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Everyone knows that your husband is unfaithful; it is question of who doesn’t know rather than who is aware. Yet you know what you are here for: pretty showpiece made to demonstrate what good breeding you shall provide for your lineage when the time comes.

Though, it appears that the time will never come, considering that your spouse’s eyes, and hands, wander. 

You know better than to contest it; you know the price that you will pay for derision or distance. So you play the part: awaken to handmaidens that rouse you in a solitary bed, let them entrap you in delightfully colored garments that belie the grave expression you are used to bearing. And you sit beside an unfaithful man when court is in session. 

Sometimes, you wish that your husband were not so accomplished—so very revered, so very beloved in Arthur’s Court. To see the way that sunlight catches the coil of his locks in such beautiful fashion, the arch of handsome jaw, the gleam of wandering eyes. 

Perhaps then there would be those that have sympathy for you. Save the people who have declined to share your marital bed with him. Or those who are also without agency to defend themselves. 

Perhaps it would make court today more tolerable, as you stand besides him in waiting. Watch him shift from foot-to-foot with restlessness that seems more irritable as of late.

He takes deliberation to avoid even sparing you glance, though you have been gusseted and laced into manner of colorful garments. Though you are every part the perfect spouse that he does not deserve. 

As he whispers to the squire besides him in muttered invocation “How I’d lop arm and leg so that I could retire to stables—Catriona says she has a surprise for me.” 

You try not to wince. Try to keep brave face as you think of that pretty-faced maid that casts insolent glances at you when you dine with your husband and she is forced to serve you.

You know she dreams of the privilege to wear your clothes, to eat your fine food, to be fucked officially by your husband. But the shine wears off for your husband quick. There will be others. 

This is the only reason that you keep your head high. At least, until squire engaged in conversation mutters back “Thought you were to see Tess.” 

You stiffen at this name that does not make registered documentation in your head. That does not ring spark of familiarity. In the distance, you are vaguely aware of Arthur thanking Galahad and Jason Blood for services rendered to the kingdom once more. 

“And I will, tomorrow behind the mill,” Your husband chortles back in low meter, “Should a man know to keep his mouth shut.”

They laugh for jokes that carry little water for you. But internally you are broiling with emotion. As the crowd erupts with applause for achievements that matter little, and you are forced like marionette on string to play spouse—and you clap. When you swallow, you wonder why it is so difficult to do so. 

When assembly is dismissed, you turn to your husband, lovely and arrogant and liar—and find that he is already walking away. Your hands clasp with such immediacy at the couplet of sleeve that it surprises you—and it surprises him as well. 

He turns, and you are spared the first glimpse he has squandered your way. And his eyes are cold—and his jaw is set. So bereft of the warmth that he will regale to passerby or woman that he wants to fuck. 

“What have you need of?” Your husband asks, roughly, brusquely—not in manner that such esteemed lord should speak to his esteemed spouse. You find yourself stalled for words, especially in the face of the impatience that he so openly displays, the derision that curls arc of those full-bodied lips. 

“I had only thought,” You say, smothering need to express nervousness through the tic of your fingers, “That we might lunch together in the gardens.” 

His eyes regain a honed edge—apathy. Contempt, at best. “You are not wanting for company. You shall not require mine to go, nor mine permission.” 

Something spurs in the pit of your belly, a coalescing of emotions that you know you should be well-used to—but it burns white hot. “I would only wish for the company of mine husband.” 

He scoffs—as though he, too, is aware of the nominal quality of the title he bears. “And I would wish for reprieve from castle grounds.” 

You don’t know what motivates your mouth to move in articulation as it does. “I was not made to think the stables were not part of castle grounds.” 

Your husband draws still. Picturesque display of chivalrous beauty made beatifically malicious as he stares down at you. As he comprehends what you are aware of and considers best path of dialogue to proceed. 

He closes in with deliberate step—to passerby, it would be the way that loving couple embraces each other, the way his hand settles on your shoulder, his other to bid your chin look to him. 

“You shall not,” He directs with glorious, chiseled smile, “Deprive me of mine entitlements.” 

His hand clenches about your shoulder to agony with such alacrity you can only gasp. But he holds you still enough in the anchoring of his grip that you cannot move away as he leans in, almost as though to share kiss. 

“Nor, should you behave,” He whispers in shell of your ear, “Shall I deprive you of yours.” 

You go still, knowing you are at dangerous precipice. And when he presses a kiss to the apple of your cheek, it is as if flint scratches upon steel. He withdraws, leaving the painful afterimage of his hand clenched upon your shoulder, bolstered by buoyant smile once more. 

“Good mid-day, my love,” He says; and to the innocent witness, they would not presume the derision that he speaks it with. But you alone hold the spectacle of his eyes that stare at you. 

And when he turns to leave—you can only watch the departure of his impressive figure in suffocating immobility. You are left standing a long while in the perimeter of King Arthur’s emptying court as you continue arc of gaze in the direction whence he left. 

You are stiff-legged as you retire from the courtroom, unaware of pair of eyes that watch you as you go. Trapped in the claustrophobia of your internal dialogue, you can only make familiar trail that you know to the gardens. Edenic in nature, dotted in clustered interval with seasonal flowers that make aromatic bouquet. Something beautiful to appreciate in the midst of such mundane horrors. 

So you find yourself, reposed upon marble bench underneath the long-armed, yawning branches of Yew tree, beset on all sides by bifurcated snapdragon and far-reaching lilies.

You are so busy wallowing in self-pity as you consider your fate—one of pretty, paralytic captivity—that you are unaware that you are awaited by audience until they make themselves known. 

Your name is such familiar yet melodic note on their tongue that you cannot help but find mesmerizing quality to it. As you find those sharp blue eyes that are watching you, have been watching you, summoned by well-known vessel. 

“Twas not mine intention to disturb,” Sir Jason Blood bows in typical modicum of respect, “But to request pleasure of thine company.” 

You find yourself at lack of response as you look at that angular face, as you consider those piercing eyes. How he befits such different archetype of beauty than your husband, who is of the classical type. This Jason Blood is cut from different, melancholic quality. 

“Oh,” You begin, remembering your propriety, remembering your duties, “Mine company is not privilege you need seek permission for, Sir Jason.” 

Perhaps there is ironic echo considering your previous conversation with your husband, though there is no way that your present company could know. Yet he speaks. 

“Jason,” He corrects you, and there is such stark delivery to his request you can only look back, “Was it not Jason when we were young?” 

“Were it was,” You agree, smoothing out the pleats of your sleeve, “Though we have since let youth pass us by.” 

“And still,” Jason returns in such neutral manner, “Your beauty remains untouched as it was years before.” 

You duck your head—knight of the Round Table he is, but you are married and he is not. This marks the intention of the conversation in different manner, with onus of responsibility on you to summon back etiquette. 

And yet still heat slinks under the sinew of your skin at the compliment. And you must resist the smile that wishes to make presence on your mouth. 

“You do me kindness, Jason,” You reply stiffly to the snapdragons that bow and bend in passing breeze—it is easier to regard them than the intense cant of those consumptive eyes. “It is heartening to see friendly face on these grounds.” 

Perhaps it is not necessary to emphasize syllable upon friendly—but you cannot be without attempt. Especially in such open-aired, public setting. 

This is why you are unprepared for Jason’s reply. “Your husband defiles the sanctity of your marriage.” 

Your eyes fly up with such immediacy, your body draws rigid with such instantaneous inertia that you can only stare. Can only utter in urgent whisper, “Sir Jason—” 

“And you are in want of better prospects befitting person of your station,” He draws closer, “And of fine character of quality.” 

You are looking askance for suitable exit, for proper means to leave this conversation. Yet that implacable approach is not stymied as he begins to corner you into what was once comfortable escape from your troubles. 

“Sir Jason, your words are unwarranted and without merit,” You begin, finding your footing on shaky ground. The words ring so blatantly false as you look at that encroaching figure. “Surely you do not carry such sentiment for your brother-in-arms.” 

“Were he my blood brother I would consider abortive measure,” Jason says, “And allow him painless death to afterlife, a privilege far more than he deserves.” 

“Sir Jason—”—There is no visible witness, but flowers have ears. You cannot be certain. “I require your apology at once—”

He is before you with such immediacy that you are summoned into silence. As he holds his hand out to you, and you look at what lies in landscape of open palm. 

“Should you wish better alternative to premeditated fate,” Jason says—and all you do is look at the black, waxy candle that is yours for the taking, “You shall do me great favor and light this candle tonight, whence you abed.” 

“I—”—You look at totem offered, look up to him. “I do not understand.” 

“Light it,” Jason urges, coaxing it into a hand that you don’t even realize you have extended out to him, “And you may provide inquiry then.” 

It is heavy. There is significant gravity to it as you hold it, and as you mull over the information that he has given you.

A saner person would exile him from the presence of your company, would inform your husband at once. Would not consider the absurdity of this interaction with second thought. 

But instead you reply, “I am grateful, Sir Jason.” 

“As am I,” He replies, maintaining the cant of those glacial eyes upon you. You still feel the press of them upon your body even when he has returned from where he came, leaving you alone in the gardens once more. 

It is ridiculousness. It is foolishness. You continue through motions of routine day, where you are made to dine in the company of Arthur and the other knights and spouses they make illusion of faithfulness to. Jason sits to distant corner, bachelor that he is, and only holds the presence of your gaze once before he returns to his cups. 

And you mull over the candle that has taken heavy occupation in the folds of your pocket. As you consider the foolishness of this venture, while you watch your husband have endured conversation with the scullery maid that refills his goblet.

As his hands wander to avenues that any would deem inappropriate, were it not your husband. And you, meant to abide in silence, return your attention to food that chews to ash in your mouth. 

You depart to your marital chambers alone at crossroads, with the pit of your stomach churning bile. As your maids shuck you of ornate, empty-purposed garments and undo the upholstery you have been made to take occupation in. 

And the landscape of your bed yawns ever wider. 

Candles are set, prayers are made, and you are left alone. And you sit within great silent interval in the middle of your marital bed, while your husband fucks an unknown woman on the other side of the castle. 

You do not realize that you are lighting the candle until you sit at the edge of your bed, watching plume of flame dance in flickering manner in the Stygian shadow. You look to the walls, to search for aberration, for change, for definitive appearance—but nothing happens. 

Perhaps it was symbolic, this gesture from Jason Blood. But you have little need for trinkets in the face of your reality. You sigh and make way to find slumbering distraction under the covers. 

The candle goes out.

And you are submerged into darkness, only illuminated by the thin slat of light that window makes into the room. For perilous second, you remain paralyzed in confused terror before you turn back—an errant breeze. 

But the candle, it appears, has re-lit itself. And with it, there is terrible company that stands in the threshold of your room, illuminated by dancing flame that illuminates iridescent eyes. 

“Great God,” you cannot find it in yourself to scarper back across the bed. Away from this monster dressed in clothing of gentleman, with red eyes that seem to see all in the confines of your room. 

“Good night, sleeping beauty,” The demon says, “Thou hav’st guest.” 

“I must be lost in dreams,” You assert. For this, you are rewarded with throaty, wicked cackle as he takes further step. And still you do not retreat. 

“Thou require’st demonic kin in aid—”—The demon puts his clawed hand to chest, casting his wretched face in more miserable shadow—“—Tis Etrigan that for thee, shall be best.” 

You cannot find conceivable answer to the walking illusion that haunts your room, only to watch him bow and approach. 

“Who dost thy need killed?” He grins. “Who dost thy need slayed?” 

You smell brimstone. You see the demonic take residence in your room. But still you cling to false hope—your voice sounds foreign even to your own ears. 

“I must be dreaming,” You say, “This is no more than illusion which plagues me.”

He chuckles again, and takes another treacherous step towards you, so that you might better witness the gleam of his canines. 

“‘Tis the liar that tells thee candied word,” He informs you, “Etrigan does naught but tell thee the truth.” 

The truth—you are reminded of his reason. His purpose for arriving. In the addled foreground of your mind, you think that there must be a reason for this dream. Some modicum of logic informs you: you must play along. 

Very well. You have played parts before; you shall play them now before deadly shade that occupies your slumber. 

“So, you are here—”—Your words falter as you look at the way that he stares back in voracious hunger—“—To help me? To…kill my husband?” 

Etrigan, it appears, is delighted to provide you answer. “So my good services have thus been spurred—”

At this, he offers humble bow to you, though his eyes never leave yours—“—So that I may slay thine husband forsooth.” 

You think of proper inquiry, before a thought prevails. “He is esteemed knight, though—of Arthur’s court. It would take—”

“Twould take a demon’s power what kill him,” Etrigan purrs.

There is audible delight in the way he speaks, in the guttural tones he considers murder with casual quality. You almost think of how feline he is in this moment, in the glee he takes. 

“And demon’s power be offered to thee,” Etrigan continues as he makes more considerable distance to you, “But Etrigan does not abide by free whim. A demon wants exchange be paid to me.” 

“Payment?” You ask, thinking of riches that are your husband’s, goods from your dowry that have long been squandered. “I have nothing of value to provide you.” 

He laughs, as though there is joke that you are unaware of being made. His voice is gutturally corrugated as he speaks again. 

“Thou hast handfasted with foul lying beast,” Etrigan says with such derision in reference to your husband who is in affairs unknown, “Perhaps Etrigan might serve better groom.” 

Once more in this odd dream, you are left without answer. With eerie quality of sensation that seats upon your shoulders. Much as it does thricefold as you ask, “You would wish to marry…me?” 

Again, a roaring bellow of laugh as though you have made witty joke. One of those talons works to stroke at his chin as he appraises you. And to your surprise, you do not find yourself shirking away from the impropriety of his gaze. 

“Fine spouse I’ll make once thine marriage is ceased,” Etrigan returns, “Better than facing such undeserved doom.” 

Your answer which you thought founded with good resource dies on your lips. A life as a shell, with your husband, in these gilded towers.

With little more to occupy you than the prospect of children he seems unwilling to produce, in an estate that is not your own, with nary an ally to accompany you. You stare at the demon who evaluates you with growing smirk. And you make your choice. 

“Marriage to demon cannot be so inferior to marriage with animal I have now,” You declare with the finality of one approaching the gallows. “I accept your proposal, Etrigan.” 

At this, the demon laughs, and evocative chords of Hell come with him—terrible and foul—but you do not flinch. You lack the will to do so as you make this tableau with hell. 

“A fine demonstration of thine valor,” He chortles, “Lucky me—to find mortal with mettle.” 

You think, at least, this shall be entertaining reminiscence when you wake up. But for now, you allow yourself to play along as the demon gestures to sands beyond you. 

“Return to thine bed—late be the hour.” Etrigan grins, and holds out a monsterous hand for you to hold. “But first, thine spouse has matters to settle.” 

“How will I know that you have been successful in endeavor you seek?” Still you approach the open threshold his hand is levied out to you. 

“A demon does not shirk in his duty.” He says with such velvet reassurance, you almost forget that you are in company of a demon. “Nor ere eve of wedding to such beauty.”

You realize he is referring to you. You swallow as you look at him—to your husband promised, in exchange for husband murdered. 

“Take this beast’s hand, mine sweet prize to be won,” He offers clawed, taloned hand to you once more. Should there be blood that rushes in your ears, the meter of your heart pounding in your throat, you are unaware. All that you are conscious of is the hand that looks for yours.

“Your word your bond—and his life shalt be done.” 

You do not know if it is desperation or madness that motivates you to clasp upon his hand with both of yours. But he cackles and it is a foul, wicked note that summons ailing wind that screeches high in your ears—

—And then you are awake in your bed, roused by shaking hands and terrified voices that work to return you to the land of the living. 

“Your grace, your grace—”—Your maid, eyes wide with fear and terror; you blink away the bleary guise of sleep. 

“Yes, yes,” You say as you find your senses returning to you in slow execution, “What is the matter? What has happened?” 

“Your husband,” She says, and you find your body growing cold under her grasp that seeks to bring you to full-seated posture, “He has died—on the outskirts of the castle.” 

All you can do is stare up at her in muted shock. And all you can do is listen to the recounting of a tale that makes you grow colder still with every enunciated syllable. 

Of the way your husband was deeply in his cups as he wandered the grounds with er, selected company, as he meandered down the promenade of Arthur’s great courtyard. As he suddenly seized forward, wrenched forward by near-supernatural force, with great expulsion of blood from his mouth, flung into the air before horrified witness. 

“May I see the body?” You find yourself asking—the maid seems surprised at your inquiry. But soon you learn that there is reason for the hollow quality to her eyes. 

“There is no body left to speak of, your grace,” The maid says, and she makes the desperate sign of the cross. “At least—nothing that you would wish to see.” 

Miserable, painful, wretched death. Far from painless that he promised, you think. And something else in you thinks, Good. 

“I shall send message to your family’s house,” the maid utters, trying to find more purpose than dithering about to a mute. “Is there anything you need, your grace?” 

“I am—”—You think saying I am well would raise eyebrows. So instead you provide alternative of, “I wish to speak to Arthur once he is roused.” 

“I will request it, your grace. He is awake—”—She swallows—”—Down in the courtyard.” 

And with that, she retreats, leaving you to think of what has happened. Of implication you can scarcely comprehend—of freedom that suddenly is on great cusp for you.

You would think to laugh—but your hand it seems, has begun to burn. 

You clutch it to your chest in pain, gasping in arterial, ragged breath—how it feels as though the skin is sloughed from bone! You look down to your limp limb and can only stare. 

Where your husband’s ring should sit on your fourth finger—instead there is demonic brand in sigyl you have no ken of. But you know what it is. You know who is it from. 

And you know that it was no dream, after all. 

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