Ease The Dawn

Chapter 11

"I am to be the Queen of Mercia," she said raising her chin, her voice feigning importance. "My husband has had his eye on the title of king his entire life," she added flatly.

"I will take Mercia one day," he said, looking up from the map before him. "And all that is in it."

"Will you remember me, my Lord?" she asked, the soft candlelight making her eyes twinkle.

"I will remember you," his gaze lingered, scanning her face causing her cheeks to warm.

"I should have refrained from telling you. I foresee it," her tone turned playful. "Your army would storm the walls, you will hack your way inside the doors of the parish and come face to face with me."

"Continue," he flicked his hand, his eyes slowly scanning her mouth and throat, the dip of skin between her collar bones peeking through her loosely wrapped shawl.

"You would flee for the hills of course," she laughed, "faced with me as a captive. Twice."

"I flee from nothing," he sniped, his amusement clear in his bright eyes.

"Oh no? Even a princess who is a very annoying person?" she imitated him sarcastically, shooting him a grin. Taking a drink from her cup, she pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth to cut the sour taste of the ale.

Taking a deep drink, Ivar could not help but smile. Returning his eyes to his papers, he tensed and looked back to Aethelswith, tilting his head forward toward her.

"Never hide in a church," his tone was serious and his expression hard. The muted light made his chiseled features appear harsh. "Never flee to a Church. Do you understand?"

Glancing down at the table, she could see that his hand was squeezing his horn of ale. Looking back up, she nodded her agreement.

"Tell me," he ordered. "That you understand."

"Yes, I understand," she answered quietly.

They sat in silence, both distracted by their own thoughts, Ivar staring down at his desk. The ease evaporating quickly from the space. He shifted uncomfortably on his stool and she noticed a twinge of strain flash across Ivar's face. She had never asked about his legs; the pain he was obviously in. The torment they clearly caused him and she never would. Studying his features, she noticed how smooth and perfect the skin of his face was, save for the small scar on his right cheek. Her eyes dropped to the gentle lift of his upper lip, just below his nose. Who would he be, she wondered, without those defective legs? Not nearly the man sitting across from her now. Those hobbled legs were, surely, the foundation of his ruthless drive for reputation. Acceptance, more so, she thought. Who would he be if the world had not instilled that sticky layer of shame.

"People are not that different, you know. Regardless of who they are. Their titles, religions even."

"Ridiculous," he scoffed. "You think like a child. Look at us."

Finishing her drink, Aethelswith tilted her head in contemplation.

"People are a result of their rearing, their circumstances, and experiences. Hardships and pain....Joy." Pausing, she looked back to Ivar, waiting for him to tease, but continued seeing that he was listening. "Would we be any different, if we had lived the life of the other?" she continued without waiting for a response. "Dreams and desires belong to all people my Lord... and shame." Pressing her lips together, she smiled flatly. "We cannot forget about shame."

Lifting the jug, Ivar refilled Aethelswith's horn and then his own.

"What do you know of hardship and pain?" he asked but then froze, jug still suspended over his cup as the image of her vile husband and her disfigured back came to mind. Placing the jug down, he stared into the dark contents of his cup unsure of what to say.