Please have mercy

Poison

Since the picnic, she wears paler colors. Instead of matching, now they contrast.

She thinks about it, this parade that makes the First Order appear strong, and doesn't complain. He seems to like her dressed as such, quite bridal and pure, and so she doesn't argue with it. They're just colors, it shouldn't matter, but somehow, deep down inside a corner of her mind she tries to shut off, it makes her think that he's trying to slowly push her away from him, to separate them, dissociate the bonds of marriage and the other she doesn't completely grasp the logic of.

They're just colors, they're quite representative, he asked for it, she should stop pondering on the matter and obey. She should stop thinking so much, one day, it might hinder her actions.

They're in bed, the sheets that cover their bodies are tangled between their legs bundling her nightgown around her hips. She's not sleeping, she knows he isn't either, they don't speak and she takes the time to appreciate the calmness, the serenity, of a normal night together.

His hand has slipped under her gown, reaching her abdomen, and he traces maps on her stomach, his fingers trailing over the seam of her underwear so delicately she can barely feel the weight of it. But his hand is cold and it makes her shiver under his touch, raising goosebumps on her skin.

He has been away recently, a lot. She doesn't blame him for it, he has no obligations to be with her every day, he has a superior duty to do and a title to maintain. Sometimes, when he goes away, he brings her back trinkets from every planet, giving her summaries of their importance to each culture and what they represent to the species.

Other times, he doesn't want to see her at all, he pushes her away, refuses to speak to her, and leaves her alone for several days on end. She doesn't comment that she can't get pregnant without his help, yet she still fears the backlash of the council, the rehabilitation, the verbal lashing detailing her utter uselessness.

Sometimes she wonders what would happen if the temple asked for penance from her, painfully aware that they'd want to whip her as a reminder of tradition, an old method so rarely used these days, simply to leave a reminder carved into her body.

She dreams of it, seeing him there agreeing with the council. Why would he care? He would probably want to watch. Worst, she dreams that he's the one whipping her for them. Then she wakes up sweating and scared, tense and distant, convincing herself that it isn't true, that he isn't like that, that he doesn't think she's useless.

She is not an inconvenience, her body just isn't listening to her demands.

Nevertheless, he has not harmed her for a while, she isn't sure what to make of that. Perhaps it is because he has come to know her better, and the time spent together makes him unable to cause her pain. She would like to think that it is because he has changed, that he does not wish to see her in pain, but that would be a stretch. She is assured that if she asks for it, if she pushes him enough, he would not hesitate, however long they spend by each other's side.

His fingers don't linger, it's not a sexual gesture it's meant to comfort her and it's working. She isn't sure how to respond, what's the proper way to react, how she can give back the affection without turning it into intercourse since she bases her knowledge of him on what he has shown her. So, she leans into the touch, she turns towards him trying to discern his features bathed in starlight, blindly guessing his emotions.

Slowly, she places her hand on his, it feels awkward and the idea of it alludes to a bigger picture, but she doesn't mind. She wants to apologize for her lacking, she wants to tell him it's fine if he wants to try with someone else, the future of his lineage is much more important than her own, she wants to beg for forgiveness for her broken body that never seems to work in the proper way.