Shackles of Oath
When something is written down in balck and white and it is a promise, there is little chance of ever breaking away from that promise. There are two ways out of this particularly restrictive and legal shackle: option one is to fulfill the promise, option two is to die, option three is to destroy the incriminating piece of evidence of the promise.
But when one swears an oath to do something, most of the time it is a 'forever' thing, and there can be no going back once the oath is made...
She could not sleep that night. As she lay in the darkness, all she could see was her own fear and despair. She pictured herself in the middle of a family portrait, standing behind a faceless man she did not love, surrounded by faceless children she did not care for, in a room where she had no attachment.
She rose as the first rays of the sun peeked through the old satin curtains of her bedroom window.
Dressing silently, she picked up her shamshir and walked out of the house, into the street. She would not take long, just a few minutes to say her farewells and her thanks. She would be back before the bridal procession came.
Leaping over a wall and onto a rooftop, she treaded lightly across the maze of tiles, careful to avoid any loose ones perching precariously on their edges. Running above ground was the most convenient way to maneuver across the city, if you knew the hidden technique to doing so of course. There were no blockages, no stalls, no narrow streets, and few people noticed you.
The city was beginning to stir. The first lights were being lit, and the animals were awakening.
She landed, graceful as a cat, before the cottage and rapped three times on the windowpane to the right of the cottage. That was their secret signal.
An eye peered out through the peephole cautiously, to confirm the identity of the visitor. The door promptly opened to reveal the surprised face of Saleh.
"Marisa? Why are you here so early? Is something wrong?" he asked.
Shaking her hand, she leaned through the door. "Is Chief here?" All she could see was a sleeping bundle on the bed that was most likely Ewan.
Saleh shook his head. "Tethys and Gerik are out on a night mission, and they have yet to return. I'm expecting them to be finishing their job soon and reporting back here in 3 hours. Is anything the matter?"
Taking a deep breath, she nodded. "My father lost a gamble yesterday and I was the wager. He betrothed me to a man who agreed to pay off his creditors. I'm getting married, today, in the morning."
Saleh's eyes widened as he took in her words. Momentarily, he was speechless. "But that's insane! He cannot sell his own flesh and blood to save his own skin That's barbaric! We'll pay off your creditors, Gerik will never allow you to be sold in exchange for a bunch of gambling debts!"
"Master Saleh," she interrupted his indignant tirade. "My father owes the creditors a huge sum. It is impossible for any of us to pay it off."
"You could run away…" he suggested.
"He's my father," she sighed. "Besides, he owes Valter, and I do not expect us to be able to outrun that man. He has comrades hiding everywhere."
Saleh lapsed into a gloomy silence. She knew, from past experience, that he was formulating some form of an elaborate escape plan. She could almost hear the bogs in his brains whirling as he concocted another daredevil strategy.
"It's okay Master Saleh," she attempted a small smile. "I'm just here to say goodbye. Tell Chief thanks for the employment. Thank Tethys for her care. Thank you, you've helped me a lot too. And tell Ewan to study hard."
With a leap, she gripped the wall and hoisted herself up. Clambering nimbly onto a roof, she disappeared amongst the still dark backdrop of the city.
The last thing she needed to do was to implicate more people in this mess her father had dragged the two of them into.
By the time she reached the front door, the contingent had already arrived. Horses pawed the ground of their overgrown courtyard, the riders clad in heavy armour, standing still and eyeing her with curiosity.
Uneasy from the sheer amount of attention she was receiving, she walked briskly into the house, only to be accosted by two maidens dressed in heavy silk garments and their hair styled in the most fashionable manner.
"You're home." Her father sat in the same armchair as yesterday, same hand holding his shamshir, same hand gripping the armchair with a similar degree of ferocity and forcefulness.
In the other armchair, sat a regal-looking lady in her sixties, with snowy white hair pulled tightly into a bun. "You took your time." Her voice was sharp, like the talons of an eagle. "There is no time to waste. Go!"
In a blur of silk and satin, she was escorted into her room, which was already crammed full with various jeweled items. A dazzling array of gowns was spread out across her bed, many in colours that she had never even imagined herself to be wearing. An ivory comb (almost identical to the one she had stolen and sold), a gem-inlaid powder box, a silver palette of colours and a variety of jewellery was decked out on her table, along with a large gold-framed mirror.
For the next 4 hours, she was subjected to the torturous administrations of the handmaidens, who insisted vehemently on brushing out every minute tangle in her hair, powdering her face till it was white as paper, making her try on every one of the gowns and loading so many pieces of jewellery on her neck, wrists and hair that she felt her bones crack from the sheer weight of everything.
Neither would they tell her who was her husband-to-be.
She was escorted down again, like a dressed-up doll. It took all her tolerance to keep a straight face, for the shoes were digging into her ankles, the brocade was scratchy and her spine ached from keeping upright with the extra weights.
Nodding her approval, the old dame rose and fished an envelope from the recesses of her sleeve and handed it to her father. Waving her hand, she summoned two soldiers, who stepped forth carrying a large chest.
Under the greedy eyes of everyone present, she opened the chest and sifted her hand through the shimmering gold pieces, letting them fall back with a distinct clinking sound. "As promised," she said, closing the chest again.
She stared at the steaming cup of tea before her with mixed emotions. Her mother-in-law sat across her, long white fingers wrapped daintily around her enamel cup. "As I was saying, I really look forward to having you around, it's so lonely here sometimes, especially when…"
She could not help but smile hesitantly at her mother-in-law, Lady Ismaire. The lady was in her mid-forties, but her face gave no indication of her age. She moved with a quiet grace, and there was a permanent dignified air cloaking her. Beneath the regal exterior, she was compassionate, and truly kind towards her new daughter-in-law.
Of course, that did not stop her from smashing a teacup when she heard whom she had just married.
"My dear, now that you're the wife of the Prince of Jehanna, you need to learn how to smile more."
She cringed inwardly. What had her father done? Or rather, what had she done to deserve such a fate? To marry into the royal family of Jehanna! She resisted the impulse to throw herself down on the cushions and moan for her miserable fate.
How would she ever escape from this?
Her heart was pounding rapidly in her chest. A cold trickle of sweat slid down her forehead.
It was not everyday that one saw their husband for the first time.
Trying the distract herself, she reclined against the soft couch. Holding a cushion in her hands, she traced a finger lazily along the embroidery. Someone, possibly a master artisan for the royal family, had embroidered the floral patterns and for a person like her, who could not sew a single stitch without accidentally causing injury to herself, the patterns were a remarkable feat.
"My mother made those." A foreign voice jolted her out of her reverie of cushions and needlework. She looked up to see a man coming in through the door, shutting it behind him.
Her eyes widened.
Long loose red hair, simple but elegant and rich robes, jeweled sword hanging from belt…he was that person in the courtyard that day!
He's the prince? Seeing him eyeing her thoughtfully, she blushed and turned away. She was unused to such close scrutiny from members of the opposite gender.
"So you're Marisa, I presume?" He grinned at her.
She refrained from glaring at him, the man who took away her freedom and celibacy in one stroke.
He sat down carelessly beside her on the couch, adjusting his position so that he was facing her. "Hmm…guess it was worth every gold…" He mumbled, twirling a gold coin between his fingers.
"Why did you marry me?" The words left her mouth before she realized how absurd it sounded. Like something cheesy and lame a pair of newlyweds utter to each other, she thought distastefully.
Smirking, he shrugged. "Lady Luck, I suppose? Well, there was this man running around with thugs threatening to chop his head off and as the prince, I must intervene, right? But it was an insane sum, and I should deserve something for it all, and I do-did rather- need something."
"Like a wife?" She frowned. Most normal people needed money.
"Bulls-eye," he lounged on the couch, leaning his head against a cushion. "My mother and practically everyone else in this place has been nagging at me for the past decade about finding a wife. And while gambling with your father I heard someone remark that he had a fair daughter so…if I was going to randomly find a wife I might as well find someone beautiful right?" He winked at her casually.
"So we're married for life…" she sighed. Her future looked bleak, married to a gambling prince and trapped in the confinements of the palace till her death.
He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Not quite," he replied. "I just need a wife to become king. But after I am king, we could always divorce if you want…"
She was scandalized. He made marriage sound like one of his playthings, as though it was just another gamble for him. "I'm going to bed."
He sat up. "So early?" he cried, gesturing at the grandfather cloak in the corner of the room. Looking at her resolute expression, he sighed. "Door to your right is your room. The one to the left is mine."
"We aren't sharing a room?" Everyone always told her that newlyweds were to share a single room as husband and wife.
He smirked. "Do you want to?"
Turning an uncomfortable shade of crimson, she stood up.
"Oh, by the way, I'm Joshua," he extended his hand and winked. "But feel free to call me darling."
She pointedly ignored his hand and headed for her room.
"For that you owe me a morning kiss!" he shouted after her.
She slammed the door.
Yup, and Marisa is thus (unhappily and unwillingly) married to Joshua. Oh, to think of Marisa as a princess ^^ She'll make a beautiful queen ^^