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Winter had come again, timely this year. Mirnatius had to admit that he’d never given much thought to how his people fared under the long, harsh winters that the Staryk imposed upon them (to try to stop Chernobog, no less), but his wife…
Well.
Irina cared deeply for Lithvas, down to every last squirrel.
(He once asked her whether she had any qualms about eating cows and chickens and pigs from Lithvas — her response had been measured and even, as always. It had incensed him.)
She no longer wore her crown, but he wore his — and he wore her Staryk silver ring on his finger, a visible sign of the promise she’d made to protect him. The crown came off at the end of the night.
The ring never left his finger.
He did not wish to know what might happen were he to remove it, and he suspected his beloved wife felt much the same. Irina may not have loved him (certainly not in the way which a wife should love her husband), but she needed him.
Mirnatius was like a horse kept on tight reins, or perhaps a dog on a leash. Irina had him right where she wanted him, and she knew that she could trust him not to rape her (and that he no longer wished to murder her), which was not something that could be said of any other man.
A new husband would be a mystery. A new marriage would involve Irina pushing her limits in that Irina way she had (measured and careful and methodical, but determined all the same). Irina, like anyone with sense, did not wish to be raped (and he could hardly blame her), nor did she wish to be beaten and abused.
Irina wished to stay in a situation which she could control.
And Mirnatius was entirely certain that Irina did control the situation.
She ran the country, too; he often sent her in his stead to small council meetings, and even when he bothered to show up himself, he brought her along with him. Irina was shrewd as anything; she’d been raised from birth to know Lithvas, and to know politics.
(Sometimes, Mirnatius wondered what would have happened if he had been among the boys who’d come to live with her father. It was pointless to dwell on; he could not turn back time, and he could not change that he’d lived a life of misery and woe.)
Irina allowed Mirnatius to bed her most nights now; she told him that the sooner they had a child, the better. He knew it was true, but he couldn’t help but wish… but what use was wishing?
This was the life he had.
He was merely lucky that Irina had saved him; that Chernobog could no longer harm anyone in Lithvas, including Mirnatius himself.
Most nights, she left after he’d bedded her. The two of them slept alone; it was not uncommon, though he suspected the servants might be whispering about that — about what had become of their apparent love match.
Tonight, though, she stayed.
It was not the first time, and would not be the last.
He didn’t attribute anything more to her staying in his bed than exhaustion. He did, after all, always make sure to pleasure her. He knew most men didn’t care about such things, but Irina was his savior, and he owed her a pleasant time in his bed.
Her hair was free of its usual braid; he ran his fingers through it idly as they laid together.
“Beloved,” she said softly. The word had lost its teasing edge over the months since Chernobog had been vanquished.
He tried not to think about how his heart now pounded at it.
“Yes, my wife?”
She turned to stroke his hair and push it out of his eyes. His heart pounded at this, too. He did not deserve such soft things from her, certain as he was that she would treat anyone this way.
“Do you enjoy this?”
“Do I enjoy what, beloved?” With him, as well, the word no longer held any edge. Perhaps it was a bit too raw.
“Bedding me.” She said it so matter of fact. He wasn’t entirely sure how to proceed.
He decided to tell the truth; what harm was there in it, anyway? “Of course I do.”
He did enjoy bedding her; it was his favourite part of the day, and when she had her monthly courses, he wished that he could bed her, anyway.
That wouldn’t produce an heir, though, or so he was told.
“Because it is pleasurable, or…” She trailed off slightly, though she eventually continued, “because it is me?”
His words died on his lips. He would have told her it was merely pleasurable, but when presented with the possibility of it being her…
He did not deserve the way Irina treated him; the way she handled him like a wounded squirrel who only needed affection to recover. It made him feel. He was not entirely sure he enjoyed feeling things.
Perhaps it was the memory of being punished for any feelings or enjoyment that haunted him; perhaps it was nothing to do with her at all.
“It is you,” he said softly, and at her smile…
Oh.
His heart squeezed in its chest.
He knew there was a word for this, but he didn’t dare utter it. He didn’t even dare think of it. There was no point. Irina was too practical for such things, and… and Mirnatius did not deserve to find happiness, much less to be blessed with his wife’s affections.
It was simply Irina being Irina. He was of little note. Again: she’d only let him live because she knew he wouldn’t dare hurt her — not now.
There was no purpose in thinking of nice, flowery things.
Perhaps his child would love him, then. Someday. Perhaps he’d even learn to love them back.
It — love — was an entirely foreign concept.
He wept.