"There she is. My beautiful Queen!" The King declared, reaching out for her hand.
The hall was filled with loud music—Harps, drums, songs, claps, and anything else that accompanied and enriched it. The air smelled of alcohol and roasted beef. Laughter and different voices filled the space.
For Ismena though, her focus was on one, and now her hand was in his.
He pulled her closer, his breath sharp with whisky, his brown eyes glimmering with hazy drunkenness.
"My Ismena." He pressed a kiss to her neck, his beard prickling her skin.
She fought for her body not to go rigid in his arms, but for her hands to move over his shoulders, for a smile to brighten her face and for her body to lean into his touch.
"I returned only for you. The thoughts of dying and leaving you behind for another drove me mad." His voice dropped to a desperate whisper as he breathed in her fragrance. "I couldn't let that happen."
The men around them laughed, confirming with their words, that the King had only ever thought of her. That he had almost died if not for his strong conviction to return to her.
Almost? He should have. He should have died.
"I spent every second praying to the goddess of the Sun for your return, my love." The words slipped past her lips, infused with practised genuineness. He pulled away, and looked right at her. "I would rather fall upon a blade than be given to another."
His gaze intensified, as if he was searching her soul for something. Ismena stilled in his arms and all she could hear was the quickened racing of her heart.
The men around them spoke again, singing praises of how perfect they were, of how much an impeccable image of love they represented, of how they wished their wives were like Ismena, of how they prayed to be more like the King.
He pressed a kiss to her forehead, and she felt the urge to let out a soft sigh of relief, instead she restrained herself and allowed her smile to widen.
"My wife is hungry," he said, turning to the men. "Do forgive us, we have to part from you now."
The men bowed with a smile, with words that conveyed that the royalties did not need to apologise for anything.
With her hand still in the King's, they departed from that circle. Ismena could hear them continue their conversations about the war, she could feel many eyes on her as usual.
Many women from different houses would want to use this opportunity to speak to her, fall within her good graces and be called a friend of the Queen.
They went up the stairs. He led and she followed.
They only stopped when they got to the private section right in the middle of the long balcony. There were guards on either side of this place that had been prepared for them. It was decorated with expensive curtains, although it had an open front and from this height, they could see everything - only when the curtain was open.
The curtains were closed right now. A chill ran down Ismena's spine but when the King pulled the curtain aside, she suppressed her fear and went in.
He followed, pulling back the curtains behind them.
The music instantly dissolved into the background.
The air seemed to go still and when he sat next to her on the red cushion seat, his warmth spilled into her lungs and her body waited in anticipation.
It was inevitable.
His hand pulled back the plentisome layers that made up her red skirt.
Slowly
She could feel the trail of the air over her exposed skin.
She watched, waiting, and the fabric sank lower and lower and lower.
Till the tan skin of her thigh came to light, then he stopped. He rested his hand over her thigh, and the warmth that seeped in through her pores dragged in with repulsion.
But she didn't flinch. She couldn't afford to.
She looked up at him instead, because his gaze demanded it.
"You prayed every second?" His voice was low with accusation. His eyes were still hazy, but now there seemed to be sparks of something else in there. Sparks of madness, of rage.
She gulped, every trace of her smile vanishing.
"I prayed—-"
"For me to return?"
"Of course, your Majesty—"
"Maybe you did pray." His grip around her thigh tightened, and he leaned in so their breath mingled. "But it is a question what you prayed for. Tell me, my darling Ismena," his voice dropped into a dangerous whisper and for how close they were, her ears did not strain to hear his words. "Did you pray for the night monsters to rip me apart? For me to rot on their fields? Or for them to skin me alive? Do all those gruesome things that they do to their captives? Did you pray that I would never return?"
"No! By the Sun! I would never do such a thing!" Her hands cupped his face with urgency. A risk. She moved so close to him that only a hair's breadth was between them. "You are my husband," the next words she said were against his lips. "What kind of wife would wish for her husband's death?"
She did not move further, she did not pull back. He had to be the one to do it.
And he did.
His lips possessed hers. Rough. His hands moved up her thigh while the other felt her through her dress.
She gave in to everything, knowing that now she was on a knife's edge. She allowed a soft moan to slip through her lips and muffle against his. She allowed her arm to roam around his shirt but never slip into it like his hands were doing to her. She allowed her body to move to the rhythm of his touch. And when he pushed her back to lie on the cushion, she did not fight him.
Everything was a war for the king, even this. Everything was something for him to conquer.
So his teeth drew blood from her lips and when he pulled away from kissing her, he let his teeth draw maps of their passion on her neck.
She silenced the pain in her lungs and allowed her rough pants to fill the private section instead. She needed air anyway.
With his body still pressed against her, he stopped. His warm breath mingled with whisky washed over her face. Now he was smiling. The madness was gone. The rage had vanished.
It was safe again.
He pressed a kiss against her neck languishingly, pulling down her skirt so her skin wasn't as exposed anymore.
Then for a moment while he looked down at her, he looked sober. "I almost died, Ismena. A night creature, none like I have ever seen, almost killed me."
"No creature can kill you, your Majesty."
He grabbed her hand and guided her touch so that her fingers moved into his shirt, along his neck down to his chest - only to the extent where his shirt could permit.
She flinched.
Sincerely.
The gashes she could feel were wide and a cut at that part of his neck was certainly a near-death experience. She could feel the zigzag of threads woven into his skin.
Tears welled up in her eyes and she couldn't even tell why.
"My king—"
"He almost killed me." There was rage in his eyes again but this time it wasn't directed at her. He sat up, pulling her along with him. "But you are right. No creature can kill me. That is why I brought him home to teach him a lesson."
He dragged something connected to the curtains, and they pulled apart.
The King rose and her eyes followed him.
"BRING OUT MY PRISONER!" The King declared to the warriors downstairs then retreated to the cushion and sat beside her.
The warriors got into action immediately. The centre of the hall was clear and the floor began to tremble as the bricks pulled apart.
The pounding of Ismena's heart filled her ears, the air felt tight and something in her stomach tightened with heavy and tight knots.
Anticipation.
It almost surged in her veins. It almost made her feel alive.
She wanted to see him. She wanted to see this creature that had almost brought her dreams to reality.
What kind of creature was he?
What made him different from the rest?