A Storm of Flames and Deceit

I. Full

Nephele

I find the mirror a bit... disconcerting.
There weren't any mirrors in my cellar, and frankly, I hadn't seen myself since I was thirteen. But damn, a lot has changed.
For starters, I have tits- I suppose I have the healers to thank for that. But I can't stop staring at the mounds on my chest. Are these really mine? I had been so skinny before- a corpse. Now, I might say I look like a woman.
My hair was different too, long as hell, twisted into braids that are charmed in silver and amethyst. My face is sharper, my lips fuller. I grew into my eyes as well, once big and innocent.
I hadn't much innocence left of me.
But I looked beautiful, though I wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing considering what I had waiting for me.
I decide it doesn't matter. Anything before me cannot be worse than what's behind me.
All that was made clear to me was that Father had allied himself with the Autumn Court and that I was to marry one of the sons. I nearly quipped back a complaint about marrying a red head, but I thought better of it.
Past that, I'm unsure. All I know is that three ladies with tight lips came to dress me for the evening without so much as blinking. And then, like an autumn breeze, they left silently despite the questions I begged them to answer.
Mother enters the room, the click of her tongue the only indication that she is satisfied. She'd never call me pretty- this is the best I'll get. Father follows in behind her, nodding once in approval. Good thing I stopped seeking their praise a long time ago.
"We should be going," mother says. "Beron is expecting us."
I nod, following after her, but father grabs my arm, digging his fingers into my skin so hard I cry out. I feel like my bone might snap. "You will be on your best behavior tonight," he whispers. I glance at mother in vain, but she looks vaguely bored. She won't help. "I took you out of that cellar, and I can put you back in."
I nod, swallowing as he releases me. I won't let it come to that. If I sense things going sour, I'll at the very least smuggle a kitchen knife to kill myself with. 
What an optimistic take.
Following my parents, I let the beautiful decorum of autumn distract me. The windows are massive, displaying beautiful arrangements of copper, gold, and red trees, framed by cherry- stained wood. The air is quite brisk- comfortable, even though it is pouring outside. It's not too hot. Not too cold. Breezy. In fact, the breeze picks up my braids, and I can forget my misery for just a second and feel weightless.
I follow my mother and father through the corners and winds of the palace, the curved, organic hallways. My legs feel a bit foreign to me, and I struggle to keep up. I only just recently got any muscle back, and it's an effort to command them. I have to think about every step, especially in these tall, silver heels. To be fair, they did compliment my deep plum gown beautifully.
I was a bit disappointed in the gown however. Only just discovering the parts that make my figure womanly, I had hoped I could get to show them off. But the bodice of my dress was barely low cut, with full sleeves. At least it hugged my waist, but it flares out in a straight and simple skirt- not even a slit. Disappointing indeed.
I recall sneaking into town as a girl, and I remember admiring how the women at the brothel dressed. To be fair, some of it might have been rooted in lust, but I always appreciated how they treated their body like an art form, something to dress around. The didn't try to hide what the mother gave them. They took ownership of it.
I hear conversation around the corner, and my heart begins to flutter. Surely, any friend of my father's is no friend to me, but I'm just so excited to meet new people that I do not care.
Conversation halts when we turn the corner, and I peak over mother and father's shoulders, standing respectfully behind them. The table is red wood and as gorgeous as the red of the house, but the alarming amount of redheads catch my eye. I blink.
At the head of the table is a man, the only one without red hair. His face looks cruel and demanding. No, not demanding. Commanding. The High Lord, I deduct. There was nothing warm in his amber eyes, his cold stare. He certainly looks like a friend of my father's.
To his right sits a woman of red hair, absolutely beautiful. Her skin is freckled and innocent, but her blue eyes look defeated, down cast. There was no fire left in her. She was... burnt out.
On that side of the table sit two red head boys around my age, one with a wide head, one narrow. That's likely the only distinguishing trait I'll find between them, considering they look nearly identical, shaved haircuts and cruel jaws. They look heavily like their father.
My father sits at the other head of the table, across from Beron, mother taking her seat to father's right. I take my cue, sitting beside her quietly, keeping my head down. I'm scared to catch any of the men's eyes, like they might just set me on fire to watch me burn.
No one bothers to introduce me to anyone. I suppose I'm not meant to speak enough to need to know any names, and I'm sure they already know who I am if I had been used as a bartering chip. Perhaps, I was supposed to already know, but I only know Beron- the High Lord.
However, there is someone I haven't examined yet. I look to my right, at the boy who is staring at me with his auburn brows low over his keen amber eyes. His hair is positively princely, flopping over his brow like an autumn breeze had affectionately tussled it. He takes after his mother, freckled cheeks and pink undertones. Warm. Pretty.
His bone structure was his mother's as well, lifted. His cheekbones were sculpted beautifully, sweeping up towards his pointed ears which are pierced in various gold studs. His nose was his father's though, a bit hooked, bigger than the average nose. In a strange and entirely unfair way, it made him more attractive, more regal.
In fact, he oozed regality. He was so finely dressed in a billowing white shirt and a burnt orange waistcoat, embroidered in gold leaves. A chain of gold hung low to his chest, a ruby charm at the end that caught the light beautifully. His body was long and lean and elegant as if he himself was a trick of the light. A slip of the flame.
His attention turns from me to my father. "She's a bit skinny," he comments objectively. He must be the one I'm marrying.
Ouch.
"You try not eating for half a century, hot stuff." The words slip out of me. I'm out of practice in holding my tongue, but I see the back of mother's hand coming.
My eyes tear up as her ring cuts through skin, but I feel more like laughing. I don't dare, electing to wipe the blood from my cheek instead.
"She'll fill out," father says. I don't miss the glare he gives me for my outburst. His eyes are a warning.
The red headed prince shrugs, feigning to be unbothered, but a muscle in his jaw twitches. "She must be quite powerful to cause such a storm," he glances outside where rain still beats down against the windows. I furrow my brows, confused, but I don't dare voice my puzzlement.
"It will stop storming," Father vows. "Her body is still... adjusting to coming out of captivity. But yes, she will breed powerfully."
I shiver at the thought. I don't know what they're talking about, but I really do not want to be pregnant anytime soon.
"I see," the prince clicks his tongue, tapping a finger against his soft lips. "Is that why you imprisoned her for so long?"
I don't see this slap coming, but I flinch as Beron's hand connects with the boys face. He had been speaking so boldly. He had to have known it was coming. Maybe that's why I could swear a look of solidarity crosses from his eyes to mine. And I could swear the corner of his lip twitches up.
"Watch your tone, boy," Beron rumbles, and his son rights himself, straightening his hair. "These are our guests. Our allies."
The prince looks inclined to argue, but discouraged. I suspect talking to his father is a bit like talking to mine, a bit like talking to a brick wall.
"I'm Eris," the boy smiles at me, and he's so handsome that I nearly blush.
"Nephele," I reply casually.
"A pleasure," he says, brushing his lips across my knuckles.
Not bad for a red head.
...
I had gathered very little from dinner. Mostly, they spoke of names I didn't recognize and things I didn't understand having been locked away for so long. It's safe to say I'm not up to date on my current events.
What I did gather was that this little storm wasn't so little. It has been happening for eight days in full force across Prynthian, Hybern, and even parts of the continent.
It has been happening ever since I left captivity.
If only I knew how to stop it.
Father had already tried, but the storm was too strong and too wide spread for his efforts to do much of anything. I'm smug about what a blow to his pride that must've been. I'm surprised he's not angry at me for it, but I think to show anger would be to give me credit. And he would never want to do that.
I reach to silence the power in my bones, but I just cannot stop it. I cannot banish the clouds.
I had also been calculating my future husband all dinner. Even though he says nothing, I get the distinct impression that every word shared between my father and his is being analyzed. He stares straight into his potatoes, but I don't miss the drum of his fingers as he thinks. I don't miss him smirk a bit when his father admits that another legion has deflected. None were too keen on working with any General of Hybern, though sworn to secrecy about Beron's international affairs, the kind of vow that cannot be spoken of by anyone. So they deflected to other courts in mass, unable to speak of why.
I smirk a bit too.
I wish I could eat, but even looking at food makes me nauseated. For so long I had lived without it, but now, the idea of filling my stomach with food is quite daunting. I'm sure one day I will be able to stomach a normal meal, but the most I can manage presently is the smallest nibble on the end of a green bean.
Even the minute bite turns my stomach and brings spots to my vision, sweat to my brow.
"Eat," my mother snaps at me quietly under the conversation of Beron and my father. "You're being rude."
"I imagine it'd be more rude if I were to vomit across this lovely table," I mumble under my breath.
"Excuse me?" My mother stammers, taken aback by my will. It's a challenge.
I won't be sent back to that damn cellar.
"Yes, mother," I reply dutifully, biting my tone. Mother clicks her tongue, not wanting to cause another scene by slapping me.
I work up the nerve to look back at my plate, though even the smell of food makes my stomach close in on itself. But when I look onto the fine porcelain, I find the serving nearly clear, save for a few spare green beans. I blink, thinking perhaps I've fainted or that I'm imagining that my plate is nearly clear.
There's a flash of movement to my right, Eris bringing his fork to his mouth, a casual look on his face. I glance at his plate. Only minutes ago it was nearly clear, but now it had more chicken atop it. More potatoes.
My food had been siphoned to his plate.
I glance up at him, and he raises an eyebrow of challenge, daring me to speak of it. He'll soon learn that I don't turn down challenge.
"Got enough on your plate?" I ask quietly. It's the second time tonight he has shown me a sign of solidarity, though his words to me weren't quite kind.
He shrugs. "I like having my plate full," he replies, and I begin to think that might be true in multiple regards. I could tell that mind of his was in a million places at once, yet keen enough to focus on a minor detail like his future wife potentially spilling her stomach across the table.
"I see," I say quietly, looking at his lips. He's irrefutably handsome. I think my fortune must be turning because I never expected to be freed of my cellar and married off onto such an attractive man. It is a true stroke of luck in my deeply unfortunate life. "You also strike me as a man who always saves room for dessert."
He ponders my words, looking at my lips for a minute. I suppose a true lady was meant to be koi with her intentions, but I had spent so long in captivity. I want nothing more than to jump his bones, even if I haven't any affection for him. He's certainly handsome enough, and I'm over saving myself. If I had it my way, I would've lost my virginity two centuries ago.
"I am," he confirms, inclining his head. He glances at my plate, the sad progress I've made at eating. I am not well, and I think he can tell. "But something tells me you haven't the appetite for something so sweet just yet, Nephele."
I raise a brow at his restraint, but then I turn away. So he wasn't attracted to me. I know men are motivated entirely by their cocks. I know even a fraction of horniness is enough for a man to throw such an accessible woman like me into his chambers. But he hesitates. I will wed him one day, and he hesitates. He isn't shy- he just isn't interested.
It's a blow to my pride.
Perhaps, I wasn't ready anyway.
What do I know about these things?
I know my own anatomy well enough- two centuries is quite a long time when you're alone. But I had never touched the opposing part on a man. I know for men it doesn't take much to get them off, but I'm not entirely sure how I'd approach such a task. What I'd do with my hands. With my body.
Perhaps he knew this too, and he didn't want a woman so inexperienced. I suppose I don't blame him. I'm not sure I'd want to be with a male as inexperienced as I, and he certainly looked like he knew the go around things. There was a walk about him.
Fair enough.
One day, he will want children, and he will need me like it or not. Though I'm extremely uncomfortable with the idea of being used just for my womb and I'm even more uncomfortable with the idea of being a mother. I've only just got out of captivity- I'd like to live a little before I settle.
Beggars can't be choosers.
I decide to focus on finishing what I can of my green beans while holding back my vomit, only daring to glance at the handsome red head out of the corner of my eye.