At His Majesty's Pleasure Ch. 13

Authors: Don't forget - if you'd like to participate in the last chapter's comment game, you still have a couple of days to submit words there!

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The King handed her into the carriage, and Alais climbed up accordingly - no small feat, given the long train of silk and gemstones she had to arrange behind her. It was here, unfortunately, that her thoughts began to drift to the hollow and forlorn emptiness which should have been her stomach.

Indeed, the stomach in question grumbled in protest when she settled into the beast of the carriage, her arms gracefully (surreptitiously) laying over her abdomen as though this would suffice to block the sound out. Maybe - maybe he hadn't heard. These things were always noisier to one's own ears than to the company around them. Still, she swallowed hungrily, annoyed with her complacency that morning. The handmaidens had watered her properly so at least dehydration was the least of her worries, but the extent of her breakfast consisted of a modest biscuit about the size of her fist. She suspected they had forgotten because there had been so much to do with the dress and the hair. Or perhaps, as (literally) unappetizing as the hunger pangs might be, they thought this would help her retain her figure?

"Yes, we shouldn't keep your people waiting," she echoed distractedly, not quite listening to what he was saying as she gazed listlessly out into the courtyard. The shape of that hedge was beginning to remind her of a muffin.

Once they finished seating themselves, the carriage was off, trundling merrily out of the courtyard at a modest pace.The grinding of the wheels served to camouflage further irritable complaints from her stomach, at least.

"What if they don't like me? Will tomatoes be thrown?" she wondered aloud. She would have preferred something with more substance to eat, but flying tomatoes would do.

The King laughed, as he leaned back and made himself comfortable - an easy feat, considering the plush and velvety seat that cushioned them. "They wouldn't dare," he said, as he curled an arm about her, drawing her close - mindful of all the layers and lace while he did. "I'm sure you'll entrance them."

The heavy wheels were soon not the only source of noise - behind them, the rest of the procession sounded, each carriage compounding the last, and even at this distance, the distant cry of the crowds could be made out. And that was to say nothing of the professional noise-makers, those trumpet- and percussion- wielding marchers that preceded them in three colorful lines. As soon as they emerged from the castle proper, they began their job in earnest, and loud brass and heavy drumming echoed into the sky.

A full bevy of the Chevaliers rode with them too, their density such that every which side was protected by horse and steel. The one she had mentally nicknamed Milktoast was riding at the forefront, bearing the royal banner: a tiger rampant, surmounted of a blue bendlet and black bordure.

"What do they know of me?" she asked, having to raise her voice to be heard above the din.

"Very little." He spoke into her ear, instead of competing with the music. "Except that I was apparently enamored enough to steal you away. I think they're under the impression that it was very romantic." He grinned at the thought, as if finding it infinitely amusing. "Touching, isn't it?"

They were moving past the bridge now, and all its gibbetted glory. True to his word, Edmure was no longer one of the denizens. She fidgeted uncomfortably, ever so slightly, but she did (in a kernel in the uttermost back of her mind) appreciate the absence of her former betrothed. So he was able to keep promises.

She wasn't given much time to contemplate, for they were already moving on, past bridge and its horrors and toward the open gates.

The din of the city hit first (raucous yelling and excited chatter), and then the smell (pungent with the aromas of spice and perfume that characterized a market). And then, as they emerged from the gate, the sight of Obsivia's people bore down upon them - waves and waves of them, bunched along the sides of the road, men and women and children (and children on men's shoulders). With all of them clamoring to lay their eyes on the new Queen, it was a wonder that the road was not blocked, but the King seemed to have accounted for that in advance: more guards lined the streets so that the carriages had a clear path forward.

The trumpeting fanfare at the forefront was soon joined in by the myriad cries of "Long live the King!" and "Long live the Queen!" and "WHY ARE WE CHEERING, PAPA?" and so on and so forth. They were the people of his capitol, closest to him in proximity, so of course they would love him most.

During her first journey through the city all those days ago, she supposed she might not have afforded it the proper attention it deserved. Now, she had no recourse but to recognize it for the breathing and clamoring pandemonium it was; there was almost too much to look at, too many faces and too many insistently waving hands. Still, her new city was captivating, in its way.

The first flower to reach their chariot (a daisy, bright and yellow) struck her squarely on the nose. Many of the less fortunate buds struck ground shy of the carriage wheels, others bouncing off the armor of their escort.

Alais lifted the daisy off her garments and squinted at it. I can't eat this, she couldn't help but think, and instead tucked it behind her ear as a show of her acceptance of their - gifts. No later than that did the head of a rouge carnation land upon her lap, other petals eventually fluttering their way over her hair.

The King gazed down complacently at his people, looking magnanimous and (annoyingly) handsome as he waved at them. Of course he would enjoy the attention, she thought.

As for herself, she did not allow a single crack in her queenly airs of decorum and grace. She wondered if she was as beautiful and worthy and radiant as imagination and hearsay (which she was sure had run rampant by now with all the propaganda) - but so far she was hailed by choruses of cheers, which could only mean she was playing her part. Even if on the inside, Alais was closer to crying and whining and rolling about on the bottom of the carriage in unqueenly tears. She was so hungry.

This didn't stop her from smiling amiably at the blurring sea of heads below. "I'm assuming they'll be given a feast of their own?" It would explain a great deal more of their collective joy.

"No, I'm hardly so cruel. They've already been fed," replied the King blithely. He pointed out the uniformed servants in the distance, still pushing their carts about at the fringes of the crowd - with glorious tubs of sizzling sustenance. The flowers must have been supplied too.

He picked off a stray rose, snapping the stem rather absently (of course destruction would occur to him in an idle state) and tossing it over to join the rest. "But I'm sure," he continued, smirking, "their good cheer could only arise from admiration of the new Queen."

Two young boys looked up at them, wielding dual drumsticks in each hand, and as the carriage passed, one took a particularly majestic bite out of his leftmost. When they noticed her helpless gaze upon them, she wiggled her fingers in a pleasant little wave, and one of the attentive guards seemed to take this as a cue to toss the child a coin. All well and good - but that wafting scent was nothing short of cruel.

Had she married anyone else (and in less bizarre circumstances), she might have simply told him that she was feeling a tad peckish. Seeing as this was Alexander, she was instead filled with a discomfiting mixture of irrational uncertainty and even less rational pride. Maybe he would arrange something small for her (although it was never small), maybe he wouldn't. Maybe he would taunt her in his cavalier way, maybe he would be kind. Maybe he would think nothing of it, exactly opposite to how she was assuredly overthinking to the point of excess. It was all very difficult.

And thus, with her circular and unresolved rationale, Alais persisted in her endeavor to display no weakness, to be beyond reproach, for this apparently very important day.

"There - you recognize the temple?" said the King, interrupted her reverie. The towering spire loomed in the distance, but slowly, they made their way forward, past the deafening cheers and tantalizing scents.

"I remember," she returned, softly but still in her pretense of blissfully sound spirits. "Oh, is the ring still stuck to the floor?"

"No," said the King, chuckling. "It was, fortunately, excavated. Let us hope you are not so...excitable this time."

Strengthened by food and drink (as she was not), the peasants continued to be impressively loud, even as the carriages rolled out of the city proper and toward the enclosed pathways of the temple district. At least the trumpeters and drummers had since quieted.

Before long, they reached the Temple of Feros, its austere architecture as foreboding and cheerless as before. The King disembarked first, helping her off the from the elevated height of the (excessive) carriage, and from there, they parted ways, her ladies-in-waiting swarming about her, on cue, to usher her into a preparatory chamber.

The ceremony, which the King had described as a "passing formality," was far more elaborate and extravagant than that phrase warranted, and certainly on an exponentially grander scale then the secret wedding they'd had some days ago. Of course, the entire temple this time was populated, crammed full of silk-clad nobles and their considerable retinues, and a proportionately larger squad of knights to guard them (or guard against them, probably). The collection of candles and incense sadly stayed constant, likely because of safety concerns (though they were probably still something of a fire hazard), but not much other excess remained constrained: full, grand banners of his House had been draped across every unused wall, a dozen feral tigers brooding above them; from somewhere or another, a bountiful set of statues and exotic-looking plants had been inexplicably scattered liberally through the area; and the priest wore his full regalia, along with a backdrop of some thirty monks that persisted in low, steady chanting. It was a good thing that the temple was so large.

Much of the actual ceremony remained the same. The priest recited a passage that was only slightly longer, and they pronounced the equivalent vows thereafter. When they exchanged rings, the King looked at her with something of a smirk, as if recollecting the last time they had done so and she had calamitously lost her grip.

This time, she was far more poised. She even managed to smile at him as she slid the ring over his finger, for the benefit of their audience.

And when he tilted her chin up and brushed his lips over hers, it was at least not as unfamiliar as before - even if he kissed her like he was claiming her, even if he had a way of stealing her breath all the same. When he drew away, a knowing look in his eyes, there was accompanying applause thundering from the temple floor.

There was comfort in knowing what her Obsivian coronation was to next entail - that was, no comfort whatsoever. For once, she might have preferred remaining in the dark about the ceremonial execution to come... Well, no. To dread of it was still preferable to being surprised.

She knelt onto the ground and lowered her head, just as her ladies-in-waiting had instructed. The length of her gown pooled about her, trails of it even overflowing down the steps from the altar. Her knees pressed snugly against the rug that had been laid there for that purpose.

Then her ears picked up a faint clinking of chains from behind, and Alais inhaled sharply.

She looked back to the metallic contraption that rested on the dais before. It bore a remarkable resemblance to a pillory of some kind, with holes for securing the head and hands - except that it was mounted over an ornate basin. That must be where they were intent on dragging the poor prisoner.

Indeed, seeming to understand its purpose (and his own), the prisoner bucked and struggled, in a frenzied kind of fear, such that his chains rattled all the more over the stone steps of the temple. Collared, head shaved, and flailing with animalistic instinct, he really did look the part of a sacrificial creature of some sort, so removed was he from those who looked upon him (his simple loincloth contrasted jarringly with all the finery). This was not helped by the cloth stuffed in his mouth, which rendered his speech nothing more than incomprehensible protests.

Where before, their noble audience was unanimous in applause, there was a little more variation in their reaction here. Most were detached; such occurrences seemed to be common, and her new countrymen even seem to affix some sort of sacredness to their performance. But she did catch a few who seemed uneasy, and even a few who averted their gaze.

The King, of course, looked entirely calm about the affair. At his gesture, the knights forced the hapless man down and snapped the contraption closed, so that his neck and hands were snugly trapped.

"Harrgh!" The muffled cry sounded suspiciously like a plea for help.

Undeterred, the priest spoke smoothly over this, reciting some passage about the cleansing property of the blood and the holy sacrifice they hoped to offer Feros. As his words slowed, echoed by the ominous chanting of the monks behind him, he unsheathed a ceremonial knife and, with a low bow, presented it to the King.

With the same detached manner - as if he had done this a hundred times before - the King grabbed hold of the collar and twisted it up to expose the vulnerable flesh beneath. He lowered the blade.

On cue, the prisoner struggled all the more, his eyes flickering from one face to the next in the vain hope that one might be his savior.

Alais lowered her gaze. Sensations that were cold, frozen, and numbed over began to stitch in her chest. She felt the wrongness of this - of this needless waste of a human life - and yet her knees were firmly fixed to the rug. If it truly meant something to her, would she not have risen from her spot, or at the very least expressed her disapproval (whatever good that would do)?

Nothing. The hand slid back onto her luxuriantly dressed lap, and she waited for the crying, and later the blood-curdling gurgling, to fill her ears. Indeed, the blood spilled beautifully into the basin - not that she had the best of views with her eyes now pinned to her lap.

By the time the ritual was finished, her body language was a notch more frigid than that queenly serenity she'd determined to emulate before. She could rationalize the sacrifice away anyway she liked; for example, public executions were a universally common practice, and who was she to disparage this supposed Obsivian... tradition when it was no better or worse but for the ceremony of it? If anything (she thought with black humor), was it not an efficient use of resources both to punish a criminal and channel his life force towards religious blessings?

But that didn't stop the act itself from unsettling her, when it was being performed before her very eyes - as a princess, she had been relatively secluded from such acts of violence during her life in Vvaria. She was not yet accustomed to violence, as so many of her countrymen seemed. And that the King - her husband - had killed a man socasually, as if it were no more unusual than the exchange of rings moments beforehand...

The prisoner was still now, body sagged against the metallic pilloy. She could see the red in stark contrast against the pale, ever paler, skin - seeping through in lovely rivulets down the basin and drawing intricate lines across the ground.

There was something symbolic to the affair ... and Alais was still not entirely adjusted to witnessing skin being torn without it stirring some sort of visceral reaction.

Swallowing, she looked away. A bowing servant was offering the King a bowl of water, which he made use of in ridding himself of residual splatters. Once he was cleansed, he nodded in satisfaction and the servant retreated, only to be replaced by the priest, who bore the Queen's crown upon a plump red pillow.

He approached, and, quite gently, lowered the crown to her bowed head, before offering his hand to her, indicating she could rise.

A few shaky exhales, heaving and uneven, was all it took to regain some semblance of composure. Fast and light breathing fluttered from her lips, and her hands dropped, slowly, once more to fall over her stomach (which was still roiling for a different reason). Previously she hadn't thought herself capable of feeling both sickness and hunger at the same time.

"And with the blood of this humble sacrifice, we ask that Feros bless Her Majesty's reign, and watch over us all," concluded the priest. "Long live the Queen."

"Long live the Queen," repeated the King, smoothly, and the rest of the congregation echoed this, the chorus of voices mingling the words.

He reached for her hand, taking stock of her fingers firmly, and began leading her down the aisle. The retinue of knights and ladies in waiting followed, at a safe distance, as did the eyes of their audience. Only after they emerged outside, and the doors closed behind them, could the faint sounds of conversation and gossip be heard behind.

Perturbed as she was, she did not fight against his grip as her feet attempted to follow in his lead. Unfortunately, there was still quite a lot of material underneath said feet. On the best of days, she could scarcely manage the mass. Recovering from such an event, her steps were uneven. She nearly fell over him, once or twice; at certain points her feet falling right over his to avoid toppling onto the ground altogether.

The carriage awaited them. The King helped her up, as before, his manner actually quite patient; when she stumbled, he only steadied her with a touch that could be described as gentle, though he did look amused.

"Perhaps I should simply carry you the rest of the way," he remarked. Of course, it would be a quip he would make, after that bloody display.

"Who was he?" she asked. She hadn't before, out of some need to create a mental detachment from the situation. Now, suddenly, curiosity festered.

"A monk," returned the King. "Or, at least, he used to be. He was Brother Galen's assistant, and helped our intrepid assassin assume his fake identity - and dispose of the real brother." He nodded to the carriage driver, who snapped the reigns in response and sent them on their way once more.

The carriage rolled along, this time taking a less traversed path, so as to avoid the same crowds (though the attention of some peasants could not be wholly avoided).

"I thought my choice rather poetic," he continued, as he lounged back in his seat.

Conscious of weight newly vested upon her head, her hand lifted to adjust it this way and that whenever she could feel the balance on the brink of sliding askew. The thing was heavier than any diadem, circlet, or laughably stereotypical princesses' tiara she was accustomed to. "What do you mean?"

"He abandoned his vows and his piety, in perpetrating treason. Now I have returned him to religion, in making holy use of his life." He glanced sidelong at her, with a smirk, as if to say 'Am I not generous?'

Alais wrinkled her nose at his humor. But she wrapped both hands, albeit still tentative in nature, around his. It was always easiest to look for distractions, and what was a more proper distraction than her persona of adoration? "He deserved it, then."

The King allowed her to envelop her hands around his, and shifted so that he grasped her fingers in turn. "Of course. I think I was even merciful, in not subjecting him to a slower death."