian royals.
“Darcy, dear.” Griffin looked to her daughter. “Please show Lady Iorda to her chambers. Her belongings should be delivered there, and I assume that some quiet rest is needed after the journey from Zenothe.”
Darcy nodded, rising from her throne. “Of course, mother.” She walked to Iorda, tilting her head at how timid her fiancé was. “Follow me, please.”
°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°
Iorda only glanced up from the floor once Darcy stopped walking in front of a set of light, wooden double doors. Just like many of the things in the Whisperian palace, it was carved in intricate scenes of animals, witches, and flowers. She supposed that this marriage arrangement would be tolerance and pity from Darcy at best, because how could Iorda contribute in this place?
“These are your chambers,” Darcy explained. Iorda paused and nodded. “... you may enter them.”
Embarrassed, Iorda mumbled an apology under her breath and opened the door to her chambers. She watched Darcy from the corner of her eyes, but then she got distracted by how different this room was from her small handmaiden chambers. She wasn’t a handmaiden, either. Divya simply trained her and used her as such.
Blankets, curtains, and carpets were all in shades of violets, greens, and golds. A canopy bed was against the right side of the room and was littered with thick blankets and pillows. A vanity and several bookshelves stocked with tomes and novels were also present. Iorda assumed the door on the far left of the room led to a bathroom.
For once, she didn’t ask permission to act. Iorda walked towards the bed and ran her hand across a particularly fluffy lavender pillow, recalling the thin sheet and hard mattress she had grown accustomed to.
Darcy leaned against the doorway. “Is it suitable?”
“Uh, yes,” Iorda said weakly, nodding. “Thank you, princess.
“Call me Darcy, please. We are to be married in three months after all.”
Iorda winced at her slipup. “Of course. I will remember that.” She fiddled with a strand of hair that had come undone from her braid, unsure to fix it herself. “It is… pretty.”
“I’m pleased you find it so,” Darcy said. Iorda seemed to have more personality than she appeared to have back in the throne room. “As my mother said, today must have been a difficult and tiring journey. If you’d prefer, I can request that the palace staff send an evening meal here instead of having to dine with the other nobles. A handful of them are quite insufferable, I’ll say."
Iorda turned around. “Is it a bother?”
“You are free to eat where you please. So tell me, would you prefer to eat in your chambers?”
“... maybe for tonight, yes.”
“Our palates tend to differ quite a bit from the rich foods you’re accustomed to on Zenothe, but I am sure that something will be to your liking,” Darcy said, noticing Iorda’s fidgeting. She preferred to stay at arm’s length from everyone except her parents and cousins, but it seemed like Iorda needed someone to reach out. Who is better up to the task than her fiancé? “Would you also like me to ask one of the palace staff to draw you a bath—”
Iorda’s eyes widened, breath hitching. “I… I'd prefer to do it myself.”
Darcy raised a brow at the sudden firmness.
“Sorry, I spoke out of line, I…”
“No, you are of the same status as myself,” Darcy reassured, inwardly amused that her timid fiancé had more of a bite than she thought. “At least, you will be once the marriage ceremony and papers are in order. Advocate for your needs, please.”
Iorda opened and closed her mouth silently and nodded.
“I’ll take my leave.” Darcy waved a hand and walked to the double doors. “Iorda?”
“Yes, princess?”
“...”
“Darcy. Apologies.”
“Better,” Darcy said, her lips tilted. “Iorda, you are safe here on Whisperia. In due time, I am sure that everyone here will grow to accept you as one of us.” She opened the door and walked into the hall. “Sweet dreams.”
Iorda didn’t move as the door closed. She wondered why she wasn’t reprimanded by her firm—borderline snapping—words from earlier, or why this fiancé of hers was being so kind to someone who could barely force herself to speak like any normal person would.
She sighed, letting her braid swing over her shoulders and moved to the vanity. It would be so easy to undo the braid, smooth the ache, and wash her hair on her own accord for the first time since she was sixteen. But her trembling hands wouldn’t cooperate.
A bath was fine. Showers could wait until she worked up the courage to undo her braids without fearing punishment, even with how unusually far Ambassador Divya was from her. All the way back in Zenothe, or in a few days, she would be.
Iorsa stepped into the bathroom with slow steps, eyeing all the decor on the walls and the drawers. A dried bundle of lavender hung behind the door, creating a calming small that eased her nerves. Somewhat.
She managed to draw a bath—not hot, part of her still petrified of being a bother—that was warm enough to be comforting. Products lined the shelf around the marble bath, but she didn’t think to grab any. A warm bath without having to deal with Divya’s constant presence was a blessing all on its own.
Iorda slipped off her high-necked dress, letting the heavy fabric fall to the floor and glancing at the gold-framed mirror. She wondered if, during the evening after the marriage—if Whisperia had any laws on consummation—Darcy would be disgusted at how Iorda’s arms, shoulders, and back were littered with imperfections.
Bruises. Some faded, but would always be replaced. Lash marks snaking down her shoulders and back, replacing any sight of unmarred skin. A scar or two from when Divya had felt particularly ruthless and decided to put her knife skills to good use.
Iorda frowned.
She didn’t know if she’d even be pretty or appealing if she let her hair down for once. Sharp Zenothian makeup—dark reds and blacks—has adorned her face for years, enough time that she forgot what her rounder, unfavourable eyes looked like without it. Ribs showed on her bony frame. She had been fed, of course, but her act of asking for food from Divya was so unpleasant that she tended to ignore her body’s needs.
Everything in the bathroom was hers, technically. She had the choice to pull some eyeshadow out of the drawer, use sweet-smelling oils and bubbles for the bath, but what if she took too much? What if Darcy thought she was selfish, superficial, and sent her back to Zenothe?
Iorda stepped into the warm bath, sighing at the pleasant sensation. She let her braid hang out of the bath as she sank into the water up to her collarbone. After all this time, she finally could live without worrying, even briefly.
°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°
Fluffy bathrobes felt much better on her skin than the robes she had worn as a handmaiden, Iorda very quickly decided. She was tempted to leave the robe on—she’d dried off after all—and bury herself in one of the many blankets at her disposal. But once she saw a plate with some sort of meat, bread, and vegetables placed on the dark wood coffee table, her stomach growled.
It was too good to be true. Iorda tore her eyes from the food and opened a door that likely was a closet, eyes widening at the sheer size of it and the plentiful amount of clothing. Whisperian formal clothing, simple dresses, skirts, blouses, pants. She felt anxious just at the sight of it.
Once step at a time.
Iorda stepped in and grabbed a simple black nightgown, saving her the fear of wearing something too Whisperian than Divya would have tolerated if the ambassador was present. The silky fabric felt like water on her skin. Skin that was used to tight, heavy fabrics that scratched against her bruises and scars.
Her eyes watered before she blinked away tears.
Was she safe?
Another low growl exited her stomach.
Iorda wasn’t sure if she was safe or not, but she knew that whatever stressors would come tomorrow would be more tolerable on a full stomach. She approached the plate of food, tilting her head at the sight of it: thinly-sliced meat that appeared marinated, a thin bread littered with rosemary, and a squash of sorts cut into two halves.
Food wasn’t something she found pleasant. Before she was put in Ambassador Divya’s care, she did have some Zenothian foods she preferred as a teen in the lower Errixie class. The overly rich foods served in the palace tasted fine, but they lost their appeal when Divya controlled what and when she ate. Or when food was given by the hand of the ambassador or the other cruel nobles as if she were some sort of mentally tortured and helpless pet.
Could she eat something on her own, so many years later?
Iorda turned in a circle, ensuring that no one was in the room or about to enter. She didn’t feel guilty of the act of eating. She worried about stepping out of the line of the orders she had been taught. Once she was sure that the coast was clear, she sat down on the plush chair in front of the coffee table.
She hesitated.
One bite.
Iorda grabbed the fork and knife perfectly placed next to the plate, cutting a small piece of the marinated meat. She smelled many species and a sourness, and her mouth immediately watered. Ignoring the memories of what this act of ‘rebellion’ would lead to back home, she slowly took the piece of meat in her mouth.
Oh, by Liliss.
Iorda almost moaned at the taste. She had expected it to have the same overbearing richness she was used to, but instead, all the species and sour flavour melted on her tongue. Light and so wonderfully flavorful.
She almost smiled, and was about to cut another bite of the meat before a different, uncomfortable churning started in her gut. Guilt. Fear. A result of acting out of line with the many rules and conditions that meant life or death.
Her hands holding the cutlery trembled, and she firmly placed them back down on the napkin with a weak frustration. One bite was more than she had done on her own accord in years, so she shouldn’t feel angry at herself, but all she could think about was how much of a disappointment of a fiancée she was.
Iorda gritted her teeth as she walked over to the bed, throwing herself onto it with a huff. Through the window on the other side of the room, glowing moonlight shone through the gap in the curtains. She hoped it was a good omen. A sting started at her forehead, and she adjusted the diadem so it didn’t dig into her skin too much.
At least now, she had the comfort of a good bed. She pulled up the two blankets layered on top of each other and slid under them, grabbing the fluffy pillow she had felt earlier before tugging it up to her chest.
She was dreaming right now.
Soon, she’d wake up.
Soon…
