Melt Ch. 01

The boat clunked against the dock. The sodden thud reverberating through the crew as much as the boat; it was the first landfall in nearly a month.

The guard on the docks was smaller and more ceremonial than she had anticipated, bedecked in pennants and robes that fluttered in the afternoon wind.

Then again, their two ships were hardly likely to form much of an invasion force, and the clear blue skies here provided scant room for more surreptitious incursion.

The crew of the Vasa peered out through the port hatches and lingered at their docking tasks on the deck, despite gruff admonishments to pay attention to their duty. Not many made the trip this far South; curiosity was writ large across their faces.

Alicia shared their curiosity, though for her it was overwritten by apprehension. Unlike the crew, this would be her home for the next two years.

The metal belt encircling her waist made its presence known with each pitch of the ship, something that she had failed to get used to despite the length of the voyage. Her mind drifted back, to the first day she had worn it, as ropes snaked from the ship to the bulwarks and bound them to the dock.

Nearly three months ago now, by her reckoning. Her father, mother, and older brother, in the cosy private chambers the family tower in Sigtuna, in one of their regular informal councils.

"Still. Alicia will have to go."

When her father used that voice, it indicated that the discussion on the matter was over.

They had all suspected that it would come to this. The letter lay on the table to the side. Alicia had hated it, the cold arched script. Unyielding as prison bars.

She was to be sent as ward to Verensus.

Verensus did not threaten them directly - indeed, Rivalt was considered the more powerful - but the borders were indistinct and the alliance had always been fragile. Their request for a ward was unexpected, but not outside the sphere of polite inquiry.

And polite refusal was a possibility. What they knew in this room, and had hoped to keep secret, was that the crops in Rivalt had languished this year. Disruption to the Verensus trade would risk turning a problem into a crisis.

In addition, the Western borders were increasingly fractitious, their own harvests less supplanted by trade. An alliance with Verensus would be beneficial for long-term security.

So she would go.

The terms were unadorned and direct, garnished in flowery epitaphs. She would be delivered as ward until her betrothal was arranged.

It would be in the poorest taste to refer to a ward as a hostage, with physical sanction now the realm of memory. The threat in all such arrangements was the possibility of coerced (or, in extreme cases, uncoerced) marriage, or just as damagingly, the removal of the ward from suitors as a potential marriageable option in the case of incarceration - though marriages could be arranged for a ward, the host would still need to consent to the practical steps to make it reality.

In Alicia's case, her beauty and eighteen years of age made this very much the concern. But one that was outweighed by cold, hard, practical reality.

They discussed potential mitigating arrangements, over the next few days.

It has been her mother who had eventually made the suggestion, with controlled formality, without counselling her. A belt, to protect her honour and reputation alike.

It was an archaic suggestion, but one that found no objection. The preparations had taken on such a surreal, staged quality that this somehow felt like no more farce than the long-forgotten ornate chests that were being dusted down to house her belongings.

So they had looked into it, as naturally as exploring hiring a language tutor, or training in dancing. And in the end, she was visited by an artisanal woman of high rank from the engineering guild.

She was now fitted with a smooth, ironed device cushioned with leather. It had taken a while to get used to the device, but it did leave her free to pass her waste products in peace, whilst protecting her against any access to her private areas.

When the locks first clicked into place, she had to fight a sudden, rising urge of panic. The key would be staying here.

But she was trained, and reminded herself to be strong. She would be the perfect ward, make her family proud, and be married off happily when her time was done.

Bringing herself out of reverie, she put on her most beautiful smile, and began to walk.

***

Prince Vivandrian was their contact at the docks. She'd been told about him, and observed him as she acted out the rituals she had practiced in her head during the voyage, gauging the reality against the theory.

He was handsome (in the Verensuran way), engaging if not charming in the formal rituals of highborns meeting for the first time. She relaxed a little, though found his languid, casual air and unbuttoned shirt almost insulting informal. Still, Verensurans. She'd need to get used to that.

Their journey to the capital passed in much the same fashion, her mind processing the heat, smells and humidity of this new climate more than the conversation. Vivandrian seemed content to settle back. At one point she suspected he had dozed off, though she hadn't dared to give voice to suspicion.

Sunhome was termed a Palace, as befits a capital, though in Alicia's estimation a melee of buildings would be a better description. It lacked the grandeur she typically associated with capitals, that urge to impress their size upon the surrounding territories.

"We'll be holding an opening banquet in your honour," Vivandrian noted to her. "Servants will be sent for you."

He hadn't mentioned the time, and she didn't inquire. Polite thanks. Hold yourself with respect.

In her room she looked across the motley land of buildings, punctuated by small fountains and artificial trenches of water. It was verdant, pleasant and seemingly grew from the Earth, as if the inhabitants had stumbled upon a fully-formed city ready for inhabitation.

The furnishings in her room were comfortable, though minimalist to one used to all the rugs, fires and accoutrements to ward off external cold. The wardrobe, however, was the opposite. Full of silks and dresses, mostly in the Verensuran style, though others were suited to the more Northerly climates of Rivalt and still others of origins and cuts unfamiliar to her.

One in particular seemed exotic even given the Venesuran penchant for more open and revealing cuts - one leg completely bared, with one shoulder also revealed on the same side.

She tried it on, fumbling several times, though it was easy enough to apply for the most part. Then she examined herself in the mirror.

It was mesmerizing.

Her flesh was guarded against both cold and gaze in Rivaltian dress. To be sure, her blonde hair, defined features and icy blue eyes made her face an object of sharp beauty, but the principle function of clothing was practical - cold could kill.

In this dress, her whole body was presented, as if the dress itself were an eager exhibitor, displaying her like a prize flower.

Her left leg was entirely exposed through a slit, almost all the way up to her hip. The wrapping caused her sizeable breasts to jut out proudly, upwards and elevated, straining to burst free. Her pale midriff was a soft opening blanked by two swirls of crimson red, and her golden hair coursed freely down her open back.

It was both embarrassing and exciting.

She looked back at the wardrobe. At the end of it sat one Rivaltian dress, frumpy and haughty by comparison.

She imagined Vivandrian's face, ordering the servants to arrange for its placement with a dispassionate boredom. Make sure there is a frumpy Rivaltian dress, for this sheltered little princess from the North.

That thought made her decision for her.

When she arrived at the dining hall, the paralysis seized her.

The hall was mostly full, and of a good size, filled with the general chatter of those awaiting the last arrivals and the commencement of formal ceremonies.

It had been easy to be proud and daring in the privacy of her room, only the servant girl applying the final tweaks to her dress as audience. Now the whole court of Sunhome was here - major house at the high table, minor visitors at the surrounding ones.

She felt rooted to the spot for a second, flushed. She was still unnoticed - she could back out now.

Across the room, she saw Tressus, King of the realm, seated at the high table. He'd seen her, and her pride and training took over - backing out now would be unthinkable. She stood taller, took a deep breath, and began to walk.

As she passed the tables, she felt the eyes move to her and the conversation die down. No doubt they would have been informed of the guest, and her pale complexion and blonde hair made it abundantly obvious who she was.

In some of the eyes there was boredom, mostly from the patricians of clans enduring formalities, who had seen everything before. In others, curiosity, appraisal of this new arrival.

In some of the younger girls, the curiosity was sharper, drinking her in. Envious? Appreciative? Resentful?

And in some, hunger. A hunger that made her blood burn hot. Sharp and penetrating.

She was hyperaware of her body, and suddenly gripped with the fear that the dress had been maladjusted, would come loose, would expose her to all.

The hairs on her skin stood on end, but the years of courtly training came to her aide, and she maintained her pace.

She made it to the high table. As she curtsied, she felt her breasts heave forward, causing her nipples to brush up the fabric and a gasp to escape her lips. They were erect and hard, the contact stoking her inner fire. Thankfully, the downward motion allowed her to recover, heart hammering.

She made her presentation to Tressus, voice somehow holding and echoing around the hall, and he hailed her in return.

It wasn't until she made her way to her seat that she realized something was amiss. Under her belt, her private areas were ... itching? Pulsing? She fought the urge to reach down and touch them, under the metal.

Get through this dinner, prove yourself, then you can be rid of these clothes, return to Princess Alicia's natural, stoic state.

The banal formalities from her tablemates were a blessed relief, and she threw herself into the polite talk, animated by her body's exhilaration. The meal and talk calmed her. Things were returning to normal.

Until after the meal, when the dancers came.

The dance was a contrast; languid motions would lead to sharp pirouettes and twirls, flurries of activity that would again subsume to lithe, catlike steps. What made it magical, to Alicia at least, was the clothing.

It was revealing, yet subtly so - cuts and partings in the fabric always teased at imminent revelation, stopping short of fulfilment, pulling taut against skin and then billowing out, as if the air itself had borrowed colour to conceal naked form.

Alicia imagined herself among them, and the shame that accompanied that thought was accompanied with the same warm tingling she had felt earlier. She pushed it down.

The final dance began, and she felt the tension in the room rise. The dance picked up tempo, and as they moved the dancers began to shed clothing, hurling it in scything arcs above the tables or having it loosed onto the ground beneath. Alicia sharply drew her breath as the first breast was exposed, and then a chest, until all of the performers were completely naked from the waist up, circling and swaying over each other so their skin almost seemed to melt into each other.

And then, it was over. She found herself applauding, dazed, with the rest, and then rising to depart abruptly at Tressus' lead.

She found herself next to Vivandrium on the walk out. An air of relaxed informality now had settled over the hall, the minor houses released of their obligations to polite deference. Mercifully, he remained silent.

Back in her room, she dismissed the servant and took the time to disrobe herself, peeling away the layers of clothing gently, as if plucking petals from a rose.

Finally, naked. Except for the pure silver bolt that was the belt. The urge from dinner had subsided, but it was still there. She ached to touch herself.

She'd heard of this craving discreetly, from old books, wives' tales. But it had always sounded temporary, fleeting, if achieved at all. This, though, was an intensity unlike any other. Her nipples were standing on end, and she instinctively moved to touch them, and then rolled them between her fingers.

She moaned. Soft, but audible. The desire to touch herself intensified. What was this?

Realisation came that under the belt, her private areas were moist and wet. Her hands traced down to it, sitting on the metal, frustrated.

Biting her lip, Alicia clenched her fists into the sheets and lay back.

She didn't know how long it took sleep to come, as breasts proudly jutted in front of wanton eyes in the theatre of her eyelids.