a wreath of thorns adorn the door.

She stared down at the plate, trying to make the contents look appetizing. Normally she would have already eaten and be well on her way to a bath. Normally, she wouldn't have to sit for a long period with her parents as they would have either already have dined or they would be entertaining their own private dinner guests of their own, solitarily or as a couple. For some reason, the concept seemed foreign to her, married and yet it felt as though it were not to each other. It was almost rare to find the two spending any amount of time together, and for all the doting they had shown her in the first few days to a week after they had found her, it was almost as if she did not exist to them now. Her company was kept among her maids and tutors. It was only on brief occasion when her mother would brush through her long hair, sometimes styling it that she spent time with the matron, and she could not recall a single instance of her father spending time with her. A feat she was reluctant to admit brought her great relief.

After seeing the paintings within the home, her sole hope for camaraderie had fallen onto the shoulders of her brother. A sentiment that felt wholly foolish now. She had thought that they could rebuild their bond. That he would be just as glad to find her home as their parents had been. That they could be friends. That the expectation of the one she so vehemently and fervidly dreamed of would be reconstructed. That face was like a word on the tip of her tongue that she knew she wanted to say, to see, but it wasn't him. That word was becoming a knife, slitting vulnerable flesh just as harshly as his words did. She glanced up from the plate, where her fork dully tapped, just in time to catch his vision wrenching from her. Maintaining the hard line of his jaw, his grit teeth. She lowered the silverware all together, fighting to hold back the sting of the tears that threatened her eyes. She couldn't rid her memoirs of the tension, and alas, he would be no friend to her. Only continuing her futile loneliness. Who could stand to live like this? Was family not meant to be close? It didn't feel right.

It took her a moment to heed the words of their father, and it wasn't until she duely noted that he was looking to her that she tuned her attention onto his address. "Your brother is aware of our situation, dear daughter." Situation? Whatever did he mean? The kidnapping? The loss of her memories? The scattered mess they had left behind in their wake? She offered the man a tense, but courteous smile, brow furrowed as she struggled to contain herself. "A quite fortuitous opportunity has been broached to me regarding your... marital status.  Lord Lyon, the man that was here a few weeks ago, has agreed that you and his son should be wed in order to strengthen our families." The more he spoke, the further along the sentiment he drew, the more and more the expression faded until it was naught more than a pained grimace. No longer could she absolve her eyes of the tears that began to bud and bloom within them. She looked to him, to the woman at his side who resided between them. Finally, she looked to Aethelos. "M-my marital s-s-s... status?" the last word was barely choked, but it was like she was whispering, like he didn't hear her. "However... there are others that vy for the Lyon fortune and would kill Arabella to give their daughters a chance at lord Augusts' hand.  That is why we've summoned you home, Aethelos." A sort of dark understanding crashed into her like the weight of a smothering avalanche. "Y-you're.... m-marrying me o-off for mon-ney?" The accusation finally drew attention to her, but it was from her mother. The cringing expression she had previously worn reflecting upon the woman's face in comparison to the abject horror that had settled over Arabella's like a leaden veil.

She could feel herself pale. The warmth fled her, leaving her shivering in her seat as she struggled to swallow the knot in her throat. "While you are home, she is not to leave your sights unless otherwise specified." "N-no. No I won't stay w-with him." I would rather die. The hard vision of their father finally drew to her, his features reddening, yet the rising hysterics that hammered within her chest painfully allowed her to ignore the glower that normally froze her veins. "I-I d-don't even know him. I d-don't know M-Mr. Lyon." Their mother cleared her throat, loudly, wiping the corners of her mouth daintily with her napkin. "Settle, now, Arabella. This is a great boon for us, for the family. This is just how things are, dear."

"Only if you uphold your end of our prior agreement, father." She finally looked to him again. The him that wasn't you. She felt light headed, like she would fall as she rose to her feet, the flats of her palms residing against the top of the table, sere, filed nails digging into the itchy lace, catching on the detailing as she scratched over them, drawing her fingers into her palms as well as the table cloth. "Y-you're fine w-with this?" Despite herself, there was some underlying note of pleading that bled into her voice, repeating silently in the way her eyes frantically searched his face. The first tear slipping from its prison and onto the curve of her cheek as she spoke on a forced murmur. "What do you get out of this?" Out of them selling me?

---

             
It would seem that mother dearest had forgotten to inform me how spectacular an actor this impostor could be.  Even I was almost moved to genuine belief - perhaps falling the victim were I not already aware of her serpentine schemes.  Those tears were nearly convincing as they welled at the damn of her sun-kissed lashes, as they rolled along the supple curve of her powdered cheek.  I thought of my sister then, of her sadness when I was pulled away, of her tears when she watched from the window as other children frolicked and played to their heart's content.  Many times I asked if she could join, and each query was met with a refusal. 

She's just too ill.  I'm sorry.

Her performance almost seemed... too genuine, as if she truly did harbour some means of upset at this news.  Didn't mother say that she was aware of this?  That she had not only agreed but insisted on this deal for a cut of the coin they'd gain?

Skeptical gaze swept from the weeping girl to the distant visage of my mother and then that of my flustered, angry father who nodded his head in agreement at my demand to see the real Arabella.  Before father could answer, the impostor spoke to me directly and for the first time since our encounter, uttered a sentence without stammering.  I looked at her briefly before lowering my gaze to the half-eaten plate in front of me. 

"Peace of mind."  For the first time during our encounter, my voice did not harbour venom, did not hiss with snarky disdain.  It was a murmur, a soft timbre of solemn reflection. 

I'd rise from my seat then, untucking the napkin from my shirt and placing it on the table beside my plate.  "If that's all, father."  The elder nodded.  "My journey was rather long and I'm quite exhausted.  I'll see my sister to her room for the night."  But I wouldn't wait for her as I began to trek out of the room and down the hall, around the corner and up the stairs towards where our rooms were conjoined, severed only by a wall and connecting door.  I'd wait by hers, shoulders pressed against the wall, arms crossed against the breadth of my chest and tawny brows lowered into a shadowed scowl.  This evening left far more questions than answers for my liking... and one way or another, I'd find resolution to each and every one.

a wreath of thorns adorn the door.

"Peace of mind."

For the first time, she sensed no tense anger within his vocals, but she wished she did. She wished he would yell at her. That he would quip some other snide remark. That he would tell her he got no pleasure, no joy out of this. No more than she did. Yet that didn't come, even as she continued to search his facade for the answers she wanted.

It became apparent that was all for her, and as the realization settled like the rubble after disaster, she would shakily lower back into her chair. Her stare sightless as she stared down at the table. She felt ill. If anything was on her stomach, she'd have lost it, she was certain. She hated, no loathed, this. She hoped it was worth it - all of this. Whatever this was. She couldn't even pretend that she understood. That this was 'just the way things were'. How could her mother just brush off how she felt with such a dismissive notion? Was that how she had felt? What she was told when she was told she would be married to their father?

She had simply accepted it without question? Or was that what her mother had placatingly told her? Sons went to play war while daughters were sold to fill coffers. They pay a ransom to safely return her, and yet they themselves would sell her. How long had they left her there before they finally agreed? How much was this small fortune that she could be murdered over? The people here - were they not mad? A bitter smile touched her face. An incredulous and disbelieving expression. She would much rather their roles were reversed, that she was to be the soldier and he the blushing groom to a pompous bride consumed with want of gold.

Would he at least be kind to her, she pondered. Would this man look at her without the hatred and locked jaw? Would his vocals be more gentle? Would maids and other servants feel the need to intervene in their affairs? Would he scold and yell at her for not wearing shoes? The proper gown? Then again, what was to keep her here? To ensure she married this stranger? Her stare was brought to Aethelos once more as he spoke, lifting himself from his chair. "My journey was rather long and I'm quite exhausted.  I'll see my sister to her room for the night." So he left, and after a moment, she would rise as to follow him. She caught the motion of her mother's hand rising at her side, and she flinched away from the woman as if she had struck her. The woman muttered some objection to the action, her face a mask of concern, but her gaze spilling the whole of the truth - something more akin to annoyance. Impatience. "Goodn-night." She curtly noted to the both of them.

Once she was out of the doors, she shut them firmly behind her, leaning her back against them for a moment as she tried to collect her savagely swirling thoughts. As well as the influx of flooding emotions that sought to drown her. Finally, her approach up the stairs, towards her room and the one that had been empty since her return - his room - was marked by the soft padding of her baren feet. Her skirts weren't gathered into her hands, they merely wilted at her side. He was there, lingering just outside. She would halt a few paces away. She was angry, yes. She was angry and upset. She was a torrid, a thunderstorm, a tornado, a hurricane, yet outwardly, she remained placated, save for the streaks the tears had left like paths through ashes. She watched him, looked at him through the veil of her lashes. "W-what do y-you want?" The inquiry was as bitter as she felt, voice as biting as a quenched dragon's flames. Mere plumes of smoke from the destruction.

---

             
There was a dark brooding that had taken over my thoughts, those racing musings, each attempting to pick apart that brief encounter like buzzards to fresh carrion - down to the bone.  Nothing left to spoil in the earth below.  Thumb to lip, I contemplated them each.  She agreed to this arrangement.  Mother had claimed.  She wants the money, the luxury of being a nobles wife.  Then why had she entertained the sheer audacity of tears when father spoke of lord Lyon's agreement?  And to rouse them so convincingly, as if she had been truthfully slighted.  I harshly bit the tip of my thumb when one whisper made itself quite prominent.

Each of them sought to make me the fool, to toy with the fact that I had objected their ploys and threatened to expose them.  Was withholding Arabella not punishment enough?

"W-what do y-you want?"  Her voice was like vinegar, void of the sugary tones it had held when the door swung open moments before.  If I didn't know better I'd think that this actresses mask was beginning to slip.  Or, perhaps, it wasn't a show at all and there was genuine disdain for the scheming ways of the Belevelron lords. 

I, too, had enough of them.

"Answers."  My voice matched her acidic drawl, slithering from my mouth with hissing restraint.  "But not here where the walls can hear."  I motioned towards my room, a calloused hand reaching for the door to open and invite - no, demand - her to follow me into the cold depths. 

Surprisingly it was very similar to how I'd left it.  It was simply decorated, minimalistic style, only the necessities housed inside.  The wall paper was the only elegant choice sticking out from the otherwise bland space.  Dark olive walls with bright, almost golden metalic fleur-de-lis patterns elaborating the fortune of the homes owner.  Midnight mahogany borders and floor guards further darkened the space customarily illumiated by the large, window door that lead to the balcony.  Should she enter, I'd motion towards a chair by the window while I began to settle my things into proper order.