shroudofdelight

[shroudofdelight]

Chapter 1: Everything You Touch Turns To Ash

(WARNING: Hey, I'm going in hard with chapter one! Just as a forewarning, there is child death in this chapter, specifically a stillborn. Please, if you are sensitive to miscarriages, infant death, or grieving mothers, skip this one. That being said, if I missed any trigger warnings, please do let me know.) Rashta sat before the cracked wooden mirror in the corner of the Servants’ Hall, her comb moving slowly through the long silver strands of her hair. The other girls watched her with quiet eyes, their whispers swallowed by the hiss and pop of the fire. Once, she had been like them, one among many, faceless, forgotten, but now Master Alan’s favor had lifted her to this larger room, a warm bed, a thicker blanket, and gods above, did she need it.

She was heavy with child, the swelling belly beneath her coarse gown impossible to hide. Master Alan had taken no pleasure in the news. His father, Viscount Lotteshu, the true master of the house, was even less-so pleased. The Viscount’s displeasure was a dark thing, deeper than any shout or strike. Alan, once warm as summer, had turned to bone-chilling winter overnight. Yet he kept her close, as if she were both a prize and a penance. Every frosty glance he gave her was a stab to the heart. Foolish girl. She had believed him. She had believed he loved her. She had believed he would take her as his wife.

The hall smelled of soot and sweat, mingled with the faint, lingering scent of lavender she stole from Alan’s room. Rashta brushed her hair slower now, feeling the weight of the poorly-kept secret growing inside her. Around her, the servants kept their distance, the quiet tension thicker than the smoke rising from the hearth.

A girl’s laugh, too sharp, too forceful, broke the silence. Rashta turned her head. Dark accusing eyes met hers. Let them talk. They did not know what it meant to carry a master’s blood, to live beneath his shadow and still hold your head high.

It wasn’t her fault that she was so beautiful. It wasn’t her fault that she had fallen in love. It wasn’t her fault that his pretty words and promises were lies. It wasn’t.

BONG! BONG! BONG!

Rashta was suddenly jerked out of her brooding. The bell, that damned bell, rang loud and sharp above the hall, its clang echoing through the stone like a hammer against steel. Rashta winced at the sound. It was Old Hedda, the Head Housemaid, ringing the morning call from the stairwell. She always rang it too hard, as if she meant to rattle bones as well as walls.

The other girls were already moving, pushing back benches, tucking pins into hair, and snatching up aprons like soldiers to arms. Rashta moved slower.

She had been rising to that bell since she was a child, no taller than a broom handle, six years old and already sweeping hearths. The motion was as familiar as breath, and for most of her life, she had sprung to it without thought. But now each day felt heavier. Her back ached, her ankles swelled, and the babe in her belly twisted at all the wrong moments. She eased herself up with a grunt, one hand on the bench, the other pressed firmly against her side.

No one looked at her. No one offered a hand.

She used to try at first. There had been a time, in the earliest weeks, when she’d asked for help. Just a basin fetched, or a bucket lifted. They’d rolled their eyes. Smirked. Told her to be glad her pretty face bought her favor, because it sure hadn’t earned her anyone’s respect.

So she stopped asking.

But when the bread was late to the table or the fire went out in the east wing or the chamber pots hadn’t been emptied, somehow the blame always found its way back to Rashta. A slow girl makes a slow house, Hedda would say with a pointed look, and the others would murmur agreement like a flock of hens. Never mind that half of them had stood gossiping or idling their time beside the ovens until their bottoms were whipped with the crack of Old Hedda’s wet rag.

Rashta bit the inside of her cheek as she waddled toward the kitchen doors, her hand still resting on the swell of her stomach. The child shifted inside her, as if it too resented the bell.

Her gaze drifted past the hearth to the stairwell, where Old Hedda stood hunched like a hawk, gray hair pinned into its usual tight knot. At her side was the newest girl, one of the Viscount’s purchases from some western slum, judging by the accent. The child could not have seen twelve yet. Big brown eyes blinked owlishly at the bustle around her, her hands fumbling with a smock that didn’t quite fit. She dropped a ladle and stammered an apology.

Old Hedda only tutted and bent to help her.

Rashta’s eye twitched. Old Hedda was never patient with me, she thought, venom sweet on her tongue. And I had been half that girl’s age when they brought me to this place, barefoot and shivering, and still she made me scrub pots till my fingers bled.

Her steps slowed as she watched the scene unfold Hedda gently adjusting the girl’s apron, smoothing her hair, even giving her a slight pat on the shoulder. The bitterness curdled in Rashta’s gut, stronger than the morning sickness that had plagued her through the first months.

Her feelings toward Hedda shifted like southern sands, never fixed, never still. She hated the old woman, some days. Hated the way her cane would rap the floor when Rashta moved too slow, the way her voice could cut like shears through cloth. But there were other days worse, in a way, when she found herself longing for that cane tap, that sharp tongue, even the heat of disapproval. Attention, even cruel, had once been a kind of love.

Old Hedda had been the closest thing to a mother she had ever known.

But it was the tenderness she showed others that stung deepest. That hurt in ways Rashta had no name for. She had worked harder than any girl, bled and ached and scrubbed and served, and yet the softness in Hedda’s voice had never been for her. Only the lash of it.

Rashta blinked back the sting behind her eyes. She straightened her spine, shifted her hand to the small of her back for support, and stepped through the kitchen doors.

She pushed down those ugly feelings. I am better than this. She refused to let them see her break. I have Alan. And soon, I’ll have our child. That’s what matters. Everyone else is simply jealous nobodies, desperate to drag her down into their filth. She had to remember that. She had to.

The day carried on as it always did. Rashta moved through her tasks with steady hands, the rhythm worn deep into muscle and bone. She was almost through when her foot caught on something, and she stumbled. The pitcher she carried slipped from her grasp, crashing to the marbled floor, water splashing in a wave across Mistress Lebetti’s gown.

The Mistress’s rage flared instantly, a wildfire set loose in dry grass. Her backhand came like a whip across Rashta’s cheek, sharp and brutal, sending her sprawling backward.

“You bumbling, oafish whore!” Mistress Lebetti’s voice rang like that noisy morning bell. “Do you think because you seduced my brother into giving you that big belly of yours, you can get away with this?”

Her terrifying green eyes burned, but it was the cruel, sadistic smirk that twisted her lips that chilled Rashta’s blood. “Fine. If you’re so set on acting like a cow, then you can sleep in the byre with the cows. Right where you belong.”

The Mistress snapped her fingers at the slave girl who had come in with Rashta. “See to it that this cow doesn’t forget her sleeping arrangements. Dirty animals have no place in my estate.”

The room had fallen deathly still.

Water pooled on the marbled floor, and Rashta lay sprawled beside it, her cheek stinging where the blow had landed. Her hair, damp from the spill, clung to her face in loose strands of silver. The slap still rang in her ears louder than the bell.

Mistress Lebetti stood tall above her. Her green eyes glittered with cruel satisfaction as she surveyed her work, lips curved in a smirk that did not reach her eyes.

Rashta’s lip trembled, but she did not cry. Not here. Not in front of them.

She pressed one palm to the cold floor and began to rise, slow and deliberate. Her hip ached, and her pride screamed, but she made no sound. She would not give the bitch the satisfaction.

Mistress Lebetti turned away with a sharp toss of her head, already moving on to other affairs.

The girl hesitated, eyes flitting from Rashta to the puddle to the broken pitcher. Then, obedient, she stepped forward and took Rashta by the elbow, tugging gently, but firmly.

Rashta shook her off and stood on her own.

Once they were out of earshot past the sight of watching eyes, Rashta spun on her.

“You did this,” she hissed, face flushed with fury. “You tripped me. I heard you snickering when I fell!”

The girl rolled her eyes. “You are so full of yourself, Rashta. Everything’s always someone else’s fault, isn’t it? The amazing Rashta could never make a mistake of her own.”

She laughed, bitter and mean. “Unlike you, I keep my head down. I live an honest life.”

Rashta narrowed her eyes. “An honest life? Ha. Is that what you call it, lurking in corners, whispering like a rat in the pantry? Judging everyone and doing nothing? And you call me full of myself.”

The girl’s eyes darkened not with anger, but something like resignation.

“You are a curse, Rashta,” she spoke plainly. “Everything you touch turns to ash, but you can’t accept that. Think whatever you will of me. There’s no point trying to speak sense into a deaf ear.”

She then sped up her pace and walked ahead, not looking back.

Rashta stood still, her breath shallow, heart beating like a drum.

She wanted to spit. To scream. To drag the girl down into the same dirt pile she’d been thrown into.

But instead, she followed.

Silently.

The walk to the byre stretched longer than it should have. Gravel crunched underfoot. A breeze stirred the linen of Rashta’s skirts, and each step sent a throb through her lower back.

She didn’t speak. Neither did the girl.

The silence between them grew heavy, not the smug, triumphant kind Rashta had expected, but something else. Something thoughtful. Perhaps even reluctant.

Rashta glanced sideways at her. The girl wasn’t smiling. Her brow was drawn tight in thought, her mouth set in a flat line. She didn’t seem pleased. She didn’t even seem angry. She looked… tired.

The kind of tired Rashta knew too well.

Everything you touch turns to ash…

The words still rang, bitter and biting. And yet, here the girl was, walking quietly beside her, no glee in her step, no sneer on her lips.

Maybe she hadn’t tripped me. Maybe she’s not the enemy.

Rashta hated the thought.

But she couldn’t ignore the knot of doubt twisting in her gut.

She adjusted her grip on the small of her back and let out a breath. Her voice came quiet, dry. “What’s your name?”

The girl blinked and looked at her, surprised. For a moment, she didn’t answer, just studied Rashta’s face as if trying to decide whether this was a trick.

“…Lew,” she said at last.

Rashta nodded. “Lew,” she repeated, like tasting a word she hadn’t tried before.

“I didn’t know it,” she added, quieter still. “I should have.”

Lew said nothing. But she slowed her steps just enough for Rashta to keep pace.

The byre stood at the edge of the estate grounds, tucked between the outer wall and the garden plots, squat and dim in the dying light. Evening bled across the sky, turning the clouds a dull violet. The scent hit Rashta first. Hay, sweat, and manure, pungent enough to sting the back of her throat. One lantern burned above the doorway, where the mosquitoes buzzed lazily.

Lew stepped aside to let her pass, but Rashta hesitated for just a moment on the threshold. Her pride warred with the ache in her limbs and the sting still blooming across her cheek. Then she stepped inside.

She took a step forward, then another.

Behind her, Lew began to turn away but paused.

She didn’t look at her when she spoke. “Nari won’t bother you.”

Rashta turned.

Lew stood in the doorway, not stepping in, just standing with her back turned.

“She’s all the way in the back,” Lew said. “Lost her calf a few days ago. Hasn’t moved from her spot since. It’s warm there. Dry, too. Better than the others.”

Rashta blinked, caught off guard by the softness in her tone. There was no mockery in it. Just a fact.

“…Thank you,” Rashta said, her voice raw, threatening to crack.

Lew gave a small nod. Not quite kind, not quite distant. Then she walked off and disappeared, the stable door creaking shut behind her.

Rashta stood there for a long moment, alone among the animals and dust and silence.

Then she gathered her skirts and made her way to the back, where an old cow lay nestled in straw, her large body still as stone, eyes dulled with grief.

Nari flicked an ear but didn’t move.

Rashta sank down beside her, slow and careful, letting the hay take her weight.

But she sat there for a long time, hand on her belly, the breath of the grieving cow rising and falling beside her like a tide. The stink, the stillness, the shame of it all settled into her bones.

And for the first time in days, she let herself cry.

She woke with a pain like no other, a deep, gnawing cramp low in her belly, as though something were ripping her from inside. For a moment, she lay still, breath shallow, hands pressed to her abdomen. The straw beneath her was damp with sweat, her dress clinging to her body uncomfortably.

Darkness still pressed against the walls of the byre, but the lantern above swung precariously with the wind, a single eye of fire in a world of shadow. Rashta did not know when she had fallen asleep. The memory of it was vague, blurred at the edges. She remembered a voice, soft, feminine, not unlike a lullaby. A dream, surely. Her mother’s voice, perhaps, though Rashta could barely remember what she sounded like. Just the feeling of arms wrapping around her.

The pain surged again, deeper this time, and she gasped.

She shifted upright with great effort, one hand planted in the hay, the other bracing her belly. And then she saw it a blanket, coarse but clean, draped over her shoulders.

Her heart leapt before reason could catch it.

Alan.

Had he found her? Come in the night, wrapped her in warmth? Did he know? Had some part of him still cared enough to come all this way?

It was a sweet, impossible thought, and in another life, she might have wept with joy. But the pain swallowed it whole. Her body cramped again, harder now, sharp enough to drive the breath from her lungs.

No. No, not now. Not here.

It was happening.

The baby was coming.

She tried pacing, at first. A slow shuffle between the byre’s rear wall and the stall. She murmured small prayers between clenched teeth, hands pressed to her back, sweat slicking her neck and brow. She counted breaths, counted footsteps, anything to focus her mind.

The cows stirred. A few raised their heads to watch her.

Rashta leaned on the stall wall and hissed through another contraction. Her knees buckled, and she dropped to the straw. Her fingers dug into the hay, trembling.

No one was coming.

Of course not.

She was alone.

Another wave of pain came, rolling like thunder through her hips. Her groans turned to cries. She clutched her belly with both arms, curling into herself.

“Please,” she whispered to gods she barely believed in. “Please, just let it end. Let my baby be born. Please, let me live.”

The byre pressed in around her. Wood and beasts and darkness and pain. The air was hot, damp, with the stink of animals and fear. Her sweat mixed with tears she didn’t remember shedding.

The cows shifted again. One let out a sharp, anxious moo.

Rashta grit her teeth until her jaw ached. Her fingernails tore against the floor. “Alan,” she breathed, barely more than a whimper. “Please. Someone. Please.”

But there was no answer. Only the warm breath of the cows and the sound of her own body breaking open for the child within.

And still, the pain came until her world fractured into black.

She did not remember falling. One moment, she was clawing at the straw, gasping, screaming, and the next… nothing.

She woke with a start, heart thundering, breath ragged in her throat. A chill clung to her skin. The byre was quiet, heavy with stillness. Too still. Too quiet.

Her hazy eyes slowly adjusting, the single lantern above was now no more than a dull ember. Night had passed, and the sun was starting to rise. She didn’t know how long she had been unconscious. A minute? An hour? A lifetime?

Then she remembered. The baby.

Rashta sat up with a cry caught in her throat. Every part of her body ached, stiff and wet with blood and sweat. She reached forward, frantic, and scooped the small, blanketed shape near her.

At first, she thought her eyes deceived her. Her breath hitched.

But the child did not cry. Did not stir. The tiny body lay limp, too still. The skin was pale, waxy, with none of the rosy warmth she’d dreamed of. Their lips were blue. Their chest did not rise.

She blinked once. Then again.

No.

The child’s eyes were open, just barely, and clouded. No life in them. No light. No future.

A scream tore from her throat, sudden and animalistic. Raw. A sound that did not feel like it belonged to her at all. As though some wounded beast had been loosed from her chest.

She clutched the baby tighter, cradled them against her breast, as if her heart could beat life into them. But they remained cold. Stiff.

“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no, no please, gods, please–”

The byre didn’t answer. The gods didn’t answer.

She collapsed forward, folding around the child, her body trembling with the weight of loss. Tears spilled like a flooded river, soaking into the straw. Her sobs shook her shoulders, wretched and gasping, a litany of broken apologies.

Why must everything I love be ripped away from me? Am I cursed? Is this my fault? Is this my punishment?

She pressed her lips to the baby’s cold forehead. “Please forgive me,” she wept. “My sweet one, please… please forgive me.”

Outside, the world moved on. Birds sang, the wind stirred through the trees, the other slaves were rising to start their day, but inside the byre, time had ceased.

The dull eyes of Nari, the old cow, met Rashta’s tear-streaked face.

Rashta looked to her, the old cow, and wondered if she could feel it too, this emptiness, this unspeakable absence that could not be filled, only endured.

For a long, endless moment, the two mourned together, woman and beast, bound by loss. The heavy, aching quiet swallowed the stench of hay and manure, as if even the animals themselves bowed their heads in sorrow.

[shroudofdelight]

A retelling of The Remarried Empress, from Rashta’s perspective

(I'm not sure how far I'll stray from the original yet, but I do have few changes planned so far.)

Prologue

They say I was born into the most prosperous empire the world has ever known. That its cities shine like opals beneath the sun, that the rivers run sweet, and that the very air tastes of gold. They say we are the envy of kings and gods alike, the light of the world.

I still remember looking out from my crooked little window and thinking the whole city looked like a treasure box; bright and full of possibilities. I thought… I thought if I just kept smiling and wished hard enough, the world would open for me.

But the world doesn’t open for girls like me. It swallows.

I learned early, oh, far too early, that the beauty of jewels hides a thousand shadows. There is one sin this blessed empire will never wash away, no matter how many prayers they offer. Slavery. It is the blood beneath their feet. Steal a coin, owe a debt, or simply be born unlucky; your freedom is lost, your name stolen, and with it, your very personhood is no more.

In my case, it was my father's vice, gambling, that sealed my fate. His sins became my sentence. I was sold to the Rimwells when I was a young child. Just… given over, like cattle.

Mistress Lebetti, the Master’s daughter, was the cruelest of them all. She took pleasure in shouting at me and striking me when her moods turned sour, which was far too often. She liked to hurt things that couldn’t fight back, and I was her thing. She would slap me if her hair wouldn’t sit right, or if the seamstress pricked her finger, or if the weather happened to be poor.

And the Viscount, as long as I didn’t make a mistake, I was safe. But when he struck me, it was like thunder. Sudden, loud, and without apology.

Still, I was clever. At least, I think I was. I learned to be charming at the right times. To weep softly. To be exactly what they wanted. No more, no less.

It wasn’t so hard, once I understood the rules.

But sometimes… I forget. I let myself dream three impossible dreams.

I dreamed of someone who would love me truly.

I dreamed of choice; my dress, my words, where I might walk.

And, oh, I dreamed of power. Just a pinch. A teaspoon’s worth. Enough to make someone stop. To make them see me. To make them care.

Would that be so wrong?