Sleep doesn't come so easily
Synopsis: Being married off as a bargaining chip by the Tyrant of an Emperor was surely going to seal her fate with sleepless nights and terror ā or so she though
Pairing: Bakugo x f!reader
Tags/Warnings: Period typical misogyny, mentions of war, Arranged Marriage AU, Princess!reader, Prince!Bakugo
Sleep does not come as easily as before.
What do great leaders do when they have exhausted all options in War?
The princess was at her pinnacle of her youth, sheltered from the atrocities crawling beyond the carriage, the frosted window's mesmerizing portraits inadvertently posing as distractors. Whoever installed it devised it with great thought; glorify a womanās subservience in colored glass to forever keep them ignorant to the actual threats to their womanhood. Actual threats to their livelihood.
She had to give credit where credit's due. The Emperor's artisans had once more outdone themselves.
It is a shame he took every maiden of the Winter Manor to be a fool.
Her fingers stilled in her lap, detained from tightening into fists. She only abstained out of fear of crinkling the skirt, her overbearing Auntās taunts blaring from the back of her mind. They were delicate treasures crafted from white kid leather, the soft skin of goats, the last of its kind still surviving in the Bludgeoned Cliffs. Tarnishing these would not be an affront to her image, but an impairment upon the one family heirloom she is allowed to keep to herself.
Nobody knew such skilled craftsmen traversed their desolate land. Another reason to compliment the fool of the Duke, for in his wasteful opulence did he pave the way for hidden arts and cultures to be thrive and be recognized. Nonetheless, a nation built upon greed can only uplift its citizens so much before its eventual collapse.
The protection of art starts with that of its artists. What was the point of the aristocrat's patronage if blameless civilians were forced into mandatory conscription? True, It was just a measly two year service.
A measly two year time window for their deaths.
If the Empireās leaders assessed War with the same rigor and meticulousness they regarded their courtesans and winemakers with, then perhaps her carriage would be traversing past gardens instead of graveyards.
The war had not simply killed people. It slaughtered people from all walks of life, ending lineages of artists, terminating generations of sculptors, leaving their museums and galleries weeping in dust. Only their academicians and physicians survived. The short lived victory soon turned into misery as they were transformed into the Emperor's strategy puppets. The motherlandās surrounding enemies were relentless in their pursuits. She could not specify whether they stemmed from revenge or barbarous intentions. Record after record overlapped their testimonials, each glorifying and dehumanizing them in an instant.
No doubt an imprint of timeās most notorious characteristic.
History always repeats itself.
Having slipped deep into her trance, she did not realize she had lost track of time until a sliver of sunlight stung her reddened eyes, squeezing them shut. Gone was the dreary plains outside, replaced by the hunkered figure of a man clad in white before her.
The woman continued blinking, attempting to focus her blurry vision as her migraine subsided, materializing her husband before her. Contrary to her poised figure, he sat slouching, leaning against the window with sagging shoulders as a permanent frown anchored his crimson eyes.
Heat flashed through her body, and she had to remind herself to not clench her fingers again.
What do great leaders do when they have exhausted all options in War?
Her husband twitched, his neck twisting as if he could sense her searing glare upon his ash blonde hair. And he glared back, with equal fervor and ire. She swallowed the nervousness down her constricted throat.
They auction off their bargaining chips as surrender as a pledge of allegiance.
Her chest deflated, an exhausted sigh escaping painted lips as she dropped her head. The weight of her veil was comparable to ten anvils, with the lack of sleep taking effect on her wakefulness. From the corner of her eye, she could trace out the intricate artwork lining the walls of the carriage, a unique pattern distinguishing her empire from the rest, one of the many jewels prized by her people. Hopefully these jewels double for pillows as well.
Without looking, she could gauge her husbandās attention fixed outside, granting her the perfect cover to discreetly lean against the windowsill. What joy he found gawking outside, she would not know. Not that it was any great riddle; famines and droughts have plagued the lands since the onset of political conflict, resulting in patches of withering brown and grey flanking their debaucherous entourage. She stifled a chuckle. It was an ironic coincidence.
She hoped to understand him better, but even she fell victim to his alluring disposition, one renowned for instilling immense awe as well as intense agony in his enemies. The ivory uniform seemed like it was sewn onto his skin, with bulging muscles straining through the sleeves and buttons. Despite the finest gold embroidered on his suit, its lustre was overshadowed by the dim paleness of his hair. It was a subtle yellow, resembling the once blooming wheat fields of the Winter Empire, taking her back to dreary cold days of confinement in the castle, where her afternoon teas were paired with the withering Sun overhead, its magnificent sun rays reduced to a hazy beige devoid of any warmth. There were sharp tufts jutting in all directions from his scalp, though they seemed forcibly tamed for the sake of todayās occasion. She wondered if they always sprung this wild. She wondered if they were just as alive when he was asleep.
The roughness of his hair was replicated around his face. Her husband seemed purely composed of edges: defined jawline, sleek nose, sunken cheeks, thin downturned lips, and drooping eye bags indicating a similar deprivation of sleep, but what captivated her attention the most were thoseā¦eyes.
There was a time when her Empire was flourishing in every domain, with Art acting as their record book for progressing. Colours were the sword of an artisan, and often many invaluable hues, now scarce, had decorated every shop in the markets. She is now one of the few fortunate women who still got to see them, for they decorated the very paintings tinting her windows. Of all the rare colours, it was the ruby sparkle of the painting's blood that captivated her the most, the contrast of blood against snow and of violence against purity that she will remember the most. That was a kind of red one does not see so often, in fact myths sprung surrounding the very mining of that colourās ore, highlighting its value due to its scarcity.
That same red painted his irises, and she knew then, that no matter how exhausted or dead he could appear, a man with such eyes would only blaze as a beacon in any darkness. He will ignite as a weapon no matter in whose clutches he's entrapped in. He will vanquish every foe and intruder, dousing all flora and fauna in bloodshed, hunting down every dissenter in distance, all the while those searing red eyes glare on and on like the harbinger of death.
She felt another breath sharply leave her lips. The rumors of the bloodthirsty prince are not false. Those very eyes that herald dark, ominous notions appeared soā¦soā¦enticing. Something clamped down her heart, shooting chills down her spine and freezing her limbs.
Those fierce eyes were locked onto her own. It took her a few seconds to realize he had been staring back.
She cleared her throat awkwardly, leaning against the wall with zero conspicuousness. She heard him shuffle around as she calmed her nerves, relieved by him being distracted. The distance to a nearby inn was relatively short, a small landmark in the lengthy journey to his palace. Though a warm bed was not far away, her drooping eyelids were forcing her to sleep. It would have been an easy task, she pondered as her head bounced against the carriage walls, if horsemans had not picked such a hazardous road!
Again, she flattened her palms on her knees, pushing all of her body weight sideways, shifting her hips so as to stabilize herself further. This seemed to work. The judgements from her partner were the least of her concern. Her throat was parched, dry as sandpaper. That man seemed to have made his mind up about her. Judging by those shining eyes, it was evident he did not want anything to do with his new wife. And the feelings were mutual.
The bumps were relentless. Sometimes, she would relax her limbs and feel her consciousness drift into sleep, before being interrupted by a bump, snapping her back to reality. It happened multiple times, with the folds of her dress constantly being bunched up from jostling around. She gave up after she almost entered her dreams, when a nasty pothole caused her to collide against the wall harshly.
Her world spun in circles as she massaged her temples, irritation and embarrassment crawling up her nerves as she shielded her face. This must be the icing on the cake, the very determining proof of her ānasty characterā for her husband. She can already feel her cheeks heat up from the possibility of a reprimand. Though thankfully, none was given besides a disgruntled expression.
Her exhaustion forced her eyelids shut, collapsing weary limbs against the decorative lining. She had long given up on presenting herself as well mannered, neck twisting as it struggled to find one comfortable positā
A sharp tug collided her head sideways, widening her eyes in surprise.
The seat in front of her was empty.
Because her husband chose to sit beside her. Filling in the cold space with his warmth and muscle. His hand continued fiddling with her veil, brushing the mesh away from her face so that she could lean comfortably against his shoulder. Her heartbeat shot through the roof the further his hand, his bare gloveless rough hands neared her skin, heating up her body with a warmth she couldn't label as embarrassment orā¦orā¦orā
āYou seem tired, wife.ā
Her eyebrows shot up as her hands crumpled her skirt.
Wife. A title she anticipated a wave of disgust to follow its utterance.
His wife. Strange feelings of hope blossomed in her chest
āThe Residence's not far away, but you'll break your head by the time we reach.ā All blossom was vanquished by annoyance, and she wished he could see her sneer
āSo sleep.ā Electric sparks shot down her spine as his arm wrapped around her back and squeezed her shoulder - much smaller than his - in reassurance.
She didn't know what to make of his actions, didn't know if this was another one of his manipulative tactics, the calm before the storm, or just a kind gesture from a calculative leader to his cautious princess.
Also another calm before a storm.
All sorts of theories were swarming her mind, nothing new from her usual self. It seemed no matter how carefully or skillfully she treads, she will never quieten the paranoia that always kept her on edge.
But as her eyes succumbed to sleep, she realized for once her mind had quietened, welcoming blissful, uninterrupted, peaceful sleep.
