Work Text:
The first thing Rishe said to him when she entered into his office was, “Your Highness, I have a request.” It was a bold declaration from any other, but from Rishe it was simply the way she spoke.
Arnold looked up from his documents, only slightly surprised to see her dressed and ready for the party he had never mentioned. In truth, he had planned to skip it just as he had every one before. It appeared that, this time, he didn’t have much of a choice. Damn you, Oliver.
“I would like some herb seed and a corner of the gardens. I made a list.” He had heard from Oliver that she had cleaned out the detached wing on her own, and now this. Always efficient, it seemed. Rishe offered him a beaming smile as she spoke, one which didn’t fully reach her eyes. “I hope we can discuss this more in detail later.”
Arnold stared at the young woman for a moment in silent contemplation. “Rishe.”
“What?” Rishe replied with a little too much cheek to be considered innocent. “Didn’t you tell me to let you know if there was anything I wanted?”
At that, Arnold could only sigh. “Yes, but that’s not what I meant. I assume that Oliver did not tell you the purpose of this party? It’s merely for appearance’s sake. I need to make it seem as though I am searching for a bride within our borders as well. There’s no reason for you to attend.”
Rishe tilted her head, dropping the smile. It was difficult to tell whether or not he had convinced her, and so Arnold continued.
“However, we’re already betrothed,” he continued, attempting to convince her if only so he didn’t have to actually attend. “This whole evening is merely a formality. And with the news that you are my ‘hostage’ going around, you’ll be an object of curiosity. I don’t want to put you through that.”
Rishe hummed, soft and low in her throat. “Well,” she began, “I already went to the trouble of getting ready.” The gleam in her eyes was one of stubbornness or determination, Arnold realized. Delicately, she lifted her skirts, and when she let them drop the fabric fluttered down in layers of blue.
“Rishe,” Arnold started, and then had to let his words drop. There was not much point in attempting to convince her. In retrospect, it was likely impossible from the start.
And, indeed: “Your Highness, the court may consider my status as a captive princess shameful in the extreme, but I don’t.”
That caught Arnold’s attention. Not even the current empress, in all her solitude, could say something like that. To simply not care of the thoughts of the court, especially for a lady raised in it, was utterly implausible. But this was the same person who had leapt off a balcony on the day of her broken engagement, and who had cut open her own arm to demonstrate her antidote. It could only be expected that Rishe was the exception once more.
“So, there’s no need to worry,” Rishe concluded, and offered her hand with a gracious smile. “Feel free to show off your fiancée.”
It was almost chivalrous, Arnold thought. Charming, perhaps, depending on how one felt. With that sort of offer, who was he to refuse?
“Very well,” he found himself saying. With Rishe around, it would at least be a more interesting night. “I should take advantage of this opportunity to touch my betrothed.”
He stood, and rounded his desk, not missing how Rishe took a minuscule step back with his approach. Were Arnold not focusing, he wouldn’t have noticed. Where had the wariness come from, he wondered? Presumably knowledge of his actions, of the bloody paths he had cut in battle: but that should have brought fear, instead, for a noble daughter kept sequestered in her shiny palace. More contradictions to be resolved, he supposed.
“We’re wearing gloves,” Rishe responded, with a summarily humourless smile. There were pearls in each of her ears, shimmering as she fell into step with him. Though they stood close as they walked, if only for appearance’s sake, she barely touched him: her hand in his was feather-light, ready to withdraw at any moment, and the weight of her gloved fingers on his arm was nonexistent. She did, however, incline her head towards him once they reached the threshold, murmuring: “This is a bigger event than I was expecting.”
“Is it?” Arnold swept a cursory glance over the ballroom. “I’d say it’s a rather small gathering.”
“Maybe for a military powerhouse.” Rishe similarly examined the ballroom, gaze flickering from exit to exit, passing briefly over the wine glasses and silverware—every potential weapon, Arnold realized—as if it were second nature. There wasn’t time to continue studying her, however.
“The size doesn’t matter,” he said. “In the end, they’re here only for gossip. Look now: here they come.”
Like flies to a corpse, court nobles swarmed towards them with each of their daughters in tow. It was this exact reason he avoided these events. He could never understand how his father found pleasure under such attention. When he glanced at Rishe, Arnold couldn’t help but feel almost smug about the subtle squint in her eyes that showed her matching disdain.
“Please, Your Highness, tell my daughter the stories of your trip.” Some Duke asked, forcing the young girl to become the focal point of the group. She looked rather stunned, a deer in headlights.
“I can’t imagine I’d have anything particularly exciting to share with her,” Arnold said, not bothering to conceal any of his irritation. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Rishe was watching him, evaluating. If the court wanted a show, he supposed he would give them what they wanted. It couldn’t hurt to play up his infatuation a little, if only to make any particularly ambitious noble think twice before targeting her. Perhaps he could make this entertaining for himself as well.
When he turned towards her, she blinked, but did not flinch away as he leaned in, close enough to create the illusion of affection. She smelled faintly like soap, and strings of pearls had been woven into her braided hair. There was no need to force a smile, Arnold found: he was already smiling by the time he withdrew, almost missing the way the lights reflected in her eyes, making them appear gem-like.
“A dull trip,” he said, “but a fortuitous one. Without it, I would never have met the woman destined to be my wife.”
Whispers and murmurs arose near-instantly. A count Arnold recognized, from the rich eastern regions of Galkhein, stepped forwards with his daughter following close behind. “Your Highness,” he said, unable to conceal his shock behind an attempted smile, “do you mean to say that this… lovely, young woman is your fiancee?”
Either because she did not hear the surrounding disdain and shock, or—more likely—simply because she didn’t care, Rishe stepped forwards and curtsied, as perfect as the day that they’d met. “How do you do?” she greeted, with a charming smile. “My name is Rishe Irmgard Weitzner.”
Her voice was smooth, dipping into something chivalrous and knightly. Though it seemed the audience was too fixated on their own shock and disdain to notice the irregularity.
“Lady Rishe has only just arrived, and her acquaintances are few and far between. I hope I can count on you all to hold me accountable should I prove to be an incompetent husband.”
At his words, the murmuring somewhat subsided.
“B-but of course, Your Highness,” one of the nobles stuttered, finally picking up on the underlying threat in his words. Satisfied, Arnold took back Rishe’s hand, and led her away from the watchful court, towards a more isolated area of the room.
“You sure know how to invite the ire of women,” Rishe whispered, annoyance heavy in her tone.
“Whatever do you mean?” Arnold asked, enjoying the subtle glare she sent his way. When she was angry, it seemed she forgot her fear of him. She became easier to read.
“The way you harped on about me.” Rishe had a slight accent, Arnold noticed, a bit different from her mother’s or her father’s. It didn’t sound exactly like any regional accent in Hermity, either. “Everything you said was tailor-made to stoke their jealousy! You’ve gained me enemies, so thanks for that.” She huffed, turning her head away from him, acting, for the first time, like a noble lady.
A huff of laughter escaped Arnold’s lips. He had never had this much fun discovering a puzzle, especially one as complex as she.
“Everything I said was to protect you from your enemies. They need to know you aren’t just some trophy that they can eliminate without recourse. We need to show them this to forestall any potential moves against you in the future.”
Rishe seemed to pause, blinking up at him in shock. “Show them what, exactly?” she demanded in a low tone.
“That I’ll protect you no matter what,” Arnold said, and had the pleasure of watching several indiscernible emotions flicker through her wide eyes before Rishe blinked and settled into an emotionless stare.
“I doubt they’ll be anything to worry about,” she said, flat. “In fact, the biggest threat facing me would be you.”
“Oh?” Arnold asked, genuinely curious as to the meaning of her words. “And why would you say that?”
“For many reasons,” Rishe stated, almost flippantly. “The most obvious being that I am no match for you with a blade.” The end of her statement sounded almost like a lament.
He’d never heard of a woman who would be interested in the intensity and grime that came with training. But Rishe seemed to be the exception to everything he knew.
“Perhaps we should duel,” Arnold offered, probing.
“Yes, please!” Rishe exclaimed, her grip around his arm tightening considerably in excitement. It took him aback, even with all he’d learned he had not been expecting such an outburst of emotion. “And if it wouldn’t be an intrusion—I would like to train with you.”
It, quite possibly, was the most emotion Arnold had seen out of her since the day he first proposed. Rishe didn’t lie often, or perhaps he had not yet found the things she would lie about, but consequently the truth was made murky. For that reason, and only that reason, he found himself saying: “If you wish it: it’s of no bother to me.”
“Truly?” This time, Rishe restrained her excitement, voice soft and low. Her hold on his arm relaxed, and by now he could guess that this particular smile was one of confidence, certitude: she had won something, it seemed. The colour of her eyes was vibrant, Arnold found, a shade which he was hard-pressed to describe. He came up with notions of forests and shallow waters and sparkling jewels, all of which fell short.
That itself was strange, he realized: the lingering, fantastical thoughts which had just passed through his head. Green. Rishe’s eyes were green, and there wasn’t a need to go further. Other questions were of greater import, such as her fighting style: she was clearly trained in swordplay, but for once he could not grasp any further details. Arnold laughed, mostly at himself, and said: “Your answers never disappoint me.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rishe didn’t seem particularly offended, however, and looked away towards the musicians as she continued: “Oh, it seems as though they’re playing a new song.”
The crowd began to split. Gazes turned towards them, focused particularly on Rishe: not many were bold enough to stare at the crown prince of Galkhein. She didn’t seem bothered, so Arnold ignored the court and said, “We don’t have to dance if you don’t want to.”
“Oh?” Rishe drew a step back from him once again, and offered her hand. “As it happens, I like dancing.”
Arnold doubted that that was her only reason. He was not proficient in dancing, though fortunately he at least knew what moves he was expected to perform. But there was no good means of refusing, nor any point in such a thing.
“Very well, then,” he said, taking her hand. There was an open spot nearby, which he led her to.
The dance started like all he had witnessed, and thankfully Rishe was quite skilled in her movements, easy to lead. She was well poised, nimble on her feet, and took each step with an easy grace. Then, of course, she did something unexpected.
Rishe took the lead. On the next offbeat, she neatly turned out of his hold on her waist and threw herself into a spin, skirts flaring in a brilliant swirl of blues, catching Arnold off-guard. When he looked at her, her smile was full of mischief and challenge while her eyes gleamed with careful calculations. She was testing him, he realized.
Who was he to turn down a challenge?
Rishe created an opening when she attempted to pull them into another spin, allowing him to take back control as he shifted his weight, pulling her in the direction opposite of where she planned using her own momentum against her. Arnold found great enjoyment in the flicker of an annoyed glare she sent his way.
There was no time to revel in it, however. Rishe was a better dancer, and swiftly twirled away from his grasp, forcing Arnold to catch her and bring her back into his orbit. As the music rose, she took a wide turn and drew him in, nearly tossing him into a spin: quickly, Arnold leaned back, guiding her from hand to hand. With the fluttering layers of her skirts, she seemed weightless. Her heels clicked, sounding out her delicate steps, and this time he could react properly: he caught Rishe by the waist, urging her back into his hold, unsurprised but pleased when she spun past and took his hand, pulling until they were balanced on a needle’s edge.
Unlike before, when she was so light it felt as though she might drift away, Arnold could feel the full weight and strength of her body. He took advantage of this to tug on their firmly clasped hands, bringing her in close: Rishe glided easily with the movement, sharp eyes scanning him for any opening, pushing and testing the limits with each step. But there was something else in her gaze, as if she was seeing someone else in his stead. For reasons he could not explain, the thought of such irked him.
They flowed into a series of narrow turns, each one more and more precarious until Rishe pulled away into a controlled little spin, the line of her arm opening into a graceful arc. Swiftly, Arnold followed and caught her free hand, lacing his fingers with hers to bring them back into matching pace. To bring her focus back to him.
Around them, the music swelled into a crescendo. Rishe spun left, skirts whirling, eyes sharp and over-bright under the lights. Arnold pivoted, her right hand slipping away as he grasped her left, twirling her with a dizzying swirl of fabric. Before she could think up any more tricks, before she could seize an opening, he pulled her in close faster than she could react, and swept her into a low dip on the final triumphant beat.
The last note hung in the air like a mirage. He thought he could feel her heartbeat through her wrist, even with their hands gloved: her cheeks were tinted pink from the exertion. Rishe was solid in his arms, her grip on him just a bit too tight to be considered relaxed, the look in her eyes distant before snapping up to him. She was flustered, Arnold realized, and the set of her mouth was tense.
Arnold did his best to contain his laughter. He'd never been this amused in his life.
Applause echoed around them, the feeling of hundreds of eyes suddenly returning. It was a strange feeling, never before had he been so entranced in something that he had forgotten the presence of so many around him. Not even on the bloody fields of war had he simply disregarded the threats that dared to corner him.
Heaps of praises were thrust upon them, most directed at the new lady of court. Flustered from the sudden onslaught created by her own actions, when Rishe turned to him for aid, Arnold found himself too amused by the predicament to give it. How will you recover from this now?
Once she had mentally regained her balance, Rishe handled every question and remark with the ease that belonged to a future ruler. It was a startling change. It was as if she had become someone else entirely as she spoke with every guest. Her voice became soft and malleable, tailored to every person she spoke with, words void of any real meaning: her laugh was hollow as she performed it at just the right moment in just the right ways, her eyes appeared attentive in the dim light and yet simultaneously seemed dull. She was like a porcelain doll: beautiful on the outside, with nothing inside. Something wasn’t right.
“Rishe,” Arnold began, and she looked at him with a false smile. “I think the wine is getting to you. Shall we get some fresh air?”
Anyone who had paid attention would know Rishe had not eaten or drank anything during the night, but most did not dare contradict him. Those who might have tried were appeased by Rishe’s smooth charm, accompanied by a bow, before she slipped out of the crowd and out of his sight. He could sense her moving presence, taking a drifting path towards one of the balconies.
Rishe would be fine, Arnold knew. Yet, she didn’t head to the balcony, at least not immediately. She seemed to simply wander through the room, lingering from time to time near the edges and corners of the space. If he had to guess, she was most likely mapping out the space for reasons he didn’t have enough information to guess at.
Before he could follow after her, one of his father’s close retainers, The Grand Duke of Kohtva, stepped in his path. Arnold forced himself to pause. Rishe’s presence had been a distraction of sorts, only enough to ease the tension from the plot against his father. Now, faced with one of the men he would have the hardest time disposing of, he was reminded that he would need to focus.
“Your Highness,” the Grand Duke began, with a bow. The surrounding nobility backed away, just enough to create the illusion of privacy. Arnold could feel their stares, their poisonous attentions: scavengers, the whole lot of them.
“Grand Duke Nassau—“ Arnold tipped his head—“what is it I can help you with?”
“Your fiancee is lovely,” the Grand Duke said, with a small smile. Fools might have called him charming. Arnold let out a breath and allowed all his emotions to ice over. “To her good health. May it last long and bear fruit.”
The Grand Duke raised his glass in a toast. Much as it grated him to accept, Arnold nodded in response. “Certainly. My regards to your son. I’m certain he’ll gain a position in my father’s elite guard next year.”
Having watched Grand Duke Nassau and the rest of his father’s dogs for far too long, Arnold could see the displeasure beneath his benevolent smile: it was there in the tilt of his head, the slight tension in his hands. There was no pleasure to be taken from such a thing, regrettably: victory would only be his when his father’s head was severed. “Your confidence is appreciated, Your Highness. He will serve the nation well.”
“Indeed,” Arnold said flatly.
“His Imperial Majesty has recently implemented a new training regimen, has he not?” Grand Duke Nassau had not taken a sip of wine since the start of their conversation. The delicate glass was held between them. “I see a strong resemblance between you and your father. The future of our military and our nation is clearly in good hands.”
There wouldn’t be any satisfaction gained in killing him, Arnold reflected. It would be a mere chore, as rote as polishing one’s armour. In response, he smiled, perfectly welcoming. “I thank you for your words, Grand Duke Nassau.”
The careful dance of words was still a skill that Arnold had to put more effort into than he liked. On the battlefield there were no secrets or twisted words, at least not unless his men wanted to live. In a way, this game was a battlefield of its own, one he did not intend to surrender.
“Please, do send my regards to your dear fiancé. I certainly hope she knows the significance of her position. As such, I will certainly uphold the request you made.” With a final, low sweeping bow that nearly boarded on mocking, the duke turned and left.
Rishe was moving again, pausing at last on a balcony area. Arnold took a circular path to reach her, briefly greeting the houses of Toona and Leuchtenberg as was required, before finally stepping out into the night air. The doors swung shut, muffling the noise of the party down to a low drone, easy enough to ignore.
Rishe stood there, staring out at the gardens with a glass of wine in hand. When she took a sip, she grimaced slightly before setting it back down.
“What are you making that face for?” Arnold asked. It seemed out of character for her to be picky with just about anything she ate or drank. But then, he could very well be mistaken.
Deftly, Rishe swirled the glass, turning to look at him. “Don’t worry, it’s not you,” she said. “It’s just that this wine is so spicy.”
“Spicy?” Arnold was certain he would have known if the wine served was spicy: he would have seen far more pained faces like hers. “The wine is?”
“Mm. It’s seasoned with capsicum.” The name was unfamiliar. Rishe looked down at her glass with a frown, and said with clear regret: “I barely managed to get that first mouthful down without gagging.”
He should have known that someone would try to embarrass Rishe when he wasn’t beside her. It was foolish of him to have not considered such when he sent her away. Rishe moved to take another sip, but Arnold swiped the glass from her hands before she could. It wouldn’t do to have her suffer any further. He didn’t understand why she simply hadn’t abandoned the glass when she had the chance.
“You don’t need to drink this. I’ll get rid of it.”
Rishe clicked her tongue, annoyance sparking in her eyes. “Hey, give that back!” She snatched it from his hands. The wine didn’t even splash. “They ruined a perfectly good glass of wine because of me. I’m not going to waste it.” She took a sip, and winced.
A brief flicker of irritation spurred within him. It would not do for the court to believe that they would be able to freely antagonize the crown prince’s wife without consequence. “Tell me who did this. I’ll have them executed.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Rishe dismissed. “You don’t kill people like her: you use them.” Spoken like a true member of the court. That said, she took a long sip, grimacing. Before Arnold could find a response to her words, or take the glass away again, she added: “I owe you an apology.”
Arnold blinked. “Do you?”
He watched as her cheeks flushed a light shade of pink, her eyes downcast as if she were embarrassed.”I used your name to defend myself.” She stated it as if it were some grave sin, even bowing.
Ah, so this was where her insecurities lay. So independent that using even a scrap of aid, even indirectly, was considered a grievous error. Letting out a small sigh, Arnold did his best to console her. “There’s nothing wrong with a wife invoking her husband’s name.”
He watched as her shoulders stiffened slightly at his words, uncertain. Rising from her bow, she muttered almost to herself, “We’re not married yet.”
Arnold shrugged casually. “That’s just a formality. It’s as good as done if you ask me.” After all, she was the only woman who he had ever considered a worthy opponent. He would never seek anyone else.
Rishe blinked. Again, there was a flash of indiscernible emotion: not displeasure, at least. “I… see.”
In her moment of distraction Arnold made his move, swiping the glass once more before downing the last of its contents in a single gulp. There was no longer any real taste to the wine, as a stinging heat scorched his tongue and burned down his throat. It was unpleasant in every sense of the word. Rishe had a good pain tolerance, it seemed.
“Damn,” he muttered to himself, “that packs a punch.”
“I told you that!” Rishe snapped, having heard him. “Are you alright? I’ll go get you some water.”
“I’m fine,” Arnold dismissed before she did anything rash. “But you’ve fulfilled your obligation to the wine, haven’t you?”
That got Rishe to pause, gaze turning to the emptied glass. She blinked, and then with something that was not quite reluctance, gave a terse, “Thank you.”
Yet another laugh managed to escape him. It wasn’t exactly that what she said was funny, it was more the unexpectedness of her reaction. He was so used to people attempting to fall in line, slipping their ways into his good graces, that it was rather refreshing to have someone who seemed to care little for him or his status. She cared so little, that she was even thinking of someone else as they danced.
“What were you thinking about during our dance?”
“What do you mean?” Rishe asked. She was an adept liar, but not good enough. He had found that she tended to lightly tap her right pointer when she lied. It was a small tell, one few would ever notice.
“You were thinking of someone else, weren’t you? Who?”
It didn’t fluster her, not quite. She pressed her lips thin and leaned back against the balcony rail, tipping her head up to meet his eyes, hands clasping at the front of her dress. When the silence dragged on for a bit too long, Arnold pushed with a soft hum: here could be another chink in her armour, a fracture in her masks.
“I wasn’t thinking about anyone else,” Rishe denied, yet again. “I was worried about you.”
It was such a blatant lie that Arnold, after a moment, chose to follow along. “Why?” he inquired wryly.
Rishe lifted her hand, and tapped her left shoulder with a delicate finger. “Were you injured here?”
Arnold couldn’t help the way his eyes widened in shock. How had she–could she truly tell that from a single dance? Could she somehow be bluffing? No, there was a certain set in her eyes, a stillness to her hands. That sort of absolute poise, the tilt to her head: she knew. Yet again, even after seeing her sharp edges and strength during their dance, he had underestimated her.
With a humorless laugh, Arnold set the glass atop the ledge of the balcony before giving Rishe her reward for winning their little game. Without another word, he undid the top three buttons of his shirt, tugging at it so that only the barest part of his scar around his neck would be exposed.
“It’s an old wound,” he said. Perhaps she could tell that, too. Rishe clearly had received some medical training, and Arnold thought it was wisest to assume the worst with her. “It continues to the top of my shoulder and pulls the skin taut.”
Rishe let out a sharp gasp, hand covering her mouth in horror. “How awful,” she breathed, her eyes shimmering like pools in the moonlight. Arnold watched as she reached out, hesitating for only a moment before tracing at the edges of his scar with the lightness of a summer breeze. The look in her eyes was evaluating, but somehow not cruel, not seeking to dig in and pry.
“Only a few people know about this injury. You’re the first to notice on your own.”
“How did it happen?” There was no malice in the question. Nothing in her tone or stance that came from a place of ill-intent. But he still didn’t trust her with the answer. He had been foolish enough tonight, there was no need to cede more ground than necessary.
All Arnold did in response was smile, deliberately vicious. Rishe didn’t flinch, and after a brief moment she pulled away, keeping her hands relaxed and open in front of her. She looked away, shifting with the soft rustle of her skirts. No longer at her mercy, Arnold refastened his buttons and checked that the clasp of his mantle was secure: idle motions, useless motions, anything to push it out of his mind.
They stared out at the palace grounds in silence for a few minutes until she suddenly asked, “Your Highness, may I select my maids sometime over the next few days?”
“Very well.” Arnold shrugged. He had planned on assigning her maids soon anyways. He saw no reason they couldn’t speed up the process. “I’ll tell Oliver to make that a priority.”
“Ah,” the bashfulness had returned to her smile, “I can do that myself. We needn’t trouble him.”
Arnold preferred to think of himself as acting rationally. With Rishe, he was swiftly learning, the only rational thing to do was to step back and watch. “What are you planning this time?”
“Oh nothing important—“he watched her finger tap against the wine glass as she lifted it back into the air—“I’m merely concerned about the servants' working conditions.”
Arnold gave a low hum as if he believed a word she said. “Very well. Do as you see fit.”