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Katarina Claes reminded Geord of a weasel. Perhaps it was an unflattering comparison, but there was no one to offend in his private thoughts. So: Katarina reminded him of a weasel. She was all soft, dark hair and an oddly darting grace, as if she couldn’t quite contain her need for motion into the restrained elegance required of a future princess. And her eyes - there was such a wicked gleam in those blue eyes. As if she were thinking of such terrible things she could do to you. What a beautifully vicious little creature.
He didn’t realize that from the moment he met her of course. At first she seemed dreadfully dull, so much so that their first walk through the garden almost drove him mad with boredom. There was only so much he could listen to empty prattle, or worse polite silence , before he seriously considered drowning himself in the nearest pond - and he had far less restraint as a boy than he did as a man.
Which was how he ended up pointing at an apple, high up in a tree. “I’ve heard you have a secret talent, Lady Claes.” He knew his smile had to be the one that made his brother shudder, but he didn’t particularly care. “I dare you to prove it to me.”
She must have felt just as he did, because her eyes lit up as though he offered her a basket of sweets. “You’re on - I mean. Certainly. Your highness.”
Of course neither of them considered several things in his impulsive demand. One of which was Katarina’s dress, which snagged on a branch and sent her bouncing down through the branches like a rubber ball. She landed with a sharp crack, and for a long moment he thought that she killed herself over a trifle. Instead she bolted upright with a whoop, holding up the apple gripped in one scraped hand.
“Victory!” She hissed, as much in pain as sheer exaltation. Then Katarina stood, swaying slightly as she dipped into a curtsy like an actress on stage. A deep gash bisected her eyebrow and ran a jagged path up to her hairline, and even as he watched blood dribbled down the front of her dress. Perhaps her brain was rattled by the fall, but her true face was far from the artificially demure mask she had turned on him all evening. She tossed him the apple and her grin was a bearing of bloody teeth, and Geord decided then and there that she would be his... one way or another.
Katarina lied quite thoroughly about the cause of her wound, and he generously offered to take responsibility for the injury. Geord decided she was his and she was, because he was a prince, and such were the benefits of power.
The years passed and training fit for a future princess tamed Katarina down bit by bit, leaving her a pale imitation of the girl he met in the garden so long ago. How long before she became a fawning, servile thing, dragged around on a string like a child’s toy? If he had a heart perhaps he would blame himself. He did not, he did not, no matter how his chest ached.
Naturally, the stunning boredom of a well-behaved Katarina drove him to drastic measures. She was the one who drove him to it, and he could be forgiven for that, surely?
There was nothing quite like watching the storm brewing when he flirted with the little doves that followed him in flocks. The way her anger slowly, slowly mounted until the winds blasted some unseen door absolutely unhinged inside her head. Geord liked her best with that fierce grin, but rage fit her just as well.
(He couldn’t know that in another world it destroyed her utterly, that every shattered piece rattled behind his favorite blue eyes like so much glass.)
She would bristle some days, perhaps even give him the cold shoulder for a week. But inevitably - after shredding some poor girl’s reputation to bloody ribbons - she would throw herself into his arms sobbing hard enough to smear her makeup on his jacket. As if she were the victim! He was convinced she was onto his little game, that she too enjoyed it as thoroughly as he did. What a little minx, to demand his attention by playing the wounded fiance!
He played along of course. If she was willing to swallow her pride and spill some crocodile tears for his company he would find a way to grant it, despite the mounting responsibilities of his position. There were only so many hours in a day after all, even for someone as exceptional as him. Some days he didn’t get a chance to sleep, but he found the time to hold her in his arms and bury his face in her hair, and he felt… at peace. As if all his thoughts drew down to that single point in time, blissfully silent for once.
All the same, Geord didn’t love Katarina Claes.
There was no secret wellspring of tenderness, no hidden passion to draw forth. He was cold. He was cruel. The only warmth to Geord was his magic flames, as if the stars ordained him to exist as an exercise in irony. He may as well be one of the marble statues that lined the place brought to life, beautiful on the surface and stone down to his core. Geord didn’t love Katarina Claes. He could not, he could not, no matter how his chest ached.
But he came as close as he could.