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Jude and I have often faced each other, but not like this, with so many reasons to not fight. Perhaps that's what a marriage is made of. We certainly need to find out. Tonight the High Court revelled in celebration to our wedding and now we are united for Mab knows how long. If treason and war couldn’t do us apart, maybe we have a real chance with this.
I take off my crown and place it in a chest of drawers next to hers. Each one has a design drastically different from the other. They don’t make a pair, yet, they are.
I study Jude, my wife. Her green nightgown is translucent and her body a shadow with curves precisely drawn beneath it. I don't believe the gown was her choice. There is more than one way to be unwelcome, and the gratitude of the Folk can be twisted in any form, even scorn.
Like the gown she had worn during the celebration of our marriage, the nightgown has been chosen to accentuate her mortality. If they intended to shame her, they have succeeded – but she has not let them see it. But I do. It’s the tone of her skin, rosy if compared to her hair. The contrast with green has always served her well.
Sitting in the bed, as if it is her place to belong, Jude undoes the horn plait on the right side of her head. It’s the most ordinary of actions, yet I can’t stop thinking that seeing her like that has been a fantasy for so long.
“Let that one to me,” I say when she moves her hand to the next plait. I don’t intend to sound commanding, but I do.
Contradicting what I know of her, Jude lets her hands rest on her lap. We don’t talk while my finger follows the direction of her hair strands from the roots of her hair to the base of the plait over her ear.– Feeling every plait link sink and lift towards the half-turn at the side of her front, descending to her scruff and rising up in another half turn and finally reaching an ornamental metal tip at the bottom of the plait. Just then, I start to undo the plait, link by link.
The rhythm of her heart speeds faster and faster and she stiffens. I can’t say if she is relishing it or loathing it.
She looks toward the bed as her thumb circles the tip of her ring finger. “Are we going to sleep together every night?”
“Welcome to married life.” It seems dangerous to say anything else. As King and Queen, sleeping in the same room isn’t mandatory. But, if I say that, she could ask for her own chambers and I would spend my nights imaging if she welcomes others in her bed. This way it will be easy to know if she chooses someone else’s company over mine. It will be in her smell when she lays by my side and her absence when she doesn't bother to come back.
It will be easy to know, even if I don’t know what to do with that knowledge.
I finish undoing the elaborate plait and the desire to see her hair spread and wild inspires me. I slide my fingers through her hair. But, when I touch her scalp, she shudders. I freeze. She is not saying no, but I’m hearing it loud. Perhaps it has been naive of me to hope for anything different.
“I want wine.” Her voice is slow and fragile and its meaning tearing.
Frustration overcomes me. “Why?” I don’t know what is worse, she doesn’t want me or the fact she isn’t saying no, as if I am a monster who will close my eyes to it. “Why do you need wine? To make it easy for you?”
She doesn’t answer me. But I bring her a bottle anyway. Before taking it, Jude looks up at me. She has such fright in her eyes. It’s clear and sparkling like fresh water from a spring. Maybe I’m a monster because all I say is, “Drink.”
And she does. Jude drinks from the bottle without breaking eye contact. She doesn’t take much before offering it to me.
I haven't drink today, I don’t want her to taste sour wine in my mouth. But even if my hopes are gone, I do not accept the offer.
She places the bottle next to the foot of the bed and gets up to face me. “Kiss me.” The words rush out, as if she fears they wouldn't come out another way.
“Do you think I can’t see you don’t want it?” I ask. “Or do you think I wouldn’t care?”
“No! It’s not like that.”
“So, what is it, Jude? Why are you drinking? Won't you close your eyes so you don't have to see that is me who is touching you?”
“I don’t want to like you even more!” She shouts in my face.
First, I’m too abashed to do anything.
Then, I’m too encouraged to do nothing.
I lift her chin to look again at those sparkling eyes. I caress her lips with my thumb. They don’t look special. Yet they are. When she is kissing me, nothing else matters. Nothing else exists. It’s just warm breath, eager hands and unsophisticated kisses. Every time she kisses me, I like her even more. It thrills me to consider it could be the same for her.
I don't try to keep the need out of my voice, I let it slide in and seep into my words, “And kissing me will make you like me more?”
Her eyes spark a little when she whispers back, “Maybe.”
Hours later, I place my last kisses on her bare shoulder as she falls asleep in my arms.
She may like me a lot more than before.