The nobleman and the marquess' daughter. Never has a couple so perfect in theory been so painful in practice.
Midia is in a fine dress, deep pink, her mother's favourite. She wears it because it suits her warm complexion, because it fits a lady of her status. She doesn't let on that the sight of it makes her ache with grief. All her most beautiful things are heirlooms. Things passed on. Things thrust upon her.
The man whose arm she clasps is another beautiful thing she wishes she didn't have to keep. When she was a girl, she was infatuated with Jeorge. She liked the way he carded his fingers through his long hair when he was thinking, the way he narrowed his eyes when he shot his bow. She loved their first kiss, both of them too young to know better, the lightest of touches, the thrill of the moment.
But she didn't love him. It was undeniable.
He pried her fingers from his arm, gentle but firm. "I have others to attend to. You can handle yourself for a few minutes, can't you?" He doesn't wait for an answer before he strides away.
Why does it bother her so much? She's been in social settings like this half a million times, long before their engagement. But Midia still feels like she's been stranded on a battlefield without her weapon.
He doesn't need an answer because he knows she's capable, she tells herself firmly. She keeps her expression a careful, neutral mask and searches the crowd for a friendly face.
But if they both know she can handle herself, why do they continue this charade?
The Samstooth girl loudly slurps up the remainder of her tea; it takes all of Midia's willpower not to roll her eyes. So undignified. She's only a minor noblewoman anyway, some niece of Bent. But decorum and dignity are such simple skills to have if you insist on attending these gatherings and soaking up the perks of nobility. Even Jeorge, who launches tirades against the noble houses of Archanea behind closed doors, stays tactful in public.
"I would never ever!" declares the girl, brandishing her teacup for emphasis and inadvertently sloshing a few drops on the fine carpets. (It's not so much snobbery as common courtesy, Midia wants to point out.) "I would sooner die than rebel against anyone stronger than me! Conflicts are temporary, nobility is forever. A woman has to think about retaining her status."
Midia spends as much time with sellswords and knights-in-training as she does with other nobles. She admits to herself that it's not the 'undiginified' behaviour that bothers her so much as the flaunting of status.
"And what if your people are in danger? What if you have to choose what's right?"
The girl shrugs listlessly. She doesn't appear to notice tea dripping from her cup onto her skirts. Midia wants to groan. "Then I hunker down and live to fight another day."
"What if that doesn't work out for you? What if your odds look better on the other side? I doubt staying put would always give you the status you seem to crave." Midia barely hides the distain in her voice. Hopefully the girl will think it's some Deil affectation- this is clearly her first time travelling.
"You have a point," the girl replies thoughtfully. "I would choose whatever side had the best outcome for me, loyalty or no."
Treason. Is the anger written plain on Midia's face? She hopes not. The girl is proposing treason, so casually. Thank the gods she will never be a marquis anyway.
"You wouldn't have to think about such things anyway," says the girl hastily, with a hint of venom. Perhaps Midia didn't disguise her disgust well enough. "Your position is loftier than mine. If you wanted to strike out on your own, on your imperative, you'd have more of a leg to stand on than me." She smiles widely. "Especially with that lovely son of House Menedy on your arm. If that was me, I'd be unstoppable!"
You can have him, Midia wants to snap in retaliation, but refrains. She doesn't hate Jeorge either. She wouldn't want to pawn him off to a foolish, airheaded girl. And she doesn't think he'd want that sort of company either. She immediately wants to go and tell him all about what she said, complain about the state of the nobility these days, let loose and curse the world for producing these sorts of people in privileged places. Those thoughts surprise her, but why should they? Midia and Jeorge see eye to eye on the frivolousness of the noble houses. They think alike in politics but not love. She dislikes him for barely trying to fit the role of her fiancé, but dislikes herself for trying to shape him into that man to begin with. She misses when he occupied a more important role in her life- her trusted friend.
If she would lead a rebellion for her people, what is stopping her from rebelling to protect her heart?
The girl looks at her expectantly, one eyebrow raised.
"Yes," Midia says sweetly. "I'm a very lucky woman."
"How will we tell my family?"
Astram's chest rises and falls gently, with Midia curled into him, both laid up underneath an oak tree. He breathes more deeply when they're in the forest, filling his lungs with fresh air and unintentionally rocking her. When she closes her eyes, a great calm washes over her. She didn't know how much she needed soothing until she met Astram.
"You don't have to say anything if you don't want to. Whatever is easiest for you right now. Whatever makes you happiest."
"You make me happiest. I refuse to hide you away a second longer."
Astram chuckles softly, his warm breath ruffling her hair. Like a breeze on a summer's day. "You get bolder every day. I admire that about you."
"I regret that I couldn't have been brave sooner. But you... you were the catalyst. My love."
The memories are a whirlwind, so fast Midia only sees them in motion. Even so, they are razor sharp, every detail so vivid. Jeorge's friend from his days as a bow knight. The way he stumbled over his words when they first talked, the day after that fateful gathering that was the last straw. Astram couldn't meet her gaze, lingered a second too long when she shook his hand. Jeorge's calculating look, his eyes shifting between the two of them. Jeorge and Midia are alike after all- always trying to predict what the future holds. She has a friend in him again. She knew that the day she gave him the engagement ring back and he hugged her harder than he ever had when they were superficial lovers. He didn't care for romantic gestures but he knew to tell Astram her favourite flower, the sweets she loved as a child, the folk songs she couldn't help but sing along to.
And then the things she'd given Astram alone. Her sweet nothings. Her poems. Her mother's ring.
Surely this is meant to be the other way around? Astram had asked, and she'd pressed the ring into his palm anyway and smiled slyly because she knew he liked her daring side, the side of her that did things her own way. The side she'd tried and failed to smother, thank the gods.
She takes his hand in hers now and spins the ring round and round his finger. "When I gave you this, I remember how fragile I felt." She laughs openly, so bright in the crisp morning light. "I remember thinking I should find a magician, put a love spell on it so I wouldn't lose you."
Astram matches her laugh. Birds of a feather. Midia feels lighter than air. "You didn't need one," he says. "I hope you know that, dearest. You didn't need a ring or a spell. Or even a good matchmaker for a friend. You didn't need anything but yourself."
