With a long exhale, he answers.
“Yes.”
“Then why did you stop me?” I press sharply. Glaring at him, my grip tightens around the book as my mind begins to replay the events that followed my confession.
“Would you have rathered I let you find out for yourself?” he prods. I shake my head fervently at him, enraged by his suggestion.
“But that wasn't your decision to make!” I argue, hurling the text at him. The book collides with his collar bone, too surprised to react to its trajectory.
“I didn’t make that decision for you,” he exclaims, raising his arms defensively. “We discussed it and you walked arm in arm with me back to the estate.”
“Only after you made it clear you wouldn’t be letting me go without having heard you out!” I counter furiously, my heart pounding in the surge of my temper, “Do you not hear yourself, now?!”
“Because you made it clear you would be in need of protecting, Avalor,” he asserts as though seemingly justified in his actions. “And I did try to discuss it with you prior,” he continues, throwing his hands out, “I did.”
“And yet it was so obvious that I needed protecting that you went through the oh so noble effort of misleading me!” I sneer, lashing out at him, “You never said a word to me about your scheme to try and court me!”
“Because you don’t want to marry me!” he exclaims as his hands rush to clench his head, obviously triggered by the notion, “I know that!”
“Then why haven’t you been forthcoming in this?!” I contend, “Why? It would have saved us both the trouble of your blasted courtship!”
“Because I want to court you!” he bursts out, “I want this to work between us!”
“But you’re never honest with me! You lie! You’re selfish!” I huff, exasperated whilst throwing my hands out, “What did you even mean when you seemingly apologized earlier?!”
“I didn’t want you to worry,” he asserts, fixing a stern stare.
“About what?!” I question, my eyes widening in rage.
“If you had known why I wanted you to address me by name, then I’d have been giving you reason to worry, which is what I’ve been trying to avoid.” I narrow my eyes at him in a grimace. Worry? About the lord? The sudden realization strikes me like a match and I can no longer hold back my ire.
“I couldn't care LESS about the lord!” I shout, livid as I roll my head back. “As far as I’m concerned, he is the least of my troubles!” “I mean,” I continue, shaking my head, “h-how can you even say that?! Do you not realize how deeply wrong that is?” “Do you truly not hear yourself? Y-you delude yourself with these fabricated ideals of commitment,” I rebuke, waving my hands in illustration of my point, “but you are so atrociously wrong!” “No!” I assert in my turn away from him, heading for the door, “No! I think I’d much rather take my chances at the black market than last a moment LONGER with you here!”
“You can't do that.” I whip my head back at the forlorn voice, incensed by his appeal.
“I cannot do that, you say?” I hiss, with gritted teeth, “I don’t NEED your permission!” His face pales in the throes of my outburst. “I’m very aware of what I can and cannot do–and what I cannot do, is deal with you!” “For a long while, I always thought it ignorant to condemn those of us that found ourselves born into the laws of our institution, for it was not us,” I say, gesturing to myself, “who paved those laws. Rather, it was we who were raised into them by elders who wouldn’t dare live long enough to see even their lives ever impacted by them!” “But talking to you now,” I argue, narrowing my eyes at him in contempt, “I see now that you are no mere bystander. You are a product, and by far, the most corrupt.” “I will be leaving, and no empty threat on your part will be stopping me.”
“Fine,” he says somberly, “You want to leave?” Reaching for the brooch along his collar, he continues. “Then I suggest you take me up on an offer.” I only glare at him, certain it will be the last time I see him.
“What could you possibly offer me?” I scoff.
“Here,” he says plainly, tossing me the brooch. Catching it, I look down at the purple stone laying in my palm. All I see is a gaudy antique. My gaze lazily draws back towards him.
“I don’t care for your poor taste in jewelry,” I retort, discarding it at his feet.
“It’s not mere jewelry, Avalor,” he says, bending into a crouch towards it. I watch as he goes to grasp the brooch, pinning it back to his collar. “Look here, Avalor–merely tap the stone with intention,” he alludes, laying a finger to the gem. “And I can do as little as change the sound of my voice,” he continues, speaking in a different tongue, “or completely alter my entire appearance if I so see fit.” With a second tap, I watch in disbelief as the facade of another figure materializes in his place, before reverting back to his initial form. “See?” In an instance, I find myself forgetting my fit of anger, my mind paused by the illusion.
“Give me the brooch,” I interject, my gaze fixated on the ornamental pin.
“Not without agreeing to my terms,” he replies, adjusting his collar, “I’m willing to negotiate with you now, Avalor. Isn’t this what you wanted?”
“I will not be discussing these matters vocally,” I assert, crossing my arms, “If you mean what you say, you will put your words to paper.”
“Certainly.” Motioning to his desk, he takes a seat in his chair. In his lean towards a drawer, he pulls it open and procures a quill. Dabbing it into the ink still spilled across the mahogany, he goes to work writing.
Several moments later, we are nearly finished settling the conditions of our contract and I’ve been pleasantly surprised with his cooperation.
“You reserve the right to call off the engagement at any point in time,” he states, peering up at me, “but to be awarded the brooch in the annulment, you must cite proper cause in your claim.” “This includes any of the reasons listed below,” he continues, gesturing to the list, “but most importantly, what you may consider as complete and utter disinterest in the fruition of our union.” “If that is to be the case and you come to the conclusion that I’m not a good match, only upon the eve of our wedding may you incite this clause to call off the engagement and you will be awarded the brooch in our severance.” Bringing his elbows over the table, he clasps his hands. “That being said, if I am to break any of the other aforementioned clauses, you may call on those much sooner than the eve of our wedding to break off the marriage.” “By the addition of both of our names in writing,” he says, sliding the paperwork towards me, “this contract is legally binding. I will have my copy and you will have yours.”
“How long?” I ask shrewdly, eyeing the ink lines awaiting our signatures.
“I’ll be postponing the wedding as you had initially asked of me,” he exhales, clicking his tongue, “so… six months.” “However, you may consider it but a brief period for an almost guaranteed lifetime of peace. Tracking you down in the aftermath of your departure will prove entirely impossible and neither I nor anyone who once knew you could ever hope to recognize you.”
“Seems as though you stand to lose much in the settlement when we ultimately part ways,” I remark, with a tilt of my head, “I find that suspicious you wouldn’t afford yourself the luxury of more time.”
“I merely thought it considerate not to waste yours any further.”
“Considerate?” I repeat skeptically, “I would think it’s rather your arrogance that makes you so certain you could dissuade me in six months’ time.”
“Perhaps,” he replies ambiguously, with a shrug. “So, are we in agreement?”
“We most certainly are,” I affirm, snatching the quill. This will make for good insurance in the event I fail to steal the brooch, first. Signing off on the document, I swiftly hand him back the feather for his signature.
“Perfect,” he says, taking it from me. I watch as the ink trails off in the weaves of his penmanship. Perfect. He’s said it so often yet never has its meaning truly applied to any given circumstance. Dotting off on his name, he turns his gaze up at me, handing me my copy. “It’s done.” I withdraw it from his grasp.
“Now what?” I ask.
“Well,” he answers, tugging at the shoulder of his stained blouse, “I have to go change.” “It seems I was something of a clutz,” he says, eyeing me, “and spilled tea on myself.”
“You most certainly did,” I concur sweetly, with a smirk, “Any plans for the day?”
“I guess I might get a head start on my combat practice,” he replies, “What might your plans be?”
“I have an idea,” I allude.
“Alright,” he concedes, rising from his chair, “I assume that means we should excuse ourselves, then?”
“Of course,” I agree, stepping away from the desk.
“Ahem,” he says in his rush ahead of me to hold open the door, “Allow me.” I look him up and down in annoyance.
“How kind of you,” I sigh, exiting his study without so much as a second glance.
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