What a beautiful life, her mother was in the habit of telling her. A new habit, a phrase oft repeated, as if it were an observation that Kyndelle herself had failed to make. A beautiful life, as if it had escaped her notice, or her appreciation; as if beauty was defined as a thing stripped of danger. That 'thing,' of course, being what remained of her life - and there were days when it felt like the years waiting to be spent were too many. The rest of her life was no longer practically her own. Soon it would belong to her husband, a man she has yet to meet, for a union she has cultivated no anticipation for. Her days will be his, her possessions his, her assortment of freedoms subject to his approval. For the king and queen, it no doubt has the appeal of a quaint oil painting: a tidy portrait of their daughter's duty done.
It could be worse, as any peasant from the far-flung reaches of the kingdom would be quick to remind her: she could be one of the penniless, nameless, faceless masses, her betrothal no more elegant than the presenting of a mare to a stallion. She could be coerced into a life parallel to the livestock, with beauty to be found only in her dreams. She knows this, and still there are days when it seems that a destitute prayer for mercy would be sweeter than the smooth, paved road before her. It will be a torture of agonizing indifference, this marriage she has been maneuvered into. It will be beautiful the way porcelain is beautiful: cool and still and flat beneath the smoothing hand. It is a beauty which begs to be broken.
A beautiful life, her mother insisted, though the queen is the same woman who would sooner sit a horse half dead than one which betrays any trace of spirit. The beauty is in the near-promise of safety: of sitting astride a beast too old and infirm to hatch any notions of mischief. She is being resigned to a life which will not move, no matter how she digs her heels into its flanks. The beauty of this life, she must conclude, is in being half dead before it begins.
And it is to this well-appointed prison that she must travel now, for it is there - in the keep of her supposedly bold and handsome husband - that she will be held safest. It is there, her mother must hope, that she will recognize her fortune, and bloom consequently with ladylike gratitude. She will set aside her churlish hungers and taste instead the sweet sanctity of marital vows. She will not hesitate to forget all which came before, having something so exquisite with which to replace it. She will recognize the honor and obligation her name carries, and she will esteem her family's legacy, as so many women before her have done. She will be tamed by the promises of beauty and safety which her marriage buys.
The journey will be long, she hopes - this wish comes in surly rebellion of what she knows is being expected of her. She ought to pray to the gods for deep, dark nights to conceal their progress, and she ought to pray that they elude danger wheresoever it treads. She crafts no such prayers; she does not invoke the gods at all once they have set forth, as if a divine sheen over such unpredictable travel will smother it completely. It is with a twinge of resentment, then, that she considers her guard and escort, for he is talented with the sword, and devoted to his cause. He must be, as a prestigious member of the royal guard, and she trusts that he will allow no misfortune to befall them. He will be ever at the ready to confront the trials that she hopes await them. She fears that she will be delivered without issue.
Her dark eyes roam briefly over the gleam of his hair, the glint of armor, the stalwart poise of a man with a noble task - and she is glad he has been chosen for this errand. Fond memories are cast half in shadow now that they stand to be lost: their abrupt and unlikely meeting, the secrecy of the hours spent in his company, learning the names of the horses who served the city guard, fencing with makeshift swords, and then real steel, once she'd badgered him into relenting. Strange and brave, she recalls thinking, when anyone would disdain a boy for hair that color, clearly hailing from a country where madmen and demons had ruled. A boy anyone would recoil from touching, who would be taken for a fool or a craven until he proved himself otherwise.
Beastly and depraved, some might say, and she thinks now as she had then, when she'd been spellbound by his handling of steel and his scaling of walls, that she wishes he were more beast than man. She wishes he was cursed with an affliction that would turn him into a grotesque creature, for perhaps then she might demand the same curse, and they could bound snarling into the darkness. Where they would go then, she does not know; she knows only that it would divert her from the course they follow now. Where she would go, she corrects herself, even in fantasy; her guard would surely lope in one direction while she dove in another. It would be for the best.
Her exhale is a clipped sigh, and she reaches a hand up into the hood beneath which her hair is bound, tucking back what has fallen loose. It is a tumble of brown, not unlike her horse's mane, when left unkempt, though she can of course afford no such carelessness now. It has grown colder as they've ventured further from the home she has always known, the land gathering itself into the vaulting pitch of mountains. Her eyes cast up to the sky, wondering if perhaps fresh snow will fall, wistful in the vision for a moment of how easily her tracks would be covered, how seamless would be her disappearance. To vanish in an unfeeling white before she was ever made to come before her husband in the same color.
"What's the farthest you've ever been from home?" She likes to imagine that his life, though spent largely alongside her own, has been, at points before her, rife with danger and wonder. Home has only ever been the purview of one kingdom for her, and while she envisions foreign escapades for him, she does not think of her home without thinking of him, too. He has always been soundly within reach, first when she went looking for him, and then when he took the formal position of guard. He has frequently been near in dreams, too. Any place worth being has been in his company.
Then, without segue from one curiosity to the next: "Do you think it will snow?"
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It could be worse, as any peasant from the far-flung reaches of the kingdom would be quick to remind her: she could be one of the penniless, nameless, faceless masses, her betrothal no more elegant than the presenting of a mare to a stallion. She could be coerced into a life parallel to the livestock, with beauty to be found only in her dreams. She knows this, and still there are days when it seems that a destitute prayer for mercy would be sweeter than the smooth, paved road before her. It will be a torture of agonizing indifference, this marriage she has been maneuvered into. It will be beautiful the way porcelain is beautiful: cool and still and flat beneath the smoothing hand. It is a beauty which begs to be broken.
A beautiful life, her mother insisted, though the queen is the same woman who would sooner sit a horse half dead than one which betrays any trace of spirit. The beauty is in the near-promise of safety: of sitting astride a beast too old and infirm to hatch any notions of mischief. She is being resigned to a life which will not move, no matter how she digs her heels into its flanks. The beauty of this life, she must conclude, is in being half dead before it begins.
And it is to this well-appointed prison that she must travel now, for it is there - in the keep of her supposedly bold and handsome husband - that she will be held safest. It is there, her mother must hope, that she will recognize her fortune, and bloom consequently with ladylike gratitude. She will set aside her churlish hungers and taste instead the sweet sanctity of marital vows. She will not hesitate to forget all which came before, having something so exquisite with which to replace it. She will recognize the honor and obligation her name carries, and she will esteem her family's legacy, as so many women before her have done. She will be tamed by the promises of beauty and safety which her marriage buys.
The journey will be long, she hopes - this wish comes in surly rebellion of what she knows is being expected of her. She ought to pray to the gods for deep, dark nights to conceal their progress, and she ought to pray that they elude danger wheresoever it treads. She crafts no such prayers; she does not invoke the gods at all once they have set forth, as if a divine sheen over such unpredictable travel will smother it completely. It is with a twinge of resentment, then, that she considers her guard and escort, for he is talented with the sword, and devoted to his cause. He must be, as a prestigious member of the royal guard, and she trusts that he will allow no misfortune to befall them. He will be ever at the ready to confront the trials that she hopes await them. She fears that she will be delivered without issue.
Her dark eyes roam briefly over the gleam of his hair, the glint of armor, the stalwart poise of a man with a noble task - and she is glad he has been chosen for this errand. Fond memories are cast half in shadow now that they stand to be lost: their abrupt and unlikely meeting, the secrecy of the hours spent in his company, learning the names of the horses who served the city guard, fencing with makeshift swords, and then real steel, once she'd badgered him into relenting. Strange and brave, she recalls thinking, when anyone would disdain a boy for hair that color, clearly hailing from a country where madmen and demons had ruled. A boy anyone would recoil from touching, who would be taken for a fool or a craven until he proved himself otherwise.
Beastly and depraved, some might say, and she thinks now as she had then, when she'd been spellbound by his handling of steel and his scaling of walls, that she wishes he were more beast than man. She wishes he was cursed with an affliction that would turn him into a grotesque creature, for perhaps then she might demand the same curse, and they could bound snarling into the darkness. Where they would go then, she does not know; she knows only that it would divert her from the course they follow now. Where she would go, she corrects herself, even in fantasy; her guard would surely lope in one direction while she dove in another. It would be for the best.
Her exhale is a clipped sigh, and she reaches a hand up into the hood beneath which her hair is bound, tucking back what has fallen loose. It is a tumble of brown, not unlike her horse's mane, when left unkempt, though she can of course afford no such carelessness now. It has grown colder as they've ventured further from the home she has always known, the land gathering itself into the vaulting pitch of mountains. Her eyes cast up to the sky, wondering if perhaps fresh snow will fall, wistful in the vision for a moment of how easily her tracks would be covered, how seamless would be her disappearance. To vanish in an unfeeling white before she was ever made to come before her husband in the same color.
"What's the farthest you've ever been from home?" She likes to imagine that his life, though spent largely alongside her own, has been, at points before her, rife with danger and wonder. Home has only ever been the purview of one kingdom for her, and while she envisions foreign escapades for him, she does not think of her home without thinking of him, too. He has always been soundly within reach, first when she went looking for him, and then when he took the formal position of guard. He has frequently been near in dreams, too. Any place worth being has been in his company.
Then, without segue from one curiosity to the next: "Do you think it will snow?"