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âFate?â Corinne echoed, setting her tea on the table. âWhat a questionâŚâ
Her voice held the warmth of flattery received like a much longed for gift; it also carried the tremor of an unspoken question regarding the deserving of it. âWould you like to know if I believe in it? When things happen in the world - good things, bad things, things that defy belief - those events are often attributed to fate. Do I believe that all living things are guided by it, to weave this story already long written in stone, our outcomes inescapable? I think I would very much like not to believe in that.â
âIf you mean to ask a different questionâŚâ she paused, and the pause held the weight of a mountain. There were things that simply could not be given voice. âI should not continue to presume. Iâve already been impolite.â
Sunlight warmed the small cafe with vibrant rays, signaling nothing other than mid-day as Castellan bombarded yet another stranger with their curiosities. âI do believe I owe you an apology for being rude, Iâve barged into your peace.â A soft tone responded, resolute, careful.
Down their worn hands dipped to collect the chair opposite from the woman, elongated fingers lightly gripping the top of its structure. Angelic features quietly searched her visage, before a soft breath escaped thin tiers.
âNo, that is what I mean. We often swear that we meet people on the basis of fate- that some are sworn to be lovers because of being at the right place, at the right time.â A pause, then, as golden hues shifted to look towards the windows respectively.
Those tiers shifted into a mournful smile, âStar crossed, foolish loversâŚâ A breath expelled then from their lungs, before broad shoulders pulled back to stand proper once more.
âCan I buy you a coffee for your trouble?âÂ
@her-gilded-cage |
Corinne observed the stranger closely, not with the appropriate caution that strangers should be afforded, but with the curiosity of one who hasnât met a stranger in a while and enjoys nothing more than novelty. Love was not a thing the lady knew intimately. It was the subject of many cherished novels, and - rarely - a topic whispered about over tea. For a stranger to bring it up so casually was fascinating, if not scandalous.Â
The remains of her tea lie forgotten at the edge of the table.Â
âIf you donât mind the burden of a small deception, you may,â she wore the soft smile of a very small-time criminal. âShould the consequences of my actions arrive, it would be better for you if those consequences believe I purchased my own coffee,â her smile grew by a fraction, amused and tired in equal measure. It was the gentlest escape route she could offer.
@resolutedefender
((She is not allowed, but she seldom lets that stop her from doing anything, tbh.))
Castellan met the weight of her gaze with none other than the kindness of their own, stalwart, calm, and oblivious. Golden strands floated carelessly over halcyon hues, careless, despite their ownerâs inherent sense of control. As if mindful of this fact, nimble fingers quickly arose and swiped back those strands to return to normalcy.
âDo those consequences have a name?â A low timbre inquired, thin lips quirked into a boyish smirk that spelt knowledge of being in on the crime. Carefully, a broad frame skirted the edge of the table, intent to lean a narrow hip against its respective structure.
Shoulders drew themselves forward as the knight dropped their voice lower, intent for only private conversation. âAre you in need of assistance?â This question was flourished with the furrow of a brow, concern not only evident- but genuine. Â
@her-gilded-cage
âThey may,â the brunette answered with a half smile. âBut perhaps we should start with ours? I am Corinne,â she dipped her head respectfully. âAnd I assure you that Iâm quite alright. It just so happens that Iâve made a habit of doing things that people who like to talk find unbecoming of a magisterâs wife. Their talk causes my poor husband grief, and my very expensive personal guard is sent to fetch me before I can cause any more damage to his reputation.âÂ
Her countenance was warm, her tone playful. If there was even a hint of bitterness in her, it was nigh undetectable. By all appearances, she was - at least as much as one could be - at peace with whatever circumstances led her here. âThis place is quiet enough that if Iâm lucky, no one who concerns themselves with my affairs will see me. If there are no witnesses to the sin, then I can not rightly be lectured for it, can I?â
The question, though cheeky, held some weight, and she regarded the stranger with brows slightly raised.
âFate?â Corinne echoed, setting her tea on the table. âWhat a questionâŚâ
Her voice held the warmth of flattery received like a much longed for gift; it also carried the tremor of an unspoken question regarding the deserving of it. âWould you like to know if I believe in it? When things happen in the world - good things, bad things, things that defy belief - those events are often attributed to fate. Do I believe that all living things are guided by it, to weave this story already long written in stone, our outcomes inescapable? I think I would very much like not to believe in that.â
âIf you mean to ask a different questionâŚâ she paused, and the pause held the weight of a mountain. There were things that simply could not be given voice. âI should not continue to presume. Iâve already been impolite.â
Sunlight warmed the small cafe with vibrant rays, signaling nothing other than mid-day as Castellan bombarded yet another stranger with their curiosities. âI do believe I owe you an apology for being rude, Iâve barged into your peace.â A soft tone responded, resolute, careful.
Down their worn hands dipped to collect the chair opposite from the woman, elongated fingers lightly gripping the top of its structure. Angelic features quietly searched her visage, before a soft breath escaped thin tiers.
âNo, that is what I mean. We often swear that we meet people on the basis of fate- that some are sworn to be lovers because of being at the right place, at the right time.â A pause, then, as golden hues shifted to look towards the windows respectively.
Those tiers shifted into a mournful smile, âStar crossed, foolish loversâŚâ A breath expelled then from their lungs, before broad shoulders pulled back to stand proper once more.
âCan I buy you a coffee for your trouble?âÂ
@her-gilded-cage |
Corinne observed the stranger closely, not with the appropriate caution that strangers should be afforded, but with the curiosity of one who hasnât met a stranger in a while and enjoys nothing more than novelty. Love was not a thing the lady knew intimately. It was the subject of many cherished novels, and - rarely - a topic whispered about over tea. For a stranger to bring it up so casually was fascinating, if not scandalous.Â
The remains of her tea lie forgotten at the edge of the table.Â
âIf you donât mind the burden of a small deception, you may,â she wore the soft smile of a very small-time criminal. âShould the consequences of my actions arrive, it would be better for you if those consequences believe I purchased my own coffee,â her smile grew by a fraction, amused and tired in equal measure. It was the gentlest escape route she could offer.
@resolutedefender
((She is not allowed, but she seldom lets that stop her from doing anything, tbh.))
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
âFate?â Corinne echoed, setting her tea on the table. âWhat a questionâŚâ
Her voice held the warmth of flattery received like a much longed for gift; it also carried the tremor of an unspoken question regarding the deserving of it. âWould you like to know if I believe in it? When things happen in the world - good things, bad things, things that defy belief - those events are often attributed to fate. Do I believe that all living things are guided by it, to weave this story already long written in stone, our outcomes inescapable? I think I would very much like not to believe in that.â
âIf you mean to ask a different questionâŚâ she paused, and the pause held the weight of a mountain. There were things that simply could not be given voice. âI should not continue to presume. Iâve already been impolite.â
Corinne awoke in an empty bed, and for a brief and blissful moment, it was as if sheâd never married. Today was her birthday, and her husband was gone. His absence was her gift. She considered how to spend her day, alone save for her overqualified nanny. It was flattering, in a way: she had become so unmanageable to her husband that he had hired not just any man, but a highly decorated, elite soldier to keep her in line. Family friend or no, Corinne found Rynathilâs qualifications personally validating. Lorien claimed that this arrangement was âfor her protectionâ, but she was his wife for months without any guard. It was only when the rumors began that he became so concerned with her safety:
âMy son saw the magisterâs wife in the woods, bowhunting on a hawkstrider, wearing trousers!âÂ
âThe courier saw Lady Phoenixsong in a tavern in the village down the road! Dressed like a peasant!â
âWhat kind of lady does her own sundry shopping? Can Magister Phoenixsong not afford staff?â
His reputation, her safety - they were one and the same. In her defense, her intent was not to harm his reputation; she simply wanted to experience freedom, fun - a life worth living! Afternoon tea was all well and good, but why couldnât a lady ride her hawkstrider through the woods, or shop in the market unattended? It all felt⌠silly.
Master Rynathil (so-called by the household) had become a near-constant presence for her. He was quiet, as unobtrusive as a shadow could be, and yet he was present. He took no more space than he needed, yet he occupied it with unspoken confidence. He was cordial, highly observant, and far more tolerant of her than would please Lorien to know. It was a funny thing, how some of the same behaviors that previously sparked rumors were suddenly unconcerning when performed in the company of a respectable man. He was her cover, and there was comfort in that.
She made him escort her to the market.
-
Corinne could have worn the ribbon to dinner - her husband wouldnât ask her about it - but she instead did what she did not want to: she removed it, moments after Rynathil had gone. Then, with greater care than she gave most things, she hid it.Â
Rynathil saw her in a way that she had so desperately longed to be seen, and yet - in spite of all that longing - her heart had not been prepared for it. She stared at the mirror, eyes hazy and unfocused, heedless of her own reflection, and wondered if he also wanted to be seen - if he even thought she could see him.Â
When the master of the house returned home, Corinne refused dinner. She was tired, perhaps even ill. Lorien didnât press her any further, not today.Â
The ribbon would not be seen again.
@daily-writing-challenge
@gentle-undoing
Author's Note: This is a companion piece to this one. It is not what I wanted it to be, but I had to let go of my ambition for it due to unforeseen circumstances that have not relented. Wish me better luck tomorrow!
The whisper of the ash wood comb gliding through Lorienâs hair made Corinne drowsy. The maintenance of his hair, which was longer and thicker than hers and the enviable color of palest cream, had become a matter of ritual for them. It was intimacy that didnât have to be forced, platonic and non-threatening. Sometimes he sat in the vanity chair and she stood above him, other times - like now - he sat at the edge of their bed and she knelt behind.
Lorien was not unattractive. On the contrary, he was almost certainly the most conventionally attractive man Corinne had ever laid eyes on. He wasnât much older than her at all. His complexion was clear and bright, his features regal, his form almost statuesque. He was charming, too, in his own way. Reserved, but courtly, exceedingly clever, and - in the absence of company - warm and affectionate. In another lifetime, Corinne would have wanted to marry Magister Phoenixsong.
With a gentle hand and an almost reverent touch, he took her free hand and brought it to his lips, kissing her hand as if upon first meeting before letting go. âThank you, darling,â he told her, soft-spoken but clear and warm. He always thanked her for combing his hair, and just about any other time she was a good, compliant girl. It hurt her feelings.
Theyâd been wed for almost a year now. Sheâd grown used to his name, to the family estate heâd inherited, to the life he enabled her to live. Truly, there wasnât anything bad about it, except that sheâd had no choice in any of it. Her parents were desperate for the approval of his parents, for the resources they could provide, the influence this marriage could give them - and Corinne was an obedient daughter.
Lorien had never forced himself on her. He would never dream of doing so. In fact, he was irritatingly compassionate throughout their engagement, their wedding, and everything that came after. She had no excuse to hate him, and so she didnât, though to call him âfriendâ might have been a stretch. They had consummated their marriage, not because Corinne changed her mind, but because the pressure from both of their parents was unbearable - and they both knew that the focus of that pressure would soon be on the production of an heir.
âOf course,â she acquiesced, setting the comb aside, her brown eyes fixed on the intricate design carved into its handle. More often than not, she suspected that he might actually love her - or the idea of her, at least - in his own way, or think he did⌠but what did she know about love, anyway, except that she didnât love him?
He turned his head to peer over his shoulder at her, his blue eyes glowing faintly with the arcane energy that was as much a part of him as the silken hair that fell past his shoulderblades. âTonight?â He asked. The request came rarely - too rarely for her to justify a denial, even though she knew heâd accept one with grace.
âOf course,â she repeated, knowing that soon there would be a sense of urgency and concern about timing. It would fray Lorienâs nerves, truly, to do that to her - but he was an obedient son.
In the aftermath of the sort of passionless and mediocre sex that only previously virginal young elves in an arranged marriage could have, Corinneâs thoughts wandered. It was only natural that they wandered to the only new thing in this life that had grown monotonous: the man her husband had hired to be her⌠keeper, for lack of a better word. Heâd been introduced to her as Rynathil Embershade, member of the Sunsworn and a close friend of the family, though sheâd never heard of him before the day they met.
Rynathil was very unlike Lorien. He was - at least in comparison - a bear of a man: taller, far hairier, with broader shoulders and bigger hands. He was weathered and scarred and so much wiser to the world than either of them. He was, compared to Lorien, gregarious - so much so, that it wasnât long before he and Lorien were chatting almost like old friends; Corinne had never seen the Magister so far outside his shell. There was a warmth to Rynathil that extended to her, but it wasnât the same. It came in measured doses, wrapped in layers - propriety, a contract, and only he knew what else - and that was doubtlessly for the best.
Trapped as she was, her mind couldnât help but wander places it had absolutely no business being.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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