At His Majesty's Pleasure Ch. 13

"Why didn't you?" she questioned. Mercy was an odd look on him.

"He provided me with some information," he replied. "After some...encouragement on my part, of course."

Did he mean to sound ominous, or was that just his natural state of being?

He seemed to sense that her discomfort had not entirely left her. "You seem troubled. Surely treason is punished with equal severity in Vvaria?"

"Of course." Her hands shifted over, and under, his. "But it's a different thing to see death so - openly, here." What was this, the third man he'd murdered now, since she'd fallen under his care? And that was only counting those she'd witnessed personally. "It takes time for one to become accustomed."

They'd left the district of the temples, and were moving swiftly past the outskirts of the marketplace. This time, the long trail of carriages behind them would wait - it was only his personal guard and her ladies-in-waiting to advance first. Clusters of peasants gathered here and there to gawk and shout blessings at them, and one or two even had residual flowers to launch in her direction. A particularly portly woman was still gnawing on a bone.

"Ah yes. Vvaria protects the delicate sensibilities of its noble ladies," the King said, with a wry smile. "A shame. But I know you are adaptable. Soon, you may be dismantling men yourself, and I will be the appalled one." He chuckled.

"You, appalled? I don't know if that's possible," she teased, dipping her head against his palm just in time for their audience to reappear.

She should not have been able to appear so light-hearted after witnessing the death of a man firsthand. Was she getting callous already? And was that such a bad thing, if she was to survive in this new world?

The portly woman and her bone had not escaped her notice, even during this distracted state. Alais swallowed a quiet lump that had gathered in the back of her mouth, and she slid away from him, again, this time to mask the continued rumblings of her stomach. Her arm braced almost too casually against the side of the carriage, as she rested her cheek against her palm.

The King followed her gaze to the inauspiciously-placed peasant. "I suspect something else is plaguing you."

She glanced at him for a fleeting second before trailing her gaze back to the side of the carriage. "It's nothing monumental."

He raised his eyebrows at her. "If so, then surely you can speak to it."

"I suppose, in the rush of everything," she finally relented, "I'd skipped breakfast."

The King blinked at her, for a moment. Then he laughed.

She swatted his knee with a dainty, frilly, and laced up sleeve in recompense. "How is that funny!"

"Oh, poor Alais," he said, once he had managed to quiet his mirth - though something of it lingered in his grin. "Had I but known. You must have been hungry this whole morning - but why didn't you say anything?"

He gestured over one of his knights, instructing him to procure some fresh muffins from the passing bakery.

"There wasn't -" What was a reasonable excuse for her failings in communication. "Time." Good enough.

"And how very callous, my lady. Here you are, so upset by the death of - " He paused - the name of the prisoner seemed to have actually escaped him. How horrid, she thought. Did he kill so many people that he couldn't be bothered to remember them all? He cleared his throat. "So upset by the death of that conspirator, and not a minute later but you're instead occupied with your own hunger."

"I can't control my body's needs," she retorted. She paused, for upon reflection, the words could be interpreted in another way that had nothing to do with appetite (for food).

It did not escape the King either, for his smile grew wider, with mischief. His arm, which had settled around her waist, gave a little squeeze. "So I've noticed."

She colored slightly, but went on, "Therefore, there's nothing callous about it."

"Oh, but to be so fickle. How can I hope for you to mourn me, should I meet with an untimely fate? You would concern yourself more with breakfast, perhaps." More humor, this time halfway at his own expense. There was something satirical to his smirking that suggested he knew better - that she was as likely to mourn him as he was of feeling remotely sorry for taking that monk's life.

"Do you really expect I'll outlive you?" she asked, one arm pressed against her abdomen while the other pinned her crown against her hair, dark humor for dark humor. It was well-established that he had a temper, and he was no stranger to violent impulses. And he had already disposed of at least one lover before.

His brows rose - looking rather surprised by this bleak outlook, cloaked in humor as it was.

By this time, the knight had returned with the procured spoils, which he duly handed over. The muffins were still hot to the touch, freshly forged. "They're not much," said the King, "but they should tide you over to the feast. We wouldn't want to spoil your appetite."

Alais took the wrapped bundle in her hand, feeling the warmth of the pastry seeping through the cloth. "This is more than enough, thank you." With the way she looked at him then (it might have been her relief above all), it wouldn't have been a far stretch at all, for the unassuming bystander, perhaps, to deduce that she was, as a matter of fact, in love.

"You really were hungry," he remarked, laughing. Returning to their previous topic, he continued, "In any case, is it so improbable that you should outlive me? Doubtless you've heard how often I am away at war. Perhaps you'll be lucky and I'll lose one day." The way he said it was perfectly humorous - arrogant bastard that he was, the concept of defeat did not seem grounded in reality.

"If you think so," she mused, daring to tilt her head toward him so that the crown began to shift, again, to one side of her head, not truly minding the firmness of his build resting close. He was so grievously handsome. "Do you still enjoy a good wager? If I die before you" (and for whatever reason, like childbirth, for instance; it wasn't worth declaring that said reason might also be his temperament) "I'd like the words 'I told you so', engraved on my tombstone."

"Well, I think that's rather cruel of you," said the King, chuckling at the prospect. Idly, he reached for her crown, adjusting the golden ornament so that it was no longer askew; as usual he had no reservations about the casual invasion of her personal space. "Would I not be devastated enough by the loss? And on top of that, you would have me put in my place? You have no sense of mercy, Alais."

In the midst of unwrapping a muffin in dainty, careful maneuvers - conscientious (and fussy) enough not to let a single crumb drop - her hands stilled momentarily as she head shifted curiously against him. "No," she said. "I think you'd move right along. Capture yourself a new princess with new objective gains, and the cycle repeats itself until there are no more princesses left."

There should have been something intrinsically wistful or melancholic about this. Instead, she affected what she hoped to be an eerily serene expression, and took a nip of the pastry almost immediately after she'd unveiled it.

"Do you really think me so indifferent?" He laughed, appraising her indifferent expression. "I think you're underestimating my attachment. I would certainly mourn, high and low."

Alais took another happy (and still very dainty) bite out of her much overdue breakfast, and gave him a suspicious peer.

Indeed, he could not seemed to help his awful joke. "After all, the Vale of Stars would be a very great loss to me."

More laughter - the King always had a way of amusing himself. "No, I jest, of course." He leaned down to kiss her lightly on the cheek, feeling the muffin-bulge there. "How could I replace you?" His expression turned mildly satirical, though it at least it wasn't malicious. "After all, are we not in love?"

Alais squirmed from him as she otherwise chewed merrily away, wrinkling her nose at the muffin-bulge kiss. Please, no public displays of affection while she was eating. Emitting a faint, delicately close-mouthed sound of protest, she batted at his face - still under the pretense of disgusting, playful affection.

Her immaculate manners allowed for speech only after a successful swallow, at which point she contended, "If I recall correctly, the vow was for me to love you. Your teasing is a little lacklustre if I'm not entitled to your love in the first place."

Her resulting smile managed to appear innocent and shrewd all at once. It was quite all right, if he didn't love her; even before the great shadow of King Alexander encroached upon her everything, she never expected to be vested in a marriage filled with fairytale romance and true love. In that respect, this wasn't that much of a disappointment.

But could they ever carry on some semblance of friendship? Was this friendly teasing? Or was this more like...playing with a pet, for him?

"Oh? And perhaps I have vowed to love you as well. Perhaps your charms were too much for me to resist," the King return, in the same light tone. He smirked. "Do you not feel my love for you? Have I not treated you especially well?"

There was no questioning the playfulness behind these words, though she could not gauge how much of his sentiment was serious. She suspected he had actually been treating her well, relative to his standards. If the sad reality was that the experience of the last week were a reflection of the King on his best behavior, she wondered what he was like at his worst.

More traveling, more clatters of hooves, more peasants that gawked at them from down below. The temple was but a speck in the distance now, the palace looming back into view.

"You're aware there will be more violence during the feast?" he thought to remark.

"Oh. Yes, the handmaidens mentioned." It all seemed so excessive, but who was she to question tradition. "I know gladiators will be fighting, in my honor."

"Yes, gladiators. Though the more technical name would be bride berserkers, in this context," he informed her. "Or wedding warriors, as the northerners like to say."

A bizarre name, but it hardly took away from the bliss that was muffins. She pondered over the terminology, a faint frown curving her lips as she chewed in silence.

"I see." She sounded reluctant in her understanding, though the muffin helped her keep her peace. "Do you know invented the term bride berserkers?"

"I don't know that any one person was the author," he responded. He paused briefly to toss a coin to some beggars in the street. "As with many things, it was a custom passed down from generation to generation." He considered. "Of course, predating that, our ancestors favored displays of magic - or, at least, purported magic. In those eras, it was bride bedazzlers who ruled the day."

"Magic battles sound so much more interesting," she endeavored to say. The muffin had taken off much of the nervous edge, though the smoothness of the gesture did waver with all the subtleness of a blink. "I'm so disappointed now."

"I know this must be all very foreign to you," he said. His hand, so much larger and rougher than her own, gave a little squeeze, that was probably meant to be reassuring. "And I appreciate your good humor in all this."

This sentiment certainly sounded friendly, though his manner could be better characterized as charming rather than heartfelt. Similarly, despite his overall magnanimity, there was something of a condescending texture that could not be shaken from his tone - not that that was unusual, or unique to her. Neither was it exactly surprising. But it was important for her to remember the distinction.

The King smiled, as the castle rose up ahead of them. "For now, let us try to appreciate the bride berserkers, magicless though they may be."

*

As a surprise to no one, the feast was an extravagant affair. Some restraint had had to be exercised with respect to the temple, which was necessarily a place of somber propriety, but not so here, in the great ballroom, in which frivolity and excess was to be particularly indulged. The innards of the building were wide and cavernous, even larger than the King's bedroom (at least slightly more justified given its function), and easily housed the three hundred especial guests that were privileged enough to have tables on the ground floor proper. Hundreds more - lesser nobles and fourthborns - could peer out from the balcony seats, if they so desired, though they were far removed from the splendor of the royal presence.

Such royal presence was honored, of course, with an elevated seating and central table, arranged so that they faced their audience. There was a rather substantial gap between royalty and subjects - a cordoned off square with expansive space. For dancing later, probably. Or the ceremonial battle.

Presently it was being used for...gladiator viewing. Alais had no other way to characterize what was before them: ten stalwart warriors stood upon a raised table, awaiting appraisal. Each wore only a loincloth and bared the rest of their bodies for all to see - oiled as they were, their muscles glistened with a visible sheen. At least, unlike the other slaves, they remained uncollared.

The aristocracy milled about, examining each selection and chattering amongst themselves. Occasionally, she heard a stray giggle or two as a noblewoman pointed out some bicep or another to her friends.

"Your Majesty will choose one of them to represent you as your champion," reminded Fiona helpfully, at her side.

"And the more foes your champion vanquishes before he is defeated," added Eleanor, "the more fortune you shall have upon your wedding."

She had dismissed all of her handmaidens save these two, as a show of generosity that they might enjoy themselves instead of attending to her. Her choice in picking the remainder was not difficult - Fiona seemed hungry to prove herself, and Eleanor's somber professionalism suggested she would find more solace in her job than cavorting around.

"Before he is defeated?" echoed Alais. "What if he wins?"

Eleanor shook her head. "It is unlikely he will be the last man standing. Once you distinguish a champion, you have given all the others a common target. The one who strikes him down wins fame and notoriety for himself."

"I see," said Alais. She wondered that the contest wasn't staged - surely they could give incentive to the other competitors to allow the champion to prevail, and therefore win a supposed "blessing" for the marriage? But she supposed even Obsivians would not trifle with what they perceived to be holy rituals.

"How will I know who to choose?" she continued, pursing her lips. "I know nothing of these men."

She wasn't naturally superstitious, especially when it came to foreign superstitions (and Obsivia still seemed foreign, even if she was now technically Queen). She did not imagine her marriage would really win a blessing based on the fighting prowess of a gladiator - and what good would a blessing do, considering her husband? But she had the sense not to make too terrible an impression on her subjects, and she therefore decided she ought to make a respectable choice. These Obsivians did seem to care an awful lot about their violent games.

"No one does, Your Majesty," said Eleanor. "These are men who've never fought in the Arena of Thorns - the capital. They come from distant parts of the Kingdom, little known to all who might be here. It is said that every Queen will allow fate to guide her, rather than knowledge."

Luck was what that translated to, in Alais's mind. And perhaps a dash of intuition. But mostly luck.

"Your Majesty needn't worry," soothed Fiona. "As long as your champion vanquishes one or two foes, it is considered a good omen."

Alais nodded agreeably. "We should get a better look, then. I won't have fate hampered."

As they came closer, she could see a thin nobleman stationed at very end of the gladiator ensemble, hands clasped behind him and observing the proceedings. He saw their approach at once, turning to greet them. "Best of the best, are they not? Each of these fine gladiators are easily worth ten common soldiers on the battlefield - perhaps more! And today, they fight in your honor."

He was as tall as he was thin, she noted, with a strong nose and a shrewd gleam in his eyes.

"Ah, forgive my manners, Your Majesty," he added, bowing low. "I am Lord Bartholomew Bosephius Wellington the IV - at your service. I am certain your husband would have introduced us, had he not become preoccupied with matters of state."

They both glanced toward the opposing side of the room, where the King appeared to be in conversation with a knight of some sort.

"I hope the ballroom isn't about to become the centerstage of another of his wars," she returned lightly, which was met by an easy smile from the man. "Well met, Lord Bartholomew. Are you experienced with gladiators?"

"I am indeed. Though I serve the King primarily as his Inquisitor, I do dabble in the sport, you could say. These ten men were handpicked by me," he said, gesturing over his wares grandly. "I look forward to seeing your choice of champion from among them."

Inquisitor, was it? It sounded unsavory - the kind of position that probably warranted torture, if she was right about the King's policies on inquiring. But he was being civil to her, and she had no reason to make more enemies than she needed.

"Thank you," she said, summoning a smile. "I will endeavor to choose wisely."

She left Bartholomew in favor of his exhibits, Fiona and Eleanor still following closely at her side.

The first gladiator was also the largest by far - a hulking behemoth that looked more bear than man. His height was only amplified by the table he stood upon, in the most unnecessary of ways; his muscles bulged obscenely underneath his unruly hair.

Fiona hovered a little further back, for which Alais could not entirely blame her. He looked quite savage.

Wasn't she supposed to speak to them? She looked up (far up) into the man's eyes. "What is your name?"

The gladiator thumped a fist to his chest. "I am Titus Caprarius," he declared, his voice a throaty rumble. "Allow me to be your champion!"

His wide-set eyes and dreadlocked hair did not suggest an Obsivian heritage. They must have given him the name.

"Why should I choose you?" she questioned him.

"Because I am strongest of all before you, Your Majesty," answered Titus. "These are the hands that have crushed the skulls of man and beast alike. And they shall crush my foes, on this day."

It might have been bluster, but the man's sheer mass spoke for itself. Titus. Certainly an option.

Alais and her handmaidens continued down the line, It was a little uncomfortable interacting with men who were barely clothed, their muscled chests gleaming down on her one after another. (Though part of her was not entirely...reluctant to eye some of their figures.) Such displays of flesh felt improper, but these Obsivians seemed to look upon their slaves as mere objects - to them, perhaps it was no more unusual than observing well-sculpted (well-oiled) statues. At least the other nobles cleared out of her way, even if she spied a couple observing her with curious eyes.

The other discomfort came from how the gladiators prostrated themselves before her. They were of different heights and builds, their tongues shaped with different accents, but one thing seemed universal: each man offered himself up zealously - so zealously she wondered what kind of reward awaited them should they win the contest as her choice. She schooled herself in composure, though - this was not dissimilar to knights jousting in her honor, and of that she'd had more than enough experience, as the sole princess of a kingdom.