the thorn wreath 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?

no one comes home anymore

Jahi

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.

the thorn wreath 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.

no one comes home anymore

Jahi

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.

A WREATH OF THORNS ADORNS THE DOOR

"Answers." Was to be his reply, and her fingers coiled into her palms, nails tearing at her skin in place of the table cloths and the fabrics of her dress. Was he mocking her? He requested something she did not have. Up until his waltz through the door, she'd have mind numbingly agreed to any askance he made of her. Until she witnessed his true relation to his sister as he oh so fondly referred to her as, she'd have assumed his judgment fair, his wisdom good. She had based and built an entire reaction to her from him solely upon the likenesses an artist had provided.

But it was merely the paint and the maker behind that had conjured the imagery.

She had thought he'd be elated to find her at the estate once again. She had dangerously presumed that he would embrace her and hug her tightly, giving her the connection to this place that their parents had sorely lacked. She had foolishly hoped that he would fill your vacancy. That you would no longer plague her dreams without visage. That he would make everything right. A large, and very obviously misplaced burden. Only ever in the paintings did any of them wield a soul.

"But not here where the walls can hear." She admittedly would jerk slightly, recoiling away from the lavish wallpaper of the hallway and drawing the hand closest to it to her chest as she peered at it like it had, indeed, just sprouted ears. Slightly bewildered (not to mention alarmed) expression only turned back to him as he opened the forbidden portal to his own personal chambers. A door she had silently stood outside of on numerous occasion when she had held tight to the fantasy within her cerebrum. Now, looking at it, it merely added to the things she dreaded.

As she had come to expect in their short time together here, her gaze revealed the interior to reflect nearly perfect to the other residents within the home. Hollow. She paused at length at the threshold, cautiously watching him, observing the way he rushed to put things away. She was slow to step over that line, into his territory, and something about that trespass sent a shudder rolling down her spine as if someone had danced across the soil of her grave. "I don't-t know what you th-think I would know." She stood before the chair, but did not sit within it as she eyed him cautiously. "Y-you alread-dy have a bargain w-w-with F-Father." Her features reddened softly, irritancy building with her own stammering, her jaw set should he scold her once more for the defect she could not help.

!

NO ONE COMES HOME ANYMORE

An unfamiliar strangeness unsettled me, riled the already frayed edges of my resolution, the tattered remains of nerves that boasted a composition like steel.  When was the last time I slept in this bed, sat at the desk by the wide balcony doors, and read the countless books on the shelves that lined the eastern wall?  Had it not been for the maid's diligent care, I'm certain each of the pages would crumble to dust in my curious hands.  Their subjects were varied, most pertaining to the history of the world and that of fantasy beasts breathed life through the innovative ink of an author's words.  Books that would seem childish should I part their covers now.  I nearly felt nostalgic looking upon the space I had once so dearly treasured - where Arabella and I grew and played like children are oft to do.  Could the impostor see that solemn sadness which briefly flecked the heterochromatic circle of my iris?  Or that of the crestfallen shadow of my mouth. His Majesty's army had not been unkind to me but one could not help but long for the familiar embrace of home.  That's what I had felt at first but as time went on, I cherished my few possessions compared to the elaborate materials awaiting me back in this den of ill-fated sin.  My attentions stirred from the quiet examinations of the room back to the matter at hand, the silhouette of one impostor sister who still seemed keen on playing the oblivious, naïve girl.  The edge of my jaw ticked.  Frustration, a subtle change in the otherwise void dissimulation.  There was an inkling to scream at her, to demand everything she knew, to shake the answers from her little shoulders if that's what it took.  But I knew such violence would gain me nothing but another hand around the throat and a scowling glare beneath the hood of blonde lashes.  Recalling the moment, I rubbed the area her dulcet fingers sought their violence. "My bargain has nothing to do with you or this... arrangement."  I'd sit in the chair across from the one offered, the one that she denied and I would simply shrug my shoulders.  You'll say nothing of Arabella when you return regardless of the circumstances or we will ensure that the Dr. is late to her next appointment. Condemnation to death. Calloused fingers laced to one another, my stare harsh, piercing, a hardened beak aiming beneath her skin to see what manner of beast lie within.  "I was informed that you not only knew of this marriage but you insisted on being the bride.  Why would you cry over it?"  The stare on her narrowed, a quiet challenge to whatever fabrication could slip from those soft, ample lips.  "Is your share of the gold not good enough?"

the thorn wreath a wreath of thorns adorn the door.

Her fingers would finally unfurl, if but just slightly from the angry red crescents she had bitten into her palms. It would be here that she would finally glimpse the first shreds of something other than empty venom within him. He seemed quieter here, not in terms of speaking, but... in the restlessness she sensed coiling like some manner of beast within him. Ready to strike. The one she saw glowering at her from beneath his drawn and angry brow as he had peered down at her. The one that had first laid hands on her. Her vision trailed down to her own, the one that had snared him in turn. It had been instinct to defend herself, that voice that spoke to her, telling her that this softness she had been recently swaddled in was wrong. It was like something lurked within her too, but it was not willing to wholly surface within her. Perhaps it was like her memories, eager for freedom, yet lacking the strength or will to seize it. Was it she? Was it her own fault that they remained under lock and key? Her eyes would widen faintly at the soft pink stain on her palm, the other matching it. It was the first time that she considered the possibility that it was she who did not want to recall her past in truth. It made her recoil from it internally, it made her twist her musings from the plight of the restrained door. To the present. To the man now seated across from her. The man who spoke so callously to her, a topic she had not expected. "My bargain has nothing to do with you or this... arrangement." Very well, she supposed. She knew as little of it as she did of her own intended affairs she supposed. However, his next accusation is when her jaw dropped. "I was informed that you not only knew of this marriage but you insisted on being the bride.  Why would you cry over it?" It felt as though she had been hit, a sharp punch to the gut. Why? Why would she say that? Was it not clarion that she had had no inkling of her poor fate? She sank into the seat she stood before, her stare searching his face, looking for the cold tick of his sense of dry, horrid humor. The one that he had greeted her at the door with. It was absent, however, and only seriousness quenched his countenance. Otherwise, it was near impenetrable mask, and so instead, she would attempt to meet his eyes. She had already learned well that at least with mother and father no matter how genuine their masqueraded façade was, the truth could always be found lingering in their own stares. Here, too, he was painfully accusing. She would recline, her heart falling through her bodice until she was certain it would plummet through the floor. "Why? W-why would I-I want that?" He thinks she would insist, that she knew? Was that how she was before? Encased in greed? That's how he remembered her, when she could remember nothing of him? It was no wonder then that he looked down upon her so. Cruelty that finally made sense. Pallid eyes would leave his face then, falling to her hands once more as they folded within her lap. "Is your share of the gold not good enough?" She would look back to him, tears once more silencing the fire that would have burned within her otherwise. "I h-have no gold. I d-do not wish for gold. A-a-a." She clenched her teeth, forcing her reeling thoughts to focus through the maelstrom of emotion. "And n-now I am losing m-my freedom." Her voice had only droned into further bitterness, though it was no longer pointedly directed at him. She would have rather he struck her, in honesty. It would probably sting less in the length of time, and the dread wouldn't keep her from peace. "W-why would you e-ever think I would want to be s-sold like a b-broodmare? Why w-would anyone want to b-be bought. I-I don't understand."

no one comes home anymore

Jahi

And though she stood as if sewn for royal modesty, a woman whose guise was yoked to the ideal perfections of noble artistry, there was a fault in her veneer, a fissure that betrayed the image I'd been fed those days when I'd been far from these walls.  Walls that housed my sister, her illness, and the fate of her future behind their dark rampart.  I watched as the imposter in front of me finally fell into the armchair previously offered.  The same she had seemed keen on refusing.  There was in me a deep perplexion and an overwhelming desire to understand the horror that seemed to burrow into those growing crevices that threatened to tear the actresses' play asunder.  Why did it feel like genuine turmoil she faced?  That the storm plaguing those soft, oceanic eyes was not wrought by a forced conspiracy to gain my unfounded sympathy.  Compassion that I could yet to afford her; not until I knew for a certainty that I was not being played the fool. Broad shoulders offered a shrug to her first question.  "That's what I want to know."  I regarded her with a cold stare as if that would get her to spill everything she knew of this whole sordid affair.  But she didn't.  She went on of her poverty, her freedom robbed by parental edacity to maintain their place among the courts and climb the ranks of social influence.  Anything to keep themselves away from the horrid reality of pennilessness abjection and starvation.  I listened as she went on again about being a broodmare, being bought, our shared sentiment of incomprehensible reason.  A tawny brow piqued as I shifted my arm, my elbow rested on the wooden rest and my chin sat in the palm of my wrist.  "Some women sell their bodies to men for gold and trinkets.  Sometimes trading their pleasure for food if necessary.  I don't pretend to understand their reasons, nor yours."  My voice was calm and loose as it fell from my lax lips. "I merely wanted to know if I was being taken for a ride is all."  Then my features darkened into a scowl, a soured tempest of restrained indignation.  "And to know whether they were lying to me again... which it appears that they have so thank you for that clarity."

the thorn wreath a wreath of thorns adorn the door.

She sought to calm it, this plague of emotions that ceaselessly tore at her. Her sights had drifted away from him, away from the room itself and out towards the pallid light of the moon and those lit torches that served to illuminate the streets below. She could not see the wrought iron posts for the splay of his balcony, merely the fiery orange glower that they gave off through the gaps in the bannister. "That's what I want to know." Her vision drifted further down. She would offer a vague simper, a slight smile that belied no cheer and was as cold and distant as the moon so far over head. "Have I truly been s-so awful?" Despite herself, the lingering tears would creep into her vocals. Like carnivorous, thorned vines that would deep into her heart, it bit into her, jaws locked and unwilling to depart. She supposed she couldn't blame him. After all, she had no true memoirs of what she was like before - only what had taken place after she awoke in the desert streets. It was an awful feeling, to know how she felt now, but without any inkling of the person she had been before. By the picture of her that he had wound for her, it seemed she had been coerced by greed. She had no doubt been the reflection of their parents, and if she had been so indulgent as they without care for anyone else, she supposed this wouldn't be so out of the ordinary for her. That his dislike was founded with reason. That she was merely getting what she deserved. It didn't make it any easier, however. "Some women sell their bodies to men for gold and trinkets.  Sometimes trading their pleasure for food if necessary.  I don't pretend to understand their reasons, nor yours." She would tilt her head slightly, a brief bout of confusion by his remark. Selling their bodies? Like in paintings? Why would anyone pay for such a thing? Their pleasure for food? Her brow furrowed, and yet her remarks were sheltered for herself. He was not the one she would ever wish to ask clarifications on. She supposed she would inquire after her tutor what he meant in the morning. "I merely wanted to know if I was being taken for a ride is all." A low sigh left her lips, deep and leaving her feeling even more empty than she had felt previously. "And to know whether they were lying to me again... which it appears that they have so thank you for that clarity." His words only added to her confusion. What was he even on about? What sense was she meant to make out of these ramblings of lies? What did he mean their mother had told him she was insistent on becoming a bride? The only thing she had been occupied with since she had come home was her lessons. She had to learn to be a proper lady again. She had to learn how to speak properly - aside from the stammering she felt as though she couldn't fix. She had to learn so much in so little time. The subject of marriage had not once been broached. Not until tonight. "I-I don't know what you're talking ab-bout." Again, she released a pent up breath, allowing her cheek to rest within her palm. Frustration and acceptance were already overwhelming the prior grief of her supposed betrothal. "I'm sorry." She rose to her feet, once more offering him that brittle smile. "For w-whatever I've wronged you w-with." She bowed her head, just as Mrs. Babington had taught her. "If you'll excuse me, I b-believe I want to ret-tire for the night."

no one comes home anymore

Jahi