labour

apples

warning: this story contains details of domestic vïolence and emotional trauma, please look after yourself and do not read if any of this may affect you <3

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caroline's pov

Why did the pompous twat have to open his mouth?

My excitement towards the offering of wine was now being closely monitored by my husband and it was unlikely that I would be allowed another glass throughout our stay.

I hate King Edmund.

Yet I am here for a reason, to form an alliance, and it would be a huge disgrace to the name of Lune if we were to return at a loss. My distaste would have to remain concealed if I were to stay here. Which I was hoping I would.

Dinner was shortly brought to a close after the awkward exchange, meaning I now had to retreat to my temporary bedroom and sleep once more next to Alexander like I had done thousands of times.

"That was an embarrassment, Caroline." His voice was eerily calm after we'd reached our room, barely reaching over the crickets and bustling of leaves outside.

"I know, I'm sorry, Xander." Not tonight please. The exhaustion was very much present in my demeanour, hoping that it could postpone the inevitable until the break of dawn. My hopes would be pointless, however.

"I know you are."

For a second, I'd almost thought he wouldn't do it. Maybe he too was fatigued and would let his anger settle overnight.

Until it happened.

The crack of skin to skin contact happened before I could even register it, my right cheek instinctively flashing red upon impact.

"You are not to drink during our visit, nor are you to speak unless spoken to, understand?." I wanted nothing more than to wipe the dominant smirk from his face, but in the moment I did not hold the guts to do so. After all, he is my husband, and I love him. Or so I'm supposed to.

"Yes, I understand."

As my hands reluctantly folded the clothing that was tossed upon the floor with purpose, I watched his figure retreat under the covers, not even momentarily waiting for my presence.

My eyes narrowed at his sleeping frame, hoping for a second that maybe they would burn right through him.

What did I truly expect? That his behaviour would change in the presence of others? That was far too optimistic for my husband.

Although it wasn't always this way, worsening over time like fruit in the sun. It began after an idyllic few months. I opted to reread previous writings in my journal, ones to remind me why I was here.

'I was tasked with fetching apples from the orchard, in a barrel no smaller than myself. At first I believed it would be a simple job, easily managed even by my weakened arms, yet it soon became too heavy to hold.

The long enough walk back to the castle was tough, but I was determined to succeed regardless. That was until I had somehow reached the courtyard with the barrel intact, and my body soon gave in to the temptation of rest, apples coating the sodden ground like ice in a hailstorm.

He was calm to begin with, a reoccurring feature of his rage that I grew to detest. Reassurance of "It's okay, darling." and "You didn't mean to." was a cruel precursor to his vile blow.'

Three years ago, I would cry and cry, and so would he. Sobs of "I'm so sorry, my love.", "I hate that I hurt you" and "I won't do it again" flooded our room each night, the latter lost its meaning over time, until he stopped crying altogether, as did I.

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