The Veiled One

Chapter Nine : The Veiled One and I argue. A lot.

I climb the stairs to the dining room where we've eaten our main meals for the past two months. She is there, of course, resplendent in a dress that looks like it's made of pure gold. She looks wonderful, from what I can see: her skin is creamy white on her hands and her décolletage, almost pearlescent. Her long auburn hair hangs down her back in a shimmering sheet that just begs to be disturbed by my fingers, and her veil even looks tinged in gold. I can just about see the outline of her face beneath it, but little else. I'm suddenly very disappointed. I wanted to know what she looked like.

"Sylas," she greets me warmly, rising from our now much-smaller table. I join her and capture her hand, brushing my lips across it in a kiss. I don't know how much of it is my imagination, but I can almost feel a spark travel from my lips to her hand and back. It takes my wife a long while to pull away.

"Please, sit," she tells me at last, beckoning to the table spread. It's simple tonight, a typical meal for a capital family. There is a roast, seasoned with rosemary and pepper and lemon, as well as a platter of roasted sweet potatoes. A savory jelly lies next to the roast, while a pudding tempts me with its warm gravy smell. A vase of elderberry wine stands next to two delicate glasses.

I pour for the Bride before myself, and she accepts the glass gratefully.

"You're shaping up to be quite the fighter," I tell her as she finishes mumbling her prayers of gratitude.

"Thank you," she replies, voice hesitant, uncertain. She fingers one of the serving utensils before sighing. The utensils rise on their own and begin to work, serving first herself and then me. Once I receive my plate, which holds exactly the amounts I wanted of the food I was eyeing, she toys with the stem of her wineglass once more.

"What's the matter?" I ask, frowning.

"Nothing. It's only..."

"You can tell me," I urge her.

"Oh, all right. I wish I could remove this veil so that this dinner would be like any other dinner and you could pretend that you weren't forced into this marriage."

Forced. So she doesn't believe that I volunteered, practically begged for the chance to kill her.

"Oh," is all I can say. The Eternal Bride starts to eat, slowly, each bite disappearing just before making contact with the fabric of her veil. After a while, she sets down her knife and fork with a noisy clank.

"This is ludicrous," she protests. "This silence. And I can't stand that you won't address me!"

"I don't know your name!" I blurt.

She starts. "My name? They didn't... They didn't tell you your own wife's name?"

I shake my head. "No one knows it."

A sound almost like a half-sob escapes from the veiled figure sitting perfectly still in her chair, and then there is quiet. Finally, she manages to regain enough composure that she can speak again.

"Sibyl. My name is Sibyl. And I expect you to use it."

"Sibyl," I try, testing it out. I like the way it feels on my tongue. "Sibyl," I say again.

"No one has spoken my name to me for years," she breathes. "Now I know why."

"I suppose they've let fear cloud their teachings," I muse.

"What do you mean?" Sibyl demands sharply.

"It's as if giving you a name makes you more real, more dangerous. It increases their fear."

"Or it makes me human, a quality they seem to be trying terribly hard to forget," she snaps.

"Calm down," I say soothingly. "There's no use in getting angry."