𐔌 ᩙ

— j. price

being the empress of the western empire, there are bound to be some among price's subjects who expect her to take a mistress. there are even some nobles of note who giggle salaciously at the new year's ceremony every year, wondering if they could have a chance at being empress price's lover.

but that has never been her way of doing things. the western empire did not outlaw taking lovers when married as long as they remained unwed, but she had no intentions of doing so herself. whoever she married would be her one and only, her lifelong partner to stand by her until death doth part.

and she could think of no one else more worthy than you, the duke's daughter who had enchanted her so effortlessly.

she liked you because you weren't too unpredictable. you were competent enough to avoid making any messes she'd have to clean up, but playful enough to somehow bring a smile to her weathered features. you were young, certainly, and you enjoyed teasing—something she had taken a surprising amount of delight in. she could have anticipated how much fun you were, but she couldn't have anticipated how much she would enjoy being at the receiving end of your high - spirited nature.

and perhaps the most attractive thing about you was that you got things done. you had spearheaded the entire process of preparing for the wedding, from calling the dressmakers and jewelers to painstakingly coaching the florists and decorators on exactly how the venue should look. you practically glowed as you flitted from place to place, doling out instructions like candy to children.

and price had stumbled into love with you all over again.

how on earth could she have anticipated this?

she supposes it's only natural. your father had set quite the example with his litany of lovers demanding money at the door, and it would only make sense that you would ask if she intended to do the same.

truth be told, the idea had crossed her mind before she'd met you. would it be beneficial for the western empire to elevate some of the nobles under her rule as her lovers? there was no room remaining in the imperial council, and so that would be the only avenue if any other noble families wished to have ties with the palace. and honestly. . .it wasn't a bad idea, when it came to the idea of a tidy profit that would most certainly give the western empire a boon in international affairs.

but then price had met you, and then it all came crumbling down. there was no way in heaven and earth that she could watch your face slowly lose its light with the presence of others that had her heart—not that there would be any, after you.

and yet, here you stand, claiming that you won't protest. that you'll accept her choice unconditionally and resign yourself to whatever she decides will be best for the empire and for her own love life. that you would be okay with only having a part of her, to the point where the part in question might as well have ended where the ink finished drying.

she refuses to believe it. that you would think that way of not only yourself, but of her.

but price is a patient woman. it's part of what makes her such a good empress. so she leaves, waits, lets the words you'd said linger in the air between the both of you, until the wedding bells chime low and chilling throughout the sparkling ceremonial hall.

and when you walk down the aisle, shoes clicking softly against the carpeted marble floor, her sense of purpose is only strengthened.

look at you, gliding down the aisle with an overflowing bouquet of hydrangeas clutched in your hands, head dipped and gown glittering like a stolen star—looking for all the world like a blushing bride - to - be.

you're. . .you're mesmerizing, she thinks. how. . .how on earth could you have possibly thought that she would depart from your side, when you're so. . .

. . .so hypnotic?

the ceremony proceeds beautifully, as to be expected from the imperial family of the western empire. the diamond inset in the ring price slides onto your left hand isn't the size of an acorn like she had wanted for it to be for you. . .but judging by how you're wide - eyed at the mere sight of it, it must come as close as it can get.

and then the priest bows his wizened head and proceeds to call for the marital vows.

price, of course, goes first. her vows are standard, if not a touch over - the - top—it's only what you deserve, after all. but then she pauses, and then she adds on what was clearly not rehearsed in the months leading up to this moment.

"and i vow," she begins, her voice never wavering but still booming through the hall, "to remain loyal to you, and only you. to my wife, and to my empress. i am a woman of my word, and my word is that i will be yours, and yours alone."

you're as stunned as you are stunning, tears like pearls coalescing in your eyes. somewhere in the crowd, someone lets out a cry of outrage that is quickly snuffed to silence. you blink furiously, gently painted lips wavering in your efforts to contain a sob, and she gently reaches out to brush away the one that slips with her knuckle.

"my empress," she murmurs, as if this vow is only for you to hear, "you are my heart. i shall never forsake you."

— j. mactavish

mistresses? in the southern kingdom? the very idea, to king mactavish, is absolutely preposterous.

the southern kingdom's law and culture believed that the king and queen shall be united on all fronts, as one. therefore, if knowledge were to reach the queen that the king had taken a lover, she could—was expected to, even—execute the offending party on the spot.

and tav—the name she reserved only for you—wasn't worried about it at all. she had no designs to take a lover, and even if she did, she had complete and entire faith that you would behead whoever it was and give her the cold shoulder of several lifetimes if she did.

which she wouldn't. so, there's nothing to worry about.

but clearly, you don't seem to think so.

you're smart, tav knows that. it's part of the reason she fell for you in the first place. you're a clever girl with enough wits to match her for turn of phrase. your first conversation with her had started out as dully as any other conversation with a noble might have, but you had quickly proven yourself to be a sheer and utter delight to talk to.

soon, talking turned into dreaming, and dreaming turned into reality, and the reality was that now, you were set to be married.

the idea of being married to you, of being yours— it's been nearly the only thing keeping tav aloft. she's hardly been able to focus on anything else but the idea of seeing you float down the aisle with that measured grace you carry yourself with, your eyes always soft and seeking. the very thought of it. . .it's enough to reduce her to tears when she's alone in her bedchambers!

hadn't you noticed that? hadn't you any idea how overjoyed the notion of you being her wife has made her? you're a clever girl, she thinks, so how in the world had you not only failed to realize that—but then would ask such a ridiculous question?

. . .had it been something she had done? had she. . .dear god, had she given you the impression that she would ever—?

no, tav thinks. no, she cannot have you thinking that she would ever betray you so cruelly. to think that she would stand there, in the arms of another, and watch as you realized that she would not put you, her wife, first— why, the very idea is ludicrous beyond belief!

so she reacts almost instantaneously. before you can dismiss her, she steps into your doorway and sends you stumbling half a step back in your startle.

"your highness?" you blink. "is something the ma—"

"yes!" she exclaims, grasping your hand tightly. "yes, something is the matter. first off, what makes you think i would even entertain the idea of taking anyone else as my lover when i have you? have you fallen ill, my lady? is that what this is?"

"i—" you start, clearly befuddled. "no, i— i haven't—"

her thumb brushes over your knuckles as she shakes her head vehemently, a gentle caress in stark contrast to her bafflement. "and secondly, i want to understand why you would even think such a thing was possible. is it customary in your land for a noble to take a mistress, even after the vows have been spoken and the marriage sealed?"

your lips purse as you give one tiny nod.

tav is nearly beside herself.

"crivvens, you'll give me a right heart attack!" she staggers, holding onto your hand with just enough distance to remain appropriate for two nobles who are alone and still technically unmarried. "my lady, i'll let you know right now that me taking a lover of any sort is out of the question. why, if i ever did, you'd best have them sent to the gallows before the night's worn out!"

you can't help it, then—you laugh, surprised and a bit nervous, but unfurling like a lily. "well, your highness, it— it certainly doesn't hurt to be sure—"

"be sure of what?" she interrupts. there's a beat of silence before she brings your hand up to her lips, kissing the spaces between your fingers and holding your gaze as she speaks against your skin.

"the only thing you need to be sure of is that for as long as we're both still alive, there will be no one in my bed or in my heart but you."

and even if you're still not sure. . .fine. she'll say it again. louder. she'll say it so many times the walls remember. she'll tell you she wants you, she's chosen you, and she'll keep choosing you until the day you both drop dead. she'll say it over and over until you're utterly exhausted with her. she'll say it, over and over, until you're rolling your eyes and shoving her away and telling her to shut the hell up—except she can't ever imagine you being as vulgar as her about it because you're just so delightfully sweet.

but until then? she'll make sure you know as certain as the sun rises that she's not going anywhere.

— k. garrick

gaz remembers, clear as day, how delighted you had been when you had been shown the cluster of flourishing islands that would soon be under your rule when you married her.

all of these, you'd whispered as you gazed upon the shores of the capital island, are under your rule?

ours, soon, she had laughed indulgently, low and warm as she looked out over the archipelago she had been the heir to for her entire life. can you handle it, darling?

you had smiled up at her, a miasma of excitement and determination evident and stubborn on your face. i think you'll find that i can handle anything.

and so far, you had been able to handle everything that being her fiancée entailed; most notably, the put out whispers of men and women alike who had had their eye on gaz for some time—some of which she'd even had former flirtations with. it seemed only natural that the law of a country so detached from the rest of the world would be detached as well, no?

meeting you had. . . tilted that on its axis, unexpectedly. truly, how on earth was she supposed to have affections or longings for anyone else when you were there, triumphant and strong - willed and so brilliant?

you were a coquettish thing. so full of life, always floating from one place to another with the indulgent joy of a girl who thoroughly dissolved herself into the finer things in life. you had grasped her hand and pulled her into your whirlwind, and she could do nothing but laugh as brightly as you and get caught in your current.

it reminds gaz of the past, but. . .different. more lasting. as if you're not impermanent.

and now, you're not.

she admits that she does worry that you doubt her. that you're unaware of the fact that if you asked her to prove it—really prove it—she doesn't know what she'd say. only that she'd try. god, she'd try. she'd write it in a thousand languages she doesn't even speak. she'd take every poem ever written and drown them all for the chance to craft a new one, something worthy of you.

but then, she thinks, she'd find you asleep somewhere soft—half-curled, your breath slow and steady—and suddenly none of it would matter. not the islands, not the blood, not the ache. just you. just the rise and fall of your chest and the quiet miracle that you're still here.

that you, and not any other lover, would be the one she would come back to.

and for the record, having lovers isn't quite as commonplace for nobility within the archipelago. gaz herself had only had little more than experimental flights of fancy with particularly charming individuals who could come close to besting her in chess or cards. and frankly, when gaz thinks of you sweeping down the aisle tressed in ivory, all thoughts of dalliances with any other soul feel like betrayals to herself.

she truly has no idea, then, why you would suggest otherwise.

sure, her reputation precedes her in foreign nations, but surely the way she'd made it abundantly clear that you were the sole recipient of her affections, from now until the end of time. . .well, surely, that was enough to convince you, wasn't it?

but. . .perhaps it wasn't. you had always enjoyed ornate gifts, and she had quickly fallen under the spell of the way your hand fluttered to your collarbone when you were overcome with delighted shock. she still remembers the first time she saw it—the startled joy that lit up your features, the quiet little sound you made. it had carved itself into her like a vow.

that moment replays now in gaz's mind, like a bell tolling. like your wedding bells.

god, can't you see? can't you see that she would snatch every last star in the sky for your jewelry box if you asked? can't you see that she would take a blade to her pride and carve it into your commandments, if that's what it would take for you to believe that she would never, ever choose any other over you?

and can't you see that she'd kneel if you told her to—and even now, when you hadn't told her to? not out of shame, never that—but out of something holy, something that burns behind the inward embrace of her ribs whenever you look at her like you don't know how much she aches to be enough for you. can't you see that she would bare her throat to your doubt and let it strike, again and again, if it meant you’d understand?

can't you see that if heaven itself came down with the fires and trumpets of reckoning, she would walk barefoot into gehenna carrying only your name?

no, gaz realizes. no, perhaps you can't see. and that can only mean that she clearly needs to do more to show you. if there is any lingering doubt in your mind that you are the one for her, then she needs to do everything in her power to chase it away. she will do everything in her power to chase it away.

and it starts by her backing you into your room, shutting the door behind her, and promptly dropping to her knees before you.

"my lady," she says, speaking over your flustered perplexity. "i want it to be made very clear that i have absolutely no intention of taking a lover, neither now nor after we're married."

pathetically, in a way that hardly befits a grand duke, gaz clings to your skirts and bows her head as if baptizing herself in your layers of chiffon and velvet. you flail in your surprise, beckoning her in a rushed whisper to stand, but she refuses to do anything of the sort besides gaze up at you with fervid eyes the color of sable.

"i have no need or desire for a mistress. not when i have you." her voice drops to a fierce whisper, knees surely bruising beneath her trousers. "you are more than enough for me, my lady. you are everything."

— s. riley

the frigid northern kingdom is known for their. . .barbaric sensibilities. when simon had risen as the commander of the holy order of knights, the rumors often spread from the surrounding territories that surely she was the most brutish of them all, that the highest - ranked soldier from a kingdom of foul - tempered tyrants was bound to be dreadfully so.

she. . .wouldn't call herself that. stoic, yes. quiet, absolutely. but violence was for the battlefield, physical and mental. violence was for when she was required to get her hands dirty. violence was for when there was no other choice.

and in the affairs of love, simon's mother had said long ago, there is always a choice.

her father, not so much. the man had taken many lovers and mistresses but had staunchly forbidden her mother from seeking consolation in any other man. she had sworn to never be like him, especially when she had traveled to the east in search of a wife and had found you.

you, who was so breathtakingly beautiful that simon had felt a little dumb standing in front of you, outfitted in full armor and a little dirty from where she'd impulsively hurled herself in front of an oncoming splash from the skid of a carriage tire in a puddle. you, who had rendered her perfectly speechless when you'd offered her your handkerchief to wipe herself clean, even though she was sure the paltry slip of pineapple fiber would hardly do much.

and when she'd tried anyway—a futile effort, of course—and offered immediately to have it washed, pressed, and returned to you. . .you had laughed as sweetly as a summer morn and had given her your estate address. so you know where to go to return it.

it was an invitation, that much was clear—even she, who was less aware of the social nuances of a foreign empire, could tell that much. upon her next visit to return your handkerchief, she'd been so overcome with longing that she'd proposed to you on the spot.

it's a love story for the ages, your mother had sighed softly. simon didn't miss how wary she seemed around her, but thankfully you had seemed too joyous over the whole affair to even notice, and so there was a sort of silent agreement to not mention it. i am sure dame simon will make you very happy indeed.

and she had sworn to, for as long as the both of you lived. it was her duty as your knight and as your bride, after all.

so why. . .why are you saying these things to her so sullenly? how can you look her in the eye and give her permission to set aside the woman who had seized her heart with both soft hands and had refused to even think of letting go?

you seem to take her silence as an answer and incline your head gently before stepping back and offering a quiet 'as you were'. then, with a soft click, the door closes right in her dumbstruck face.

simon stumbles back to her quarters, eventually. she had been given a room to stay in at your estate while the wedding preparations were underway, but the thoughts plaguing her mind kept her restless and bereft all night long.

did you have so little faith in her to keep her word to you in your marriage? she agonized from within the cotton sheets. were you so certain that she would stray from you, when you were the most lovely creature she'd ever laid eyes on? did you think so little of yourself, that you would assume her gaze would not linger on you for long?

she will not tolerate this, she decides. she will not allow you to brace to be made a fool of because of your fears that she is a victim to baser instincts.

she storms up to your quarters the very next morning, well before an appropriate hour for a future duchess to be awake. there she waits, until the cock crows and your lady in waiting scurries inside to help you get changed.

and when you exit, swathed in light cottons of palest sage, simon almost loses her words. there you both are again, standing on the side of the street, her soaked to the bone and you bewildered, just like when you'd met.

except it's not. no, the only thing that hasn't changed between then and now is how radiant you are in the early hours.

still, simon has not forgotten what she came here to do. she dips into a low bow before offering her hand to you, which you take with little trepidation. something in her, it breaks—how can you be so calm about the idea of her discarding you in favor of a mistress, as if it truly is nothing of importance?

"your ladyship," she begins, her voice rough with the sleepless emotion she's accumulated over the past few hours. "what you said last night, about me taking a mistress. . ."

she shakes her head, her expression hardening. your hand twitches in hers, and she grasps it with both of hers as if you'll flee like a bird if she loosens her hold on you even marginally.

"i won't do it. i can't." her voice is firmer than you've ever heard it. "you are to be my wife, and i intend to uphold our vows."

her lips press fervently to the back of your hand, both hands clasping onto you for dear life as if you are some goddess incarnate and she seeks salvation in you. like this, bowed before you with your fingers tethering her to this moment, she feels undone.

"do you truly think me the sort of woman who would betray you so callously?" simon practically pleads. "i may be many things, your ladyship, but loyal i am. and i swear to you, here and now, that i will never, ever take a mistress. our marriage vows will be the only ones that matter to me, i swear to you."

she turns your hand in hers, presses a kiss to your palm where your thumb meets your wrist. your perfume, something light and decadent, rises a sob in her.

"you are my north star, my lady," she whispers brokenly, eyes meeting yours with a desperation that borders on lovesickness. "and i will never stray from you."

and, because you have no desire to do anything else in that moment, you swoop down into the sudden billow of your skirts and kiss her.