There is no mention of the lack of actually seeing the King once officially chosen and presented as a royal consort, nor is there a mention of the complete and utter resentment one is directed when they have been chosen... Or at least the latter seemed to be special in her case. A half breed, but one especially as muddled in blood as she was, was unheard of in the past of noted consorts. So not only was she an oddity in race, but now also as a bedmate that would go down in Woodland Realm history.
Working in the kitchens wasn't all that different, though she was well put together now, and as instructed she still wore the wreath of roses; it was the side eyed glances of pure disdain that she had a harder time of getting used to.
Days, weeks, months came and went and she'd still yet to be called on. She was beginning to think she'd been forgotten, which would have been all right with her, but it was with this new position that she hoped to pay her debt off quicker, this was a chance she could not waste. But upon raising the query to the steward she was merely given a derisive chuckle and told she would have to take that matter up with his majesty herself.
She doubted very much that would happen as the days drew on and she still wasn't called. It was a bitter sweet relief.
The probationary period of wearing crowns ended when the flowers hid away from the cold season to sleep and rise to bloom again in the spring. She would find herself wondering, as she always did, of the debt - surely she could ask the King what it was that was owed, since it was hers to nullify now. But lately, as she thought of the debt and how she would word her asking, more and more often her mind would drift away, lead by thoughts solely of the King. Wondering of intimate things she had every right, as her standing as a consort, to wonder about. And by the night's end, when these thoughts normally busied her mind, she would wonder if this was some sort of spell; if he'd cast some magic upon her to plague her thoughts with him, so that in the end she wouldn't fear his company, but rather crave it.
It was strange, yet alluring. Knowing that she was wanted. It was terrifying, shook her to the bone, but exciting, warming her trembling bones. Knowing that she would be taken.
Two weeks into the winter season, the flowers hid, the trees were bare, no spiders haunted the forest, snow softly fell from the sky and gently settled on the earth.
She was ejected from the kitchens early in the morning for reasons she did not fully understand, there had been hisses of 'undeserving' and 'young stupid' and 'human mutant', but that was as much as her keen ears could pick up. And with no task to busy her day, she found herself, for once, as a creature of leisure. Donning a heavy cloak of finely detailed linen, in a warm, robust red [the woodland elves tended toward forest and natural colours, greens and browns; on occasions of splendour they would wear light colours, whites and shining silvers, but red was the symbol for consorts, red wasn't a colour to be mistaken, red was identity and status, red was their mark] she strolled through the delicately snow dusted wood. She gazed into the sky, watching the flakes fall, catching them on her fingers tips and catching sight of each individualised pattern before it melted away, never to be seen again. Hours ticked away as she did this, and only when the flakes began to coat the ground at a faster rate, the white, icy carpet growing thicker with each step her foot crunched and sank, she decided to take comfort in the warmth of the palace.
In the solace of her chambers her mind is suddenly a bustle with thoughts of the King again. For hours, outside, she hadn't had a thought or care in the world. But through winding path ways to the King's hall, once her door closed after her, it all seemed to crash around her again. She wasn't a creature of leisure. She was debtor. She was a debtor and mistress to the Elvenking. She was a creature of pleasure.
The things a courtesan must do. She imagined, but her imagination didn't offer much in detail or experience. As a being closer to 300 years, untouched, without any lover with each passing century, she couldn't salvage her life if her imagination depended on it. The basic mechanics of it were obvious, but she couldn't understand how it could possibly benefit the receiving participant. But those trivial thoughts eventually gave way to much more innocent thoughts... of what it would be like to kiss the King, would he kiss her, would kissing happen at all? And again she damned whatever spell had ensnared her mind, but couldn't stop her mind from further wandering in the direction it did.
Gentle, soft, sweet, or mean, brutal? Would she cry, would she hurt, would she bleed? She was part mortal, after all. Would he want her to cry, to hurt? Would he relish the sight of her blood, or her pain? Would it be torture? Or would it be much worse? Or... Fear of the unknown and agony factored out - would she love it?
Her thoughts stalled abruptly when her doors flew open after two sharp warning knocks, and her handmaidens entered and glided in to stand at the foot of her bed. They didn't speak, as they usually did, they only wore minute little curls at the corners of their mouths, simply motioning for her to follow, and follow she did, too certain of where she was being lead, too aware of what the source of their mirth was. She was finally called.
.
The bathing chamber adjoining the King's room - which she realised much too late was quite literally the King's bath, his own personal bath - waited to accept her. She thought her accommodations were settled comfortably in the lap of luxury. She couldn't have been dreaming, her mind wasn't so creative enough to produce the splendor her wide eyes took in: the numerous bottles of salts and oils of varying nourishing minerals and scents took up a large corner portion of the room, there was an enormous vanity, the mirror framed with large, ivory, dangerously beautiful entangled antlers, the table top lined with combs, brushes, jewellery boxes, and two stands that were just as ornate as the crowns they supported, then she blinked and she was settled in the tub. The gigantic tub that actually carved from the mountain, connected to secret springs, how deep it went she couldn't be sure, she was mostly astounded by how the water still remained warm with ten minutes past.
Incredibly warm and relaxing. Perhaps not dreaming, but perhaps she did faint and hit her head the wrong way and found herself accepted into Aman regardless of her death and mixed blood. Her unruly hair was collected and pinned in place in a halfway attempted twist, far from the water's reach. Her nails were trimmed and cleaned, fingers and toes. The maids had to go an extra length they normally wouldn't have had she been purely elven, making bare the skin of her legs, under her arms and eventually after her giving up resistance, her most private place. After being subjected to such horror she figured it couldn't get much worse beyond that - if she wasn't considering the likely painful taking of her virtue. Her hair was tended to last, pins pulled away, hair falling free, dunked into the water and washed with three kinds of soaps, each smelling better than the next - better than what had been used the night of the presentation ceremony - but remembering these soaps were of the King's caliber, there was no wonder.
The water was finally going a bit cold when the last of the soap was rinsed away and she was instructed to exit the tub; tub, she snorted internally, such an impossibly small and seemingly incorrect word for the pond of a bath.
Wrapped in cloth, patted and rubbed dry, she, again, felt like a doll being dressed for play - though it was exactly that, in a much less childlike a manner. Her hair was wrung out and left to dry to its own ravenous accord, fluffing into voluminous waves that curled into ringlets toward the ends; no braids, no beads, no clips, no crowns, simply left loose and bare.
Perfume oil was dabbed at the back of her neck, inner wrists, and much to her dread, two small smears nearer the middle of her inner thighs, before she was shrouded in a white shift with unbelievably gorgeous detailed swirling embroidery along the low dipping collar, bell cuffs, and hem that hung scandalously to mid calf. So dazzled was she by the stitching of her gown that she had hardly noticed how sheer it was until she saw the outline of her legs moving quite clearly through the material.
She couldn't protest, as the maid's had insisted she looked wonderful and this is how the King had requested she be presented. It was terrifying, understandably more terrifying than everything else that led up to this moment combined. She breathed out a quiet thanks to their compliments, though it was their hands who had created the picture they commended. And it was their hands that took gentle hold of her by hand and forearm and guided her to the intricately decorated oaken door that led to the King's chamber.
She swallowed thickly at the sight of her fate so charmingly presented to her in the form of a door; the symbolism and irony of it all wasn't lost on her. Behind that door she would begin a new chapter in her suddenly ridiculous life; behind that door she would learn all the answers to the endless questions her mind produced since her becoming a chosen consort. And if she was lucky enough to be granted to speak, she might gain answers to the questions that truly mattered to her. Though the process of preparing her had been in fact quite leisurely, she felt as though it was moving entirely too fast. The maidens she couldn't place a solid emotion for, neither here nor there about their near constant presence in her new life, she now yearned for their guidance, their nearness; normally she would like to be left alone, but she'd do anything, say anything to keep them around, just so she wouldn't have to...
She supposed their expressions of support, prideful yet sympathetic eyes that matched their ever soft grins should have meant something, especially when she seemed to be drowning in a sea of utter disdain directed toward her all the time, but it didn't quiet the loud beating of her pulse in her ears, didn't calm her breathing, didn't make her feel better in the slightest. One reached forward and tucked a wayward lock behind her ear, while the other reminded her, "Do not speak unless spoken to." The other picked up with, "Just do as his majesty directs and you shall be fine." While the former grasped the door handle and pushed. The oaken door scraped heavily along the stone floor with a resounding groan that drowned out her thundering heart beat if only for the moments it took until the door stood wide. They both stood away from the threshold, and one of them, she couldn't differentiate the voice, whispered from behind her, "We will be back to retrieve you once his majesty is sated," before she felt a helpful nudge, bordering on a shove, against the small of her back, launching her to stumble into the King's private bedchambers.
There were a few long moments after she heard the door shudder and thud shut - literally sealing her to her fate - where she didn't move, didn't breathe, and couldn't even produce a coherent thought. The chamber was dark, a few flickering candles sparsely lit the enormous room, though how enormous she couldn't be positive with such dull lighting. It was a large, roaring fire place that shone the most light, casting two tall backed, cushioned chairs positioned a comfortable distance before the hearth, and the bed into a foreboding yet soothing orange glow.
"Come." She startled so hard she nearly tripped where she stood still as a statue. That voice had spoken directly to her some many moons ago, but now she could hardly recognize it, or place where it was coming from. "Take a place before the fire, surely the chill from dancing in the snow all day still lingers in your bones."
This was her job, do as he says, please him. The first had been giving her consent, and now she was to follow through. This was her place. Somehow. This was her life. All because of a damned unpaid debt.
She couldn't banish the tremble from her hands, nor lessen the frenzied beat of her heart, but she swallowed her fear, swallowed her scant remaining pride, and with bare feet on cold stone, she answered her King's request and made her way toward the fire. Answering his call.
.
.
.