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augustines2013-03-18 09:38 pm
smithereens) wrote in augustines2013-03-18 09:38 pm
Entry tags:
in the lion's mouth.
“Dear sister, a word.”
Sihai tips her head low in acknowledgement and follows Shihan the short distance to his suite of rooms, directly down the hall from hers. He looks pleased, which she finds to be some cause for concern, knowing her brother; but he has looked fairly pleased almost the entirety of their trip, and so she breathes deeply and tries not to feel like a cornered animal.
He leads her into his sitting room, which she knows has been doubling as a study, given all the papers strewn around, some in more orderly piles than others. This is one of the few times she has been inside his suite, and she’d almost been surprised to find it’s nearly identical to hers, as far as layout and décor went: translucent curtains hang over the doorways and windows, straining the harsh sunlight; the furniture is dark where it isn’t glazed gold, intricately carved and inviting; the floors are covered wall to wall in thick, lush carpets, in a wild jumble of colors and patterns that almost makes Sihai smile.
Shihan flops carelessly on the nearest plump couch, one arm flung over the back, while she remains standing, folding her hands demurely in her voluminous sleeves. For a moment, it seems as if he’s forgotten her presence completely, preoccupied with pulling the pin that held his headpiece in place and flinging the whole thing onto the couch next to him; but Sihai doesn’t dare speak up.
“It seems we’ve finally reached an agreement with the Saarinens,” he says, running a hand through his dark hair. “You’ll marry the prince in a month or so—apparently they need the time to send official word to all their backwater tribe leaders or what-have-you about the wedding, then give them time to travel to the capital.”
Sihai feels the earth lurch on its axis before he adds, in an undertone, “They act as if every sand rat in the country should crawl out of its hole and show up.”
So the treaty was a success, and her marriage to Al-madahir was guaranteed. Her head spins with the idea, more real now than it had ever been in the days since she’d found out she would be going to Saarinen. It hits her more sharply, more cruelly than it had even when she first set foot in the capital, and instead of fearing the man and the country she doesn’t know, the man and the country she must know for the rest of her life, now she only dreads them, with an intensity that nearly makes her sick.
She can’t be happy here. She can’t be happy with this man, the wrong man, knowing that the right one is so close she could reach out and touch him.
“That is good news,” she says instead, barely recognizing the emptiness of her own voice. It feels as if something much greater than herself is holding her body upright, willing her to speak the correct words. “Congratulations, honored brother.”
Shihan waves off the compliments distractedly. “Yes, yes.”
She knows better than to press for more details, for the terms of the treaty and the date of the wedding, though she desperately wants to know them; her opinion and comfort matter little to Shihan, and questioning him would only raise his suspicions in a way she can’t afford. And so she presses her lips together a little too tightly and fixes her gaze on the mismatched carpets, desperately fighting the way they seem to sway and blur before her eyes.
“Just another month and I can finally be rid of this place,” he says with a sigh, though Sihai barely hears him over the roaring in her ears. “Do try not to let the older brother know about your dalliance with the younger.”
She feels her entire body tense, so abruptly she wonders if her heart has stopped along with everything else. It’s suddenly difficult to pull breath into her lungs.
“I would hardly call it a dalliance,” she says, very carefully and very coolly, grateful that he cannot see her fists gripped so tightly the knuckles bleed white, hidden in her sleeves.
“Yes, it’s hardly a dalliance if the man is hideously in love with you.” Her brother sounds almost amused, and she chances a glance up at him, once she’s sure she has her expression schooled; there’s a smile on his face that she would almost call predatory as he says, “How very like your mother.”
She’s saved from answering by the way he rocks to his feet and sweeps past her, so close that he ruffles the bottom hem of her hanfu, though she doesn’t feel saved in the slightest.
If her brother knows, then others must know. Shihan has always been uncomfortably sharp, and prone to flaunting his advantages at every opportunity he had, but his perspective would always be stubbornly pragmatic; he would see any affairs within the castle as a matter of course, and she could trust him not to fan the flames so much as watch them simmer.
Next time, however, she might not be so lucky.
“Just try not to let him impregnate you until after the wedding,” he says from somewhere over her left shoulder; she hasn’t turned to look at him, and wishes she never had to again. “I would hate to bring failure home to our honored father.”
“Of course, brother Shihan.” It takes a monumental effort to form the words without inflection, to force them bodily from her lungs.
Faintly, she feels him lift the ends of her hair and pinch the strands between his fingers. His body is so near to hers now that his breath crests over her shoulder and makes her go as taut as a bowstring.
“Good girl,” he says, and she nearly jumps with how close his voice is in her ear. “Now go.”
She barely keeps herself from tripping over her feet in an effort to get away from him as quickly as possible; instead, she steps deliberately out of his grasp and bows, ignoring the way her mind reels and her knees shake dangerously underneath her.
As she leaves the room, she focuses only on the neutrality of her expression and the riotous, ridiculous carpets, hoping that will be enough.
Sihai tips her head low in acknowledgement and follows Shihan the short distance to his suite of rooms, directly down the hall from hers. He looks pleased, which she finds to be some cause for concern, knowing her brother; but he has looked fairly pleased almost the entirety of their trip, and so she breathes deeply and tries not to feel like a cornered animal.
He leads her into his sitting room, which she knows has been doubling as a study, given all the papers strewn around, some in more orderly piles than others. This is one of the few times she has been inside his suite, and she’d almost been surprised to find it’s nearly identical to hers, as far as layout and décor went: translucent curtains hang over the doorways and windows, straining the harsh sunlight; the furniture is dark where it isn’t glazed gold, intricately carved and inviting; the floors are covered wall to wall in thick, lush carpets, in a wild jumble of colors and patterns that almost makes Sihai smile.
Shihan flops carelessly on the nearest plump couch, one arm flung over the back, while she remains standing, folding her hands demurely in her voluminous sleeves. For a moment, it seems as if he’s forgotten her presence completely, preoccupied with pulling the pin that held his headpiece in place and flinging the whole thing onto the couch next to him; but Sihai doesn’t dare speak up.
“It seems we’ve finally reached an agreement with the Saarinens,” he says, running a hand through his dark hair. “You’ll marry the prince in a month or so—apparently they need the time to send official word to all their backwater tribe leaders or what-have-you about the wedding, then give them time to travel to the capital.”
Sihai feels the earth lurch on its axis before he adds, in an undertone, “They act as if every sand rat in the country should crawl out of its hole and show up.”
So the treaty was a success, and her marriage to Al-madahir was guaranteed. Her head spins with the idea, more real now than it had ever been in the days since she’d found out she would be going to Saarinen. It hits her more sharply, more cruelly than it had even when she first set foot in the capital, and instead of fearing the man and the country she doesn’t know, the man and the country she must know for the rest of her life, now she only dreads them, with an intensity that nearly makes her sick.
She can’t be happy here. She can’t be happy with this man, the wrong man, knowing that the right one is so close she could reach out and touch him.
“That is good news,” she says instead, barely recognizing the emptiness of her own voice. It feels as if something much greater than herself is holding her body upright, willing her to speak the correct words. “Congratulations, honored brother.”
Shihan waves off the compliments distractedly. “Yes, yes.”
She knows better than to press for more details, for the terms of the treaty and the date of the wedding, though she desperately wants to know them; her opinion and comfort matter little to Shihan, and questioning him would only raise his suspicions in a way she can’t afford. And so she presses her lips together a little too tightly and fixes her gaze on the mismatched carpets, desperately fighting the way they seem to sway and blur before her eyes.
“Just another month and I can finally be rid of this place,” he says with a sigh, though Sihai barely hears him over the roaring in her ears. “Do try not to let the older brother know about your dalliance with the younger.”
She feels her entire body tense, so abruptly she wonders if her heart has stopped along with everything else. It’s suddenly difficult to pull breath into her lungs.
“I would hardly call it a dalliance,” she says, very carefully and very coolly, grateful that he cannot see her fists gripped so tightly the knuckles bleed white, hidden in her sleeves.
“Yes, it’s hardly a dalliance if the man is hideously in love with you.” Her brother sounds almost amused, and she chances a glance up at him, once she’s sure she has her expression schooled; there’s a smile on his face that she would almost call predatory as he says, “How very like your mother.”
She’s saved from answering by the way he rocks to his feet and sweeps past her, so close that he ruffles the bottom hem of her hanfu, though she doesn’t feel saved in the slightest.
If her brother knows, then others must know. Shihan has always been uncomfortably sharp, and prone to flaunting his advantages at every opportunity he had, but his perspective would always be stubbornly pragmatic; he would see any affairs within the castle as a matter of course, and she could trust him not to fan the flames so much as watch them simmer.
Next time, however, she might not be so lucky.
“Just try not to let him impregnate you until after the wedding,” he says from somewhere over her left shoulder; she hasn’t turned to look at him, and wishes she never had to again. “I would hate to bring failure home to our honored father.”
“Of course, brother Shihan.” It takes a monumental effort to form the words without inflection, to force them bodily from her lungs.
Faintly, she feels him lift the ends of her hair and pinch the strands between his fingers. His body is so near to hers now that his breath crests over her shoulder and makes her go as taut as a bowstring.
“Good girl,” he says, and she nearly jumps with how close his voice is in her ear. “Now go.”
She barely keeps herself from tripping over her feet in an effort to get away from him as quickly as possible; instead, she steps deliberately out of his grasp and bows, ignoring the way her mind reels and her knees shake dangerously underneath her.
As she leaves the room, she focuses only on the neutrality of her expression and the riotous, ridiculous carpets, hoping that will be enough.