She endured it all.
Never in her life did she expect that she would have to fight down the urge to do more or say something. Especially in this light. Her eyes, violet, glazed over and glistening in the light of the moon watched him as he curled up her gown. She felt so treacherous, to shameful, and Osmund felt it too. She could feel the heat of his hands trembling against her skin. He wanted this. He wanted to see her in full. He called her beautiful, and suddenly so many things were swirling around in her head. She wanted to break free from the storm inside there that made her look back with placid eyes, to rid herself of shame and pride. She knew she was beautiful, and should have expected this. She had been a fool. A beautiful fool. Yet all it took was one memory of Garlan for her to remember the vows she said on that altar to Garlan. She had bound herself to him that night, taken him as no other had. She missed him so terribly much.
And in that moment, Osmund looked like him. Her mouth widened in surprise. She hadn’t noticed the resemblance. He wasn’t entirely beautiful, but he had the same nose, and the same depth to his eyes that told of an inner struggle to hold onto oneself. He was containing the pleasure he felt, and the shame of seeing her so exposed. Did he see it in her too? That festering guilt that made her want to storm off and forget this ever happened? Two forces battled one another: Her pride and her shame. They turned each other around and around until a flame was coursing through her, making her hands weak, her legs limp. She glanced down at them. They didn’t respond to her movements. The pale skin of her thighs was exposed to him. She wore no stockings, no protection. Skin against skin. Flesh against flesh. His hands felt so warm, so tender and caring and loving as they graced her, kneading into the soft flesh only one man had claimed before.
It felt terrible. It felt amazing. It felt awesome. It felt horrible and right at the same time, and yet she could not bring herself to allow him to move further. A flame arose inside of her; that same flame that hadn’t come to her in a very long time. How would he see her after this? Would he see her as something to be used? Or did he see her as someone he loved? Did he truly love her as a man should love his wife? Gods, she thought. I’m going insane.
And she loved it.
The force that was battling through her soon turned to a different force. While the initial shock hadn’t been entirely pleasurable, now she felt something different. It was a sadness within; a sadness of the heart that made her want to weep for him, to rid him of his shame and guilt.
As any wife should.
She wanted to hold him and allow him to rest his head on his bosom as he fell asleep. She wanted to give him counsel when it was just the two of them. She wanted to let him play with her hair, which was a shock to her because no one had touched it in almost four years. She wanted to allow him to smell her hair, to smell her, the tenderness of her skin.
As any husband should.
All those things had been what Garlan and her had done. They claimed each other and bedded each other on occasion, but it was the love that forged them into something different. Would Osmund ever be the same? If she questioned him, and herself in her judgement, what would she be? She would make a terrible advisor. Some of the wisest Kings had their advisors for lovers, though, and… The Bracken girl. What would she do about her? Tears welled in her eyes - tears long in their coming, as she reached forward, her palm on his hand. Her fingers laced around it in a heartbeat, and like that Osmund and Myranda Tyrell were sucked together, faces near inches from each other.
She looked into the eyes of a youth. Of a man who had seen war and survived it. She watched as his expression changed beneath her, eyes on hers. She saw genuinity, a meaning and a purpose. He would marry her if she wanted it. He would marry her if he were given the chance. The Bracken girl ruined it, changed it, made it more sinister and vile than she could ever manage. Every word he said still hit home, however, and briefly her fingers came up to his jaw, running along the smallest hint of a stubble that grew there, her thumb gracing the redness of his lips, feeling the warmth that came from him.
“You mean it,” she said, her eyes looking down into his. Hers were burning with passion, and his the same. Relief seemed to come out of him, though he still bore that same expression as he did when he had told her. The hand that was laced within his pulled it hard against her chest, resting in between her breasts, allowing him to feel the beating of her heart. A privilege that she had given solemnly as well. “You really mean it, don’t you?”
He did. There was no doubting it any longer. Looking into those eyes she saw a new man.
“Gods,” she whispered. Her voice was broken with the pressure of her throat, and came out almost as a wheeze. Breathing in three times and clearing that horrible anxiety, she continued peering into those eyes. Now her words were as soft as an evening breeze, as warm as the heart of summer itself, and as gentle as a kiss upon the cheek. “Osmund, I do not know what to say. It changes so much. I would give the world for you; my body, my everything. I have given you a part of my soul tonight. Remember it and cherish it. I would take you for a husband if only you were born the brother of my Garlan. Perhaps it would have been more than love that compelled you then. I… I love you, Osmund. It is a motherly love. I do not know what to feel right now.
“Know that I do love you, though. That I will always be a part of you even when you marry that Bracken girl.” Hesitating, she lowered her gaze. Tears dropped from her eyes and leaked onto the log below, fracturing the calm expression she had only just formed. “I wish,” she said. “I wish,” she said again. “I wish it weren’t so difficult. I wish there were a place I could understand what I am feeling. Is it love? I have not felt it so in a very long time. Gods, why do you curse me so? Make me experience this pleasure and pain in such a way?
“Perhaps I would even have him as a lover. Perhaps. If it is what I truly feel.” Osmund could feel that her heart was pounding. Looking up to the sky, golden locks falling over the hand that held his hand between her breasts, she pleaded. “Show me what I feel, Gods. I must know. Have you allowed me to love again? A man a decade my younger?”
Truthfully, she didn’t know what to feel. If the Gods had blessed her with love once more, they had put it in an interesting man, and a man that was soon to be married at that. “Did I ever tell you you resemble him?” She said finally, looking back down and into that sorrowful gaze. “Did I ever tell you that you looked like my Garlan? That…” Pulling him closer, heat rushing between them and melding them together… “... You would grow to be just like him? Perhaps a few too many swears, but that can change.” The fingers that held his lip traveled up to the coils of his hair, digging in, and pushing his face against hers.
They kissed in that moment, and heaven and hell rushed through her. She wanted to scream and cry out, to do something to change, but this moment was bliss itself. His lips reminded her of Garlan, of a time that had been easier, where she hadn’t need question herself. Was this a time come again? For a time, they simply kissed. She was entirely thoughtless, all of her emotions drained into that first kiss, filled with all the passion of an empire.
In that moment, Myranda feared no price for her sins. The world rushed around them, and for a very long time, far into the night, far past the last of the torches going out, they simply held each other, whispering into each other’s ears. Osmund did not fear retribution either. Together they looked up into that long night, forgetting what was, what could be, and what would be. Together they were whole, and that piece in Myranda that had been left by Garlan was finally filled.
And the heavens wept for it.