Chapter Text
There are plenty of lush and soft pillows in the mansion of House Damiell, bright red like winter rowan or midnight blue, the velvet so smooth it leaves no pressure against skin.
But none of those pillows supports Astrid’s back. They’re Art and Decoration. A lady sits straight regardless, and she is never bored, nor upset, nor thrilled.
A lady simply is.
Astrid is a lady. Well, she’s five years old, so she’s not much of anything, but she already knows how to nod and courtesy and how to not throw a fit. Emotions are not good for a lady, and Astrid has learned how to feel cold without moving a muscle in her face—even that time when her mother took her doll away, saying Astrid no longer had any need for such things.
Had she cried, her mother and father would have given her The Look, the worst punishment of all.
You are not good enough. That is what The Look says. If Astrid falls victim to the Look, there was no need to pretend that her heart was frozen over—it froze all on its own.
The Look is rarely thrown in her direction, however, because Astrid is always good.
She sits straight—without pillows. She sleeps without a doll, forcing herself not to hug her blankets instead. She does not run. Does not talk back. She learns how to read, and says ‘yes madam’ or ‘yes sir’ when her tutors tell her things of politics and history.
And most important of all, she says ‘yes, father’ whenever there is mention of her future. Because she is five, she does not know that the tone her father uses when he talks about her future is called ‘indifferent’, but she knows what it sounds like.
Because she is of House Damiell of Begnion, Astrid is Important. Other girls may become soldiers or academics or magicians or farmers, but Other girls are not Important girls.
Important girls know how to sing and to please and they know just enough about the world to not be smarter than their future spouse. Because that is another aspect of Important girls; they find a man to secure something called ‘political alliances’.
“One day, Astrid, we will find you a good man. When you are eighteen, you will leave this house to live with him. And a good man does not want a crooked lady—hence, it is important that you do not slouch like that—do you understand?”
Astrid angles her head so that her hair falls out of her face. “Yes, father.”
A lady simply is, and Astrid is a lady. She does not think much of this.
But she is also five years old, and the future is nothing but a concept.
* * *
Astrid’s birthdays are not celebrated. Only Apostles celebrate their birthdays—as a nationwide event where every soul in Begnion rises to sing her name and wish her blessings by the goddess Ashera. There are gifts exchanged among families and firelight shows done by mages brightening the night sky.
The Apostle Sanaki was born in spring, seven years ago. It is now autumn, the season Astrid was brought to the world, eighteen years ago.
And when a Begnion citizen is eighteen, they may be married. Astrid knows this law well, with how many times it has been repeated to her by her father.
She spends the morning walking the garden. Not too slowly, as that would be a burden for her future partner, but not too quickly either, since that would mean she had ideas of individuality.
She thinks of what it would be like to be seven years old instead, like the Apostle. And she is convinced that such a child cannot have much else on her mind than what her parents want, either. On the other hand, the last Apostle Consort died early, and Her Excellence Apostle Misaha was killed many years ago, so Apostle Sanaki doesn’t have parents.
Astrid cannot imagine whether that is a sad thing for her or not. Maybe sadness is not something Apostles feel. They probably have a good posture and graceful nods and unthreatening smiles, just as a lady should.
Astrid has a hard time smiling now, though. A carriage is let inside their front yard, the pompous horses wearing bright white feathers along their manes. The front door opens, and her mother and father step out on the porch with bows and curtseys.
Astrid abandons the gardens to join their side. She stares at the carriage from beneath half-closed eyelids. She knows what she is waiting for, and her heart feels heavy.
But a lady simply is, and Astrid is a lady.
It is not the first time she sees the man who exists the carriage. She has seen him many times as a child, since he works with her father.
He has always looked the same. Wrinkled face. Golden moustache that makes his cheekbones look swollen. There is not a scar or blemish on him, because he has never lifted a finger to do labour in his life—just like Astrid. His cloak is made by bright blue fur, with a rim of golden tufts as the bottom.
Astrid knows those are laguz skins. And the black brooch on his chest is an ancient dragonscale from a royal dragon. He has bragged of such things to her before.
“Duke and Senator Lekain of Gaddos,” her father croons and bows again. “Thank you for coming. You know my daughter, Astrid, of course—”
Astrid knows this is her que to curtesy again, so she does. “Good day, Senator.”
Lekain glances at her, his lips twisting to a smirk. Her father seems pleased with this exchange, and urges them to come to his study. There are soft chairs and a fireplace and many different bottles of finely filtered spirits on shelves—Astrid is rarely welcomed into this place, but now that she is, she does not think it a happy occasion.
Lekain sits on her father’s chair, and her father takes the guest chair. Astrid remains standing beside her mother. She doesn’t know if this will be one of the last times she sees her family.
A maid asked Astrid if she would miss her family, now that she was going away soon. Astrid didn’t know what to answer, because she doesn’t know what it would mean, to miss someone.
“Now, Senator Lekain, as we’ve previously discussed,” her father begins after the pleasantries are exchanged, “the law now allows for us to set our plans into motion. We appreciate your presence so soon, and I hope everything is to your contentment.”
Lekain looks at Astrid. He has done so many times, but not quite like this. Astrid knows what is expected, and a lady simply is, nothing more—his gaze should not make her blood cold.
But it does. She is afraid.
“I believe it is,” Lekain answered. He has a kind voice, but Astrid is afraid still.
Maybe that is what it means to miss something, even if she has not yet left these grounds. It is one thing to do as she’s told in this place where she has a garden to walk in, where she knows her tutors and her parents.
She is to be married with this man, and she does not know what that means. She should not be scared of this change, but what she should is no longer important to her. There is a voice in her that has been silent for as long as she can remember, but now… it cries the way she had wanted to do the day her mother put her doll on the hearth.
“That is good to hear,” her father says, a distant echo. “Please, make yourself at home, Senator. The arrangement shall be complete within the week. Astrid, would you perhaps grace the Senator with a walk through the gardens?”
Astrid cannot answer. There is a lump in her throat. But she smiles and nods, just like she’s been taught to do.
The walk is an agony.
Astrid asks polite questions, smiles and compliments Lekain when it is appropriate, but her heart does not still, because he looks at her like he does his laguz furs.
She is a finery disconnected from the life that has once wielded it. A passing fancy.
He prods her with words and looks only, but both are frightening enough. Lekain speaks of politics in a way that makes the ground feel unsteady below her feet.
He pushes her into conversations where he can give a clever response, and watches over her responses like a hawk would a mouse.
He claims to want her views, but he leads her firmly to the responses he fishes for. He wants her views on the horrible deed orchestrated by the now-purged Heron Clan—and by that he means the assassination of the late Apostle Misaha—and on the incorrigible state of the Holy Guard, and the beauty of Begnion’s political systems.
Astrid manages to ignore the gazes and answer aloofly to his questions. A lady does not have opinions, after all, a fact that seems to please Lekain more than most things about her.
And Astrid knows that she would rather die than continue down the path that would lead her to marry him.
* * *
Her family disowns her on the spot. Her cheeks still burn from the humiliation, but at least they let her pack a bag of belongings to bring with her. Not much in terms of gold, but a cloak or two. And in a fleeting sweep of emotion, Astrid takes her childhood doll down from the hearth and stuffs it in the bag, too.
A lady did not sleep with stuffed animals or dolls, but Astrid was no longer a lady, and damn her if her five-year-old self has not longed to do this every day since her doll was taken away.
Its name was Curly, because it had curled yarn on its head, and its vacant smile had been more joyful than anything her parents had provided.
She did not hate them, though. She could not do that. She was mostly afraid of this tipping point of her own making, because she was being unreasonable and unladylike and was bringing shame upon those who raised her.
But Lekain makes her not care about that. If this is what saying ‘no’ leads to, then so be it.
She rides out of the Damiell property, tears stinging her eyes. She is alone, and despite there being daylight, the outside world feels dark and imposing. The sky is covered by clouds, every bend of the road unfamiliar—but she knows the way to the closest city, and that is where she will go.
Her home is in the north-western parts of Begnion. A somewhat forgotten place, but there is a recruitment site for the army in every city (which she has learned from her tutors, because politics), and she doubts there is anywhere else for her to go.
Riding up to the barracks shadows her with doubt, though. She knows how to stay atop a horse, but most people do, and she’s not exactly skilled with it. She knows that people in the army does not nod and smile and curtesy, so what use is she?
Her fears realized, the captain that comes out to greet her looks at her with disdain.
“I don’t think there’s room for you here, princess,” the captain says. “Run back home to mommy and daddy. We cannot house you through your feeble rebellious phases and have you break down and cry at the first sight of a blister.”
The captain has scars on her face, but not that many. That probably means she’s skilled at what she does.
Astrid swallows. It is perhaps not that uncommon for a noble child to feel displeased with their future, and clearly not that uncommon to have the same idea as she does.
It might be a grave mistake, but she will not turn back.
“Please,” she says to the captain. “I am disowned.”
The captain’s eyes soften. “Not the first time I’ve heard that,” she says. “And it wouldn’t be the first time that you’re welcomed back if you just go home and apologize, kiddo. I mean it. You need to bring some skill to your unit if you conscript. We cannot have liabilities stay on.”
Astrid’s chest hammers. “Please,” she repeats, desperately. “I cannot go back. I cannot. I swear to you I will do as I’m told. I always have, except for today. I know how to ride a horse, and…”
She needs to lie, she realizes, and that frightens her. But what else can she do?
“…and I know my way around a bow. At least, um, the basics. Captain, sir.”
A bow seemed like the most appropriate thing for her. What else could a frail lady without magic talents do?
The captain’s eyes soften even more, and Astrid feels a slither of hope.
“All right,” the captain yields. “Fine, princess. It will not be easy, and you will not get special treatment. That good with you?”
Astrid is still afraid, but less so than of Lekain. Perhaps she is a fool to find him so disturbing, but now that her gut has spoken for the first time in her life, she cannot do well to ignore it. This woman before her seems at least honest, and that is more than she could ask for.
“I would not expect anything else,” Astrid promises. “Thank you, Captain, sir.”
The woman lets out a low chuckle.
“Don’t thank me yet, princess.”