THE KING LEERS and it is like my world has torn in two. Chasms open within my soul, an all-devouring emptiness that only he can sate. It is a look to make clouds fall and the ocean rip itself apart, a most Devine agony. A look to make knees weak and thoughts unholy, and yet I find myself never being more pious than I am in this moment, staring up at a God and pleading for veneration, to be made whole again.
  He says he is a sickness, and this I believe, for he has infected me, heart and soul. A most foul malady, one which I find myself enjoying the inflicted infirmity, in some small, sick way.

  "I can only suppose that depends on what kind of sickness you aim to inflict upon me," I say after a while, when the weight of his words has finally settled in the air like stirred dust.

  His amber eyes darken, like the last light of a dying fire. "Nothing of good intent, that much is certain."

  This time it is me that takes the step closer, so that the distance between us is so small I can smell the honeysuckle scent of him. "You wish to plague me then, Northerner?"

  "I wish only to be liberated from you." Coldness settles over him at that, as if he has stolen the chill from the night itself, nothing but blackness reflecting outwards from him. The curve of his body grows taught, frustrated, like a coiled spring wanting nothing more than to explode.

  And yet I toy, wind up a little more, press a little further. It is a dangerous game that I play with these devils, and so my words have only the most self-destructive of designs, "You are the God and yet you claim I am the one to bind you? — An insignificant little mortal girl, one that you claimed to be not overly tall — and not particularly pretty either? What must that make of you then, Northerner, if you can be ensnared by something so simple, so plain."

  He comes closer, so close I can count the distance between us, "I know exactly what you are, little lamb."

  "So tell me." Whatever his answer may be, I shall become it. His words a condemnation of my soul.

  "If you need me to tell you of your own monstrousness then you are not yet half the woman I thought you to be, or if it is only that you should like to hear it again, from me, then that is one of the few pleasures I shall never grant you." He says, a strand of sable hair falling stark over his face like a slash of lightning through a starless night.

  Woman. That is the one word that splinters in my chest, that he thinks I am a woman. Not a girl. Not a foolish little child. A woman; blessed with all those innately feminine charms that I envy in my sisters.
  I stare up at him as if he is nothing to be feared, through thick, dark lashes and ill-hidden curiosity, "And if I do not yet know what type of monster I am to be? Would you show me?"

  "No." That is all he says, though he looks for a moment as if he wants to reach out, to touch me. I want him to. But then he catches himself, "Go back to your room, little lamb, my knight waits for you."

•  •  •

  LIKE IN ALL things, the Spartan King is right. Sir Deimos stands with his back to the door, staring out over the sleeping cityscape, "Where have you been, Ophelia?"

  "To see my sisters, not that it is any of your concern," I say, grateful for the warmth of the small fire he has lit in the hearth as I perch on the edge of the bed, wrapping the fur coverlets around myself.

  He turns, then, "If you wish to survive here then you need to learn to lie better."

  "I am not lying."

  "An omission is just as damning as an untruth, would you stand before the King and claim as much?"

  I would, if only to feel the heat of his wrath. I purse my lips and allow him to think he has caught me out, let him think he is my better, that he is smarter. Wiser. Stronger in the way that men always like to think themselves to be. Little does he know it is the King that holds my absence, "Is that all?"

  Sir Deimos exhales, a small shake to his head, "Rest, Ophelia."

  "And where will you sleep?"

  "In my bed, beside my wife."

  My fingers tighten, digging into the fur as if the animal is alive and able to feel my throttling it, "You forget yourself, Sir Deimos, we are not yet married. I should rather sleep in the stables with the cattle than beside you."

  "You may do as you wish, Ophelia," Tiredness seeps into his word like a weight, it seems the soldier tires of the fight before it has already begun. "...Though it seems as though you already do."

  "Say what you like, Sir Deimos, I am tired and wish to sleep." The soldier's words do not come as strongly barbed as his master's. I do not feel each breath of his as keenly as a strike. I should certainly be careful, that is sure, but tonight I feel he speaks just to hear the resonance of his own sound, less than to be heard. Tomorrow his words will have transpired to nothing, carried away like smoke on the breeze.

  "And I am the least of all things stopping you."

  "I will not sleep with you beside me," I say, staring at the man. It is strange to see him so seemingly bare, free of bronze and leather and his face unshielded. His scar catches in the flicker of firelight, that mark of mortal vulnerability, stretching as he smirks, "I am sure the grooms can free a stable for you."

  At that I am silent, so I scorn him with a look instead, hoping it carries all the heat of hell.

  "Relax, Ophelia, I will sleep elsewhere tonight if my presence bothers you so." He begins to leave.

  "There." I say, halting his movement, "The couch, sleep there, Deimos." It looks perfectly comfortable, laden with gold-threaded pillows and stuffed full of feathers, there are certainly far worse places to rest. "That way there will be no gossip of separate beds." This way that fragile male ego can be sheltered in the quiet of this room, and he will hear no jibes of female rejection.

  He seems to agree, for he settles there and catches the coverlet when I toss him one of the many furs from the bed.

  "Leonidas." He says after a while, perhaps he cannot bear the quiet either.

  "What is that?"

  "My name."

  And so that night marked the first of many, my betrothed and I, sharing secrets whilst the rest of the world slipped into sweet oblivion.

***