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augustines2013-03-21 09:42 pm
smithereens) wrote in augustines2013-03-21 09:42 pm
Entry tags:
sway.
He'll come to her soon.
Ailin can tell by the hushed way the servants prepare her for bed, different from all the other times she's been readied before. They plait her hair a little more carefully, so that it falls in a smooth, contained line down the center of her back, almost to her hips; tie her into a yukata that's a little more elegant than usual, with peonies sewn into the sleeves and hems; and leave the room with grave, deep bows, and she imagines she sees pity in their eyes, though their faces are blank.
Nervousness and fear consume her. She feels all of the dazed numbness of her wedding ebb and flow out of her, so that when she looks down at her hands, framed by embroidered peonies, they're shaking. The room is grand, beautifully grand, red and gold and lush, but her eyes don't see the patterned carpets beneath her feet or the smooth lines of the mahogany furniture.
She knows, at least vaguely, what is expected of her on her wedding night. A father's overprotectiveness couldn't keep her from certain inalienable truths, not with so many cousins with much freer sensibilities than her, but she finds that it's little comfort.
If anything, it only makes her more anxious, to the point where she's almost sick with it. She wants nothing to do with this man; she doesn't want his touch, his nearness; she doesn't want to be taken to his bed.
She nearly jumps in surprise when a panel in the wall opens and lets her new husband in: a hidden door. Wildly, she thinks maybe it's not so hidden, since the seams become obvious once he shuts the door behind him. He's changed into a yukata as well, his short hair in more disarray than she remembers it being during the ceremony; his expression is inscrutable in the flickering candlelight.
Ailin doesn't dare speak, or move, as if he was a stalking predator. He seems bigger here, more real, and the gravity of his presence hits her like a seemingly tangible thing. There's nothing she can do to escape this: trying to fight him would only make her situation worse, and would likely end in retaliation on her home. Her father won't save her; her father was the one who handed down her sentence.
I won't cry, she tells herself stubbornly, when she feels the hot burn of gathering tears in the corners of her eyes. I won't let him see me cry.
But the urge almost overwhelms her, with the exigencies of her marriage staring at her with dark eyes, and she has to ball her hands into fists and bow her head to hide the way she furiously blinks back tears.
She's never felt more helpless in her life.
This time, she does jump in surprise when she finds him standing much closer to her than before, close enough to reach out and touch her. He starts to, his hand lifting from his side—stubborn pride is the only thing that keeps her from flinching away, though her breath catches in her throat and betrays her—but he drops it again, his brow furrowed and lips turned down in an intense frown. She can't imagine what he's thinking.
"You may have the bed," he says finally, gravely, and turns away to leave her standing in bewilderment in the center of the room. But it doesn't seem to be a trick; halfway to the low cushions along the far wall, he turns back to her and says, "Sleep."
It doesn't sound especially like a command, though she wants to call it one. There's an odd lowness in his voice, but Ailin is too bemusedly grateful to examine it further; she nods uncertainly and waits for him to turn around again before she heads to the bed, swiftly and with still-shaking hands, as if he would take this small mercy away from her as abruptly as he'd given it.
But he doesn't. He blows out candles as he goes, until all she sees is his silhouette as he lowers himself onto the cushions and doesn't stir. Tucking the covers under her chin, she spends a long time staring restlessly at the ceiling, before falling in and out of a shallow doze; finally, she is too exhausted to hold back her tears, and it's all she can do to bury her face in her pillow and hope her husband is long asleep when she starts to cry.
.
.
.
Souza is a light sleeper, once he finally falls asleep; he is woken easily by the sound of Ailin shifting in the bed across the room, by the soft, heaving breaths that herald her tears. He lays awake long after she exhausts herself crying, and feels nothing but a deep, pitying ache for his new wife.
Ailin can tell by the hushed way the servants prepare her for bed, different from all the other times she's been readied before. They plait her hair a little more carefully, so that it falls in a smooth, contained line down the center of her back, almost to her hips; tie her into a yukata that's a little more elegant than usual, with peonies sewn into the sleeves and hems; and leave the room with grave, deep bows, and she imagines she sees pity in their eyes, though their faces are blank.
Nervousness and fear consume her. She feels all of the dazed numbness of her wedding ebb and flow out of her, so that when she looks down at her hands, framed by embroidered peonies, they're shaking. The room is grand, beautifully grand, red and gold and lush, but her eyes don't see the patterned carpets beneath her feet or the smooth lines of the mahogany furniture.
She knows, at least vaguely, what is expected of her on her wedding night. A father's overprotectiveness couldn't keep her from certain inalienable truths, not with so many cousins with much freer sensibilities than her, but she finds that it's little comfort.
If anything, it only makes her more anxious, to the point where she's almost sick with it. She wants nothing to do with this man; she doesn't want his touch, his nearness; she doesn't want to be taken to his bed.
She nearly jumps in surprise when a panel in the wall opens and lets her new husband in: a hidden door. Wildly, she thinks maybe it's not so hidden, since the seams become obvious once he shuts the door behind him. He's changed into a yukata as well, his short hair in more disarray than she remembers it being during the ceremony; his expression is inscrutable in the flickering candlelight.
Ailin doesn't dare speak, or move, as if he was a stalking predator. He seems bigger here, more real, and the gravity of his presence hits her like a seemingly tangible thing. There's nothing she can do to escape this: trying to fight him would only make her situation worse, and would likely end in retaliation on her home. Her father won't save her; her father was the one who handed down her sentence.
I won't cry, she tells herself stubbornly, when she feels the hot burn of gathering tears in the corners of her eyes. I won't let him see me cry.
But the urge almost overwhelms her, with the exigencies of her marriage staring at her with dark eyes, and she has to ball her hands into fists and bow her head to hide the way she furiously blinks back tears.
She's never felt more helpless in her life.
This time, she does jump in surprise when she finds him standing much closer to her than before, close enough to reach out and touch her. He starts to, his hand lifting from his side—stubborn pride is the only thing that keeps her from flinching away, though her breath catches in her throat and betrays her—but he drops it again, his brow furrowed and lips turned down in an intense frown. She can't imagine what he's thinking.
"You may have the bed," he says finally, gravely, and turns away to leave her standing in bewilderment in the center of the room. But it doesn't seem to be a trick; halfway to the low cushions along the far wall, he turns back to her and says, "Sleep."
It doesn't sound especially like a command, though she wants to call it one. There's an odd lowness in his voice, but Ailin is too bemusedly grateful to examine it further; she nods uncertainly and waits for him to turn around again before she heads to the bed, swiftly and with still-shaking hands, as if he would take this small mercy away from her as abruptly as he'd given it.
But he doesn't. He blows out candles as he goes, until all she sees is his silhouette as he lowers himself onto the cushions and doesn't stir. Tucking the covers under her chin, she spends a long time staring restlessly at the ceiling, before falling in and out of a shallow doze; finally, she is too exhausted to hold back her tears, and it's all she can do to bury her face in her pillow and hope her husband is long asleep when she starts to cry.
.
.
.
Souza is a light sleeper, once he finally falls asleep; he is woken easily by the sound of Ailin shifting in the bed across the room, by the soft, heaving breaths that herald her tears. He lays awake long after she exhausts herself crying, and feels nothing but a deep, pitying ache for his new wife.