At His Majesty's Pleasure Ch. 05

She felt her heart thrum in her chest. Perhaps her behavior was irrational. He was so handsome, but for all of the solace any physical attraction should have provided, it only made her insides feel all the more wretched and repulsed. Alais should not be gravitating toward him; he was so horrid - but they were already married, so what did that really matter?

Delaying the inevitable was without meaning, but - she didn't want this, she didn't want this, she didn't want this. She was definitely being irrational, she allowed, but still, she didn't want this. (Screaming at the tiny voice in her headspace which suggested, provocatively, why not.)

"But not before we truly become husband and wife," she began unsteadily, experimentally, as though testing for a proper foothold. Part of her was already steeling herself for the very real (and dramatically more likely) instance that the request would not pan out her way. She might fail to delay, but at least she had put in a struggle, if one could call it that. Better than to passively roll over. "We were not married under my God - it would mean so much to me. It wouldn't take long."

She tried to meet his gaze with reluctant eyes, and lasted for all of a second before looking away again.

Nonetheless, she could see his smile slip away, to be replaced by a more impassive appearance. She knew it was not like him to suffer resistance of any kind, and neither did it probably escape him that she was using this as a stalling tactic rather than voicing real theological concerns. She suppressed a shiver as she waited.

But he only smiled. "Of course." His fingers closed around her hand, and he lifted it, only to press a kiss upon her knuckles. "I will give you your privacy for a little while." His voice took on just the slightest hint of satirical understanding, as he added, "For your prayers."

At first, she was only confused, but slowly, Alais nodded, as though quietly agreeing to a proposition of his own independent making. He'd seized all control, whereas she only had power of suggestion at hand, if even that. There was even the innate acknowledgement that she ought not to overuse it, but once or twice ... it did work. How much time had she bought for herself? Ten minutes? Fifteen?

But in the moment, it seemed more than enough to try to find her composure, a feeling heightened when he left her in the peace of the room alone.

An uncertain breath drew from her lips. In her roundabout glancing of her surroundings, she discovered a wardrobe - large, oaken, and warm - and she found her eye drawn toward it almost eerily. Her shoulders were trembling from the cold, vulnerable. The bed seemed like the last furnishing that was safe.

Time crept past. He would be back soon, she knew. And still, she didn't want to. She needed more time, just a little more. She put her hand to her lips as she debated with herself, the evidence of her unmistakable antsiness flickering through only once or twice - a twitch of her little finger here, a flick of her index there. Finally, light-footed as ever, she crept as a ghost and vanished into the wardrobe, settling behind a row of thick petticoats.

It wasn't delaying the inevitable, not really. It was only a little more time for herself, to think. Five minutes; five minutes was all she needed to cradle her head over her knees, bandaged wrist stinging gently, and pretend the world beyond was not so - not only that, but to pretend that she actually didn't feel guilt in having him wait.

*****

Alexander knew he should have brushed her pleas aside for the inconsequential things they were, borne her away to the bed, and had his way with her as he pleased - as he'd wanted to for some time now. Nonetheless, he had experienced a kind of visceral reaction, to seeing her trembling there, nearly as pale as the slight shift she bore. It was enough to give him pause, if not to dissuade him from his objective.

It helped that she had not been, really, defiant about the whole thing, and was speaking as if she had accepted her fate - was only making a request for last minute "prayers" (or a last minute gathering of her wits, but it was all the same). And he had not quite forgotten the spirit of his promises that morning, which would not have survived a more direct refusal but was able to accommodate a nervous semi-request. Let her have a few minutes to summon composure. What did it matter?

But by the time Alexander waltzed back into their rooms, he found that it was empty. "The Queen?" he inquired, towards the nearest cluster of serving girls, who stood just before the side door.

He watched them curtsy and enter the adjoining dressing chamber in search of her - only to emerge, much later than they should have, their faces visibly paler than before. "Your Majesty, she's not..." The young woman swallowed, not meeting his eyes. "We cannot seem to find her."

Alexander, who was gazing at the fire, turned, this at first not registering. "What do you mean?"

"She's not - there anymore," piped up another, since the first seemed to lose her nerve. "She was only just - "

Alexander shifted at once, moving toward the adjoined room himself, and they scattered like mice before him, so as to not get in his way. He peered within, at the now deserted confines, walked the length of the room, and then subjected the other rooms in the suite to the same study.

"We observed no one leaving, Your Majesty - "

"Do you mean to tell me," said Alexander, his voice quiet - though this seemed, somehow, infinitely worse than if he had shouted his censure - "that, confined as she was, all four of you still managed to lose her?"

As the girls' apologies tumbled over each other, in their panic and haste, he waved it away impatiently. He had caught sight of the windows within, one of which was slightly ajar - and drew the implications. He'd deal with the maids later. For now, time was of the essence if he were to track her down.

"Ser Lionel," he all but barked, and the knight (standing watch outside) immediately entered and bowed low. "Gather the men and ready my horse. And tell the kennelmaster that I'll have use for my hounds." As Lionel acceded, turning quickly to obey, Alexander followed, pausing only to pluck an errant glove off a stool; the dogs would need something to scent.

All thoughts of charity withered from his mind, and he seethed to think she had taken advantage of his temporary weakness to make escape. Foolish to think she could escape him - or that the repercussions would not far outweigh the attempt. Now she would answer for it.

Before long, the yapping and howling of hounds filled the night, and in the distant courtyard, torches emerged all glowing and aflame. Alexander and his soldiers were ready for a short trek through the forest - depending on how far she'd gotten - and were not disposed to be leisurely about it. They set off at once, riding hard... only for the King's trusty dogs to lead them right back where they started and blithely into the lodge proper.

And then Alexander was back in the very same room he'd just vacated, though with traveling clothes - and the company of half a dozen excitable mutts, all of whom preceded him, bounding messily into the room and sounding their cries of success.

And there she was.

His newly-made wife was upon the bed, immaculate in her shift, her nose a few pages into a book. Her bare feet over the covers were as white and unblemished as when they'd first stepped out of the pleasantly scented wash; she should not have been so pristine if she so much as traversed two feet out into the wild night.

He expected a display of nerves and apprehension, but more importantly, contrition. Instead, as she looked to him, the only reaction was an airy show of confusion. "Why are there dogs in the bedchamber?"

If he didn't know better, he'd think she was mocking him.

*****

The victorious, yipping hounds made their presence known long before their dramatic and explosive entrance, which gave her such a start that she clambered quickly to her feet, still atop the bed. Why were there dogs? Did he think - did he really think - he couldn't have given her twenty-five minutes to herself? Or if not even that, to call for her before summoning the hounds?

So maybe her palms had been pressed over her ears for much of her time huddling within that wardrobe. So maybe she should have come out at the first discernable noise she'd heard, instead of delaying and delaying. But this...

It was probably best to feign some sort of ignorance. The bewilderment scrawled upon her face was already such that the odds for pulling it off seemed quite favorable.

"Why - are there dogs in the bedchamber?" she cried out again over the resounding barks, her expression the vision of confused disbelief.

The aforementioned dogs were still barking excitedly, one of them close enough to snap his jaws - sharp-fanged and all - at her hand. A few continued to howl, probably indicating a successful tracking, circling energetically around the King for his approval.

He brought his fingers to his mouth and emitted a sharp whistle, and at once, the well-trained hounds finally fell obligingly quiet. "Out," he said curtly. Maids, servants, guards, and knights alike disappeared from view of the door, and the kennelmaster waved something in the air that caused the dogs to follow, tails wagging. A few nudged at the King's hand as they left, but he only patted them absently.

The door closed after this parade disappeared behind it, leaving the two of them alone. Silence settled back into the corners of the room, broken only by the crackle of fire.

She looked at him fully and questioningly for the strange procession that preceded them, with the (intentionally) innocuous face of one who could not comprehend where she had erred. "What is the meaning of this?"

The King had not moved from his original post. His voice was cold, and unsettlingly quiet. "I grant you a favor, only for you to be gone from our rooms upon my return. You left no word as to your whereabouts. What would you have me think but that you made escape?" He studied her. "Do you really fail to comprehend where you have erred?"

It occurred to her that she was still standing blithely on top of the bed, feather stuffing soft beneath her feet, and in such a way which had her height surpassing his in the most unintentional of ways. Obligingly, she climbed back down to floor level, and slowly for the tricky maneuvering of such downy texture.

"Were there horses missing? Anything? Clothes? Shoes?" Her voice rang with the soft yet airy clarity of one untouched by fear - and professed confusion - and knowing the both of them, perhaps she had schooled herself for this precise moment, all the while huddled back behind wardrobe doors. Hence the extra few minutes of waiting after Ser Lionel (Milktoast)'s name had been shouted - the one instance she was able to make out words, to be fair.

"You thought I ran barefooted through the woods, in this?" And no one had forced him to take out an entire hunting party in pursuit of ghosts. Twenty-five minutes. Twenty-five minutes - not even half an hour. The choice to escalate for whatever reason was made by him.

"People aren't always rational, Alais," the King replied, as if he were explaining a very simple concept that eluded her. He shifted, slowly, into motion, causing her to tense back, but he only paced the length of the room. "I hardly had the time to do a full inventory, if you did run. And someone could have helped you."

"No, no one could help me," she said, almost automatically. "Everyone's so afraid of you."

He almost smiled, though it was more like the baring of teeth. "I'm flattered at your belief in me," he said, humorlessly. "And yet it does not appear that fear is able to keep everyone in line." He looked, significantly, in her direction.

"Your definition of in line... differs from the rest of the world, I think," she managed.

The floor creaked beneath his steps as he turned to her. "Perhaps. And yet, more often than not, it is the world that caves to me." His movement stilled, naught but a foot away from her. "Now tell me. Where were you?"

"I was here." She proceeded to clarify after giving just the right amount of pause, "In there." An obedient hand lifted to point at the wardrobe, the one that appeared more antique than function. And still, she made to look as if she could not understand what had been possibly riled him, and that hiding in a wardrobe was a perfectly logical undertaking.

Inside, she might have been giggling maniacally. She could feel his eyes upon her with her every move, and knew by the ever so slight narrowing of them that he was very close to losing his patience. It was probably (definitely) dangerous to persist as she was... but she felt she was already plummeting, far too fast to stop herself. The only safe alternative here was to fall to his feet and beg forgiveness, probably, but the sentiment was suddenly distasteful to her.

And so she went on with her charade. "Like this," she said, as if in pursuit of demonstration, went so far as to open the doors open and place herself back onto the spacious shelf, behind the veil of coats - as if for his education, and that he might not have understood otherwise.

In a different context, one might have called this a prank.

The King's eyes remained on her, without the slightest of wavers. Slowly, he chuckled, shaking his head at the same time. She willed herself to stillness as he made his way forward, his steps resounding deep and slow across the floor.

"What, just like this?" he asked, and, under the paper-thin guise (a prank of its own) of attempting to understand her hiding spot, he reached out, pushing a little at her shoulder, so that she fell right back inside instead of being able to emerge. He tilted his head, his expression shifting to mirror hers, mockingly, in its false confusion.

"Or like this?" He shoved her again, his hand heavy upon her arm - this time with enough force that her back collided forcefully with the wood paneling of the interior. Some of the cloth and silk from within shook and fell, while others pressed around her, suffocatingly, but the King was not content with the mere suggestion of it.

Without warning, his fingers fastened about her throat, vice-like, and he used it to pin her against the back wall. At once, her body stiffened, and she sucked in a deep, careful breath.

So far, his grip was firm, but had not yet tightened - it remained the silent threat that it was, as he leaned over her. Even so, his hand felt hot and harrowing against her flesh, for the implications. "Do you really want to play this game?" he murmured into her ear. He sounded almost playful, but not in that benign pleasant way that had persisted through the afternoon.

"I wasn't playing," she managed, once after freeing herself from the reflexive wincing. Space had been tight enough with her huddled alone and in peace, but with the falling fabric haphazardly draping over her, with him hovering so close, there did not seem to be enough air.

Funny, though. If he'd allowed her but one more moment to explain, she would have reached the part where she hid herself because she was still afraid - which, come to think of it, may or may not have actually helped.

What did that matter anymore?

Well, at least this way, there wasn't any need to worry over sitting upright. Her hands, free for the moment, supported herself (unnecessarily) with palms pressed tightly against the wooden platform.

She continued, calmly, as though his fingers were not wrapped around her throat, as though the nerves in her shoulders and spine were not clanging pots and pans in outrage for injury, as though one of them was attempting to hold a reasonable discussion, "Your Majesty... has a tendency of finding insult where there isn't any. It's not always about you, you know."

The King looked amused, whether at her demeanor or her words. "I disagree," he returned. "It is about me. Everything you do is about me now, if I so wish it. You know why?"

His other hand rose, coming to her hair, stroking it this way and that, in some parody of a lover's caress. "Because you are mine now, Alais." As if to signify his point, he lowered his lips to her jaw, and there pressed a searing kiss. "Every little bit of you."

If her heart had been thrumming before, it was thundering now, so loudly that she couldn't imagine him not hearing it.

"And you know, Alais," he continued, "I don't think you're as wholly perturbed by this as you want to be." His smile widened, more wickedly, maybe even mischievously. "I've seen the way you look at me, now and then. A little part of you wants this, doesn't it? Wants me to take you and make you mine?"

Of course he'd noticed. Some part of her had clutched on to the vain hopes that he wouldn't, but there was not even denial to shield her now. She combated the blush that threatened to rise - after all, Alais was willing to concede there were hypothetical droves of virgins who would have melted to his attentions. Why shouldn't they? Why should she think them worse for it? But she was not them, and an awareness of this (annoyingly) likely hypothesis left the stubborn effect of strengthening her resolve. At least he acknowledged her attraction was little. Littler than most, and little enough to smother between two fingertips like a dying ember if she willed it. That was the hope.

Right now, unhappily, it was a little more than a tiny ember. His contact was as distracting as intended, the roaming hand, and the one at her throat, tickling and burning at unprepared nerves. If she could not pull or shake her head away, her eyes shut in miserable rejection of the unsolicited (like everything else) kiss.

"That's not - "

He deprived her of a denial, by way of abruptly tightening his grip, and she fought panicked gasps at the same time. "Hmm, what's that?" he asked, tilting his head, as if attempting to hear her more properly. A cruel little smile flitted across his lips, and his fingers constricted further, ever so slightly. "No?"

He was careful, though. Oddly, even in her state, some detached part of her mind noticed that his hold had not tightened anywhere near dangerously, and knew even as she experienced it that most of her panic was mental. Not that this was assuring.

"Look at me," he ordered, crisply.

Her eyes snapped open, and she stared up into the blue of his own. Nothing was said; he merely watched her, letting her feel the presence of his hand at her neck, the weight of his control. She had always felt powerless around him, but never had it been so stark - she could not move or speak unless he so willed, and one little twist of his fingers could bring about a world of pain. No doubt it was his intention to force this understanding, but realization of it did not lessen its effects.

And yet, abhorrent as it was, there was something oddly tantalizing about the feeling as well, something thrilling about both its intimacy and its danger. No - she suppressed this. It was not yet an immense struggle to combat this... ill-conceived flame with buckets full of water, in the form of a relentless internal mantra which sounded like infinite repetitions of No. As if she would grant him the satisfaction. Nearly everything else had been taken from her; he didn't need this.

Finally, he spoke. "When I let go, you will apologize. Yes?" His free hand continued to play with her curls, before drifting down, drawing one finger smoothly over her collarbone. He smiled. "Otherwise, we'll find out how long you can hold your breath. I have high expectations."