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Entry tags:
abc prompts; k+s: arranged marriage [unfinished]
She had imagined many things — hoped many things, wished many things on so very many bright stars — in the weeks between her father's announcement and the day she would meet her betrothed.
He had been infuriatingly silent on the subject of her groom-to-be, saying only that he was a 'fine boy,' and once, dryly, that he would not dare guarantee that Kiersten would not be disappointed. (Kiersten was awash in indignation. It was a commentary not on the qualities (or quality) of her future husband, but on her notorious choosiness and exacting nature.)
So she had been left to imagine. She imagined, in turn, that his eyes were pale and striking, blue or green, but his hair was always dark, and he always stood tall and broad. He was a proficient swordsman in her mind, a master of his craft and undefeated in his kingdom. When he spoke, his words were elegant and brimming with confidence, and his eyes sparked fiercely when they lit on her. Her imaginary heart skipped a beat. His sense of humor and adventure were a bit too daring for her mother's tastes, but perfectly suited to Kiersten. He could lift her off the ground onto horseback nearly effortlessly, and he would petition at her window after dark for her attentions. In her father's presence, he was polite, but he always spared a warm, secretive smile for his betrothed. What her father didn't know wouldn't hurt him.
Now they were here, just minutes from the life or death of her hopes and dreams: standing on the courtyard steps and watching a carriage approach, black and gleaming, with the gold crest of a dragon on the door. The horses were just as dark, drawing to a halt with spirited tosses of their heads.
The crest belonged to Dragonfell. Kiersten knew that Dragonfell had a prince, but she knew nothing of him. In her youth, she had occasion to meet the king, a stern man with whom her own father did much business. He was attractive, she supposed, and surely his son would be as well. Dragonfell had been wedded in its last generation to the kingdom of Faircoast, an island of dark-skinned, exotic beauties — promising, if nothing else.
First to emerge from the carriage was the king, crowned and armored. He was older than she remembered, but much the same. The pitch black of his cape fluttered in the light breeze, keeping time with her heart.
His wife would be next, Kiersten presumed, and though the king offered no hand to help his queen down, she came nonetheless. Like her husband, she appeared as a knight: tall and lean, imposing. The juxtaposition of sword and crown on a woman was unique to Kiersten's eye, but pleasing. The queen's skin was bronzed and her features dark. She was certainly Faircoastal royalty.
At last, Kiersten's betrothed stepped down from the carriage. He was as tall as she had hoped, dark-haired as she had imagined, and every bit as beautiful: a breathtaking blend of his father's Nordic bones and his mother's exotic coloring. His hand rested comfortably on the hilt of his sword.
In what her father would later point out as a stark show of disrespect to the visiting king and queen, Kiersten gathered her skirt in a careless hand and swept past them, coming to stand before the prince. She smiled warmly and offered her hand.
"Kiersten Harte, Princess of Rosemead, Daughter of Blackmere," she recited in a breath that nearly expired before she was finished. "You may call me Kiersten."
Though he looked less than enthralled, the prince took her hand and raised it for a gentle kiss. "Shayne Trenowyth, Warrior Prince of Dragonfell, Son of Faircoast, Rider of the Golden Wyvern."
Were he not her husband-to-be, she might have been indignant to hear that his title was more extravagant than her own. As it were, she chose to be impressed.
He had been infuriatingly silent on the subject of her groom-to-be, saying only that he was a 'fine boy,' and once, dryly, that he would not dare guarantee that Kiersten would not be disappointed. (Kiersten was awash in indignation. It was a commentary not on the qualities (or quality) of her future husband, but on her notorious choosiness and exacting nature.)
So she had been left to imagine. She imagined, in turn, that his eyes were pale and striking, blue or green, but his hair was always dark, and he always stood tall and broad. He was a proficient swordsman in her mind, a master of his craft and undefeated in his kingdom. When he spoke, his words were elegant and brimming with confidence, and his eyes sparked fiercely when they lit on her. Her imaginary heart skipped a beat. His sense of humor and adventure were a bit too daring for her mother's tastes, but perfectly suited to Kiersten. He could lift her off the ground onto horseback nearly effortlessly, and he would petition at her window after dark for her attentions. In her father's presence, he was polite, but he always spared a warm, secretive smile for his betrothed. What her father didn't know wouldn't hurt him.
Now they were here, just minutes from the life or death of her hopes and dreams: standing on the courtyard steps and watching a carriage approach, black and gleaming, with the gold crest of a dragon on the door. The horses were just as dark, drawing to a halt with spirited tosses of their heads.
The crest belonged to Dragonfell. Kiersten knew that Dragonfell had a prince, but she knew nothing of him. In her youth, she had occasion to meet the king, a stern man with whom her own father did much business. He was attractive, she supposed, and surely his son would be as well. Dragonfell had been wedded in its last generation to the kingdom of Faircoast, an island of dark-skinned, exotic beauties — promising, if nothing else.
First to emerge from the carriage was the king, crowned and armored. He was older than she remembered, but much the same. The pitch black of his cape fluttered in the light breeze, keeping time with her heart.
His wife would be next, Kiersten presumed, and though the king offered no hand to help his queen down, she came nonetheless. Like her husband, she appeared as a knight: tall and lean, imposing. The juxtaposition of sword and crown on a woman was unique to Kiersten's eye, but pleasing. The queen's skin was bronzed and her features dark. She was certainly Faircoastal royalty.
At last, Kiersten's betrothed stepped down from the carriage. He was as tall as she had hoped, dark-haired as she had imagined, and every bit as beautiful: a breathtaking blend of his father's Nordic bones and his mother's exotic coloring. His hand rested comfortably on the hilt of his sword.
In what her father would later point out as a stark show of disrespect to the visiting king and queen, Kiersten gathered her skirt in a careless hand and swept past them, coming to stand before the prince. She smiled warmly and offered her hand.
"Kiersten Harte, Princess of Rosemead, Daughter of Blackmere," she recited in a breath that nearly expired before she was finished. "You may call me Kiersten."
Though he looked less than enthralled, the prince took her hand and raised it for a gentle kiss. "Shayne Trenowyth, Warrior Prince of Dragonfell, Son of Faircoast, Rider of the Golden Wyvern."
Were he not her husband-to-be, she might have been indignant to hear that his title was more extravagant than her own. As it were, she chose to be impressed.