The Clauses She Would Not Bend
Article 1. The parties shall share a meal together at least once a day.
Article 2. The parties shall attend official functions together.
Article 3. Each shall respect the other's private life; once a week, however, they shall set aside a regular hour for counseling conversation.
Article 4. Any sudden change in emotional state shall be shared at once.
Article 5. Any illness or injury shall be reported at once.
Article 6. Each party shall sleep no fewer than six hours a day.
Article 7. Weapons and medicines shall be kept in a designated place and shall not be used without prior approval.
Ludville raised his head, slowly. Across from him, Odelli was still turning over further clauses in perfect earnest, her face that of a woman asking herself what else she ought to add.
At first he had wondered if she meant for them to play at lovers. Read closely, though, the articles felt nothing like that at all.
"Meals? Official functions?"
The question left him on a scoff of pure disbelief. Odelli only nodded, grave as a judge, and added her reason.
"Even a contract marriage owes that much, I think. People are watching."
"And why must I report my feelings, and the state of my body?"
"Because... if Your Highness were to fall ill, the contract would suffer for it. Keeping a constant watch on your health is only sensible..."
"And seizing control of my weapons and my medicines?"
"...Things that catch the eye raise one's fatigue."
The excuses grew thinner with every word. Ludville looked down at the contract dashed off on the spot, and when he spoke his eyes had narrowed to slits.
"My lady. Do I look to you like a man who might leave a will and vanish as soon as tomorrow?"
No. He looked like a man who would not even leave a will. She could hardly say that outright, so Odelli made a show of drinking her tea and put on an innocent face.
"Of course not. You're imagining things."
"You seem to think my eyes are mere decoration."
She had gone so far as to write regular counseling, scratch the words out in a furious scribble, and correct them to conversation. Ludville was past incredulity. Odelli, indifferent to his reaction, pressed on without yielding.
"In any case, these clauses are for my sake as well, so I hope you'll keep them. They aren't even difficult."
Difficult, no. Only a nuisance.
"And how, exactly, am I meant to read any of this as being for you?"
"If Your Highness stays safe and sound, I'll be free to wield power as I please."
"Wouldn't widowhood be a great deal more convenient?"
He tossed it back lightly, his tone cold with scorn. In that instant Odelli's face went rigid. She pressed her lips shut, held a silence, and then murmured, low.
The sight of her struck him briefly speechless. Somewhere, strangely, his chest stirred, and a discomfort rose through him. What was it—this unpleasant, familiar feeling, shaking senses that had lain asleep for a very long time?
Odelli, as if she had never been angry at all, smoothed her expression back to calm and went on in an even voice.
"If I became a widow, the vassals would only tear me apart for an unqualified woman seizing a title. I might even be accused of having assassinated you. So you must live. No matter what happens."
Ludville looked at her and said nothing. The reasoning was plausible enough, and yet a wrongness clung to it, as though her true heart were hidden underneath. Had she wanted nothing but power, she would have laughed off censure of that sort and reached to take it alone.
I still can't tell what she's after. The moment he thought he had a thread in hand, he was flung back to the start, and the cycle repeated without end.
Without meaning to, his eyes met hers. Blue—vivid, clear, transparent. Familiar.
...Again.
For no reason at all, his heart began to beat faster and faster. He steadied his breath and forced his gaze away from her.
...No. She is not that woman.
Look into those pale sky-blue eyes, and he could not shake the sense that they resembled the woman he had been searching for. And yet that woman had always been crying. He could not remember her clearly. What remained was only a sensation, blurred as if under fog: a woman so frail that a touch might have broken her, a woman he felt he was meant to keep at his side and protect.
And this one?
Didn't she thrash a thief with her own hands?
Far from asking for help, she was forever occupied with something on her own, and she had not the slightest need of his. The cherished youngest daughter of House Cardel. Blood of the hero beloved by the people of the empire. Nothing about her circumstances was precarious, and she had neither cause nor intention to lean on him.
And those three months Lady Cardel went missing were a willful running away... no. A departure she chose herself, I think. All so she might seize power with her own hands. Ducal house or not, she was only the third daughter, never the heir. And now, because he had spoken of compensation, she was calmly setting a contract in front of him—the marriage, the circumstances, all of it—as though she meant to hold the lead herself.
Ludville shook his head as if to cast the thoughts off, and a short laugh escaped him.
"Of this much, I am certain. You are not the woman I've been looking for."
"...Is that so?"
Odelli's reply was sour. He regarded her in silence, then left unspoken the words circling in his mouth and smiled, languid.
Someone I can bind by contract, with neither love nor pity... If the lady was coming to please him, it was surely for that.
"Funny, though. I haven't even agreed, and already you press your terms on me. Your plan must have started from the premise that I would, of course, accept this marriage."
"I won't deny it."
Odelli conceded it readily. Not because she was certain of capturing his heart. She simply had no interest in anything except keeping Ludville alive. A life already condemned, soon to end regardless. He had no right to fault her for wanting five short years—so brief a span—to be spent in a way that meant something.
"In the end, Your Highness, you will make a deal with me. ...Because you will need me."
At that calm answer his brow creased, and he tapped the contract once, twice.
"If you're that confident, then very well. Show me. Show me that I can't do without you."
"I look forward to it."
He added it quietly, and smiled. The smile of the man who had lost his memory was always like this. The corners of his mouth rose, but his eyes stayed cold—a beast's unhurried smile, as if he might at any moment set his teeth into the nape of her neck.