Aleethia was not a good woman.
Logically – in the way a cat knew that it was not a dog, and therefore governed by rules of a differing nature as to how it lived it’s life – Aleethia knew that she was not a man. Yet, each time she was called upon to be a woman she found herself floundering. She was not a cultured Archadian pearl. She did not swoon, she did not gossip, she did not fawn nor dote. Rather she was a fit woman, lean and able with a Bunansa constitution that set her in ill grace with many a noble.
She supposed it was that feeling of not belonging that made her so desperately wish to fit in. Aleethia was a woman not a woman and in that Archades knew not how to bear her, but in Mathias she thought she had found acceptance.
In hindsight it was a fools dream.
A judge of age, desperate for a wife above his station he only tolerated her ill begot quirks. Tolerance in him did not breed acceptance. She had thought him safe, she had thought him understanding, and in that she had spelled her own end.
The floor was hard upon her knees; cool against the bared and bruised flesh of her legs. Her fiancé lay feet away, a cigarette clutched between his lips. He spared not a glance for her, and of that she was glad.
She ached, all over – outside and within – but it was a hollow pain, dull and consuming as such things only can be to a woman gone numb. It was a reminder that there was blood in her veins and muscle beneath her skin. It was a reminder that she lived, for all her mind thought the world had stopped. She could not feel, and therefore, she could not cry. Minutes had ticked by as hours, and she knew not how long she had sat, staring at nothing with a void within her, all too aware of the bloodied mess of her thighs, and that sharp stabbing somewhere within her.
She did not wish to think on it.
Her foot twitched, fast and involuntary and it were as though the dam had broken. It was hard to rise, to gather her legs beneath her self, and push upwards. So hard she near fell once again unto the floor. Yet, she did not. It was a small victory, but it bolstered her as she drew herself straight, eyes anywhere but the man she loved. Rather they sought her clothes, lay scattered and abandoned upon the floor.
Mechanically she moved, laying the corset upon her bruised ribs, covering the scratched upon her knees and shins with skirt and hose. Perhaps, should she cover it, it would simply disappear.
Mathias did not stop her, even as she weighed down her ears with bobs, drew gilt around her neck. He did not look upon her once, too involved in the draw and drag of his lungs upon the tobacco and nicotine.
The sun was bright and harsh upon her skin, and she thought it cruel, that this world outside – so perfect and golden – continued. Had not the hour stopped? Had not all turned to grey? But in the streets children laughed and ladies chattered. Gentlemen went about their business with coif and aplomb.
It was only she whom stumbled through the streets, one foot carefully in front of the other, lest she break and the world come crashing down with her. How strange it was that they did not notice her. Surely she was marked; surely they saw her bruises, her cuts. Surely she appeared not whole – a half woman walked through the streets as her body was rended?
What childish speculation.
She knew not where she trod, feet travelling whilst her mind wandered in its hollow escape, thinking on silly, frivolous things in the way minds did when wounded beyond repair. Though, she could not find it within her to be shocked when she stood upon her Uncle’s frontage, door wide to reveal the Judge.
Had she knocked? She remembered it not, yet there he was, mail and plate still clad in awkwardness upon his legs. It was early evening then. So many hours wasted in her solitude that was not solitary.
His moment of realization was plain – her name escaping his lips only to die upon them a premature death. “Alee-”
She wavered, silence steeling her tongue. Had she ever been able to speak? It felt not so.
“Aleethia?” He tried again, eyes catching upon the bruise upon her cheek and the cut upon her brow. There was desperation in her name, for though she was not a lady, Aleethia has never been one to brawl.
It is the first coherent thought she has had in hours other than ‘no, stop, please, why me?’ and it sets her tongue to working in a voice hoarse from desolate screaming. “I am sorry to impose upon you, most honourable Judge Gabranth,” Here she faltered, eyes stinging, and inside she cursed.
Too soon, I cannot. For if she started weeping she feared she would never stop. “B-but might I beg of you… your time?”
Her tears tasted like salt.
