Pyrrhic Wedding: Loss All Around by Himring

Loss All Around

Ancalime's POV

For the International Day of Femslash--but I hesitate to label this even as "mild sexual content"

She is leaving, with her new husband.

Go not from me, Faeleth!

She arises from her chair in her rich yellow damask wedding dress, cheeks pale under her delicately tinted skin—no morsel of the wedding feast has passed her lips—she softly places her hand in her husband’s palm and lets him lead her out, turns back once to me, at the door, her eyes swimming with tears…

Oh, Faeleth.

I discouraged my maids from wedding. At first, it was done in good faith—or as good faith as I knew how. They seemed so young! So much to do, to see, to learn—and all their families encouraged them to do was to catch the eye of a suitable husband. Their friends, too! Tittering about the charms of this male and that behind their painted fans, egging each other on, little guessing how the yoke chafes when your husband and you are not suited…

I knew much, then, already about how the yoke chafes. I could not even imagine, then, that a couple could truly suit for long. The great romance of my mother and my father had failed miserably. My own marriage had never even got off the ground.

And then you came, sent to court by your family. I took you up, like others before, showed you favour, spent time in your company. When was it that, talking to you, looking in your dark-lashed eyes, I discovered in my heart a new conviction that the yoke need not always chafe, couples not always be unsuited?

Oh, Faeleth. So scrupulously loyal, so lacking in courtly malice! So ready both to pity and to merriment! Your laughter lighted my days.

I am proud and set in my ways. I am queen, always in the public eye. The discovery was unwelcome. I was bitter because it came far too late.

I, who had been honest, turned hypocrite. Where I had discouraged marriage before, I forbade. I clung to all my ladies-in-waiting, to disguise I was in truth clinging to one. I successfully hid that truth even from you.

And now I have lost you the sooner, the more entirely, by that. You leave, on the arm of your husband. I remain, reduced to utter humiliation by my husband’s plot of revenge and yet he guesses not what he has in truth done to me.

Your new husband need not fear my disfavour, Faeleth. I hope the yoke sits lightly on your shoulders and does not chafe. Only tell me—I know you had honest admiration for me, I know you were as kind to your proud queen as you dared to be—oh, my Faeleth, my dear lady of Eldalonde, turn back to me just one more time and let me know—I did not deserve your love, I who did not dare show you any, but did you love me, nevertheless, at least a little?