#fuf

The great hall of the Castle Beowulf rang with laughter, the kind that came swiftly after too much meat and spread just as easily, like spilt wine creeping across pale linen. Warmth and mirth roared in the voices of the gathered lords and ladies of the Underreach. Firelight leapt along the white bear banners and polished wood. The air was thick, clinging to furs and cloaks, heavy with the scent of roast and grease, of smoked oak and ale, and beneath it all, the faint, lingering sweetness of wine. It was a warm room, a lively room, a joyous one.

It was such a shame you felt none of it.

You sat very still beside your husband, your hands folded neatly in your lap, though your fingers pressed together more tightly than intended. Your spine had been held so straight for so long that it had begun to ache beneath the weight of it. The goblet before you stood untouched; you could not recall when it had last been filled, nor whether you had ever truly drunk from it. The noise of the hall seemed to reach you from a distance, dulled at the edges, as though listened to from behind a closed door. 

It was expected that you would feel nervous, you told yourself, and yet the thought brought you no comfort. In a matter of minutes—minutes—you were to consummate your marriage with a man you did not know, a man whose voice you had heard only once, when you exchanged your wedding vows. 

Vergil of House Sparda sat at your side, close enough that you could hear the small, measured sounds of him. The scrape of the knife against bone, the quiet rhythm of his breathing, the dull knock of his cup upon the table when he set it down. Yet he might as well have been seated at the far end of the hall. He did not look at you, not once, not even by chance. His gaze seemed to rest nowhere in particular, drifting from his plate to the fire to the far wall beyond, as though none of it concerned him. Watching him, you found a strange and fragile comfort in the thought that he did not appear to enjoy the evening either, that he was enduring it just as much as you were. 

In a little while, you would be alone with him. In a little while, you would give yourself to him. A stranger.

From an early age, you had been taught to guard your virtue, to keep yourself from the pull of passion, to refrain from sin or worse, to arouse it in others. A maiden's worth lay in her restraint, in her patience, in the careful art of preserving herself for the man who would one day be her true match.

That, at last, you had done well. 

What you had not been prepared for was how little you might know of that man when the moment came. 

The elders had spoken of the match with reverence, of duty, of fortune, of honour. Your family, eternally sworn to House Sparda, had accepted without hesitation. A union with the heir to the Kingdom of the South—and, by extension, the whole of the Underreach—was not an opportunity House Cobrayne had seen in centuries. It was not a thing to question, much less refuse. 

And yet no reasoning, however sound, had quieted the unease that lingered within you.

To lie beside a man you did not know, to give yourself where there had been no word, no love, no choosing and only for purely transactional reasons. Isn’t that what a lady of the night—?

You did not dare to finish the thought. But the feeling remained all the same.

In case reason failed you—and it had—You had resolved upon a simpler plan. You would speak to him. Truly speak, not merely exchange courtesies, but something more, something that might quiet the senseless clamour in your thoughts.

It had seemed a reasonable thing to hope for, at the time.

Perhaps—foolishly, now it seemed—you had imagined that a passing remark might draw him out, then he might prove to be, if not charming, then at least courteous. A word answered with a word, and then another, until the silence between them ceased to feel so vast. It would not take much. A few eloquent remarks, perhaps, maybe a compliment of your beauty or wits. Enough that you might find some small ease in his presence, enough that the rest of the night might follow as it ought.

But the man gave no sign of it.

Vergil Sparda concerned himself only with the food before him and the wine in his cup. The hall, the joy, the ceremony itself, none of it appeared to touch him. He did not look at you, nor at anyone else, and there was something in that indifference that made your effort feel, all at once, both necessary and futile.

He will not speak, you thought, a small, stubborn resolve rising against your chest. Not unless I make him.

So you turned toward him, perhaps a shade too quickly, and forced a smile upon your lips that felt too wide. Drawing breath, you leaned slightly nearer, your voice soft but steady enough to carry.

“What a pleasant evening, my lord—”

“A toast to the newlyweds!”

The voice of King Sparda cut clean across your words, and the hall answered him at once. Cups were lifted, benches scraped against stone, and contentment swelled the room again. Your breath caught in your throat, the words dissolving in the air before being spoken. Whether Vergil noticed your attempt to get his attention, or if he even cared, was uncertain.

Your now father-in-law spoke on, offering his blessing, his voice rich with pride and wine alike, carrying easily through the room as he spoke of union and strength, of the joining of houses long bound by loyalty. Each word was met with approval, with noise, with the eager assent of those who had come to witness it. You followed the cadence of his speech more than the meaning of it, catching pieces here and there without ever quite grasping the whole.

Until his tone suddenly shifted, and with it, the room. He turned then, looking directly at the two of you. 

Vergil straightened at once.

“Not many moons ago,” The King spoke, and for the first time that night, the room grew quiet “a great tragedy struck the Underreach. One that brought us victory, aye— but not without loss, not without scars left unhealed.” A solemn cast settled over his features. You could not tell if it was a look of respectful, empty formality, or one of grief... Or perhaps, something closer to wrath held tightly by chains. “But let the pain lie where it belongs.”The king raised his chin toward the young prince. “Tonight, we look forward to it. With my son and his bride, a new beginning shall be born.”

He raised his cup proudly toward the ceiling, his eyes never left Vergil, never once turning toward you. “A toast, high and strong, to my son—The rightful heir of House Sparda, and future lord of Castle Beowulf!”

The hall erupted.

A roar that seemed to be born deep from their chest and just near the heart before breaking free in voice. You felt it in your bones and in the stones beneath your very feet. The whole castle answered to the King, and for a moment, the entire realm did as well.

It came upon you suddenly— A swelling sense of pride and strength, unfamiliar and undeniable, pulsing from your veins, threading itself through the unease that you had held all evening. You were not merely a bride seated beside a stranger anymore. You were part of something greater, something that will outlast the night and yourself. For your house, for your legacy, for the kingdom…

You turned toward him, drawn by the energy of it all, your smile softening now, no longer forced, hopeful now. Maybe you will search and find the same feeling in him, that there might be something shared between you two in that moment, some small reflection of what had stirred within you: pride, satisfaction, purpose, anything. 

But Vergil did not look at you. His gaze remained fixed upon his father.

And yet, you kept trying to find something in his expression, only to be met by a blank void rather than the eyes of a man. There was no prince next to you, there was only absence— a solemn, empty and somehow, defeated absence. 

“Begone with that long face, brother!”Another voice broke the room, this time completely pulling both Vergil and you from your minds. It was Dante Sparda, your husband's younger twin.  “You’ve yet to enjoy the finest part of the evening.”  His tone was eager, edged with a playful mockery. “Let the bedding ceremony begin!” The hall responded, awakening from their seats in a hoard of cheers. 

And in that instant, the world seemed to tilt.

You had scarcely time to think before hands were upon you—too many hands, blissful hands, eager hands, and above all, masculine hands. They lifted you from your seat as the hall burst into noise around you, a roar of voices rising so suddenly that it shook the very beams above. Someone shouted something coarse in your ear, something that sent another into a loud, unrestrained chuckle. You were no longer grounded, no longer steady, but raised above them all as though you weighed nothing at all. 

Your shoes were gone almost at once, tugged free and cast aside. Your coat followed, then the heavier layers of your gown, fingers working at laces and clasps with a practised boldness born of the bedding tradition. The hands were not rough, not truly, but neither were they gentle, and the difference mattered little as the chill of the hall found your skin where moments before you had been covered. The air seemed sharper now, biting where it touched, and you felt yourself tense against it, against the closeness of so many bodies and the strangeness of it all. 

You caught glimpses of the faces as they carried you. Among them, you caught sight of your uncle, Alban. His hands were firm at your side, guiding rather than pulling, keeping you from being jostled too roughly and ensuring no one grew too bold in their enthusiasm. There was care in his hold, and you clung to it without thinking. Near him, the younger brother giggled openly, his face flushed with drink and delight; still so young that it was the first time he was ever drunk. Your brother-in-law, Dante, grinned with the careless delight of a man who did not have to endure what he celebrated. 

Another lord from Fortuna city, whose name you could not recall, leaned in close enough that you could smell the wine and stew of his breath. He was whispering about the groom and about the“monster” who was eagerly waiting to meet you. That sent the others into a fresh batch of laughter.

You tried to smile with them, but it came out thin, brittle and vanished at once beneath the noise.

Across the hall, the groom feared no better fate, perhaps even worse. 

The women had taken the young prince as the men had taken you, their voices rising just as loudly, their hands no less bold as they dragged him upward into their midst. You could not see him clearly through the shifting bodies, only fragments—a shoulder, the fall of his hair, the brief outline of his form as it was pulled and turned. There was humour there too, sharp and mischievous. The women gave teasing compliments and lewd remarks to the groom while roughly tearing whatever outerwear he was wearing. It was not easy for you to fully discern what was happening between the two crowds. The only sound you heard clearly was the snapping of leather, followed by the heavy thud of his belt striking the floor. 

You strained then, just once, to catch a proper glimpse of him, to see his face, to know if he endured this as you did. If there might be, in all of this, some shared understanding that neither of them had chosen this moment, though both were bound to it.

But you saw nothing that you could hold to. If anything, he seemed only… diminished. As if his mind were so far away from the crowd that —whatever this humiliating ceremony might be— It could never reach him. 

Both crowds moved at once, carrying the groom and you through the corridors, their voices trailing after them in echoes that bounced along stone and timber, fading only slowly with distance. The torchlight burned lower here, steadier, casting longer shadows that stretched along the walls as they passed.

For a brief, fragile moment, you let yourself yield to it. Cradled in your uncle’s arms, half-undressed and half-lost in the confusion of it all, you felt more like a child and less than a woman, carried from hearth to bed by familiar hands, drowsy and safe, untouched by whatever might await you in the morning. There was a comfort in it, faint but real, something you had not known you needed until you felt it slipping through your grasp.

You wished, then, to hold it. To remain there, suspended between what had been and what must come, where nothing had yet been asked of you.

But that, too, passed.

The chamber doors loomed ahead, and the giggles rose once more as they reached them, swelling as though the moment itself demanded it. The door was thrown open with a heavy kick, and you were carried inside and set down upon the waiting bed, the motion abrupt enough to leave you momentarily unsteady. The furs beneath you shifted and sank under your weight, thick and warm, carrying the faint scent of clean linen and smoked wood. It was a prepared room, meticulously arranged for what was to follow.

The groom came next.

The women brought him in with far less care, though no less whimsy, leaving him standing at the foot of the bed as they withdrew one by one, their voices trailing behind them in passing shadows of jest and lewd remark. 

Your uncle was the last to go. He paused there for a moment, his hand resting briefly at the handle. He gave you a crooked, familiar grin and a knowing, playful wink before stepping back at last.

The door closed. And so did your world.

You did not realise you had risen from the bed until you were already standing. Once you straightened, you lifted your chin to look him in the eye, for the first time since your wedding, you truly looked, without the distraction of the hall or the comfort of distance.

His clothes and hair were in complete disarray; his shirt was open, hanging crookedly and loose, and his leather jerkin had been hastily torn open by the women’s hands. His coat, gloves and all his metal plates and belts were gone. Through the mess, he was perfectly composed, yet his eyes betrayed no emotion. He was every inch a Sparda, you thought:

Taller than most men, muscular and broad through the shoulders, the kind of build that was not often seen of a courty prince. His skin, pale as snow, bore the mark of wind and the cruelty of southern winter. His hair was white, as all of Sparda’s royals were to be, untouched by age or time. His eyes, a blue so light they seemed almost grey, called to mind stone beneath a frozen lake. There was a severity to him, a sharpness that ran from browbone to jaw, leaving little room for softness.  Handsome, you supposed, though the sternness of his face made him seem as though he had already endured more years than he had lived. 

Vergil found no reason to keep delaying what was already expected. He circled the bed in two long strides toward you. His hands rose toward you, finding the tangled ties of your underdress where they lay loosened against your chest. His fingers moved with a steady, practised efficiency, more akin to unfastening armour than undressing a bride. The knots yielded easily beneath his touch.

“My lord, please, I–” He did not stop; the last of the ties had nearly come undone. The fabric at your chest had already loosened, slipping beneath his hands, threatening to fall away entirely with the next pull.

“Wait, I said!”

The strength of your voice broke through the moment, and you had very much startled him.

He looked at you with confused, wide-open eyes. Your command had halted him where he stood, yet his hands remained lifted, motionless in the air for a moment longer; only once you spoke again did he draw them back slowly.

“My sincerest apologies, my lord… but I cannot.” You took a step back, putting distance between yourself and the man, one hand finding the edge of the table behind you, the other trying to cover yourself. “I truly cannot. Not with a man whom I know nothing about.”

Vergil tilted his head slightly and looked at you in plain, almost earnest confusion—the same look an adult might give a child when faced with a question so strange, and yet so obvious, that no clear answer presents itself at once.

“I am your husband, and you are my wife.”

“And that is it?” You faltered, though you forced yourself onward “Is that all you are? A husband?”

“For tonight, it is all I need to be.”

“Well, yes… But I would appreciate it if I had the chance to know you better before we consummate our marriage.”

He frowned faintly, his hand lifting in a small, uncertain gesture. What was it you asked of him, truly? His name you knew. His house. His duty. What more could there be to know—his titles, his feats in battle? What would make him, in your eyes, a proper husband? 

He had thought such matters already settled, that you understood your role and duty as plainly as he did his own. Yet, if he were honest, his knowledge of marriage was far from complete. Until very recently, it had never been a concern of his, nor a subject spoken of among the men he kept company with. There might be some custom, some rite of flattering he had to perform before consummation that had not been taught before. Strange, he thought, that such shallow matters should arise now, when the vows were already spoken and the night upon them. He had assumed—incorrectly, it seemed—that they were well past the stage of courting and wooing. Your request struck him as both unusual and unnecessary.

After a few seconds of silence and already noticing his lack of answer, you declared at last, “I’m not ready, that is all. I need time, please, grant it to me, my lord.”

He clasped his hands behind him in response. Now, you spoke in a language he could follow;  commands and pleas. 

“How much time do you require?” He inquired, that solemn expression of him quickly returning to his face, nonetheless, the question was genuine

“I do not know”, you admitted “, It is not a matter of a set time. Tonight, that much I'm sure of. Perhaps more.” You turned away from him, too quickly, as you felt the weight of his gaze crushing you. You reached for the table in front of you. A jug of wine stood there, along with two cups. “We could speak, in the meantime,” You added, the words coming faster now, as though they might fail you if you slowed. You poured before you could lose your nerve. 

“It is settled, then.” 

You turned back, cup in hand. He had already dressed himself, or at least as much as he could after the ladies in the ceremony stripped him of some of his clothes. 

“We will postpone it.”  He was already moved toward the door.

“Thank you, my lord––” 

The door closed behind him before you could finish. 

Vergil made his way toward the hall. He would speak to his father, and to his brother if need be, about the exchange.

He did not like to admit confusion, but he was truly appalled by your request. A wife rejecting a husband on their wedding night was not a thing he had ever heard of, nor one he had considered possible. But again, the nuances and trivialities of marriage were never something he gave much importance to.

What he did know was simpler: Forcing oneself upon a woman—wife or no— was a dishonourable and despicable act he would not claim.

The doors to the hall opened before him. Noise and heat met him at once, spilling into the corridor in a sudden rush, sharp after the stillness he had left behind. The feast had not slowed in his absence; if anything, it had grown more unruly. In another moment, the sudden return of the heir might have drawn great notice. But now,  the music grew too loud, their dancing too big, and the people too drunk to notice him. He was grateful for it. 

“That was rather quick, was it not, brother?” 

The voice of Dante came at his side, easy and mocking; he was already inebriated, but his younger brother was never too drunk to miss an opportunity to tease him. Before Vergil could answer, another voice followed, heavier and measured: 

“Well,” said his father, resting a hand upon his son’s shoulder. “I should have expected as much. You have ever been… a direct man”

Vergil spoke firmly, slightly annoyed. “Nothing happened,” then admitted, “She refused.”

A glance passed between the three men, followed by a slow blink from his father.

“Refuse what?” His father asked.

“She refused me.”

“Hell above, brother,” Dante let out a short breath of disbelief, “what did you do to the poor woman?” 

“Nothing.” Vergil’s answer came at once, swift and defensive.“Nothing at all. She did not let me get close to her.” His tone betrayed neither shame nor discomfort, only a slight confusion, almost imperceptible to the ears of strangers. “She asked that we postpone the matter.”

There was a brief silence between the three men.

“And you agreed to it?” the king inquired. 

“What was I meant to do instead?”

His father gave him a pause before speaking, “Aye, you did rightly, son.” He said at last, reaching for a goblet and lifting it to his lips. “Force is for our enemies, not for our wives.” He emptied his cup “You are both young yet; there is no cause to sour the beginning of your marriage where no haste is required… in that regard, at least.” He paused then, his eyes dropping briefly to the empty goblet in his hand, as though weighing whether to speak further.  “However, do see that the matter is resolved with care— and with some swiftness. The court still expects an heir of yours in due time.”

Vergil gave a single nod in response. He turned without another word, not waiting for whatever jest his brother might offer, nor for any further wisdom from his father. He was already too tired, and he had little patience to spare. He passed between tables without pause, without greeting, without so much as a glance spared for those who might have called his name, and made for the far doors that led away from the feast. 

Behind him, the laughter continued. Before him, the corridors lay dark and quiet. He did not think of you when he walked. As he could only feel the pressure on his shoulders that remained. It had followed him from the hall to his chambers and to his bed, though he had thought he had left it there. The weight. That dull, unyielding weight of another expectation unmet.

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