Apr 21, 2015
Rhiya & Asvin
Some nostalgic drawing done to commemorate my engagement to my husband.
2015-04-05, 2015-04-18, 2015-04-21
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Rhiya & Asvin
Some nostalgic drawing done to commemorate my engagement to my husband.
2015-04-05, 2015-04-18, 2015-04-21
Look...necromancers who luv skulls and shit r cool i'm not invalidating that, i think its a cool aesthetic to have. I'm just saying, consider necromancers that surround themselves with rare plants and extinct creatures they've brought back to life and when you step into their space theres something so otherworldly about it you feel like you've traversed into a foreign world. You see plants you've never seen, flowers you've never smelled, creatures you thought only existed in historical texts.
Silver Warrior - Rhiya Prater
Rhiya: @ladyrhiya
Whumptober: Wrongfully Accused
Masterlist. Rhiya.
Taglist: @arlennil, @whumpy-daydreams.
Whumptober.
~#~#~#~#~#~
Rhiya couldn’t look at Draven’s face. She wouldn’t look at anyone’s face, though the hall was full of people. And especially not Lady Friya’s.
She had known there were going to be consequences for her not-so-subtle threat, but she had assumed – naively – that Draven would be on her side.
When he’d fled his own fort to get away from her.
‘A credible claim from a credible source.’ Draven hadn’t said a word. He didn’t need to. He was the supposed injured party, which meant that the decision wasn’t his to make.
A whole hall full of people – full of her people, the people she’d fought for and nearly died for – and Lady Friya’s word somehow mattered more than anyone else’s.
Never mind that Rhiya had fought off a full-scale invasion with forty warriors. Never mind that she had birthed two strong, healthy heirs. Never mind that she could barely stand on her feet, the weeks of fever and exhaustion having taken their toll.
No. She still had to prove her loyalty to Skalid – like the crown on her head meant nothing, like Draven’s name on her lips meant nothing, like the blood on her sword meant nothing.
Rhiya wasn’t sure how much she had left to give.
She could demand a duel for the insult. It was her right. But she couldn’t fight Friya in the state she was in, and two people stood between Naya’s right to be her champion.
She could demand a duel for the insult. But she didn’t know if Draven would champion her, and she was afraid of finding out.
“You bring up a fair point, Lady Friya.” Ash, his face blank and his voice carefully level. Naya was pale and shaking at his side. “But there is no need to delay for a trial.”
“No need for a trial?” Friya raised an eyebrow, “Your baroness stands accused of treason and –”
“Precisely,” Ash cut her off, “The situation is far too delicate to wait for a trial and far too important to leave the judgement in the hands of mortals.”
A low murmur and a sudden hush.
“And who are you planning to appeal to?” Friya said dryly, “The court of the gods?”
“The winter spring,” Ash replied.
Something dark flashed across Friya’s face. Rhiya felt something inside of her untwist.
The winter spring terrified her. The weight of a country, of a people, of so many lives and so much land. In its judgement, everything was found lacking.
But the winter spring could not be bribed or blackmailed or otherwise persuaded by Friya’s lies. And Rhiya wanted to get this whole thing over with – wanted to get back to her two beautiful children and a bed and pretend like this entire farce was just a bad dream.
“You’re going to leave the judgement…to a spring,” Friya said, injecting as much incredulity in her voice as she was able to. But it didn’t matter. Her warriors were here only as a courtesy, and those of Skalid believed in the winter spring.
“Its judgement is unfailing,” Ash told her calmly. Draven was still silent. “Lady Riker?”
Friya’s eyes burned on Rhiya’s back as she was escorted out to the spring. Several people followed them – Draven’s generals, Ash and Naya, the dowager, Lady Friya and her son, and anyone else who was quick enough to grab a spot before the courtyard filled up.
Rhiya stared at the stone path through the fresh snow. A quick dunk, and this would all be over.
A silent, forbidding presence moved to her side. Rhiya edged her boots off and shrugged out of her cloak before stepping onto stone.
It was freezing. The breeze tugged at her skin – it wasn’t as cold as winter, but there was still fresh snow on the ground and Rhiya had spent several days of the last month laid up in bed. The stones felt like ice under her bare feet.
The drifting veils barely fluttered as she stepped inside.
She pulled her tunic off, and the shift, and her trousers. The necklace Draven had given her. Her sword, and the dagger strapped to her calf.
The crown she kept. She was the Baroness of Skalid, and no amount of slander would change that.
The water felt like a thousand needles stabbing into her skin and Rhiya couldn’t hold back the gasp before she slipped under the surface.
It coiled around her, firm and freezing and she didn’t have the air to breathe and something snatched at the crown on her head and –
She broke the surface with a hoarse wheeze.
It felt like the ice was in her bones, twining around her limbs and dragging her down. She crossed her arms on the edge of the pool, but she didn’t have the energy to pull herself up.
The veils fluttered.
Lady Friya would be watching, no doubt hoping she’d drown. And Rhiya was not going to give her the satisfaction.
She braced her arms. Pushed. Caught ahold of the ledge with one knee, and more or less spilled out onto solid ground.
Her teeth were chattering. Gooseflesh covered her arms and legs, and her fingers were trembling so bad she couldn’t strap on her dagger or her sword. The world was white, in and out and in again and Rhiya had the distant thought that this was bad.
She wasn’t sure how she made it across the freezing stone, but Draven was suddenly in front of her and a heavy cloak was around her shoulders and she didn’t want to look at him, didn’t want to see whatever was in his eyes.
She wanted her children. She wanted sleep. There was something ringing in her ears, a clamor raised behind her, and she wanted the white to envelop her and let everyone go away – but she couldn’t.
She couldn’t collapse here, couldn’t let the rumors and suspicion start, and she forced herself to stay upright as a strong grip swept her into the hall.
She was shuddering. Every part of her was shaking, and the grip around her shoulders tightened.
“The winter spring has given its judgement,” Draven said, and his voice was an icy chill, “Lady Riker is loyal to Skalid.”
A rising tide of voices, shouts, and splotches of color on Friya’s face. “You and your warriors have worn out your welcome, Lady Friya,” Draven snapped, and the hall quieted in a sudden hush.
Water continued dripping down her neck and every few seconds, she was hit with a violent shiver.
“Draven, you cannot actually mean to leave this jumped-up handmaiden as a ruler in your absence, you saw what she did –”
“Another word, Lady Friya,” Draven snarled, “And I will take insult on her behalf.”
Lady Friya was almost glittering with suppressed fury. “War,” she hissed through pale lips, “You’re willing to go to war for her?”
“Draven,” Ash whispered harshly, “Calm down, don’t –”
“For my wife,” Draven bit out, “For the mother of my children. For the protector of my country. I would walk into hell itself. So unless you wish to taste my blade on the battlefield, leave.”
The world was a fuzzy white. But there were hands on her shoulders as the ringing faded to silence, guiding her away and away and away and Rhiya let go of her fragile hold on consciousness.
A slow smile spread across her face.
A slow smile spread across her face.
“You don’t even know why I’m here, do you?” Rhiya asked, amused.
“We - we are always grateful to host the Baroness, my lady -”
She laughed. Behind her, the guards bristled, already sizing up the obstacle in their path.
“Save the pleasantries for someone who cares,” Rhiya said lightly, “And take me to my husband.”
So I've seen the term thrown around a lot, usually as an insult, but what actually is a handmaiden in the Rhiya series setting? Is it something specific to the Island?
Yeah, it’s a term specific to the island, kind of like a noble lady’s servants. I’m making the worldbuilding up as I go along, but the insult is mainly that Rhiya was not born to a family of warriors or trained to fight from childhood.
Wedding
Masterlist. Rhiya.
Taglist: @arlennil, @i-see-so-many-beautiful-stars
~#~#~#~#~#~
“This is madness.”
(It was more than madness, it was insanity.)
“Rhiya –” Dane started, but she cut him off, whirling towards him with her hands balled into fists, itching to wipe the conciliatory expression off his face.
“Madness,” she hissed, “Are you giving every lord the pick of the Vigilance’s warriors? Are you planning to cripple our force so soon after this fight?”
“Not every lord,” Dane said calmly.
“So I’m special, is it?” Rhiya snarled.
“Baron Riker certainly thinks so,” Dane said.
Rhiya couldn’t give a damn about what Baron Riker thought. She was a warrior of the Vigilance, she was a Vigilia and they wanted her to throw that away? “No,” she snapped, seething.
Dane looked apologetic. “It wasn’t a question,” he said.
“I don’t care,” Rhiya said, pointing to the door, “Get out. If I hear any mention of this talk again, you will regret it.” (She had a sword and a seething rage to put out and Dane’s face was the only thing in easy reach.)
Dane didn’t leave. Her hand wavered, and dropped, and her fists trembled with the urge to slam them in his face. “It wasn’t a request, Rhiya,” Dane stated firmly, “You know how important the warriors of Skalid were to our cause.”
She did know. They were uniquely suited to the battle against their faceless enemies, and fewer Skalid warriors had fallen than their brethren. If the faceless army returned, or if other armies marched across the plains, they would need Skalid’s help.
“Skalid has not always been a friend to the Vigilance,” Dane said, gentler, “You know that.” She bristled – Dane didn’t know the extent of it, because by the time she’d sought out healing, her wounds could be attributable to the army she’d fought for days.
“Are you buying all the lords with brides?” Rhiya sniped, “And I hardly think I suit Baron Riker’s tastes.” (She wished she had seen his face when they told him.)
“That’s strange,” Dane said, leaning against the door, “Because he specifically asked for you.”
Rhiya stared at him, her fists loosening in blank shock. “What?” she half-wheezed.
“He asked for you,” Dane repeated obligingly, “His specific condition was you as his bride-to-be, in exchange for an alliance with the Vigilance and his warriors to call upon should we need them.”
Rhiya stepped back, until the backs of her legs hit her bed and she could sink down on it. He had what? Weeks ago, he had had her whipped for disrespect and now he wanted her as his wife?
“First marriage offer?” Dane asked sympathetically, and Rhiya narrowed her eyes.
“You can’t make me marry him,” she said hoarsely, because there was absolutely nothing about marriage in the Vigilance’s code of honor. They couldn’t barter her for an alliance. She had left the island to get away from noble politics. She had joined the Vigilance to get away from this, to stand on her own feet and raise her sword in defense. (She had seen what being married had done to her sister. Had done to Naya.)
“We can’t drag you to the altar,” Dane corrected, “What they can – and will do – is honorably discharge you to wed Baron Riker. If you don’t wed him, then it’s a dishonorable discharge.” Rhiya snapped her head to meet his gaze in horror – a dishonorable discharge from the Vigilance was a death sentence in half the kingdoms. Dane looked like he felt sorry for her, but if he was truly sorry, he wouldn’t be blocking the doorway.
Rhiya wished that that soldier’s blade had struck true, cleaving her heart and leaving her for dead. At least then she wouldn’t have had to put up with this.
“And he will not agree to this alliance without a marriage?” she asked hollowly.
“No,” Dane said, “He will not.”
“When?” she asked after a long pause.
“Baron Riker and his warriors left this morning. They say they should have everything ready for your wedding in another couple of weeks. They will send a raven when the preparations are finished.” Rhiya stared at her hands, fingers half-curled towards her palms. A couple of weeks. A couple of weeks before she had to marry Draven.
A couple of weeks to find some way of getting out of it, though it proved more difficult if Draven had already left. If he was still here, perhaps she could’ve found some way of convincing him otherwise – or failing that, managed to piss him off until he refused to take her as his wife.
(Unless. Unless that was why he wanted her as wife.)
“You can select your own retinue, though the captain has asked me to tell you to keep it to under ten as they will probably be gone for a week and we’re running low on warriors, but if you –”
“No,” Rhiya cut him off, walling away all the dark thoughts of why Draven would want to marry her.
“I’m sorry?” Dane asked.
“No,” Rhiya repeated, staring at the ground. She imagined walking across snow, imagined her hands in Draven’s as they stood under frozen trees. “I will not be taking a retinue.”
“What?” Dane said in a stunned half-inhalation, “Rhiya, your friends will want –”
“I have no friends here,” Rhiya said, slowly and clearly, and looked up to see the words strike home. Dane was staring at her, wide-eyed, though he swiftly tried to conceal his expression of hurt.
Let him feel hurt. Let him feel as hurt as she did when he came to her door with an offer between marriage to a cold, prideful baron and staying a step ahead of bounty hunters for the rest of her life.
“Rhiya,” he started and then, swallowing, continued in a quieter tone, “You need someone to stand with you.”
(Or what, she wanted to snarl, it won’t be a real wedding?)
She took a deep breath – and remembered Naya, at Draven’s court. Married to his brother. (So perhaps she wouldn’t be entirely alone.)
“Naya,” she said, watching Dane, “My sister. She’s married to Lord Aster Riker. She can stand with me.” Not entirely proper, given that Naya was not really her sister, not even by marriage, and as Lord Riker’s wife she would technically be a part of the groom’s party, but nothing else about this marriage was proper.
No one had her best interests at heart. At the very least she could deny them that one last twist of the knife.
Dane hovered in the doorway. “If you’re sure,” he said quietly, backing a step. “Baron Riker assured us that he would make all the arrangements for a wedding dress and a trousseau, and that releasing you from your service would be a suitable dowry.”
Concessions he would have had to make. Rhiya didn’t have family here, didn’t have money and possessions to call her own outside of what meager belongings she’d accumulated at the Vigilance. And the Vigilance might’ve agreed to honorably discharge her – a practice that had become increasingly common in the past week as the battle ended and lords pushed the beleaguered Vigilance to hold to their earlier promises – but they would not have spent a penny for a wedding.
“You…you won’t do anything foolish, will you?” Dane asked her, still hesitating in the doorway.
Rhiya looked at him, and smiled, so sweetly his face blanched and he backed up a hasty step. “There’s already a monopoly on fools here,” she snarled, and watched him leave.
~#~
Rhiya took deep breaths and tried not to cry. If she cried, she would mess up all the paint that curled across her cheeks and then someone would have to be called back in to fix it and they would see her crying and they’d get late and –
She stared at herself in the mirror. At the delicate curls of red on her cheeks and the deep shading framing her eyes. At her hair, pulled back away from her face, in a braid so intricate Rhiya was half-convinced it wasn’t real. There was no crown on her head. (Not yet.)
The gown was white. White lace, painstakingly stitched – not for her, though. She had no idea where Draven had gotten it from, it was far too detailed to have been completed in a matter of weeks – a tableau of lions and wolves and beasts of the hunt. Underneath that, heavy cloth of cream, as smooth as water against her skin. It left her neck bare, and her arms, but dragged to the ground with voluminous skirts.
A white rope around her waist, empty, to signify that she had set her sword aside for the ceremony, though they had still strapped a knife to the outside of her right thigh, and slid one in the soft, white-furred boots.
Over it all were the furs. They were the purest of whites, as if they hadn’t been touched since they had been made, since someone had spotted white slinking through white and brought the creature down cleanly, skinning it to leave a fur that was spotless and soft and warm.
The warriors of Skalid were exceptional hunters, to bring down a creature of white in a wasteland of snow.
Rhiya looked at herself in the mirror, covered in white from the neck down, and shivered.
(But she was already caught.)
It had been years since she’d imagined what her marriage would look like. Khani had thoroughly disillusioned her to that notion, and then they’d left the island and Rhiya had headed straight for the Vigilance. Her service was for life, and she’d assumed that marriage was off the table.
But she had imagined it as a child. Had imagined the wisps of silk fluttering in the breeze – green, not blue, because green had been her favorite color when things like that had still mattered. Had imagined her hair bound up, carefully secured with an antique headpiece passed down through her family – (how it had gleamed in her sister’s hair) – and a crown of jasmine flowers. Had imagined the waves breaking on the beach and the water swirling around her toes – the sun rising in the background, the low murmur of guests, the soft song winding its way in the early morning air.
She wasn’t able to imagine the rest of it. Not the feast afterward, platters piled high with spice and sweet fruits. Not the dancing, all day long, until the sun finally set. Not the first swim, and the shrieks of glee as they waded into the cold waters.
(Nothing else, because every time she tried to imagine it, tried to imagine hands in hers as she leaned in with a smile for the kiss – every time, she saw Khani’s malicious grin in answer.)
Never had she imagined it in the snow. Never had she imagined being covered in white. Never had she imagined a wedding not on the beach, with snow instead of water between her toes, in the weak light of early afternoon instead of sunrise, without thick golden bracers around her wrists and the whirling dances to songs she could barely remember.
“Rhiya,” a voice called out from the door and Rhiya closed her eyes and exhaled. It seemed like her moment was up.
“Come in,” she called softly. Naya opened the door and peeked through. She smiled when she caught sight of Rhiya, a blindingly cheerful smile, but tinged with sadness. She entered and closed the door behind her.
She was wearing a similar dress – dark gray, instead of white, and her furs were brown and black. “You look beautiful,” Naya said softly.
“Thank you,” Rhiya said, the words sounding stale in her mouth. It was what she said to everyone who had offered her congratulations, from the moment she had turned up at the gates yesterday evening. Aster had informed her solemnly that Draven wouldn’t see her until they were to be wed, and to speak with him if anything was not to her satisfaction.
But there was nothing that needed to be to her satisfaction. Her new clothes were strange combinations of wool and silk and furs, with adjustments to be made after she was measured for them. Her bridal attire had been created in accordance with Skalid’s traditions, though it wasn’t like she could wear the wispy silks of the island in the snow. Her room had been temporary – she would move to the lady’s chambers tonight. And Rhiya had barely eaten anything, for fear of throwing it all back up.
“I have something for you,” Naya said and Rhiya watched as she brought out a box. She opened it, and inside, nestled in lace, was a very familiar headpiece.
Naya had worn it in her hair at her wedding, because Khani had given it to her. Rhiya had let her keep it once she decided that marriage was not for her, and had forced it into her hands when they’d left the island. Naya would need the gold far more than her. (She hadn’t realized that Naya had kept it.)
“You – you didn’t –”
“It’s yours, Rhiya,” Naya said gently, placing the box on the table before moving behind Rhiya. Rhiya met her eyes in the mirror – a part of her hair tugging before a weight settled into place. “There. The perfect bride.” Naya smiled tremulously at her. “Your sister would’ve been proud.”
She remembered the way it had gleamed in Naya’s hair, flower petals out of antique gold shining against dark hair and the clear stone in the middle, twinkling in the sunlight. If she focused on that, she could forget the sight of Khani’s smile growing shark-hungry after the vows.
“Thank you,” Rhiya said, in the same detached tone. Would her sister have been proud? Would she have been proud that Rhiya left the island that had been their home? Would she have been proud that she joined the Vigilance? Would she have been proud that Rhiya was marrying for politics and not for love?
(Though, look at what love had gotten her. What it had gotten Naya. At least Rhiya knew what she was going into.)
“Shall we?” Naya offered her arm and Rhiya took it. Her fingers felt weak as her heart thrummed in her chest. The air felt light and thin, and the seconds seemed to speed by. They were at the top of the stairs – they were at the bottom – they were outside, accompanied by a cool gust of wind – they were past the courtyard – they were in the woods, the murmur of guests growing louder.
The sunlight gleamed weakly through the trees, reflecting off the snow to turn everything a blinding white. People were settling down in their chairs – she recognized a few of Draven’s warriors, and several in the same style of clothing. But there were others, too, lords she didn’t recognize and fashions that were unfamiliar. She abruptly realized that this wedding was an important social function and not just a personal torment – Draven was the Baron of Skalid, ruler of a vast section of the icy north.
(She would soon be the Baroness of Skalid.)
Rhiya suppressed her shiver. A clear, untouched path of snow made its way between the chairs to the altar, a construction of gleaming silver and glass, painted with red. Draven stood to the side, black furs covering a black uniform, holding a hushed conversation with his brother, who smiled faintly when he caught sight of them.
The music started. The conversations died as everyone turned in their seats. Rhiya didn’t recognize the tune, but she stepped forward as Naya did, taking careful steps down the aisle of snow. Draven turned towards her, his gaze heavy and imperceptible. He wasn’t smiling.
(He looked nothing like Khani and Rhiya was grateful for that.)
She kept her gaze on the altar, on Naya’s hand in her own. She wondered who had stood for Naya when she’d walked down the aisle to marry Aster.
The snow crunched underneath her boots and the dress dragged against the ground. It was impossible to tell where it ended and where the ground began – it looked like the snow had leapt up to encompass her whole.
(She certainly felt cold enough.)
Every footstep was a heartbeat, too slow and too loud. Every footstep brought her closer, until it was impossible to ignore Draven’s gaze. His eyes were fixed on her and she felt like she’d drown in them, smothered under the weight of his intense regard.
They came to a stop in front of the arch of silver and gleaming glass, and both Rhiya and Draven turned to face it, standing side by side.
“Who comes before the altar of the gods?” Aster asked from Draven’s other side.
“Rhiya comes before the altar. My sister, my love,” Naya said, her voice surprisingly clear in the cold, silent air. Her fingers tightened around Rhiya’s. “Who stands before the altar of the gods?”
“Draven stands before the altar,” Aster said, “My brother, my lord.” The wind ruffled the strands of her hair. “He offers his hand, for all eternity, in this world and the next, in summer and winter and ice and warmth.”
Draven stretched his left hand out in front of them at the words, palm up. “Does she take it?”
“She does,” Naya said firmly, and Rhiya extricated her right hand from the furs and watched as it slowly came to a rest on top of Draven’s palm. He shifted slightly, until her fingers were splayed between his, one hand on top of another. “She takes his hand, for all eternity, in this world and the next, in warmth and ice and winter and summer.”
The vows hung in the air for a long moment, and Naya squeezed her hand one last time before letting it go. On the other side of Draven, Aster did the same, both of them stepping back.
Draven’s fingers curled around her hand, clasping it tight, and she did the same. They stepped up to the altar together, and knelt together. The snow was freezing through the heavy dress.
“I, Rhiya –”
“I, Draven –”
“– come before the gods to affirm my promise. We will be one, in our world and in yours, as the seasons change and the sun wanes, as the moon waxes and the wolves howl. By your blessing, and by the trees and the snows and the birds that bear witness, and by the kiss of our blades, we are one.”
There was a long pause, and Rhiya counted down the ten seconds in her head. The words had been easy enough to remember, and no one could hear her voice trembling over Draven’s rough recital.
Draven’s grip tightened when the silence was over – no objections raised, by mortal or god – and she turned as he pulled their hands back to finally face him. They were close, kneeling on the step of the altar. (Almost as close as they’d been on that horse with his heartbeat thrumming in her ears.)
He caught her cheek with his free hand and she watched his dark eyes, the swirls of paint high on his cheeks, his chapped lips, as he got closer and closer – until she squeezed her eyes shut.
There was a soft pressure on her lips, a rough texture against her chin, there, then gone. She opened her eyes.
She still couldn’t read Draven’s expression, but it was heavy and solemn as murmurs and cheers and whistles started from around them. He still wasn’t smiling.
(There was no malicious grin, no vicious smirk of satisfaction at having gotten what he wanted, a plaything to torment until he got bored and went searching for another.)
They walked up the aisle, showered with handfuls of snow every few steps. Naya was awaiting her at the end with a beaming smile, and Aster gave her a quick congratulations as the party was swept into the hall.
She didn’t have to dance. There was music and singing and loud, raucous cheers and wine flowing liberally, but she and Draven were seated at the high table as various nobles and warriors and guests came up to offer their congratulations. Naya was happily chattering at her right side, her husband on the other side of her instead of his usual place at Draven’s left.
Draven had let go of her hand when they had stepped inside, and he was carrying on a lively conversation with some nobles from the neighboring land. He had lightened up over the course of the afternoon, or perhaps that was the wine.
(Khani had never drank. He had been vicious enough without it.)
“Are you feeling all right?” Rhiya startled when she realized Draven was addressing her. They had barely said two words to each other – she had brought out pleasantries for the guests and their well-wishes, but they were all more interested in talking to Draven and she was free to listlessly poke at the food on her plate.
“I’m fine, my lord,” she said, ducking her head to avoid meeting his gaze.
“Are you hungry? I’ll get another platter of those sweets.” He called over one of the servers and Rhiya took a perin puff with a practiced smile before arranging it on her plate. She felt the weight of Draven’s gaze lift and exhaled slowly. She was surprised at the amount of food she recognized – she wasn’t aware that Skalid even had half the ingredients for some of the dishes – but her stomach was a roiling pit of eels, and the very thought of eating something made her ill.
She dissected the food carefully, rearranging it around her plate as the cream melted and the vivid red of the fruit bled out into it, swirling into tendrils of pink. She amused herself by drawing designs, until one ventured too close to a pattern of bloodstains she’d spent years trying to forget.
(She wouldn’t look up. She couldn’t look up, couldn’t see the blood spurting as the man gurgled out his last breaths. But Khani had ordered her to stay, and so she stared at the wooden floorboards and listened to the sound of a man dying as blood meandered in swirls at her feet.)
She gently set down the fork and knife and let someone take her plate away. The server hesitated for a fraction of a second before they left with a bow.
The music was pounding in her ears. Her head felt empty and achy, and the world at once felt far away and far too close, like it was beyond a sheet of glass and it was in her bones at the same time.
Draven laughed loudly with his warriors and she breathed out slowly to suppress the flinch. Naya’s words faded from background buzzing to being too loud to back again, and Rhiya didn’t have the words to tell her to stop. She smiled at everyone who stepped up to the high table, accepted their congratulations with a murmur, smiled with the ease she’d learnt in childhood, with politeness and pleasantness and unease locked deep, deep down.
Another song, a bawdier one, and smiles turned to chuckles and roars. Her heart was pounding in her ears. Naya was giggling and Aster said something that made Draven threaten him in a mock roar of anger.
“Rhiya,” Draven laughed, turning to her as he straightened. He was smiling now, his cheeks flushed with mirth as he held out a hand to her, “Shall we retire?”
She took his hand and let him pull her out of her chair and watched as his smile dimmed a fraction, as something flashed across his face.
(This was politics, she reminded herself. She was not the first to wed for an alliance, nor would she be the last.)
His hand around hers felt like a jolt, a burning point of heat as they left the hall and the warmth of a hundred people to the colder, empty corridors outside. She realized that she’d left her furs on her chair. Draven led her through the corridors in silence, his grip firm, but not tight.
They finally arrived in front of a heavy wooden door. Draven opened it, and let go of her hand to allow her to enter first.
There were beautifully carved handles on the wardrobes, and a half-full bookshelf in the back of the room. Someone had lit a fire in the fireplace, and it crackled merrily. The curtains were dark and heavy and when she peered out, she realized that they were very high up. One of the towers, perhaps.
The room smelled like lavender and wisteria. Her sword and armor hung on a stand in the corner. There was a narrow table in front of the mirror, with small clay pots and carved jewelry boxes lining the back, and a larger desk near the window, with a bound sheaf of paper and an inkwell. The clothes she’d been measured for were in the wardrobe, along with the pack she’d brought from the Vigilance, all the possessions she had left in the world. There was a nightgown in the wardrobe, silk and shimmering white, and her fingers twisted in the fabric.
The bed was large. The sheets were a dark gray and the furs piled on top were black and sleek. She ran her fingers through the fur and marveled at the softness.
Finally, she turned to stare at the doorway – at Draven, who had not yet stepped past the threshold.
“Is the room to your taste?” he asked, his face solemn once again. His eyes watched her intently and she could feel the weight of his gaze on her as though it was a physical thing.
“It’s beautiful,” Rhiya replied, and turned away to perch on the small stool in front of the mirror. One of the boxes on the counter was the one Naya had brought that morning (it seemed like a lifetime away) and Rhiya carefully unclipped the headpiece from her hair before nestling it back inside the lace and closing the box.
She took her time. Her fingers wanted to tremble and she could feel the panic clawing at her veins. But she took deep breaths and moved slowly. She began to unravel the braids in her hair, barely noticing the relief that the slackening of tension brought. She wore no other jewelry and when her hair was finally untangled, she stood and turned.
Draven was still leaning against the doorway, staring at her. He had left his furs behind as well, and the black uniform underneath fit him very well. Rhiya began undoing the belt of white rope around her waist.
“Are you feeling well?” Draven asked, and Rhiya snapped up to look at him. His face was devoid of emotion. “This doesn’t need to be done tonight, if you are still tired from your journey.”
“I am fine,” Rhiya said. She placed the rope on the table. The ties for the dress laced up in the back, and they were tight. She turned away from him.
“You barely ate at dinner,” he said. He still hadn’t made a move to come inside.
“I wasn’t hungry,” she replied, because she wasn’t.
“We don’t have to do this tonight,” he repeated and she turned to look at him again. “There is no obligation.”
Rhiya stared at him. At the way he was hovering on the threshold – not like he was going to come in, but as though he was waiting to leave. She remembered his smile and his laugh as he pulled her from the room, and how quickly it had soured during their walk. Remembered the apology, stuttered and stilted as it had been, on their journey to the Vigilance all those weeks ago.
“I am your wife,” Rhiya said simply, and something rang in her heart with the surety of that statement. She was his wife, until the end of their days. A marriage not based on love, but based on an alliance.
She had won an alliance with the stubborn, intractable Baron of Skalid once before. She would prefer if this one left less marks on her skin, but an alliance she could do.
She stared at him as he stared at her. He was not unattractive. He was stubborn and willful and prideful, but she had never seen him play the games that were so common on the island. He was blunt and harsh, but she knew he could smile and laugh. He had smiled at her.
She stretched out a hand and ignored the pounding of her heart. Draven stepped inside the room.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
The laces on her dress came undone easily, and she shivered as Draven’s fingers skimmed above the scars on her back.
His shirt came off, and his boots, and his pants, and Rhiya backed up until the back of her knees hit the bed. Draven knelt at her feet, a firm grip around her calf as he withdrew the knife in her boot before slipping them off, one after the other.
He undid the holster around her thigh, his fingers slow and warm and lingering against her skin, and raised his head as he slid it off. Rhiya met his gaze, locking with dark eyes that almost seemed to burn with black fire, and she shivered at the intensity.
His hands came back. And then his mouth. The fur felt as soft on her back as it had on her fingers.
The fire crackled merrily and the room smelled like lavender and she could feel Draven’s heartbeat against her fingers, steady and loud.
~#~
Trial.
I love Rhiya's story arc so much. I binge read all I could in 2 days. 😂 Are you planning on continuing her story?
I’m really glad you enjoyed it! Rhiya is one of my favorite characters to write. I do not have anything currently planning for her story, but yes, I will be continuing to write for it, and there may be some whumptober prompts I’ll fill in her universe.