pecancrunch

[pecancrunch]

A lot of fiction these days reads as if—as I saw Peter Raleigh put it the other day, and as I’ve discussed it before—the author is trying to describe a video playing in their mind. Often there is little or no interiority. Scenes play out in “real time” without summary. First-person POV stories describe things the character can’t see, but a distant camera could. There’s an overemphasis on characters’ outfits and facial expressions, including my personal pet peeve: the “reaction shot round-up” in which we get a description of every character’s reaction to something as if a camera was cutting between sitcom actors.

When I talk with other creative writing professors, we all seem to agree that interiority is disappearing. Even in first-person POV stories, younger writers often skip describing their character’s hopes, dreams, fears, thoughts, memories, or reactions. This trend is hardly limited to young writers though. I was speaking to an editor yesterday who agreed interiority has largely vanished from commercial fiction, and I think you increasingly notice its absence even in works shelved as “literary fiction.” When interiority does appear on the page, it is often brief and redundant with the dialogue and action. All of this is a great shame. Interiority is perhaps the prime example of an advantage prose as a medium holds over other artforms.

fascinated by this article, "Turning Off the TV in Your Mind," about the influences of visual narratives on writing prose narratives. i def notice the two things i excerpted above in fanfic, which i guess makes even more sense as most of the fic i read is for tv and film. i will also be thinking about its discussion of time in prose - i think that's something i often struggle with and i will try to be more conscious of the differences between screen and page next time i'm writing.

[pecancrunch]

[pecancrunch]

The Omega and the Tigress: Chapter 1

For hundreds of years, the Kingdom of Valan and the Kingdom of Kalnyakov have been at war. But now, at long last, a peace treaty has been signed, and as a show of goodwill, the two nations have agreed to an exchange of noble Omegas. Journeying into the land of the ancient enemy to be wed to a Kalnyakovi lord she has never met, Valanais Omega Istabelle considers her life to be as good as over. Yet the man she has been promised to is not what she expected, and neither is his strangely intriguing captain of the guard, the lonely Alpha they call the Tigress. Far away from everything she has ever known, will Istabelle somehow be able to find home, happiness, and even love?

In tropeese, if that's your language: F/F, slow burn, Middle Ages equivalent, royals, arranged political marriage, forbidden love

Read on Archive of Our Own here or below the cut!

But step by step down the winding road, the doom grew ever closer.  

The words of the old song echoed in Istabelle’s head as the wagon bounced, rattled, and jolted down the road towards the border. 

The trees closed in, dark and deep, and the wolves began to howl. 

Well, there had been no wolves— not yet, at least. But the trees, oh, the trees were indeed closing in, and they were very dark and deep. They had left the rolling, sunny fields of the Kingdom of Valan behind, and they were now on the edge of the great Eastern Forest. 

Yesterday, with a surge of dread, she had seen the edge of the forest on the horizon, like a great dark cloud, casting its shadow across the land. It had drawn closer and closer, the distant mountains rising behind it, until now they were passing under that cloud, into the heavy, damp, cold darkness. 

It's the forest that makes the Kalnyakovi so cruel, Nursey had said to her, when she was little. The trees blot out the sun, so that their hearts become cold and black as iron. There are no warm gentle breezes in that place, no singing birds, no fields of wildflowers, only the shadows and wild beasts of the deep dark wood… 

When she was a girl, curled up safe and warm in their apartments in the Small Court, the tales of the forest had been pleasantly frightening, a thrill to break up the familiar drone of an uneventful childhood. Now that she was seeing that forest up close, it was not pleasant at all. 

The doom grew ever closer…

Would she ever return to the Small Court? Would she ever hear her mother singing the Ballad of the Blue Princess again, harp in hand, making the sunlit great hall ring?

For over a hundred years, the Kingdom of Valan had been locked in war with the Kingdom of Kalnyakov, armies meeting over and over at the shifting border, struggling valiantly against the savage Kalnyakovi hordes as they tried to claim Valanais territory for their own. But now, the old King was dead, and his Noble Highness the new King had announced the formation of a peace with the ancient enemy. 

Just like that, they were supposed to believe, it was over. And this, the exchange of so many Omegas across the border like shipments of furs and timber, had been arranged as a gesture of goodwill.

As this caravan traveled towards the Kalnyakovi border, so did another from the other side. In just one more day, if the weather held, they would reach the border, and she would be traded away, carried off to meet the Kalnyakovi lord that she had been promised to. Dragged away to some wretched place deep in the dark forest, to be mated to some monstrous—

  No. No, she would not think about it. She could not bear to bring herself to think about whatever creature she had been promised— sacrificed — to. Not while she could avoid it, here, technically still within the bounds of her home. 

A particularly vicious jolt bounced Istabelle out of her thoughts and half out of her seat, and knocked her left elbow painfully into the stack of crates and caskets piled in the back of the wagon. No fine cushioned coach was this, carved and gilded and drawn by six white horses to impress the crowds in a city parade— just a great wooden box on wheels. Silly to waste such fripperies on the hard road to the Eastern border, especially when the wagon train needed to carry so much— food and supplies for the journey, as well as the wardrobes and scattered personal possessions of the Omegas that were to be handed off at the exchange.

Istabelle supposed she should be grateful— after all, the Blue Princess had been forced to travel on foot. But then again, at the end of her tale, she was destined to be rescued by a handsome Alpha prince. Awaiting Istabelle was… no, no, she wasn't going to think about that.

She was rocked by another painful bounce. Across the narrow space between them, the shoes of Melissent, the other Omega in the wagon, scraped across the floor as she struggled to stay in her seat. She glared at Istabelle, as though the bad road was her fault, and then looked down at her prayer book again.

This past week and a half, Melissent had been Istabelle’s fellow passenger. Istabelle had quickly given up and trying to engage her in conversation— her attempts at even mere politeness had only been met with cold stares, and then, finally, a sharp snap over dinner one night at an inn—

“I don't waste my time on landless dogs like you,” she had snarled. 

And so now they traveled in bitter silence. 

If you're so high and fine, Istabelle thought, then how come you're stuck in this wagon with me? 

It had all been so coldly calculated, the selection of Omegas who were not so high-ranking that their Royal Blood would be wasted upon the Kalnyakovi bastards, but not so insignificant as to be an insult. Istabelle idly wondered about the Kalnyakovi Omegas they were to be traded for— had the poor wretches been subject to just such an evaluation by their own masters?

Another jolt, another threatening rattle as the luggage shifted. Istabelle considered stepping out of the front of the wagon and taking a turn to walk alongside— the propriety of a noble Omega be damned. She had already earned a scandalized glare from Melissent for loosening the laces of her collar within the privacy of the wagon. 

Not, she thought, that she had much to fear from the rest of the caravan—  Istabelle had not missed the detail that most of their entourage were Betas and Omegas. The Alphas that made up their guard were all older, and almost certainly already mated. 

Mustn't spoil the merchandise before it reaches the customer, she thought with vicious misery. 

Her fingers toyed with the laces of her collar and slid around to the back where it was widest. This heavy gorget, which protected the back of her neck, signaled her purity as an unclaimed Omega— it would be an uncommon Alpha indeed that could get their teeth through the thick, tough leather to place a claiming bite on her. 

Touching it, she could not help but think of the other collar, the ceremonial one, tucked away in a little wooden box in one of the trunks. In her mind's eye, she pictured the delicate patterns of intertwining vines, flowers, and birds, which had been carved by her father, as was the tradition. Proper finery for a bride traveling to meet her— No, don't think about it.  

She remembered, despite the circumstances, gasping in surprise and delight when her mother finally showed her the collar, its beauty so perfect that for a moment she forgot just who it was she would be wearing it for. 

Mother had smiled then, gently. 

“It will look so lovely on you, my little bird,” she said. Then she hesitated. “I wish that…” 

Istabelle knew instinctively what she was thinking, because her own thoughts were the same.

I wish Father was alive to see this. I wish we still had our family's land. I wish we were rich and favored enough that they wouldn't dare send me away. I wish I was to be married to a true Valanais Alpha, not… not… 

The wagon jolted again, once more startling Istabelle out of her thoughts. but this time, it was accompanied by the call of the driver to the oxen, and she realized that they were actually being brought to a stop. 

Ignoring Melissent’s tsk, she slid out of her seat and walked towards the front of the wagon.

“Why are we stopping?” she called through the gap between wall and roof to the driver. He started in surprise, then twisted around to look at her.

“Captains have called an early halt, my Lady,” he said. “We're going to camp here for the night.” 

“Thank you,” Istabelle said, remembering her manners despite her surprise. Well, at least it would give her bones a break from the potholes of the road. Ignoring another dark look from Melissent, she opened the back door of the wagon, gathered up her skirts, and hopped out. 

The caravan had been halted beside a narrow clearing that broke up the trees. As she stepped onto the dirt of the road, Istabelle shivered. It was not just melodrama that put the chill in her bones, she knew— she had seen the other travelers wrap their cloaks more tightly around them once they passed out of the bright and sunny fields of the lowlands. She deeply regretted the fact that her own fur-lined winter cloak was packed away somewhere in one of the wagons, leaving her in nothing but her thin riding cape. 

Around her, the guards and servants of the traveling party were moving to set up tents and awnings. Others uncoupled the draft oxen from the wagons and led them and the horses towards the trees where they could browse on the young saplings straining towards the faint light that came through the canopy. A few tramped off deeper into the forest, to search for firewood. Istabelle wondered if they would find anything dry enough to burn in this dank, gloomy place. 

Distantly, she could hear the bubble and rush of the river Vai, lost somewhere in the dark trees. Even it had changed, as they had entered the forest, its broad expanse narrowing, its waters changing from warm and gentle to cold and rough, speeding through its bed almost viciously, kicking up spray. Istabelle wish she could turn herself into a branch or a leaf, fall into that swirling water, and be carried back down towards home.

“Istabelle!” called out a cheerful voice. “Over here!”

Istabelle looked across the clearing and saw Aimele approaching her, her bright yellow skirts hitched up so they wouldn't drag in the long damp grass. Istabelle stepped off the road to meet her as she came. 

“Did you hear? We're stopping early for the night, because we're so close to the border,” Aimele said as she reached her. “If we start at the usual time tomorrow we'll be there by noon. Better than pushing on and getting there in the dark.”

Istabelle felt her stomach clench in panic. Less than a day until— no, don't think about it.  

“Oh, is that so?” she replied, forcing her voice to remain level. 

“Come and sit by the fire, the wind is cold,” Aimele said, her usual cheerful smile on her round face, as though they were just out on a hunting trip. “Come and sit with the other girls and I, and you can write in your diary about the journey, yes?” 

It was Aimele, the gentle, cheerful Beta scribe that had been sent to the Small Court, to teach the chosen Omegas the language of Kalnyakov. It was her who had told Istabelle and her fellow sacrificial lambs to keep the diaries, to write about their days so that they could learn more quickly through practice.

Istabelle flinched. 

“I don't know where my diary is,” she said, awkwardly. “I think it's been packed away in one of the chests by mistake.” 

Actually, Istabelle knew for sure that it was buried at the bottom of her traveling chest, because she had put it there herself. 

The first night of their journey towards the border, she had had a dream where it turned out it had all been a mistake and she had been allowed to return home. But the dream became a nightmare when she arrived and realized she could no longer understand her mother tongue— the only words that would come out of her mouth were Kalnyakovi. No matter how hard she tried, no one could understand her, not even Mother. 

The diary’s presence had felt malignant after that, like a festering wound. As if in learning its language, something of that dark country had already reached out and infected her with its power. Since then, she had not been able to bear touching it. She knew her fear was childish, and yet she could not shake it. 

Aimele gave her a long look, before shrugging.

“Too bad.”

Istabelle cringed internally. Aimele probably knew Istabelle was lying— she was good at reading people. 

“Did you want to practice speaking, then?” the scribe asked.

“Oh, I'm very, very tired. I don't know,” Istabelle said. That silly fear was in her now, too— the fear that by speaking the Kalnyakovi language, she would be inviting the attention of something malevolent, as though the entire country was the sort of bad spirit that could be summoned by talking too openly of it. 

“You ought to practice, especially now,” Amy persisted. 

“I just want to rest. In peace,” Istabelle snapped before she could help it.

There was a moment of ringing silence. 

“All right,” Aimele said, finally, mildly, and turned and walked away before Istabelle could apologize. 

Istabelle cursed herself internally for being so unpleasant. Ever since the message had come from the Great Court of the Capital that she had been one of the chosen ones, she had felt like a wild animal trapped in a cage, snarling and biting at anyone who tried to come too close out of sheer panic and desperation. 

She walked back out into the road, gazing up at the narrow strip of sky overhead— it was a dull, melancholy gray. Although it was still early in the evening, soon it would be dark, the gnarled trees stretching out their long shadows and smothering the last of the daylight. 

It's the forest that makes the Kalnyakovis so cruel. Would it make her cruel too? Would the cold, dark shadows of her new home sink into her soul, withering her happiness away? Maybe she felt so angry and lost because it was already happening. Having left the warm rolling hills and fields of her home behind, she did feel as though something had gone out of her. The Istabelle that had existed in those places had not come with her into the forest. 

She really was getting cold now, outside of the wagon. Was it going to rain? Saints forbid. 

There was a loud series of cracks and crunches behind her. It seemed as though the guards had returned with enough wood for a fire, against the odds. They were now breaking apart the heavy, pale branches and dropping them into scrapes that had been dug as fire pits. 

On the back step of a nearby wagon, two of her fellow Omegas, both young men, sat huddled together, whispering. The boy on the left, with the long, fine features and dark hair of a Southerner, shifted uncomfortably, his face flushed. As the wind changed direction, his scent was carried to her. She recognized that smell— he was about to enter into heat. 

Good gods, what horrible luck. The poor wretch will probably be thrown to the floor and defiled the second he reaches his “betrothed.” 

The one blessing Istabelle had been afforded was that her own cycle had ended a few days before their departure— a full month would pass before it came again. This pattern, the petite tour , was most common in female Omegas, and while it brought her into heat more frequently, here it meant that at least she would be in control of herself when— no, don’t think about it!

The dark-haired boy scooted closer to his friend, his eyes darting around nervously. Istabelle looked away. 

Like animals being led to slaughter. 

Another gust of wind carried the scent of smoke to her. Farther away, one of the other fires had already been lit, sparks crackling and flying upwards. 

She could see other Omegas already gathering around it, sitting down on the big, coarse rush mats that had been spread out across the damp ground. She walked towards the fire as it licked eagerly across the wood and blossomed full and bright. Maybe the warmth would help her feel better. 

Aimele was there, seated next to a female Omega with long yellow hair…what was her name again? Brienne, that was right. 

Aimele turned as Istabelle sat down beside her. 

“I'm sorry,” Istabelle said softly.

Aimele touched her shoulder lightly. “It's all right. I understand.” 

No, Istabelle thought, No, you don't understand it all. After this, you get to go home. You get to go home to your warm, safe, familiar bed, but I— 

She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms, angry again, and angry at herself for being angry. She looked away from Aimele, not trusting herself to speak without snapping again.

A guardswoman approached the pit, staggering a little under the weight of a big iron cauldron, and hung it off the tripod over the fire with a little grunt. 

“We'll eat well tonight,” she said cheerfully, nodding at Istabelle. “Shot a couple of rabbits along the way, and there was a lovely patch of wild onions and…” She trailed off at the dour gloom on Istabelle’s face. “Um. Well. Yes. Excuse me.”

Aimele was talking in Kalnyakovi now to Brienne, encouraging her as she stumbled slightly in her pronunciation. Istabelle sat in silence. Around them, servants went back and forth. Eventually, one approached with a yoke of sloshing buckets of water, taken from the river. The stew was duly prepared. Meanwhile, the darkness of evening closed in. The crackling fire cast long, leaping shadows. 

Bowls were passed around, as well as horns of small beer. Istabelle ate. At least that guard had been right— the wild onions and rabbit meat were a welcome addition to the barley pottage that they had been eating for the last few days. 

“Istabelle,” Aimele said, suddenly, making her jump slightly. “I'm going to turn in for the night a bit early, I think. Why don't you and Brienne practice together, for a while?” 

Brienne smiled and nodded sheepishly to her. She was smaller than Istabelle, a green cloak wrapped tightly around her narrow shoulders. 

Istabelle forced herself to return the smile. She knew Aimele was trying to draw her out of herself, make her forget her worries for a while. Well, the latter, at least was impossible right now. Especially with the night coming on, the dark shadows of the forest lengthening, pressing in against the fire. Reaching out like the long, groping hands of— don't think about it! 

“Hello. Or, rather, prata ,” Brienne said, hesitantly speaking the Kalnyakovi greeting. 

“Prata-vei ,” Istabelle greeted her back. 

“That's the spirit!” Aimele said cheerfully. “You all have a good night, and sleep well.” She stood and walked off into the dark. 

They did speak, for a little while. Despite everything, Istabelle had practiced a great deal, in the months before their journey began, and now she was fairly confident, but Brienne was slow, hesitating, stumbling over pronunciation. 

Eventually she sighed apologetically. 

“Oh, I'm sorry— I'm still not very good at all.” 

“That's all right,” Istabelle replied, tamping down her frustration.

“Well,” Brienne said, “I suppose soon we'll all be getting more practice soon.” She paused, wringing the edge of her cloak in her hands, and then lowered her voice. “Have you wondered— have you thought about what—”

“No,” Istabelle said, abruptly. “I haven't.” She stood, shaking out her skirts. “I'm sorry, but I'm very tired, so I think I will go to bed now. Thank you for helping me to practice.” 

“Oh,” Brienne said, reddening, “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you feel…”

“I'm very tired, so I'm going to go to bed,” Istabelle repeated, firmly. She turned and walked away from the fire, towards one of the big canvas tents. She tried to force her breathing to stay calm. She would not cry, she would not cry herself to sleep like some pathetic child, and she would not think about what was ahead. 

Because she knew if she started to do either of those things, she wouldn’t be able to stop. 

Istabelle ducked in to the tent. Very faint light filtered in from the fire. Her bedroll had been laid out for her. Now came the worst part of each evening — she undressed down to her shift, wincing as the cold damp air attacked her bare skin, and then slid underneath the frigid blankets. she curled into a little ball, trying to hold her body heat to her. 

At last, somewhere far off in the darkness, came the long, mournful howl of a wolf.

Now, Istabelle thought, she knew exactly how the Blue Princess felt. Shivering, she drew the blankets over her head. 

Next Chapter →

[pecancrunch]

The Omega and the Tigress: Chapter 2

Read on Archive of Our Own here or below the cut!

“My lady. My lady.” 

  Istabelle opened her eyes, groggily. 

One of the servants of the caravan was bending over her, a short, stout older woman with a round red face. 

“My lady,” she said, “It's time to get up. You are all to bathe and dress before we continue on to the border.” 

Now Istabelle realized she could hear the slosh of water. She rolled over, blinking. Someone had lit a little lantern, and in its soft flicker she could see her fellow Omegas stirring around her, rising out of their bedrolls. 

In the corner, another woman was pouring a bucket into a small wooden tub. With a flash of light that made her wince, the tent flap was pushed aside and two more, huffing with effort, carried one of the chests in from the wagons. 

“Come on now, up we get,” said the short woman, not unkindly. Some of the other girls were already taking their shifts off, shivering visibly in the cold morning air. 

Today is the day, thought Istabelle. She sat up, blanket sliding off of her, the chill biting into her skin.

Faint gray daylight leaked through the gaps in the tent canvas. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear the birds testing their voices. 

Today is the day.

It had come at last, the day she had been dreading. The day on which all her nightmares had centered around. It had come. It was here. In a few hours, they would reach the border and she would be delivered into the cold, cruel hands of the enemy. Today was the day.

She stared into space, waiting for the tears to begin. But no tears came. She kept waiting for the fear to come, too, the panic, the anger. But they didn't. In their place was only a dull, echoing emptiness. Her body felt weirdly hollow, as though while she slept all the stuff inside, flesh and spirit alike, had been stolen away. 

This didn’t make any sense. Upon this day, she had imagined that she would be drowning in a howling sea of emotion, everything she had felt on the road magnified a hundredfold. Instead, she felt nothing at all. 

 Confused, in a distant, diffuse way, Istabelle stood, slowly, and then moved to join the line of girls waiting to be bathed. One by one, they climbed into the shallow tub and the serving women scrubbed them down with rags.

Finally, it was Istabelle’s turn. She pulled off her slip and unlaced her collar, and stepped into the tub. Her feet seemed to lose feeling almost instantly in the icy river water. The women raised the cloths to her back, and she bit her lip at the coldness of the rivulets trickling across her skin. 

Then the scent of the soap reached her nose. She recognized it, that faint breath of lavender and rosemary— it was one she had smelled often as a child. The craftswomen of the town where she had been born had made just such a soap, to sell at the market. This was from Bianvalle, her family’s old holding.

She braced herself. Now, she thought, now the tears would surely start to fall, now her emotions would return to her, deep and overwhelming. She would cry out in unbearable sorrow at this reminder of the home she was being stolen away from. 

But yet again, nothing happened. There was no response. 

Only that ringing, dizzying emptiness. 

She stood unresisting as she was scoured from top to bottom, then stepped out and allowed one of the other women to dry her. All of it felt as though it was happening to someone else, as though she was floating slightly outside of her body. 

The great leather and iron traveling chests had been brought into the tent. Istabelle found hers in the corner. Teeth chattering, she took its key from where it hung on the end of one of the laces of her collar, and unlocked it. 

She reached in to the box, pushing aside the layers of everyday shifts and tunics, the wool winter clothes, dislodging the stalks of lavender that had been sprinkled between them to dissuade moths. There, wrapped tightly in oilcloth, were her wedding— No, no, no, just clothes. Just another set of clothes. 

The serving women seemed busy still with attending to the other girls; fortunately, Istabelle was well used to dressing herself. She pulled the fine linen shift over her head, sliding her arms through the long sleeves. The inside of each tightly fitting cuff was lined with a thin layer of cream-colored felt, to preserve her modesty by absorbing the pheromones released by the scent glands on the inside of her wrists. A wider wrap of the same material, carefully pinned in place, went around her neck and did the same for the glands at her throat. 

Next was the gown itself, made of soft green velvet, slightly thin in some places, trimmed with yellow silk. It had been her mother's, once, now taken in and cut down to fit her. Its yoke was decorated with her father’s family's sigil, the pheasant in flight, being chased by the leaping hound of Valan, all picked out in thread of gold—  Mother herself had done the embroidery, sitting by the fire, night after night. Istabelle pulled it over her head and shook out the skirts so they lay properly before lacing up the sides. After that came the belt, more yellow silk—  Istabelle knotted its tasseled ends around her waist. Its bottom edge was hung with with small silver medallions that chimed together softly as she moved. Then the chestnut calfskin slippers, a little scratched—these were also hand-me-downs, from some cousin in the Small Court.

From a soft leather bag, she removed a little cherrywood comb, and then her mother's ring, whose gold band was worked in the shape of a stoat's head, clutching a pearl in its teeth. The stoat was the emblem of Mother's own family, and this ring had been one of the few pieces of jewelry she had not sold. Istabelle stared at it for a moment, testing herself, waiting to see if now was the moment she would begin to feel.

Mother. You won't see her again. You won't hear the sound of her harp echoing in the hall. You won’t smell the scent of the lavender flowers blowing in through the windows. 

Nothing. 

She slid the ring onto her finger. 

And then, at the very bottom of the chest…

Istabelle picked up the small wooden box and opened it. Nestled inside was her collar. She lifted it out, slowly.

 It really was such a pretty thing. In the flickering light of the lantern, the tightly intertwined vines and flowers and frolicking birds seemed almost to move, as though they were being stirred by an unfelt wind. 

Father. Mother. Standing together under the oak trees at the edge of the gardens, hearing the birds sing. 

Nothing. 

With numb, tingling fingers, she laced up the collar and pulled it tight around her neck. 

She was finishing pulling back her long brown hair into a little twist with the comb when she heard Brienne’s voice behind her. 

“Istabelle?”

Istabelle turned. 

“Could you help me with the laces?” the other Omega asked, turning her side to Istabelle and raising her arms. 

Wordlessly, Istabelle nodded and bent to the task. Brienne’s deep blue dress was the type fashionable in the southern Great Court this year, with a separate gathered skirt piece and a bodice bright with flower-patterned brocade. She was crowned with a small circlet of moonstones set in gold, and more gleamed softly in the rings on her fingers and the brooch at her breast.  

Glancing around, Istabelle noticed that the other girls’ attire displayed the same level of luxury. Heavy skirts swished. Silk brocade glowed with flowers and complex geometric patterns and family crests. Jewels and gold glittered around wrists and fingers and throats. 

She tied off the laces of Brienne’s dress in a neat bow.

“Thank you,” Brienne said, bowing slightly.

 Istabelle nodded again and turned away again before Brienne could say anything else. A part of her was almost glad of the numbness that filled her, because it helped stave off any embarrassment at her far simpler, older clothes.

Once, Father had told her, their family, the House of Naherre, had been one of the richest in all of Valan. But that wealth was long gone now, all that money and treasure and land traded away to pay off old debts. 

Istabelle told herself that the sidelong looks the other girls seemed to be giving her were just her imagination. That somewhere behind her there was not a soft titter of contempt.

At least with the chill in the air, she had an excuse to put on her heavy wool winter cloak now, and she did, wrapping it tightly around herself. Around her, the other Omegas also finished dressing. Istabelle buckled her wooden clogs over her slippers, and then repacked and locked her chest again.

“Are we already, my ladies?” called the older servant woman. There was a soft collective murmur of assent. 

Istabelle followed the other women out of the tent into the cold gray morning. A chill mist hung in the air between the trees, and the grass was dripping with dew. A few yards away, the male Omegas were emerging from their own tent, and then they were all there together in the clearing— six females and five males. 

Breakfast was leftover stew, reheated over the fire. Istabelle ate mechanically, barely tasting it. The other Omegas spoke in soft whispers, or not at all. 

Around them, guards and servants moved back and forth. The guards had changed from their everyday riding leathers to mail and armor, Istabelle noted. Their polished breastplates shone even in the dim light filtering down through the mist and clouds, the rearing hound of Valan flashing a brighter silver against the steel. Long blue plumes nodded from their helmets. The knight captains were in their full plate. Even the horses were caparisoned with blue and silver. 

It felt absurd, to be dressed in such finery in the middle of this Saints-forsaken place. Standing in the wet grass, the cold against her thinly shod feet felt like the painful clamp of a vise. The heavy mist was gathering in beads upon her eyelashes and in her hair, chilling her further despite the weight of her winter cloak. 

What's the point in all this? To impress the Kalnyakovis? To intimidate them? Do animals like that even care? 

One of the captains approached, helmet tucked under her arm.

“My lords and ladies,” she said softly, “The chancellor is going to speak, and then the priest will bless you all.” 

Istabelle obediently tramped through the tall grass along after her with the other Omegas. The rest of the party had already gathered in the center of the clearing. 

A little ways away, Istabelle could see Aimele standing next to the guards— she caught Istabelle’s eye and gave her a smile that Istabelle could not muster the energy to return. 

A hush fell as Chaunalle, the old Alpha chancellor leading the party, stepped into the center of the group. She was dressed in her heavy fur-trimmed robe and silver chain of office. Trailing behind her was the priest, a young male— damn, what was his name again, Istabelle kept forgetting— in his white sheepskin cape, ceremonial wand of wheat stalks in hand.

Chaunalle raised her hand and began to speak. 

“My lords and ladies,” she said, projecting slightly louder than was necessary, “It is a great thing you are doing for the honor and glory of Valan. As we reach the border, I know you will bear what lies ahead with strength and joy, knowing that you are serving as the instruments that will craft a new future of peace across our land…”

Istabelle fought the urge to try and stamp some blood back into her lifeless feet as Chaunalle went on and on. Peace, honor, strength, honor again…the words sounded as hollow as Istabelle felt. 

Mercy, and now the priest was stepping forward, raising his staff. 

Istabelle understood enough of the old tongue to follow along— Ourata, our gentle lord, please watch over your children. Noble saints, in your wisdom, bless and guide them in their journeys… 

Istabelle stared out into the trees, barely visible in the thick mist, as the prayers and invocations went on and on as well. 

Saint Pavene, patron of travelers, protect them as they go onwards without us. Saint Mirabelle, Saint Aurana, grant them peaceful unions and healthy children… 

The mist was so thick that she could see patterns of movement in it, see it drifting and swirling like clouds. It seemed to be not hiding the trees beyond, but erasing them, dissolving them like water dissolves salt, reducing everything down to the same silvery gray haze. Perhaps if she walked off into the forest and stood very still, it would dissolve her too, and she could fade away into nothingness for good. 

She was started back into focus by the party around her murmuring the final blessing together. She mumbled out the last few words as well, hoping her lapse in attention had been mistaken for solemn introspection. 

The priest was approaching the clustered Omegas now. One by one, he touched their bowed heads with the wand. When it was Istabelle’s turn the heads of the wheat stalks tickled her skin unpleasantly. The rain was making his sheepskin cloak smell. 

“Thank you,” Chaunalle said, when it was all finished. “Now, let us go forth.” 

The proper ceremony observed, the soldiers moved out towards the road to form up. The captains mounted their horses. The drivers hitched the oxen to the wagons that would transport the Omegas and their things. The rest of the party would stay here— there was no point in the servants accompanying them the rest of the way. 

The Omegas dispersed to their wagons. Istabelle went with them, not bothering to lift her trailing skirts out of the wet grass.

“Istabelle!”

Aimele caught up to her and fell into step beside her.

“I'm staying behind here, so I wanted to say goodbye.” She took Istabelle’s hand as they walked, and gave it a squeeze. “Good luck, all right? Send me a letter, now and then. They'll be able to get through now that the borders are open!”

“Of course,” Istabelle said, staring ahead. “It was nice to know you.”

“Ah, don't say that,” Aimele said, awkwardly. “I'm sure we'll meet again someday, all of us.”

They reached the wagons together.

“Well, anyways,” Aimele said softly, “Saints with you, Istabelle.”

“And you,” Istabelle replied automatically. 

She watched Aimele move away to say her farewells to some of the other Omegas, and then turned and climbed into her wagon. 

 Melissent was already there, as well as both their trunks. Istabelle closed the door took her place on the bench. 

She heard the captains bark the order to march. The driver whistled to his team, and with a lurch, they began to move. 

Step by step down the winding road, the doom grew ever closer…

← Previous Chapter | Next Chapter →

[pecancrunch]

The Omega and the Tigress: Chapter 3

Read on Archive of Our Own here or below the cut!

Back in the wagon again, back on the road again, being jounced and rattled painfully along. 

Melissent sat across from Istabelle with her hands in her lap, eyes staring into nothing. Istabelle wondered if she felt the same numb emptiness, or if she was simply too frightened to express her usual disdain. 

Istabelle closed her own eyes, giving everything one last chance to be a terrible, terrible nightmare that she would awaken from when she opened them again.

But step by step down the winding road, the doom grew ever closer…

Time passed, and passed, and passed, 

Even over the creaks and groans of the wagons, she could hear the sound of rushing water, getting closer and closer. The road was curving back towards the river again. 

The doom grew ever closer. The doom grew ever closer. The words echoed through her hollow, empty body. 

Closer. Closer. Clos—

From the front of the caravan, she heard shouts, and then the calls of the drivers. The wagon slowed, and then stopped. 

The door was opened.

“My ladies?” said the guard, bowing slightly as he looked up at them. “It's time. We're here.” 

Istabelle opened her eyes. She was still here, in the wagon, at the border. 

Too late now.

She gathered up her skirts, preparing to stand.

“Istabelle?” Melissent said, suddenly. 

Istabelle looked up.

“Istabelle…” Melissent smiled at her awkwardly. “Good luck, all right? Saints with you.” 

“And you,” Istabelle responded, and touched the hand that Melissent offered her. She wasn't surprised, not really. Here, at the border, their old lives didn't matter anymore. She couldn't bring herself to feel any real animosity towards Melissent now— they both were about to be condemned to the same fate. 

That floating feeling was back again. Istabelle felt as though she was not actually experiencing any of this herself, as though she were some disembodied spirit who was merely watching the girl called Istabelle step out onto the road from a distance. The cold air bit into her skin again. The sky had grown darker, clouds boiling overhead like the underside of the sea. 

She knew where they were, in a general, abstract sense. She had seen this place, in one of the great atlases of the Small Court.  A little to the south of here was the birthplace of the River Vai, where it diverged from its parent, the great Avati, whose winding, treacherous course marked the northern border between Kalnyakov and Valan. 

She walked forward, following behind the guard, around the side of the wagon. The road had changed to worn-down cobblestones. Ahead the trees cleared and the earth was split by a narrow gorge. She could hear the River Avati from where she stood, as threw itself in frothy anger over the rocky rapids at the bottom, filling the air with cold mist and a dull roar. 

As it cleared the obstruction of the caravan, her gaze was met with the sight of a massive bridge of craggy, moss-covered stone arching across the gap. The little black line on the atlas's map had not done it justice, Istabelle thought. The roughly hewn boulders that made up its piles were as big as her, and its back was wide enough that four of their wagons could have crossed comfortably abreast. It looked positively primeval; the thing must have had some marks of human construction once, some square corners or a layer of dressed stone topping its walls, but time had worn it all away, and now this link between the two countries looked like it had simply sprouted from the walls of the river gorge, an immovable part of the landscape. 

Despite the numbness still suffusing her body, Istabelle felt a shiver run down her spine. 

On the other side of the gorge loomed the Kalnyakovi border fort. 

It was a hulking mass of the same dark, weathered stone, overgrown with ivy. Istabelle had seen a few old forts before, relics from the time when Valan was a disjointed collection of warring city-states, but they had reared above the landscape tall and proud, bristling with high towers. This place had none of their presence— it was just a great heavy lump, worn down by the ages like the bridge. Its mottled form seemed to exuded a predatory malevolence, like a chunk of the mountains ahead that had detached itself and crawled down here to lurk in wait for travelers. At the end of the bridge, she could see the fort’s main gate, the monster’s gaping dark mouth, the tips of its iron portcullis pointing down like teeth. 

And standing in that gate… 

Her breath caught in her throat. 

The Kalnyakovis’ bright red and gold standards snapped in the cold breeze. Istabelle could make out the emblem of the rearing, snarling tiger. They stood in two ranks in the center of the bridge, still, dark, and silent. Their heavy fur capes stirred slightly in the wind. The armor beneath was strange— their breastplates were dark, almost black, but decorated with elaborate painted designs, flowers and vines stylized in symmetrical curling arcs and startlingly bright color. The contrast of their garishness against the dark metal made them look like open, bleeding wounds. Weird spiked helmets cast their faces into inscrutable shadow.

From here, they looked just as bizarre and terrible as Istabelle had imagined. 

Around her, the other Omegas huddled together. One of the males was crying quietly. Even outside, the air was rank with their fear. 

Istabelle could see Chaunalle stepping down from her wagon up ahead, adjusting her robe and chain of office. The knight captains dismounted, and took their own standards in hand. They began to walk forwards across the bridge towards the waiting Kalnyakovis. Trailing after them were a few pairs of soldiers, staggering under the weight of the caskets they carried— the riches of Valan, extra tribute beyond the bodies of its Omegas. 

At the other end, Istabelle could see a man approaching from between the ranks of grim soldiers. He had short yellow hair and wore no armor under his cloak, just a long burgundy tunic. She supposed that he must be Chaunalle’s Kalnyakovi counterpart, whatever passed for a chancellor over there. Curiously, he seemed…not short, but short for an Alpha. He was followed by the frontmost rows of soldiers, who fanned out behind him. 

The two groups, mirror images, met in the center of the bridge. Chaunalle and the Kalnyakovi chancellor bowed to each other, and then stepped closer together to speak. Istabelle couldn't catch their words from where she stood, thanks to the continuous white noise of the river. 

After a minute or so, Chaunalle turned, and beckoned to the remaining soldiers on their side. Obediently, they began to herd the Omegas forward, onto the bridge. There was a little chorus of whimpers, and somewhere, a groan of despair. 

Istabelle moved forward with everyone else. She was still floating a little ways outside of her body, but that body's heart was beginning to pound, and its lips and fingers were tingling. 

Back in the center of the bridge, the Kalnyakovi leader seemed to be gesturing for his own soldiers do the same, and emerging from the shadow of the gate, Istabelle saw, for the first time, the Kalnyakovi Omegas.

They clustered tightly together like their Valanais counterparts, shuffling hesitantly forward. They were dressed in the same bright colors and patterns that decorated the soldiers’ armor, but there was a great deal of variety in their costumes— some wore dresses, some long tunics over baggy trousers. Curiously, however, all of them had similar long, white scarves wrapped loosely around their necks. They seemed very small, even for Omegas— Istabelle supposed that growing up in such a dark, cold country wouldn't do anyone's stature any good. 

Chaunalle had produced a long scroll now, and she and the Kalnyakovi chancellor bent over it together. Istabelle watched as Chaunalle trailed her finger down the parchment, and then pointed behind her. Back to the scroll, and then behind her again. This pattern repeated several times before Istabelle realized that she was pointing to the gathered Omegas, one by one. 

Saints, it was a catalog , a trade bill listing the goods. The Kalnyakovis were stepping to one side, some craning their heads to catch a glimpse of the specific Omegas they had been sent to collect as Chaunalle picked them out. 

The Kalnyakovi minister was saying something else now, waving to the soldiers beside him. Istabelle saw Chaunalle’s shoulders stiffen slightly. After a long pause, the Valanais chancellor turned and walked back towards the Omegas again. As she reached them, Istabelle saw she was frowning, and, she thought, looking a little bit flustered. 

“After their tradition,” she addressed them, “Your future mates have sent gifts, which you will accept now.”

There was a little murmur of surprise from the group. 

Istabelle picked up on the slight emphasis on will . She supposed it would not make a very good first impression if the Omegas were to refuse. 

Oh, Lord, the Kalnyakovi soldiers were coming towards them now, but yes, Istabelle could see that they were all taking packages out from underneath their cloaks, some small, some large. This close, she could see their pale faces beneath their helmets, catch hints of their scents, carried to her by the damp breeze— ugh! 

The man that approached Melissent, still beside Istabelle, was tall, with a thin, sallow face. He was carrying a dark, tightly rolled bundle. 

“Lord Tatra sends his respects to her ladyship,” he said in cold, clipped Valanais, “And this coat of the mountain wolf so that she will not be chilled as she journeys to his side,” 

He held out the bundle and let it unroll. It was a huge, heavy fur cloak, silver tipped with black. Istabelle saw Melissent’s look of wide-eyed fear lighten for a moment in pleasant surprise. The cape was indeed a very fine thing, and she bowed slightly to the man and allowed him to drape it around her shoulders.

An armored and cloaked soldier was approaching Istabelle now. She forced herself not to shrink away from him like a child. He was an old man, the hair escaping from the edges of his helmet fully gray, his wrinkled face marked with scars. He had a black patch over his left eye. 

To Istabelle’s surprise, he gave her a full, seemingly genuine smile as he bowed and held out a small package wrapped in brown oilcloth. 

“The Lord Balanav sends greeting to her ladyship,” he said, in a much thicker accent. 

Istabelle took the bundle, and unwrapped it. 

It was a book. The slim folio was bound in soft black leather, the front embossed with a pattern of curling vines. She opened it. The pages were fine pale parchment. Each verso had an illustration of a plant, stylized in the same brilliant colors and curling forms that decorated the armor of the Kalnyakovis. Even in the dim light of this cloudy day, the colors were surprisingly bright— each leaf and petal glowed like a tiny jewel. Opposite were lines of tidy, blocky Kalnaykovi script. Istabelle paused on a random spread. 

“ Like the tender blossom of the golden rose, is my beloved’s face

“How I long to kiss that face, as the morning dew kisses the petals of the rose…” 

She stared at it in confusion for a moment. It was a love poem. Was this some sort of twisted joke? She ran her fingers across the leather of the book. Had her future mate done this himself? Certainly not— she could not imagine a fur-clad, battle-scarred Kalnyakovi warlord sitting down with delicate quill in hand. The image was too absurd. 

“Is songs, about her ladyship,” the old soldier said encouragingly, perhaps not realizing that she could read it. “Ve-ry traditional, in Kalnyakov.” 

At a loss, Istabelle bowed her head.

“Thank you,” she murmured. What else was she supposed to say? 

Further down the line, Istabelle could see the other Omegas accepting their gifts, some curiously, some looking as numb and detached as she felt. Another fur cape. A necklace of polished pink stones. A dress in the same oversaturated colors that the Kalnyakovi Omegas across the bridge wore. An elaborately carved box of dark wood, inlaid with pieces of glittering shell. Her confusion and embarrassment deepened at these other, somewhat more practical gifts.

Once the…ritual? obligation? was fulfilled, the Kalnyakovi soldiers turned back towards their chancellor in the center of the bridge and stood in silence once again next to the Omegas. 

Chaunalle had walked back towards her double. Now they were going through the same process again with the Kalnyakovi Omegas, the Valanais captains and soldiers coming forth one by one to follow the Kalnyakovi chancellor’s indicating finger towards their lord’s allotted mate. Finally, he finished, and rolled his own list back up. 

The pair bowed again and touched hands, and then separated, walking back towards their respective sides. 

That was it, then. 

Istabelle found that she had been expecting something more. A few words from both chancellors to all of them, at least. But there was nothing— no more speeches, no fanfare. It was done. This was how their lives were traded away. The whole process hadn't taken more than an hour. How businesslike . 

The soldier with the eyepatch touched Istabelle’s shoulder lightly, making her jump.

“You come now,” he said, in a surprisingly soft and gentle voice. “This way, ladyship.” 

He turned, gesturing for her to follow, and begin to walk back across the bridge to the Kalnyakov side. Istabelle followed, her clogs scuffing over the worn and lichen-encrusted stone. Around them, the rest of the Kalnyakovi soldiers and Omegas moved forward as well. 

They passed the group of Kalnyakovi Omegas in the middle. Istabelle kept her head bowed, staring down at the stones of the bridge. She did not want to look at them, did not want to see her own fate reflected back to her. Around her, there were a few quiet sobs. The blood was pumping in her ears. 

They reached the fortress gate and passed through it, into that monster’s dark, waiting mouth, and down the tunnel through the thick curtain wall, its damp, echoing throat. A drop of condensation landed on the back of Istabelle’s neck, and she shuddered— it really was as though she was being swallowed by some great terrible beast. 

They emerged into the fort’s inner courtyard. The moss and ivy-covered walls loomed, casting everything into layers of gloomy shadow. They were stables here, pens with a few pecking chickens, and extending out past the curving inner walls, a large yard of packed dirt behind that Istabelle assumed was a parade and training ground.  Beyond, Istabelle could see the road that they would be following, which wound its way up a hill and then vanished into the dense, dark trees. 

The Kalnyakovi wagons, gathered together in the yard and the little grassy field past that, were like nothing she had seen before— instead of one singular, large carriage, each was actually a train of three much smaller boxes, each with its own set of wheels. At the front of each miniature train stood a team of likewise strange animals, like oxen, but with shaggy coats, hulking shoulders, and heavy, sloping heads. 

Istabelle supposed that these must be the wisent, the wild mountain bison that, in old Nursey’s stories, the Kalnyakovis rode down from the mountains to terrorize the good people of Valan. However, unlike their fictional counterparts, these creatures were distinctly lacking in flaming hooves and iron horns. They mostly looked like great hairy cows. Still, she regarded them warily.

There was a commotion in the gate behind them, and Istabelle turned back to see the other Kalnyakovi soldiers now emerging into the courtyard in pairs, carrying the Valanais Omegas’ trunks between them. 

The old man looked at her questioningly, and then gestured towards them. Istabelle stood on tiptoe, scanning back and forth, until she saw the familiar worn, dark leather of her own chest. She pointed. 

“There, that one is mine.” 

He nodded and whistled sharply to the pair of soldiers holding the trunk, making her jump again.

“Palana! Kostov! That one's hers,” he called out in Kalnyakovi. “Bring it here.” 

The pair, two alphas, a female and a male, approached. Istabelle was surprised to see that they were both quite young. 

The female soldier glanced over at Istabelle. 

“Is this yours, then? Pretty thing,” she said to the old man. “I thought those dogs would send the ugliest little goats that they could—”

“None of that!” he growled, to Istabelle’s surprise. “You’ve been on the road too long and you’ve forgotten yourself. Have a little bit of respect for the poor lady.” He gestured behind them. “Put it in the wagon.” 

He touched Istabelle’s shoulder again.

“This way, ladyship,” he said, switching back to Valanais. “In the wagon, and then we are leaving.” 

“Already?” Istabelle squeaked before she could stop herself. She had thought that they would at least spend the night at the fort before venturing forth again. And yet, yes, now she could see the soldiers loading the other chests into the wagons, the Omegas stepping in after them, the drivers climbing into their seats and taking up the reins. 

“Got to get moving! Many long ways to go!” the old man said cheerfully. Then he glanced at her, and, seeing the shock on her face, his voice softened again.

“It will be all right, you will see,” he said gently. “No fine handsome knight, old man Patrov, but I get you there all safe.”

He led her around to the other side of the strange divided wagon. The first and third sections were open at the top, but the middle was an enclosed box. It had no real door, just a sort of curtain of thick leather. The two soldiers opened it and slid her trunk inside, and then the old man— Patrov— smiled again and gestured for her to enter. 

She climbed up, and sat down on the little seat inside. In the yard, the Kalnyakovi soldiers were shouting and rushing back and forth, preparing to leave. 

And all of a sudden, now the panic was coming to her, the panic and horror and fear were rushing towards her like a massive, inescapable wave, breaking across her body, roaring in her chest and ears, and she wanted to leap from the wagon, she wanted to run, to escape, but now the curtain was being drawn closed and it was too late, it was here, it was here, the doom was here— 

The steps of the old man retreated. There was a shout, somewhere ahead of her, and the wagons began to move with a lurch.

Istabelle lowered her face into her hands and wept. 

← Previous Chapter | Start | Next Chapter →

[pecancrunch]

The Omega and the Tigress: Appendix 1: Alpha, Beta, Omega

A brief break to drop some info. There are lots of different versions and interpretations of A/B/O dynamics, and this is my own. Not everything here will be relevant to Tigress, I just wanted to get it all laid out in one place. This part contains explicit discussion of sex and genitals!

Read on Archive of Our Own here or below the cut!

Humans in Istabelle’s world are different from our own. 

In addition to the more recognizable distinctions of gender, these humans also all fall into one of three aspects : Alpha, Beta, or Omega. A person's aspect affects how their body develops, as well as how they are viewed by society. What follows is a general overview of their biology, as well as some notes Valanais on society. 

 I wish to emphasize that this is all only a very basic explanation of how aspects function. Furthermore, aspect is, like every other part of human existence, experienced through the lens of culture. What one society considers correct and a simple “fact of nature” may be bizarre and repulsive to another, and vice versa. 

Collectively 

All humans have scent glands on their inner wrists, and on either side of the throat just under the jawline. These scent glands emit pheromones that are detectable by other humans. A person’s body may release pheromones that bring comfort and promote emotional bonding— such as between parent and child— or to attract potential mates (see below). Many humans also give off an unpleasant smell when angry or frightened. 

Omegas

Both male and female Omegas have a vagina, a uterus, and ovaries, and may become pregnant. They tend to be smaller and more finely boned than other aspects. 

Female Omegas have a clitoris, and typically develop breasts at puberty. Male Omegas have a penis in place of the clitoris. The foreskin of the penis connects to the labia majora. Testes are present internally, but they do not descend with puberty, and are almost never functional. Males do not develop breasts at puberty, only if they become pregnant. The body may or may not reabsorb the breast tissue once breastfeeding has ended. 

At the back of an Omega's neck, a cluster of nerves runs close to the surface of the skin. When this area is touched, pressed upon, or even bitten (see below), the Omega typically experience a rush of pleasure and euphoria. The skin in this spot is thin, and forms scars easily. 

The defining experience of being an Omega is that of the heat cycle, during which ovulation occurs and impregnation is possible. 

An Omega's first full heat cycle (“presentation”) usually occurs when puberty is almost complete, around 16 or 17 (although later bloomers aren't uncommon). This means that presentation is usually preceded by a few years of “dry” cycles, in which the Omega menstruates but does not enter heat. Pregnancy during this time is possible but very unlikely. Both males and females menstruate.

The first signs of impending heat, beginning several days before the actual period, are an increase in body temperature, more intense emotional responses, and heightened senses, especially smell. Omegas become increasingly sensitive to the pheromones of Alphas (and some Betas, see below), finding them far more attractive than usual. At the same time, their own pheromone production drastically increases, signaling that they are ready to breed. 

During this time, Omegas often feel compelled to hole up in safe, familiar settings, usually their own homes (“nesting”). Some cultures have communal spaces where unmated Omegas in heat go to be cared for. 

The main symptom of the heat proper is intense, overpowering sexual arousal. The vagina produces an overabundance of lubricant (“slick”). Judgment may become impaired as the instinct to mate suppresses reason; focusing on anything other than sex becomes difficult. Orgasm temporarily relieves these feelings, but they soon return. 

As the heat comes to an end, the Omega is left tired and drained, both from the physical effects of constant arousal, and shifting levels of hormones. Some experience a post-heat “crash” where they feel truly exhausted and even sick. 

Heats may occur as often as once every month, or as infrequently as twice a year, and may last anywhere from three to seven days. As a general rule of thumb, the more widely spaced heats are, the more intense, overwhelming, and even debilitating they may be when they occur (although there are exceptions). The most common heat pattern for female Omegas is once every month, and the most common for males is once every two to three months. Menstruation typically occurs one to two weeks after the end of the heat period.

These patterns are, of course, not set in stone— malnutrition, intense stress, severe illness, or other forms of privation may disrupt or bring a halt to an Omega's regular heat cycles as the body tries to redirect its energy towards survival. 

In addition, occasionally, exposure to the pheromones of an Alpha in rut (see below) may cause an Omega to enter into heat “off schedule.”  These induced heats come on much quicker, within 12 hours, and tend to be more intense than what the Omega may usually experience. 

Alphas

Alphas tend to be the largest, heaviest, and most physically powerful of the aspects. 

Both male and female Alphas have a penis and testes. 

In female Alphas, instead of a foreskin that extends all the way to the head of the penis, there is a shorter “hood” that is referred to as the sheath. When flaccid, the female Alpha's penis shrinks and retreats into this sheath (though there is no difference in erect penis size between females and males). Slightly lower down is the vaginal opening. The womb and ovaries are present, but greatly atrophied. Only about 30% of female Alphas have menstrual periods, and they are typically very short and light. Such Alphas theoretically have the ability to become pregnant, but the occurrence is so vanishingly rare that it is considered almost mythical. Female Alphas also usually develop breasts at puberty. 

At the base of the Alpha penis is a structure called the bulbis glandis , commonly referred to as the “knot.” During sex, in the moments before ejaculation, this structure swells to a much larger diameter than the shaft of the penis, locking the Alpha inside of their partner (“knotting” or “tieing”). It may take anywhere from five to 20 minutes for the knot to shrink and allow separation again. 

Alphas and Omegas are often considered two sides of the same coin; as Omegas have heat cycles, so Alphas have rut cycles. These tend to begin around the same time as Omegas present, at the tail end of puberty, around 16 or 17. 

The first signs of impending rut are like that of impending heat— elevated body temperature, heightened emotions, and a drastic increase in the production of and sensitivity to pheromones. Unlike Omegas, however, who may feel the urge to stay in one place, Alphas often experience an abundance of restless energy. The stereotypical Alpha about to enter into rut is irritable and unable to sit still as their instinct urges them to seek out a mate.

Entering in to the rut period itself, the Alpha is also consumed by intense sexual desire. The penis becomes extremely sensitive, hardening at the slightest touch. As with Omegas in heat, focusing is difficult and judgment may become impaired. Alphas are fertile even when not in rut, but during rut, sperm count and ejaculate volume greatly increase. 

During mating, Alphas often feel an intense urge to bite the back of their partner's neck. If the partner is an Omega, this bite comes into contact with the cluster of nerves located there, and causes their bodies to release a rush of “feel-good chemicals” that promote pair bonding. In some cultures (including that of Valan, see below) it is considered proper for the Alpha to bite hard enough to break the skin, leaving a distinctive scar. This is usually referred to as a “claiming bite.” 

Alphas also are left physically and emotionally drained by the ending of the rut cycle. In fact, they are much more likely to “crash” than Omegas, and for many, the end of rut is marked by depressed mood, intense fatigue, and physical symptoms like headaches. 

The most common rut cycle pattern for both male and female Alphas is once every two months. The rule of “more frequent, less intense, less frequent, more intense” that applies to Omegas also applies to Alphas. 

In the same way that an Alpha in rut may cause an Omega to enter into heat off schedule, the scent of an Omega in heat may cause an Alpha to unexpectedly enter rut. 

An Alpha and an Omega who spend a significant amount of time living together, i.e, as mates, will often see their rut and heat cycles synchronize. Very disparate periods tend to “meet in the middle;” an Omega who previously experienced monthly heats, for example, who is mated to an Alpha who experiences rut only twice a year may find himself entering into heat less frequently, while the Alpha enters rut more frequently. 

Betas

Betas tend to fall in between Omegas and Alphas in terms of size. There is little difference in average height and weight between males and females. 

Compared to the other two aspects, Betas are unusual in that males and females develop differently. Female Betas have bodies closely resembling those of Omega females, and can become pregnant. Male Betas are similar to Alpha males. Betas have neither heat nor ruts, and their pheromone production is the lowest among the aspects, giving them comparatively faint scents. They take up a neutral position in between Omega and Alpha…in theory.

In practice, Betas show that aspects are not the rigid, discrete categories they are often presented as; nor are they necessarily a linear spectrum from Omega to Alpha, with Betas falling exactly in the middle. 

Some Betas are truly “neutral,” but others may present with characteristics of the other two aspects. A female Beta, for example, may find that she experiences bouts of agitation and increased sexual desire that correspond with her ovulation cycles, like a faint echo of an Alpha's rut. A male might find himself unusually sensitive to the pheromones of an Alpha. Some may even have traits of both aspects at once— for example, a Beta may be driven into a state of Alpha-like frenetic lust at the smell of an Omega in heat, but also have the same sensitive nerve cluster on the back of their neck that an Omega might. The line dividing Betas from the other two aspects is not as clear as some pretend. Some cultures go as far as to place “Omega-like” and “Alpha-like” Betas in their own unique categories, recognizing five aspects instead of three. 

As one might imagine, it is also difficult to tell female Betas and female Omegas, and male Betas and male Alphas, apart at birth. Cultures around the world have many different methods for coping with this uncertainty (and many superstitions about ways it is possible to differentiate the aspects immediately). Alphas do tend to grow larger and faster than other aspects, and Omegas tend to hit puberty earlier, but there is no surefire way to tell until presentation occurs (or does not occur) in the late teenage years. 

Again, I feel the need to emphasize that while certain aspects are common amongst all members of an aspect, there is considerable individual variation throughout, and that many traits commonly associated with individual aspects held to be inviolable products of nature are actually those of nurture. 

In addition, of course, just as in our own world, transgender persons exist, as well as those we might call “trans-aspect.” How such people are understood and treated varies from culture to culture.=

In Valanais Culture 

The culture of Valan is stratified for the most part along aspect lines, and heavily favors Alphas. To the Valanais, the inherent nature of the Alpha is strong, dominant, intelligent, and physically powerful— they are God and nature’s ordained leaders. Alphas are kings, generals, high priests and knights, matriarchs and patriarchs. The oldest Alpha in a family serves as the head of the household. They are the default inheritors of land and property in most situations. 

Alphas are expected to be competent, confident, rational leaders who have absolute mastery of themselves and their emotions. This includes the intense desires caused by rut. Because sex outside of marriage is frowned upon, unmated Valanais Alphas are taught that they should sublimate their physical urges into productive pursuits like exercise or creating art. An Alpha who is overwhelmed by their lust and attacks an Omega like a beast may be shamed not for the harm they caused but rather for their embarrassing lack of control. 

Out of fear of such reputation-damaging incidents, most Alphas sequester themselves in their homes during rut, providing ritualistic excuses as to why they cannot tend to their usual duties. These are accepted despite everyone knowing what “I must see to my sick horse” and the like really mean.

Valan’s expectations of what a proper Alpha should be are tightly entwined with its cultural conceptions of land as wealth. In ancient times, when the territory that would become Valan was a pack of warring fiefdoms, an Alpha leader needed the strength and martial prowess to defend her land-right from interlopers. Of course, in the time period Istabelle’s tale takes place, Valan has been united under one banner for hundreds of years, and engaged in conflict with Kalnyakov for two hundred more. Now this impetus to claim and protect is directed by the nobility towards more nationalist ends. 

Alphas make up the largest part of Valan's military leadership, as well as most of its high priests, guild leaders, master craftspeople, ship captains, and its heads of noble houses. The ram god Ourata, Valan's main deity, is a male Alpha. 

An Omega’s position in Valanais society is a study in contradictions. They are all at once symbolic of everything that is good and pure, the shining “flower of the land,” but also frail, easily led by physical urges, and prone to emotional outbursts. An Omega is too weak and sensitive, physically and mentally, for the rigors of leadership and labor. Their place is tending to the home and hearth, caring for their families. They cannot inherit land or other property without specific written notice, although they may own it in full if the privilege is given to them. An Omega in any formal position of authority is almost unheard of. (The difference in how Omegas and female Betas are treated despite their shared ability to become pregnant should remind the reader again that Valan's beliefs about aspect are rooted in custom, rather than some inherent biological truth…)

Omegas are taught to take care that they do not inadvertently “distract” or “tempt” Alphas with their bodies. An Omega who wafts his scent about indiscriminately is seen as at best naive, and at worst, a manipulative seductor. Valanais Omega attire usually includes thin strips of felt around the inner sleeves and neck, strategically placed to absorb and dampen the pheromones released from the scent glands there. This is especially true of formal costume. 

It is believed that the rush of pleasure an Omega feels when bitten on the back of the neck during sex binds them forever to that partner, rendering them unable to love any other. An Omega who has received a “claiming” bite-scar outside of marriage is considered damaged goods. The taboo against such bites is stronger than that of having children out of wedlock. 

Unmated Omegas are expected to wear thick leather collars that lace up in front and cover the back of the neck. These collars nominally serve to protect Omegas from receiving claiming bites outside of marriage, but of course, it would be a hormone-drunk Alpha indeed that would be unable to simply unlace her target's collar. In truth, they are in service of modesty more than anything else; the back of an Omega's neck is considered sexually provocative. Married Omegas wear lighter, more flexible collars made of thin leather or stiffened fabric.

Esteem-wise, Betas fall in between Alphas and Omegas. They are seen as stable, good-natured, and reliable. They are not the frail, emotional creatures that Omegas are, but it is believed that they do not possess the same unique spark of courage and will that Alphas do, either. 

Betas make up the rank and file of the army, the guilds, and the merchant class. Sometimes, through connections, inheritance, or sheer effort, they may rise higher in the pecking order. They may inherit and own land and property; such things default to them in the absence of an Alpha with first claim. 

As mentioned before, it is close to impossible to tell Betas apart from other aspects at birth. Valan’s solution to this awkward reality is usually to raise non-Omega males and non-Alpha females all together similarly until presentation. Knowledge of Valan’s rigid hierarchy of aspects understandably leads to a certain amount of anxiety amongst these developing children, especially females. 

The ideal Valanais couple, valorized in art, story, and song, is a strong, dominant Alpha ruling over a beautiful, submissive Omega who will bear their children. Although there are no laws preventing marriage between any specific gender and aspect combinations, pairings that cannot result in children (for example, a male Beta and a male Alpha) tend to be frowned upon, especially in noble families where the couple is expected to produce an heir. 

Valanais society has a fair amount of tolerance for those who are transgender, but individuals perceived as attempting to transition between aspects are seen as a threat to the social order, and met with great hostility. This also, in practice, winds up making things very complicated for transgender Betas. An Alpha assigned male at birth who now wishes to be known as a woman is at worst a curiosity, but a Beta assigned male at birth with the same desire may be suspected of actually wanting to be an Omega, and ostracized accordingly. 

The reader must again remember that all of Valan’s ideals of aspect are just that, ideals. The roles all must fit into are quite neat in theory, but in practice, things are never so simple.

In the lower classes all members of the household typically work to ensure survival, regardless of aspect. In noble families, married Omegas frequently play a significant role in the running of the home and holdings, especially if their Alpha spouse is away or deceased. 

There are also a handful of jobs outside the home that are traditionally considered “Omega's work.” In winemaking, for example, Omegas are overrepresented in master roles— it is thought that they have the keenest sense of smell out of all the aspects, and therefore excel at detecting subtleties in their vintages. 

In addition, especially in Istabelle’s time, a surprising many houses, common and noble alike, have a Beta as the de-facto head for want of a capable Alpha. The poets rhapsodize about Valan's victories in war as proof of the natural glory of Alpha leadership, but ironically, the country's constant conflicts against Kalnyakov and other foes have led to an increase in the amount of Betas and even Omegas in land-holding positions simply because there are not enough adult Alphas left alive to claim them. 

← Previous Chapter | Start | Next Chapter →

[pecancrunch]

The Omega and the Tigress: Chapter 4

Read on Archive of Our Own here or below the cut!

Wagon. 

Road. 

Again. 

Istabelle stared at the wall of the little cart. She wiped her eyes with her already wet sleeve, and then took a deep, shuddering breath. She felt a complete mess, puffy-eyed, stuffy-nosed, and totally exhausted. 

What time was it? How many hours had she sat here, wracked by deep, heaving sobs? She had felt as though she would never stop crying, but now it seemed that the reservoir of her tears had finally run dry. 

Yet, somehow, that was worse. 

The outpouring of her grief had been like a great flood, sweeping down and shattering the dam of the numbness she had felt before. And now that the barrier was gone, the fear was trickling back in— not the immediate, heart-pounding panic she had felt as the wagons pulled away from the border fort, but a slow, grinding, nauseating horror. 

She wanted to make herself numb again, to retreat back into the emptiness she had felt this morning, but the slow pulse of fear would not be shut out. Istabelle realized that all this time, she had been thinking of her arrival at the border as the end, as the most terrible thing that could possibly happen to her. But of course, it wasn't. It was was only the beginning. 

There was so much worse to come. 

The wagon train went over a bump, and she winced. The built-in seat was tiny and hard, and the wagon segment’s smaller size meant that it bounced more sharply over the roughness of the road, making her already tender seat bones ache. 

But it must certainly be better than what was waiting for her at the end of the road.

The thought made her stomach clench. 

Well, not only the thought. She was also, at this point, getting quite hungry. It seemed as though the caravan was determined to keep the same steady pace until nightfall— there hadn't been any break to eat at midday. 

What time was it? Was it her imagination, or was the light filtering in around the edges of the curtain dimmer now? Surely, they would stop soon— surely they wouldn't risk these mountain roads in the dark. 

Did she dare move the curtain slightly to peek? 

As if in response to her thoughts, there were shouts from somewhere ahead, and the curious little divided wagon gradually slowed to a stop. She heard the wisent snort.

There was the sound of approaching footsteps, crunching across the gravelly road. From the other side of the curtain came the voice of the old Alpha soldier, Patrov.

“Your ladyship? We are stopping for the night.” 

Istabelle opened the leather curtain with a shaky hand. Yes, it was getting dark. Patrov smiled and bowed slightly at the sight of her, and then held out his own gloved hand to help her down from the wagon. Hoping that he hadn't noticed how red her eyes were, she took it and stepped out. Where were they now? She looked up and around. 

Despite herself, she had to stifle a gasp. She had been vaguely aware that the wagon had been slowly moving uphill this whole time, but she hadn't realized that they had already penetrated this deep into the mountains. 

On either side of the narrow valley the road wound its way through, the peaks heaved themselves up towards the sky, towering overhead, making Istabelle’s head spin as she looked up at them. Their sides were thickly forested with stands of dark green pine, swaying as they were caressed by the wind. Above them, the light of the setting sun dripped like molten gold through a crack in the clouds, flushing the rest of the sky pink and flowing across the mountains and their cliffs and ridges and trees, picking out their edges in fiery orange and throwing their opposite sides into deep blue shadow that seemed to have its own strange glow. As the trees were stirred by the wind the colors rippled hypnotically back and forth, light to dark, dark to light. 

The air was cold and sweet. Birds called back and forth as they settled into the forest for the night. In the distance, the furthest peaks faded into a darkening violet haze. 

It was… 

No, no, not beautiful. The fields and gentle rolling hills of Valan were beautiful. This place had none of its warm, welcoming comfort— it was harsh and cold and unforgiving. The mountains loomed like great rearing waves that would at any moment come crashing down to crush her. She drew her cloak tighter around her, and shuddered.

Looking a bit further down the road, Istabelle saw that the caravan had drawn up beside what looked like a long, low house, its roof of thatch, its walls built of interlocking bare logs with the bark still on them. 

“Place for travelers,” Patrov said, seeing the direction of her gaze. “Many, along this road.” 

Istabelle followed him past the other wagons ahead of them, and through the door. 

Inside was cold and dim. The building had only one great room, unfurnished except for a handful of benches roughly hewn from split logs. The floor was tamped earth. At one end was a great stone hearth, with a woodpile next to it in the corner. One of the guards was squatting down to light a fire. 

The other Omegas were already inside, clustering together at the other end of the shelter nervously. Istabelle stepped away from Patrov to join them. As she approached, with a jolt, she realized that several people were missing. Melissent was gone, as well as Brienne. A quick count revealed that their party of eleven had been reduced to one of eight. The remainders looked up as she drew near. 

“Where are the others?” Istabelle asked, trying to keep the fearful wobble out of her voice. “What happened to Brienne?” 

“Their wagons left the caravan,” said one of the Omegas seated closest to her, a pale male with a shaggy mop of dark hair. “I saw them turn off the main road, much earlier, one by one. Didn't you?

“I had the curtain closed, I was freezing,” Istabelle said. She hoped again that her red, puffy eyes wouldn’t be noticed. 

She sat down next to the male that had spoken, in the little circle of benches. Behind them, the fire crackled to life, filling the shelter with flickering orange light. 

At her back, Istabelle could hear the Kalnyakovi soldiers coming in and out, speaking in low voices. There was the familiar clank of a cauldron being hung over the fire, and then a series of creaks, grunts, heavy footsteps, and finally thumps that suggested that the traveling chests were being brought inside. She did not turn around— she did not want to look at the soldiers, their unfamiliar faces, their fur-clad forms dark and strange. 

Amongst the Omegas, no one spoke— like her, they all seemed to be at a loss as to what they should do now. 

The heat of the fire crept along after its light, slowly pressing back the chill. With it came the scent of whatever was being stirred in the cauldron, winding its way through the air and making Istabelle increasingly aware of her hunger.

After some time, one of the soldiers approached them, bowing slightly and gesturing behind her. 

“The meal…is ready,” she said, in halting Valanais. “Please, eat.” 

Istabelle could hear the pot bubbling. She thought once again of Nursey’s stories. There could be anything in there— grave worms, poisonous mushrooms, children's fingers. Would she really line up meekly to take her serving, not knowing what horrors awaited her? 

Her stomach, the traitorous wretch, growled an affirmative. 

Another soldier woman issued the Omegas well-worn wooden bowls and spoons as they shuffled towards the hearth. One by one, they stepped up to the cauldron to receive a ladle-full of its contents and a chunk of crusty brown bread. 

When it was Istabelle’s turn, she found her bowl filled with a thick, yellow-green pottage. The stuff was lumpy and opaque, and she regarded it warily. However, a careful probing with her spoon revealed nothing but some peas and what was probably turnip. 

She gave in to her hunger and ate. It was just pottage— it tasted of herbs. The bread was coarse but seemed surprisingly fresh. Istabelle supposed that they might have an oven, back at the border fort.

For a long while, there was silence, as everyone bent to their food. A skin of very watery wine was passed around. Behind them, the Kalnyakovi soldiers lined up for their own servings and then filtered back out, leaving only the two women in charge of the cauldron. 

The fire popped as the logs shifted. 

Eventually, the male seated next to her— Istabelle was embarrassed that she couldn't remember his name— turned to her. 

“What did you get? From your… from at the bridge, I mean,” he said.

The book was lurking on the bench beside her where she’d set it. As she held it out to show him, she realized that had been clutching it so tightly while she had been crying in the wagon that her fingernails had left little dents in the leather of the cover. She felt a small stir of guilt at that— it had been a gift, if an unwelcome one

“It’s…poetry. Or whatever the Kalnyakovis have for poetry, at least,” 

He nodded uncertainly. “Can you read Kalnyakovi very well, then?” 

“I can make sense of a bit,” she said, automatically defaulting to modesty. 

She then felt obliged to ask, “And you? What was your…present?” 

He wordlessly unfolded the bundle he had been holding in his lap and held it up for her. It was a little felt capelet in the typical bright Kalnyakovi style, blue, decorated with what looked like pink water lilies. The clasps in front were tiny golden fish.

“That's pretty,” Istabelle said automatically, and then winced at what a useless thing to say that was. The dark-haired male shrugged. 

Around them, the other Omegas were doing the same, murmuring back and forth as they displayed their gifts. A pair of silver earrings. A woven leather belt. One girl had a tall walking stick of polished reddish wood, its head carved into the shape of an absurd little frog. 

The scene was somehow unsettling to Istabelle, and she was confused until she realized what it reminded her of— she had whispered and compared gifts with the children of the Small Court just like this on Lambsmorning when she was little. The fusion of the two images unnerved her. 

“Do you think they'll make us throw all of our old clothes away?” said one of the other females to the group, suddenly, her voice fearful. In her lap was one of the white scarves that the Kalnyakovi Omegas had all been wearing. 

Istabelle hadn't thought of that. She looked down at her mother's ring, her mother's gown. An image flashed through her mind— herself, clothed in a flowery, full-skirted Kalnyakovi dress, her own white scarf around her neck. It made her stomach turn over. She clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palms. 

“I doubt it— it would be a waste,” said another Omega, a female with unusually bright red hair…Mairne, yes, that was it. “And if they knew that the Kalnyakovis would do such a thing, they'd have had us strip at the border and leave it all behind so they could sell it off. I came here from the Capital and the rumors are all that the crown vaults have nothing in them but dust and rust now. That's why instead of paying off the Kalnyakovs with treasure, the new king is paying them with us, the wretched wolf.”

There was a little stir around the circle.

“You mustn't say such things,” piped up one of the males in a tremulous voice. “We've been sent here to seal the peace. We have an important duty that we perform for our King…” 

“Now,” Marine scoffed, “You're not telling me you actually believed all what Chaunalle said.” 

The nervous male bit his lip and looked around the circle for support. Istabelle dropped her eyes. 

The truth was, she agreed with Mairne. She didn't know anything about the state of the crown’s coffers, but from the cold, impersonal letter she and Mother had received from the Capital, to the briefness of the exchange on the bridge, all of this had had the brisk, unemotional air of a business transaction from start to finish.

“But we must remain loyal,” a female in a dark blue cloak cut in. “You mustn't say such things about the King. We must remember that we are Valanais, even here, even after we are wed. We cannot forget.” 

“I heard,” whispered the girl with the scarf, “That at Kalnyakovi weddings they kill an ox and all the guests drink the blood instead of wine”

“I heard,” said a blonde male, darkly, “That instead of an ox, it's a human sacrifice.” 

There was a little murmur around the circle. Even Marine looked slightly disconcerted. 

“What would they do something like that for?” she said. 

“Magic,” he went on, grimly. “There's power in blood. All the Kalnyakovi Omegas are witches. My mother was on the Northern front, and she said that whenever they routed the bastards, there would always be a terrible storm— the witches would summon it as revenge.” 

Now that he had dared to broach the topic of the dark rumors that swirled around their destinations, it suddenly seemed as though everyone was trying to speak at once. 

“My cousin told me—”

“My father said—”

“My grandmother saw—”

“—pacts with evil spirits—”

“They wear the skins of—”

“—offer their first—”

“—and when they found her she was—”

Istabelle’s heart pounded in her chest and throat. The air was suddenly too thick to breathe. She gathered her skirts, stood, stumbled to the door. She stepped out of the little house…

…And into pitch blackness. 

The absolute darkness of the mountain night shocked her. It pressed into her like a physical thing, forcing the breath from her body. The clouds must have thickened again, because overhead, there was no moon, no stars, just the low, sad moan of an icy wind. She felt dizzy, as though she were teetering on the edge of a great cliff. 

She took a shuddering breath of the cold air. Her lips trembled, and she worried that her body had scraped together more tears to cry. Melissent and Brienne were already gone, carried away to meet the beasts that awaited them, the sources of all those terrible stories. How long until it was her turn? How many days? The massive, silent darkness offered her no answers, no peace. 

Except that… no, it wasn't entirely dark and still. 

On either side of her, there was the crackle and glow of fire, and the soft murmur of voices. The other soldiers were camping out here. As her eyes adjusted slightly, Istabelle could see their tents.  

“Ladyship?”

She jumped at the voice and the sound of approaching footsteps. Patrov was walking towards her. 

“Ladyship? Are you all right?” he said concernedly. “You should not go too far— easy to fall, get lost, in the darkness.” 

“I know, I'm not going to wander away,” Istabelle said. “I just…needed a moment of quiet.” 

“Ah,” said Patrov. “I go, then. Excuse me.”

He turned to walk back towards the campfires. 

Istabelle bit her lip. 

“Wait.”

Patrov paused, and looked back to her.

“Yes?”

Better to know, than be wondering the whole time…

“Could you please tell me… could you please tell me how long it is, until we arrive at… the place where we're going?”

“Arrive?…Ah, yes. Look here, now.” 

He stepped closer again and dragged the toe of his boot in a straight line through the dust.

“Here— we are on the long King’s Road, that goes through the middle of Kalnyakov, between the mountains. The other roads—” And here he drew several more lines, extending from the first, “—Go off, like so, yes? All the way to the East. Now, we are here, past the first four roads…” He tapped a spot with his foot. “...And in two days, we will reach our own road to turn.” Another line, some ways away from the others. “And then, after that, maybe another week, if the weather is not so bad, until we reach Balanav.

“They share their name, the home mountain and the young lord,” he added, at Istabelle’s look of confusion. 

“Young?” Istabelle said, before she could stop herself. 

“Oh, yes,” said Patrov. “He is… excuse me, your ladyship, but how many years have you?” 

 “Twenty.”

 Patrov nodded.

 “One more than you, then. He is a good man, the lord,” he added, very gently, smiling at Istabelle. “Wise. Patient. Kind.” He chuckled. “Not too hard on the eyes, either.” 

“I see,” Istabelle said. Her heart was pounding even harder now, and her fingers and face were tingling again. ���Thank you.”

She turned and hurried back inside before Patrov could say anything else, her breathing fast and shallow. 

Nine days, then. She thought she would have longer before she had to face her fate. 

Ourata, Saints, if you can hear me all the way out here, have mercy…

As she stepped back in to the warmth and light of the little shelter, she saw that there was mercy, of a sort— bedrolls had been laid out for the Omegas, and it seemed that their hushed, frenetic conversation had been abandoned in favor of getting ready for sleep. There were large gray-brown furs of indeterminate origin thrown over the blankets. 

The two women that had organized to the meal had taken up positions closest to the door. As Istabelle passed by them, she realized that, judging by their size and weaker scents, they were probably Betas. That must be why they had been allowed to sleep here inside with the Omegas— that was probably why they had been brought along in the first place. 

Her chest was against the wall with the others. She undressed down to her shift and put everything away, then braided back her hair and picked her way across the room to the far corner, where she sat and slumped against the wall.

Her body ached from being so tense for so long. The morning at the bridge already seemed as though it had happened one hundred years ago. She was exhausted, and miserable, and terrified. 

But…

Now that she had a moment of silence, behind the fear, she could feel her mind start to turn again. Little thoughts were rising up at the back of her brain like tiny bubbles.

Foremost among them was, All right, now what?  

Previously, whenever she had tried to imagine what her existence might be like in Kalnyakov, her mind had hit a wall, and she could think no further. But now she had moved through that wall, and here she was. What had she been expecting, whispered those little rising thoughts, that the second her foot stepped over the border she would simply evaporate into smoke?

Hoped for it, at times, certainly. Why would I want to go on living here, in such a wretched, evil country? “ There are no warm gentle breezes in that place, no singing birds, no fields of wildflowers, only the shadows and wild beasts of the deep dark wood…” 

Yes, it was dark and cold, and there were no warm gentle breezes, just as the stories said.

But she had seen the wisent, the thoughts continued, treacherously, and they were just animals— judging by their steady progress and lack of shouting from the wagon drivers all day, they were tame enough. She had heard birds calling in the trees on this side of the border herself. And the book of poems proved that Kalnyakov’s scribes, at least, knew something of flowers. 

The book…

It was sitting on the bench where she had left it, now shoved against the wall. She stretched out awkwardly to pick it up.

Istabelle had been the only Omega who had received a book like this, it seemed. Why? Why not clothes, or jewelry, or something else an Omega would be more likely to enjoy?  

She turned it over in her hands, and looked at it again, closer than she had on the bridge. It seemed surprisingly well-made, securely bound, the leather smooth and fine-grained, the embossed pattern of vines crisp and intricate. 

It creaked slightly as she opened it, starting on the first page this time. It was decorated almost in full with a complex pattern of twining ivy. At the very bottom of the page, Istabelle was startled to read: 

This book was crafted by the Lord Baran Balanav as a gift for his beloved, the Lady Istabelle. 

So this Lord Balanav knew her name? It was an unsettling revelation. Istabelle wondered what else he already knew about her. Perhaps there had been a copy of that catalog that Chaunalle had used sent out to all the Kalnyakovi lords so they could pick and choose the Omega that most appealed to them. 

Istabelle Naherre, slender, fair of skin, long brown hair, hazel eyes. Sweet-voiced, skilled in the harp and lute. 

And now she knew his name as well. Baran. 

Baran. The Alpha. Her future mate.

Up until this point, he had lurked around the edges of her thoughts like a dark spirit. Could she bear to think of him now, that she was here within the borders of Kalnyakov? She tried to imagine him, to picture what he might be like. Yet she felt her mind rebel, and in its eye he was still only a distant, frightening shadow. 

Nine days, Patrov had said, before they arrived. 

Sooner or later, you'll have to think of him whether you like it or not. 

What sort of creature awaited her, in some distant, shadowed valley?

Perhaps…perhaps somewhere in the book there might be a clue. 

Istabelle turned the pages, slowly and carefully. Each spread contained a gleaming illustration of a flower on one side and a little poem on the other. She read, one by one, verses that compared her cheeks to the golden rose, her lips to the blushing peony, and her hair to the drifting silk of the spring thistle…whatever that last one was. 

At the very minimum, her thoughts offered, in an irritatingly logical fashion, the pages of this book themselves showed her that somewhere in Kalnyakov there was a supply of parchment and ink. Perhaps she really would be able to send letters to the Small Court, to Aimele and to Mother. 

She read further. In addition to beautiful, the verses proclaimed, She was gentle as the brush of a fern leaf, cunning as the ivy vine, as enduring as the oak tree. Traditional, Patrov had said. Yes, the verses had a pleasing enough cadence, from what she could tell, but there was something…not formulaic, but ritualistic, about them, like some of the old ballads of the saints that mother had taught her. Despite his youth, it seemed that this Baran might be a little old-fashioned, whatever that meant for a Kalnyakovi.

Istabelle wondered what sort of ballads they sang here, in the dark, cold mountains. 

Around her, the other Omegas were laying down and curling up under the blankets. The two Beta soldiers near the door were doing the same. The fire was fading slightly, settling with a soft sigh now that it was no longer being fed. 

Istabelle set the book aside and wormed her way down into the bedroll. The furs were slightly smelly from the morning’s damp. She heard Patrov's words in her mind. 

He is a good man. Wise. Patient. Kind. 

These were not virtues she had heard an Alpha described in terms of before. In Valan, the songs all spoke of an Alpha’s boldness and strength. 

Come to think of it, she had never heard anything praising an Omega for being cunning and enduring the way the book of poems did, either. 

How strange and backwards. Probably the blonde male had been right, probably all Kalnyakovi Omegas were witches, aiding their cruel and cowardly Alphas with their spells. How could any of them be wise or patient or kind? 

But Patrov seemed gentle enough. 

But he was only one man, and she had known him for only one day. And how kind could he really be, if he was bringing her to some terrible, faraway village where the Kalnyakovis danced with evil spirits and drank blood? 

And saw flowers bloom and heard birds sing and rode the wild beasts of the forest because they’re just big hairy cows, not magical monsters. 

But she'd heard all the stories.

And how accurate have they turned out to be so far? When the other Omegas were talking it was all I heard, my grandfather said. Had any of them actually seen the things they claimed to know about? 

But that didn't matter. Even if the stories weren't true, the Kalnyakovis were still her enemy. She was still Valanais. 

Yes, Valanais. Of Valan. Valan that sent her here. Valan that sold her off. She had admitted it herself! 

“Shut up ,” she mumbled to her own brain, and pulled the scratchy blanket over her head.

The fire slowly died, and darkness crept back into the room. 

← Previous Chapter | Start | Next Chapter →

[pecancrunch]

The Omega and the Tigress: Chapter 5

Read on Archive of Our Own here or below the cut!

Thwok .

Thwok.

Thwok.

The rhythmic noise slowly dragged Istabelle towards wakefulness, inch by inch.

Thwok.

Thwok.

Thwok.

She opened one eye. She didn't remember falling asleep. It was dark inside the little house again, the fire burned down to a few faint embers, but there was daylight creeping in underneath the door. 

She felt her stomach turn over and her chest tighten as she remembered exactly where she was.

The door was opened in a rush of blinding light. There was the sound of booted footsteps, then a grunt and a series of clunks. Squinting in the glare, Istabelle could just make out the shape of one of the Beta women who had slept inside with them, stacking more split logs on the wood pile. The noise from outside must have been the ax on the chopping block. 

Around her, roused by the noise and light, her fellow Omegas were stirring. Near the hearth, she could see the other Kalnyakovi Beta sitting up and stretching.

 The first woman let the door fall closed, plunging its interior back into darkness. Istabelle herd the clank of the poker and the crunch of ashes, and the embers of last night's fire flickered as her companion stirred them back into sullen life. 

Once there was a little heat and light regained, she stood up and clapped her hands together gently.

“My lords and ladies,” she said, “It is time now.” 

Breakfast was leftover pottage, reheated over the coals. The Omegas ate in silence. The air in the traveler’s house was heavy and rank with last night’s fear. 

They finished, then dressed. Istabelle hesitated, before changing her underthings, but it was only the two Beta women in here, and they seemed preoccupied with their own clothing. She put on a new shift of coarser stuff, and then a long wool tunic the color of rust, much warmer than the green velvet gown had been. She had been right that it was silly to have all the Omegas dress in their finery at the bridge, she thought— just pointless pageantry, two puffed up roosters trying to impress each other. 

She folded up the fine linen shift and refolded the gown, more carefully than she had last night. She made sure the ring was tucked carefully into its little bag. 

Would she put them on again, when they finally reached their destination? Her mother's dress and ring, the symbols of her old life? For him? 

She shoved the book of poems down one side of the chest and slammed the lid shut harder than she needed to. No, no, she wouldn't. She would not debase herself with such cares. He did not deserve it. 

She found that the morning had put an edge of hard, cold anger on her dread. Physically, she had no choice but to travel onwards, but that did not mean that when she was placed before her future mate she would roll over and lick his hand like a beaten cur. He could have her body, but not her spirit. Yes, that sounded good, when she said it to herself. It was as the other girl said last night— she would always be Valanais.

 Valan that sold you. Valan that sent you here— 

 Istabelle clamped down on the thought as it tried to crawl out of the back of her mind again. 

The air of the house was stifling. She wrapped her cloak around her and stepped out into the morning. 

The day had dawned cool and gray again. The sky was a flat wool sheet pulled over the world, thick and close. Everything was wet with dew. In the trees beyond the edges of the road, birds called only sporadically, as though reluctant to announce the start of such a dull, damp day. The great rearing mountains that had made her gasp last night were now half-obscured behind a veil of dreary fog, the peaks in the distance lost entirely in clouds. 

Istabelle forced herself to take slow, deep breaths. The chill, wet air moving in and out of her lungs felt like an extension of the mist, like the mountains were trying to reduce her to the same state of cold, soggy nothingness. 

Despite the weather, however, the camp around her had come to life now. The wisent had been hitched up, and were pulling the wagons out into the road again from where they had been circled up in the grass overnight. The soldiers, moving here and there between the carts, had exchanged their strange, brightly decorated armor for more ordinary mail and leather. They seemed in high spirits, calling back and forth and laughing. Istabelle supposed that they must be happy to be going home again. 

Home.

Oh, she shouldn't have dared to think the word. She felt her chest tighten. No, no, she was not going to start crying again—

“Ladyship!” 

Patrov was approaching her, leading a stout, shaggy horse behind him. 

“Good morning!” he said cheerfully, and then, as she drew closer, a little more gently, “Are you feeling all right? Are you sleeping well?” 

Istabelle winced, as she heard him address her in Valanais. Of course, she had no desire to speak in the tongue of the enemy. Yet…despite everything, he hadn't been unpleasant to her, and she couldn't help but feel a little ashamed, like a child caught in a lie. She knew that she must reveal her knowledge sooner or later. 

“Yes, I was all right. thank you,” she replied, this time in Kalnyakovi. 

 His eyebrows raised in surprise, but as he was about to say something, a soldier approached them, calling his name. It was the same female Alpha that had called her pretty at the fort. 

“Everything is packed up,” she said, as she reached him. “We're going to grab her chest and then we'll be done and ready.”

 “Thank you so much,” Istabelle said. 

Despite everything, she felt a little stir of amusement at the look of absolute horror that crossed over the soldier's face as she realized that Istabelle had understood her earlier words. She performed a quick, perfunctory bow, before turning and rushing away.

Patrov sighed. 

“Please excuse her, your ladyship,” he said, as they walked towards the wagon, his horse dutifully following behind them. “Palana is young, and she is still learning how to act properly.” 

This last was delivered at a slightly louder volume, towards Palana’s retreating back. Istabelle saw her shoulders tense as the words hit her.

“Oh well,” Patrov continued, after a moment, much more quietly. “It is not all her fault. She is young, and her mother is gone.”

“Gone?” Istabelle asked, uncertainly. 

Patrov hesitated slightly. 

“Five years ago,” he said, “There was a sickness in the village. Many were taken. It claimed the old Lord Balanav, as well as his wife. That is why our young Lord is so young. It is just him and his aunt, the lady Zara, left now.”

“Oh,” Istabelle said, raising her hand to her mouth, “How terrible. I’m sorry.”

“It was terrible,” Patrov said, as they reached the wagon. “But we are all moved forward, regardless. The Lord has become a fine leader, just like his father before him. And Lady Zara guides him well.”

Palana and another, male soldier hustled up behind them, panting slightly with the weight of her trunk between them. Palana scrupulously avoided looking at Istabelle as they slid it into place in the cart. Patrov gave Istabelle his hand to help her climb up. Around them, the other Omegas were also being loaded into the wagons. 

The drivers barked their commands, and the wagon train began to move. Patrov did not climb onto his horse, but remained on foot, walking alongside the wagon. 

“I get stiff in the mornings,” he said by way of explanation. “Better to walk and loosen up a bit. Not like the days when I was the old Lord's commander, and I could jump up on my horse and ride ten miles before breakfast!” 

“Are you not his commander, then?” Istabelle said, surprised. 

“Me? Ha!” he said with a laugh. “You flatter me, sounding so shocked. Used to be. I am much too old now, and my knees are getting bad. After this last journey, it will be the quiet life for me. No, the young Lord's got a new woman, now, young and strong. Another Alpha, skilled...”

For a moment, he looked as though he were about to say something more, but then he closed his mouth and shrugged. 

“So it goes. 

“It is not so bad a morning today, though,” he continued, cheerfully. “The last of winter has gone now. By the time we return, the whole mountain will be awake and blooming. Spring is a good time for a journey such as this. The Lord Balanav is a good man, but it is a shame that he has had to grow up so fast.” He turned to smile at Istabelle. “I think it will be good for him to have an Omega his own age in our little castle.”

Istabelle felt the slight lightening of her mood evaporate. 

“Good for him,” she said coldly. 

“Yes, I—” Patrov caught the look on her face. “...Well, I will not make you listen to an old man's rambling the whole ride,” he trailed off, awkwardly. 

He pulled up his horse and moved to swing up into the saddle. The wagons rolled on, leaving him behind. 

Istabelle closed the curtain. 

Good for him. As though she was an ointment or a bowl of hot soup. Just a thing. 

There was another long ride ahead of her. A part of her wondered if she had fallen into one of those stories where a wicked spirit granted the idle desires of thoughtless humans in the cruelest and most ironic ways possible— that by wishing that she should never have to face the end of her journey, she had doomed her soul to an eternity of being rattled around around in miserable Saints-forsaken wagons. 

If only that was the case.

That night, when they stopped in another little log house along the road their party had shrunk again— Mairne and the girl who had received the scarf were gone. 

The blonde male who had spoken the night before about the rumored Omega witches of Kalnyakov was pale and silent, barely touching his food. Sure enough, the next night, when they stopped, he, too, was gone. 

No one spoke much more now. The only sounds were the crackling of the fire in the hearth. 

Istabelle’s own turn occurred beneath her notice, at first. The third day dawned cold and damp, and it had begun to rain by the time they were well out onto the road. She had closed the leather curtain and drifted off, head resting against her riding cloak that she had wadded up into the corner.

She was shaken awake by a ride that suddenly seemed much bumpier. When she pulled back the curtain, she saw that the trees were much closer to the edge of the road, which was really now not much more than a track. They had moved off the wide, heavily trodden King’s Road, and turned northwards, venturing higher into the mountains. 

Her segment of the wagon jolted and tilted unnervingly to one side as the driver negotiated it through the turn of a switchback. Now, at least, Istabelle also understood the wagons’ odd construction— It granted them the flexibility needed to navigate the mountain road’s hairpin turns as they wound their way up the slopes. 

Back and forth, up, down, up again. Their course was slightly nauseating. When they finally stopped for the night, at the top of one particularly steep rise, she found that when she stepped down from the wagon she had to stop herself from swaying with each step like a sailor. Her bones ached— she felt as though she'd have been less exhausted and knocked around if they had made her get out and walk.

The wagons had been drawn down into a little hollow dense with trees, where they could be out of the wind. The soldiers were climbing out of the other wagons that had come with them or down off their horses. Now she could see who made up her personal escort— Patrov was there, as well as eight more soldiers, including the two young Alphas from the fort, Palana and Kostov, and the female Beta who had been chopping wood that morning.

The latter was now striding towards her with a smile. She was tall and broad-shouldered, her dark blonde hair trimmed short, and she carried herself with her spine perfectly straight.

“Your ladyship,” she said, “I have not had the chance to introduce myself. I am Tatra.” She held out her hand. 

Beyond their camping place, Istabelle could hear the wind howling eerily over the face of the mountain, and even here, within the trees, a bit of its chill invaded.

“Why have we stopped here?” she said bluntly. She was too worn out and irritated to be politely roundabout, and this woman Tatra was only a Beta, after all. “Wouldn't it be warmer if we weren't at the very top? 

“Easier for the teams to start downhill in the morning,” Patrov said cheerfully, from behind them. “And better luck for us to be on the mountain’s back instead of underneath its hooves and—”

“Patrov,” Tatra said, lip curling back slightly in irritation, “Could we please get a start on the tents? It will be night soon.”

Patrov waved his hand at her. “All right, all right.” He walked off back towards the wagons. 

“Excuse him, my lady,” Tatra said, with a little sigh. “But he is right— the rain and falling snow of spring often bring landslides, and they can make the valleys dangerous. Up here, there's nothing to fall on us but the weather. If you'll pardon me as well, I must go make sure everything is prepared.”

She followed Patrov, to the wagon where he and the other soldiers were dragging tent poles and canvas out from one of the carts. 

The Alphas seemed subdued, now, that they had begun the hard and solitary part of their journey— they did not call back and forth or laugh amongst themselves as they had this morning. Perhaps, like her, they were  worn out from winding up and down the mountains. 

As Istabelle watched them work to set up camp, raising the tents and unhitching the wisent, she noticed something odd happening. The soldiers followed Patrov's commands— that was to be expected. But the strange thing was that they seemed to give the same level of deference to Tatra. It was also her directions and gestures that they followed as they built the fires and guided the wagons around them. A few times, she saw Patrov give an order to one of the soldiers, and the soldier glance back at her for confirmation. 

Dinner was sausage, hard cheese, a piece of bread, and some dried fruit that Istabelle could not identify. She was served alone in her tent. 

There was something else that had been at the back of her awareness for several days now— the Alphas’ scents also seemed curiously weaker then they should have been. As she poked her head out of the tent to try and hand back the empty wineskin, seeing the party seated around the fire, she finally realized why. All of them were wearing either gloves or leather wristbands, and their tunics covered their necks. Like Omegas, they kept their scent glands covered.

What did this backward arrangement mean? Was it some kind of insult? Did they think that Valanais Omegas were so lacking in control that they would lose themselves to heat at the slightest breath of an Alpha’s scent? 

She felt a faint touch of warmth against her side. The clouds had thinned slightly, and now the last rays of the evening sun had wound their way through the trees to her. 

“Your ladyship,” Patrov called to her. He was standing above her, on  the upper lip of the little depression they were in. He was gesturing for her to come closer. “Come and look.”

She gathered her skirts and climbed up to him, and looked out between the trees. 

When she gazed out across the landscape, she found herself having to stifle a gasp again. They had climbed even higher, out of the valley of the King’s Road, and into the mountains proper now. From here, the plateau of peaks, in some places blunt and rolling, some thin and jagged, unfolded before her. Their slopes were a jagged patchwork of gold and slate gray shadow in the irregular scraps of light that fought their way through the clouds. She found herself reaching out to a small tree to steady herself; the perspective was dizzying. 

Patrov pointed towards the horizon. “The clouds have cleared a little bit. Look there. Do you see it?”

In the distance was a peak taller than the others. Its sides were densely forested in green, but its pinnacle was pale with snow, trailing a long streamer of cloud into the sky. 

“There,” said Patrov, warmly. “That is Balanav. Home.” 

Your home, Istabelle thought. Not mine. This wretched, nightmarish place will never be mine. 

***

And yet…

The fourth morning dawned unusually warm for spring in the mountains, and as they turned a bend in the road the trees suddenly gave way to a wide green meadow filled with a foam of pale pink wildflowers and humming with the wings of hundreds of bees. 

As Istabelle watched, a tiny songbird with a bright yellow throat alighted on a waving stalk of grass in front of her. It stared it with her with its glittering black eyes, turning its head this way and that curiously, before giving one sweet trill and darting away with the flick of its wings. 

At the end of the sixth day, they stopped at what Patrov explained as a herding camp, a little cluster of shacks and tents on the grassy north side of the peak they were traversing. Strange goats such that Istabelle had never seen before, the size of ponies with long, shaggy coats, wandered here and there through the trees and tall grass. There, Tatra traded a handful of coins for a stack of flatbreads and a great white lump of soft cheese, fragrant with wild garlic.

As they ate around a campfire, one of the herders, a little girl of no more than ten, ran up to Istabelle and handed her a folded leaf, and then rushed away again, giggling, before she could respond.

Wrapped inside the leaf was a sticky, golden piece of honeycomb.

She chewed it slowly, letting the sweetness dissolve across her tongue, staring out at the mountains as they melted into the hazy lavender glow of the evening. 

On the seventh night, the clouds finally vanished completely, and the sky overhead became a dazzling river of stars, brighter than she had ever seen on the plains, and so clear and close that Istabelle thought that if she should climb up to the top of one of the higher mountains, she might be swept away in its current. She thought she could feel it, even here— there was a strange, unplaceable sweetness on the wind, and somewhere in the distance, there came the faint, shimmering call of some unseen night bird, like the music of the stars themselves. 

At such times, she could almost forget what awaited her at the end of the road. 

Almost.

***

On the ninth morning, they reached the base of Balanav and began to climb upwards. 

One of the soldiers had been sent on ahead on horseback to announce their coming to the village. They would not reach it until nightfall, Patrov told her— the sides of the mountain were steep. The road was a long series of incremental switchbacks, and still she could hear the wisent grunting and straining as they hauled the wagons up the final stretch of their journey. She closed the curtain. 

She had thought that this final day would last an eternity, stretched out by her dread until she could feel the trembling shape of each second moving slowly past her, count them one by one. But to the contrary, time seemed to move in great, jerky leaps, so that now it was only a little after dawn, now it was noon, now the light was starting to fade, now it was growing dark…

Suddenly she noticed that their path was much straighter now. With a bump and a rattle, the road went from packed earth to stone. 

They must have entered the village. She could smell smoke and cattle. Despite the late hour, she could hear voices, people calling back and forth, children shouting and laughing. Her chest clenched, and she made sure the curtain was pulled tight such that it could not fall open. She did not want them to see her, did not want to feel their eyes on her body. 

The wagons kept rolling, uphill again, and time stuttered oddly once more, and then, oh, Saints have mercy, they were slowing to a stop, and Patrov was opening the curtain, he was holding out his hand to help her get down…

It was the border crossing all over again, but this time, there was not even the faintest hope of a last-minute reprieve from her sentence. She found herself struggling against the same floating, out of body feeling. She had to be here, she told her self, grimly. She had to be ready to face anything. 

It was very dark now, full night. They had been pulled up onto a small flat space that had been hacked into the side of the mountain and paved with cobblestones. The town below was hidden by trees. They must be before the lord’s castle, but all that that Istabelle could see of it was its curtain wall and open gate, lit by flickering braziers on either side. The castle itself was a mere suggestion in the blackness, a great space of deeper darkness looming above, blotting out the stars. 

The party's footsteps echoed oddly as they crossed the little landing and passed through the gate. Istabelle tried to focus on the breath moving shallowly in and out of her lungs, on the sound of the blood in her ears, on the feel of the cobblestones beneath her feet as they walked through the black tunnel of the curtain wall, clinging white-knuckled to the reality of her own body as an attempt to stay anchored within it. 

They moved across a courtyard of packed bare earth, more torches throwing wild, confusing shadows across each other. The front doors of the castle itself were two huge slabs of wood, elaborately painted and carved with twining vines and flowers. They were slightly ajar already, and orange light spilled out from within. Istabelle could hear voices, talking and laughing. 

Two guards in armor stood on either side. As the party approached, they straightened to attention and pushed open the doors the rest of the way. 

She should have run, she thought. At the border, she should have slipped out of the tent and past the guards in the night, run away, lived in the forest off berries and mushrooms, anything. 

But now it was too late.

Istabelle crossed over the threshold into the hall beyond. 

The noise died off abruptly. 

It was dim and warm inside. At the far end, a great fire rumbled in a massive hearth. Long banners, dulled with smoke and time, hung down from the hazy darkness that clung to the ceiling beams. On either side of the room stood two long trestle tables. There were many people sitting at them, whatever must pass for nobility here. She could feel their eyes on her. 

And in the aisle between them, walking quickly towards her… 

As Patrov had said, he was young, like her. His blonde hair was brushed back from a face that still had a hint of boyishness to it. He was wearing a long cloak of silver fur over a heavy, densely embroidered red tunic, but the urgency of his motion blew it back over his body, revealing a fit, light build. 

Oddly light.

He was also, she noticed as he drew close, only slightly taller than she. Small, really. 

Much too small. 

Istabelle felt her stomach drop in shock. 

As he stepped forward to take her hand, she caught his scent, and she knew for certain. 

The brutish Kalnyakovi Alpha she had been dreading was not an Alpha at all.

Baran Balanav was a Beta. 

← Previous Chapter | Start | Next Chapter →

[pecancrunch]

The Omega and the Tigress: Chapter 6

Read on Archive of Our Own here or below the cut!

Istabelle rested in the tub so that only her eyes and nose were above the water. Her hair drifted around her shoulders in a cloud. 

After the shock of meeting her future mate— hah! —the rest of the night had been a dizzying blur. A seat at one of the tables, a bowl of something in front of her that she barely remembered tasting, all the people and voices around her swirling together into one big nauseating spiral of color and noise. The Lord Balanav, the Beta , a single still point on the other side of the table, smiling strangely at her. 

And then someone taking her by the hand and leading her through cold, echoing stone hallways and up a spiraling staircase into a little round room with a bed, and she crawled into it with her clothes still on and pulled the covers over her head and then there had nothing but a tremendous, ringing silence and absolute darkness, as though the mountain night had crept under the covers with her, black and still. She didn't remember falling asleep. 

The next thing she knew there was the sound of someone opening the wooden shutters of the windows. The chirping of birds and and the gleam of daylight invaded her little dark cave under the bedclothes. 

She dared to peek her head out. A petite girl with long dark hair leaned back from the stone windowsill. She brushed a stray curl away from her face, then noticed Istabelle peering at her. She smiled and bowed to her slightly. 

“Good morning, your ladyship. I hope you slept well.”

Istabelle grunted noncommittally. 

“His lordship and the Lady Zara have gone to worship, my lady,” the girl continued. “I have been told to prepare you a bath, so that you may wash off the travel dust. Please, follow me.” 

Istabelle did not want to follow her. She did not want to follow her, she did not want to get out of bed, she did not want to be here in this wretched, Saints-forsaken place at all. The urge to pull the covers back up over her head was intense. What could this girl do about it, if Istabelle refused to obey? 

Summon the guards to drag her from the bed by her ankles, probably.

“The water is nice and hot for you, my lady,” the girl prompted patiently.

Istabelle took a deep breath to steel herself. She was Valanais. She would be strong, and not give these people the satisfaction of seeing her cower under the bedclothes like a child. She pushed the blankets aside and sat up. 

They left the circular bedroom and wound back down the stone staircase. Where were they, in the castle? Last night had been such a blur, Istabelle didn't think that she could find her way out alone if she tried. She wished she had thought to bring her cloak with her— the air in this echoing pile was damp and cold, and she was still wearing her wrinkled dress from last night. 

Out at the bottom and down a long, high hall faced with tawny stone, then around a few corners and through another, narrower hallway whose rough, dark gray walls looked much older. Rush mats crunched slightly underneath their feet. Then through another door, its wood slightly worm-eaten, the bright carvings on its surface flaking and faded. 

A wash of warm, damp air rolled over them. 

It was dim and quiet inside the bathhouse. A brazier In the center of the floor crackled softly, the pale smoke of its fire wandering unhurriedly up towards a hole in the ceiling. The space seemed to have been cut directly into the living rock of the mountain— the wall to the right was wooden, with another door, but the back and right walls were bare, solid stone, with small niches carved for lanterns.

The baths themselves were three great troughs of dark wood, worn smooth by what must have been a great many generations of bodies. The girl led her to one by the far left wooden wall— it was already full, wreathed in a cloud of steam that smelled of herbs. Perched on its edge was a scrap of flannel and a lump of yellowish soap. Istabelle was suddenly intensely aware of the layers of sweat and grime caked over her skin. 

“Would you like me to bathe you, your ladyship?” the girl asked.

“No,” Istabelle said, quickly. “I— I would like some time alone. I can bathe myself.” 

“As you wish, then. When you are ready, my lady, just call for me.” She bowed again, and left. 

Istabelle waited until she heard the door close behind the girl, and then undressed and sank into the tub with a little groan of relief. 

How long had it been, since she had had a proper bath, not just a wipe-down standing in a cold bucket? Not since…

Not since she had left the Small Court. Not since home. Not since she had sat with Mother one final time in one of the great marble pools in the Omegas’ hot room, the sun streaming in through the windows and making the clouds of steam glow bri—

Istabelle squeezed her eyes shut and submerged herself completely. She lay there, under the surface, until her head spun and her chest trembled. When she couldn't stand it any longer she sat back up with a loud gasp, dragging her hair back from her face where it stuck against her lips. 

Behind the wooden wall, a door slammed open. 

Istabelle started violently, the water slopping against the side of the tub. She heard heavy booted footsteps echo across the stone floor. 

She pressed her hands across her mouth to try and stifle her fast, shallow breathing. Had this all been a trick, a ploy to get her alone so Balanav could drag her from the tub and ravish her on the floor?

The slats of the wooden wall had been warped by moisture, heat, and time, and there was a gap just big enough to squint through. Istabelle leaned forward, moving slowly so as to not slosh the water around and make a noise, crossing her arms tightly over her chest and pressing her legs together.

But no… the figure she glimpsed through the wall was far too large to be Balanav. Tall and broad-shouldered— it must be an Alpha. 

Oh, Saints, that’s even worse!

Istabelle held perfectly still, not daring to breathe.

She could hear the stranger bend down to take off her— Istabelle was pretty sure it was a her— boots, and then, with a rustle, she pulled off her tunic and trousers. She wore nothing else underneath. 

Istabelle’s eyes widened in shock as the strange Alpha straightened up again. The flesh of her broad back was ravaged with scars, criss-crossing her body like stripes, stark slashes of dead white across her tanned skin. There was no part of her that Istabelle could see that was not so terribly marked.

She moved out of view and there were several wooden clunking sounds, a creak, and a faint splash. There must be a well, at this end of the bath house, to supply it with water. The stranger grunted, and they were more creaks and rattles. Sure enough, she stepped back into view, holding a wooden bucket.

The muscles stood out in her arms and back as she emptied the bucket over her head. 

She shook herself and ran her fingers through her wet hair, her breath coming in short huffs at the water’s cold. She turned, rolling her shoulders. Istabelle could not glimpse her face. 

More scars criss-crossed her chest and hard stomach, and her right breast looked as though it had been practically sliced open at one point— it was half overtaken by a twisted gnarl of pale tissue. Beneath her navel, a trail of dark hair led down to her shea— oh, don't look at that!  

The stranger stepped out of view to fill the bucket again, and Istabelle used the cover of the noise to sink back down into the tub, eyes shut. 

The Alpha doused herself once more, and then put the wooden cover back on the well. Istabelle heard the rustle of cloth as she redressed herself. Then there was the sound of retreating steps, and the unseen door falling closed again. 

Istabelle gave a long exhalation of relief. 

Who had that been? A soldier, perhaps, judging by all of those terrible scars. But she had seen soldiers marked from battle before, and their bodies had been nothing so extreme. And she had looked young, too. Were all Kalnyakovis marred by war so intensely, so early? What sort of beast did one have to be to survive that? 

She washed herself with the little lump of soap and the flannel, and combed her fingers through her hair. Her hands were trembling slightly. When she called hesitantly, the dark-haired girl’s reappearance was a relief— it meant she was no longer alone here. 

She allowed herself to be dried, and her hair to be combed. The girl had brought one of Istabelle’s own dresses, the blue wool gown with the faded yellow trim. Removed from its original context of home, the sight of it was somehow surreal and alien—  like turning the corner in a library and seeing a goat from the fields at a writing desk. At least it seemed as though she was being allowed to wear her own clothes, for now. 

It was strange, too, to have someone there to dress her again. There had not been the luxury or privilege of a lady’s maid since she was a child. Istabelle held up her arms so the girl could pull her shift over her head, then the dress. The girl laced her up, a bit awkwardly— Istabelle supposed the style must be unfamiliar to her. 

“If you follow me, my lady,” the girl said, when she was done,“I will take you to the hall— the meal is about to be served.” 

“Is it that late?” Istabelle asked in surprise.

The girl smiled. “His lordship thought it would be best to let you sleep, my lady. You did have a very long journey.”

They left the bathhouse. As they were walking back down the hallway, an older woman rounded the corner, and stopped at the sight of them. She had a long scarf around her neck— that meant she was an Omega, yes? But unlike the Omegas at the bridge, hers was a deep oxblood red. 

“Oh, there you are!” she said, and hurried towards them. She smiled and reached out to touch Istabelle’s hand. “Lady Istabelle, it's me.”

Istabelle smiled woodenly, to cover her panic. There had been so many people last night… 

“Oh, it's all right if you don't remember— I'm sure you were very tired last night. I am Zara, the Lord Balanav’s aunt.” 

She was thin and willowy, quite tall for an Omega, with long, wavy ash-blonde hair, graying slightly at her temples. The skin of her hands against Istabelle’s was surprisingly rough, like a kitchen maid’s. 

“Oh, yes,” Istabelle said. “Good morning, my lady.”

 Zara glanced at the girl. “Thank you, Masha, I can take her to the hall from here.”

The girl bowed. “Yes, my lady.”

Zara took Istabelle’s arm, and lead her down the hall. 

“Come, now, I'm sure you are very hungry. And you will have the chance to meet everyone, properly this time, now that you've rested. Not that many people,” she added, quickly, seeing the panic flicker across Istabelle’s face. 

“That will be nice,” Istabelle said, internally scolding herself for letting her emotions play across her face so clearly. She must not show any fear. She must be strong.

She allowed herself to be towed through the drafty stone passages of the castle. As they walked, Istabelle stole glances at Zara. So, this was one of Kalnyakov’s witch Omegas that the others had been so frightened of. Her eyes were a pale, hazy gray, not yellow, and showed no signs of turning anything to stone or ash with a glance. Her hands, though rough, were clean and well made, not black and twisted claws. 

And yet… there was something distinctly, unsettlingly un-Omegalike about her that Istabelle could not quite put into words. She moved confidently and gracefully, her back straight and her strides decorously measured— well, that was to be expected, she was of noble birth (as noble as a Kalnyakovi could be). But there was something more than that. There was an…openness to her. She carried herself as though there was nothing about her that ought to be hidden. And when an Alpha male in chain mail passed them going the opposite way, she did not lower her eyes meekly, but rather nodded to him and smiled! 

Perhaps she did have some strange, unnatural power after all, that she felt she was able to comport herself so.

“Istabelle,” Zara said, interrupting her thoughts, “You have received my nephew's gift, haven't you? That he sent with Patrov?”

  “The— oh, yes,” Istabelle said, forcing her voice to stay controlled and pleasant. “The book. It was…very beautiful. I must thank him.” 

Zara smiled and nodded. “That's good. Now, I would like to also give you a gift.” 

She took something out of the leather bag at her hip, a small white bundle.  

Istabelle felt her stomach turn over. 

Zara unrolled the scarf carefully. 

“It is the custom here,” she said, “that an Omega's collar should be covered. It prevents the distraction of others— it reminds them of our duties, which we should not be disturbed in.” 

Duties?

Istabelle forced herself to hold still as Zara, like a solicitous hangman with his rope, draped the scarf around her neck, wrapping it around her twice and adjusting it so its folds covered her collar and its long tails hung down her front. She must have actually succeeded in keeping the horror off of her face this time, because Zara smiled approvingly at her when she was done. 

“There. Now you are ready.”

Ready for what? What duties? Summoning dark spirits? Placating demons? 

“Thank you,” Istabelle said, the back of her throat tight and dry. “I am very grateful for such a kindness.”

Zara touched her shoulder lightly. “It was mine, when I was your age,” she said, in a much softer voice. “It makes me happy, that now there is someone to wear it again.” 

Before Istabelle could think how to respond to this, Zara was walking again. Istabelle stumbled after her, cringing at the feeling of the ends of the scarf swaying against her body.

Around another corner— Saints, this place was a maze, how would she ever learn to find her way about? —and then there was another door before them, and oh, no, Istabelle could see the tables full of people, just like last night, waiting… 

Sick with dread, she followed Zara into the hall. 

← Previous Chapter | Start | Next Chapter →

[pecancrunch]

The Omega and the Tigress: Chapter 7

Read on Archive of Our Own here or below the cut!

The long hall echoed with voices. The windows were open now, letting in shafts of the late morning sunlight, and the place was less of a smokey cave. Just like last night, the long tables had many people at them, dressed in the furs and bright colors that Istabelle was coming to recognize as typical here. 

Conversations ended and heads turned as she entered with Zara, and once more, Istabelle longed for her cloak—  this time, for the extra protection it would have offered against the many eyes suddenly upon her. 

Balanav was seated at the head of the far table. As they approached, he looked up, and for a moment, he looked almost frightened to see her, his eyes wide and startled. Then he stood and his expression shifted so quickly to a warm, welcoming smile that Istabelle wondered if she had imagined that first flicker of panic. 

He was wearing a different, less ornate tunic today, and his cape was dark blue wool. His face was as she remembered— young, not unpleasant. He carried himself like Zara, back perfectly straight, strides smooth and graceful as he closed the distance between them. Istabelle forced a smile back, and bowed. 

From somewhere across the room, there was a scoff. Balanav seemed slightly perplexed, but touched her hand gently as he reached her. He and Zara had the same slightly dreamy gray eyes. 

“Lady Istabelle,” he said. His voice wasn’t deep— of course it wasn't, he was a Beta— but there was a resonance to it that was almost musical. “Good morning. I hope you were finally able to rest well, last night.” 

“Yes, I did,” Istabelle said, trying to temper her own voice with the appropriate pleasing meekness. “Thank you for your concern.” Better to try to keep him happy, for now. 

“I'm glad to hear it,” he said. He gently nudged her forward to the aisle in between the tables, where small clusters of people were queuing up.

Oh, Saints, just keep smiling, just keep smiling… 

“Lady Istabelle,” he said, still facing her but projecting to the whole hall now. “Long have I awaited this moment. It is with the greatest of joys that we receive you here. As Lord of the Mountain Balanav, it is the highest honor to be chosen to enter into a union that will be a symbol of peace and hope for us all. Let all our desires now be for friendship between our peoples.”

He spoke like the supreme Lord of the Mountain, like a nobleman. His words were smooth, clear. His warm, resonant voice conveyed confidence, assurance, joy, gentle authority. His smile was calm, but his eyes conveyed the brightness of a more personal pleasure. 

It repulsed Istabelle utterly. 

Prince Tiran, the King's younger brother, had sounded like that, when he had spoken to them so beautifully and movingly before their departure. Words and movements and shifts of facial expression practiced over and over in the mirror, performances polished to perfection until the actor could repeat them without a single thought, like one of the miraculous automatons crafted by the artisans of the river countries far to the west. Flawless and meaningless. 

The pressure of their audience's eyes increased.

“My lord, the greatest honor is mine,” Istabelle managed to get out. “Of course— of course my own feelings are the same.” 

Balanav nodded and touched her hand again.

“Istabelle,” he went on, “There are some people I would like to introduce you to.”

Smiling still, he turned and gestured encouragingly to the first group in the line. 

“Lady Faenia,” Balanav said. “Keeper of the hives.” 

They came forward, lead by a small, wrinkled Omega female, who approached with the aid of a carved walking stick and a male Omega about Istabelle’s age, whom she gripped tightly by the arm. She wore a long green robe, embroidered with flowers and bees. She looked Istabelle up and down austerely. 

Istabelle looked back in confusion. Had the toll of the war being so terrible here that was no capable Alpha or Beta left to head this family? But here, now, there were two Alphas, in the back, and the female of the pair couldn't be much older than this Omega in front. Why was she not leading them? 

The group bowed to her and Balanav as one, the old woman slowly and stiffly. 

“My lady,” Lady Faenia said, in a crackly voice, “May the hives prosper under your favor.”

 She flicked a wrinkled hand at one of her entourage, who stepped forward with a small wooden box and held it out. 

There was a long pause.

“Istabelle,” whispered Balanav urgently, touching the small of her back.

 Istabelle realized what he was trying to get her to do and stumbled forward to take the box. She looked back at Balanav, and he looked down at the box, and then back at her. She could feel all the eyes in the room drilling into her.

 Her hands were shaking again as she opened the box, slowly. Nestled inside on a bed of dried flowers and grasses were a candle of golden beeswax and a small stoppered clay jar that Istabelle thought must hold honey.

“Thank—” Her voice cracked dryly. “Thank you,” she tried again, and this time it came out as a hoarse whisper.

“Thank you, Faenia,” Balanav cut in, loudly. “I'm sure the hives will indeed prosper under your skilled hands”

  He took the box from Istabelle and passed it back to Zara, who was standing behind them. Faenia bowed again, cast an obviously contemptuous glance at Istabelle, and shuffled back down the aisle, the others following her.

Istabelle’s face was burning in embarrassment, and the back of her throat was tight with anger.

Did it not occur to you, to tell me the role I was to play in your silly rituals? Or was it intentional, and you wanted me to look like a fool?

No, no, she must get a hold of herself. She was more than equal to this. A childhood of Mother's strict tutelage, and years of whispers and sideways glances in the Small Court, had rendered her more than prepared for moments like these. If they wanted to play silly games, then fine, they would play silly games. 

She carefully smoothed her face back into a serene smile as the next group approached— this time led by a heavyset man with a full dark beard. But he was only slightly taller than Balanav— surely this wasn’t another Beta? 

“Capavra,” Balanav said, “Keeper of the Southern shoulder.” 

The man bowed, not as low. “My lady. May the orchards provide sweet fruit for you.” 

This time, Istabelle was ready, and accepted his box with a gracious nod. Inside was the twig of an apple tree, buds still green and tightly furled between its leaves.

“Thank you,” she said, firmly and clearly. “I am sure thanks to you, their branches will soon be full.” 

Beside her, she felt Balanav relax slightly. 

Oh, make up your mind, you bastard. 

One by one, the little clusters of people approached her, bowed, offered her their own boxes, their own gifts. A piece of fine-grained leather. A polished, green-banded stone. A sheaf of wheat. 

May the herds be strong and healthy under your gaze, my lady. May the fruits of the mine delight your eyes. May the fields nourish you well. 

She was sensing the pattern now— perhaps all of these people were here as representatives of whatever Kalnyakov had for guilds and land-holders. They were pledging their allegiance but also demonstrating their products to her. 

And yet, every party seemed to be led by either a Beta or an Omega. Perhaps this affair was less formal than she understood, and the Alpha heads of house had stayed at home, unwilling to be troubled to come up to the castle. Perhaps it might even be some sort of snub against the foreigner that had been pressed upon them— certainly, the envoys all seemed quite frosty. Not a single one so far had smiled back at her. 

Istabelle was abruptly aware of Balanav tensing up beside her. 

“Lord Islilav, Keeper of the Eastern shoulder.” For the first time, his perfect voice had to barely perceptible catch in it, and his steady smile was looking slightly stiff. 

The Kalnyakovi who led the final approaching group was a tall, gray-bearded and -haired male in a long blue cape. He bowed to her quickly and jerkily. Another Beta, Istabelle guessed, judging by his slender build. 

“Lady Istabelle,” he said, “May the fabric of the looms keep you always warm and lovely.” His voice was clipped and his eyes were cold,  like the others before him, but Istabelle thought that by the tension in his brows and jawline that he was fighting to keep a look of actual outright anger off his face. 

“Thank you,” Istabelle said. As she reached for the box, she glanced at the party accompanying him. Clustered behind him were three Omega females that, judging by their faces, could only be his daughters. Istabelle’s eyes met those of the oldest, a girl about her own age, with long, shining blonde hair.

Her father had been cold, but she was giving Istabelle a poisonous glare better suited to a viper. 

Suddenly clumsy again with unpleasant surprise, she nearly dropped the box as she opened it. Inside was a piece of pale green linen fabric, neatly pressed and folded, its texture even and fine. 

“Thank you,” she repeated. “I—”

Without waiting for her to finish her reply, he bowed again, and departed back to his place at the table, the rest of his group trailing obediently behind him. The blonde daughter shot Istabelle a final, nasty look over her shoulder. Somewhere in the back of the hall, someone tittered quietly. 

Balanav cleared his throat, awkwardly. Oh, Saints, they still weren't done, here came more people. 

“Helenei, Keeper of the keys.”

This was a slender Beta  perhaps a bit older than Zara, in a floor-length dress decorated with twining vines and birds. She did indeed have, at her belt, a huge ring of many keys that chimed together as she bowed deeply to Istabelle.

“My lady,” she said, “It is an honor to serve. May you and the Lord Balanav be blessed with every happiness. If there is anything you should wish, do not hesitate to speak to me.”

“Thank you,” Istabelle said. She supposed from the title that this woman must be some sort of senechal, overseeing the running of the house. 

“You've already met Patrov,” Balanav said, as the old man approached. He was wearing the elaborately painted armor that he had on the border bridge, the twining flowers gleaming brightly against the dark metal, and his sword at his belt. He did not meet Isabelle's eye, but she saw a smile flicker around the edges of his lips as he bowed deeply to her.

 “Your ladyship,” he said, “My sword is old and rusty, and not much good for defending you anymore. But I will do my best to pass on my knowledge to the young ones in the guard, so that they may keep you from all harm.”

 “Thank you,” Istabelle said, feeling a slightly more genuine smile come to her lips at the site of a familiar face. “I am sure you will.” 

“And this is Ranna, my Captain.” 

For a moment, Istabelle did not recognize the tall, broad-shouldered Alpha that stepped up to her, clad in that strangely decorated armor. Then she knelt and bowed her head, and Istabelle saw the ragged white scars peeking out from underneath the collar of her tunic. 

Istabelle felt her breath catch in her throat. The Alpha from the bathhouse, but now up close. Too close. She could smell her, the musk-and-spice scent of her body curling its way into her nose. Like the other Kalnyakovi Alphas, her scent glands were covered, yet it was still so strong. 

Ranna glanced upward at Istabelle, through her dark blonde hair. Their eyes met. 

Once, when Istabelle was a child, they had visited the capital and the Great Court, and Mother had taken her to the menagerie there. In a bronze cage she had seen a great spotted cat, a leopard from the strange hot lands of the far South beyond the Green Sea. It had been resting quietly, curled up in a corner, but as she stomped eagerly up to the bars to look at it, its head snapped up and around to stare directly at her. She remembered how she had felt its gaze like a physical force, a razor-edged dart that pierced and transfixed her. Despite the power of its eyes there was a curious flat blankness to them, as though they were merely stone caps placed over the holes in its skull to stop the wildness within from leaking out. 

Until this moment, Istabelle had not known that it was possible for a human to have eyes like that. 

Her irises were hazel, the right slightly greener than the left. 

Ranna blinked, and looked down again, quickly, in almost a flinch. The moment had lasted less than a second. 

“My lord, my lady,” she said. Her voice was low, slightly hoarse. “May this sword protect your mountain.” 

Istabelle’s words caught dryly in her throat again. “Th…”

“Thank you, Ranna,” Balanav said. “I am certain that it will, if you are wielding it.” 

Ranna rose, bowed again, and then walked back down the aisle. 

Istabelle forced herself to let out the breath she realized she had been holding slowly and unnoticeably. 

There were a few more people after that— Tatra, the Beta female that had helped to bring her here, who bowed and also swore to protect her, a few others— flustered, Istabelle smiled and thanked them automatically. At last, the line was exhausted. 

Now, Lady Zara, who had been standing behind them, taking the boxes and handing them off to another servant, stepped around Istabelle and bowed to her. 

“My lady,” she said, gently, gesturing to Istabelle’s scarf, “You have already received my gift. Consider it a promise that I will do my best to aid you and teach you all that you should know.” 

“You honor me, your ladyship,” Istabelle said. “I will strive my hardest to learn well, and bring pride to you and Lord Balanav.”

From somewhere along the tables, there were murmurs, and another faint scoff. Istabelle ignored them grimly. 

Now, Balanav himself touched her elbow lightly and then stepped in front of her. He sank to one knee and took her hand gently. If it was his turn, it meant it was almost over, right?

“My lady,” he said,“In addition to this new peace between our countries, as your mate, let my gift to you be the promise that I will strive always for your happiness.” 

She wanted to yank her hand away and strike him.

Is that how you flatter yourself, my lord? A symbol of peace? my loving mate instead of my jailer?

She smiled, warmly, worshipfully, reminding herself to let her eyes smile too, to tilt her head slightly. Oh yes, she could be perfectly rehearsed as well.

“My lord,” she said, “The greatest honor is mine. I also wish only for peace and happiness between our countries, and to serve and delight you all our days.” 

There was another little sound of contempt, somewhere in the hall, but she didn't care, because finally, Balanav was standing up and it was over. 

He smiled and bowed slightly to the rest of the hall, then turned back to Istabelle and took her hand again. “I'm sure you're hungry. Shall we eat now?”

Istabelle allowed herself to be led to the head of the left table. 

The meal was served on great earthenware platters— roasted chicken covered in a thick creamy sauce, tinted green with herbs, all piled around with carrots and some other root that Istabelle didn't recognize. 

Zara, still standing at the head of the table, smiled and held out her arms.

“There is no need for a long prayer to list our blessings when they are so clearly visible to us now. The Goddess is good, that is all that I must say.” She sat down. 

Balanav carefully carved a slice from the breast and placed it on her plate, then held out the knife to her, handle first. 

She took the knife and clumsily sheared off another slice, and delivered it to his plate. This seemed to be the correct response, because he smiled and nodded at her. 

The wine was passed around. Balanav filled her cup, and then held the jug out to her. Quicker this time, she took it, and did the same for him. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw Zara visibly relax. 

Istabelle forced herself to eat and drink instead of throwing her cup across the room. 

The food was pleasant enough, the minty sauce pairing well with the  richness of the chicken. The vegetables were tender and generously salted. The wine was sweet. Istabelle cast surreptitious glances at Balanav and Zara as she ate, in case they were any more rules she didn't know, some special way she ought to be holding her knife or something, but they seemed to just be eating. Thankfully, no one tried to speak to he— 

“The spring has been an uncommonly warm one,” Zara said from across the table, smiling at her. “Perhaps it is a good omen, yes? The garden is already starting to bloom all over now. The bees are out. Baran, you should show her, when the meal is done.”

Balanav touched her hand lightly. “Would you like that, my lady?”

“Of course,” Istabelle said. “I would be delighted.”

The meal was duly consumed. Istabelle remained sitting, awkwardly, as Balanav bid farewell to the guests as they slowly exited the hall. The servants began to clear the tables.

“You will excuse me,” Zara said. “Many things require my attention this afternoon.”

What? No! Don’t leave me alone with him! What are you doing?

Balanav held out his arm to her.

“Shall we?”

Istabelle took it with a gracious smile.

“Of course, my lord.”

Do I have a choice?

***

Istabelle wasn't quite sure what she was expecting, but what she got was nothing like the formal gardens of the Small Court— this rambling walled plot more resembled a kitchen garden. There were no hedges or rose bushes, just paths of flat stones winding their way in between the jumbled beds. The bright new shoots of spring emerged from the tangled brown twigs of last year’s growth. Some flowers were already blooming— white, blue, yellow. 

“My lady, was the meal to your liking?” Balanav asked as they walked.

“Yes,” Istabelle replied, “Certainly. Very nice.” Which was not entirely a lie.

“I am pleased to hear it. I hope that all of the food here shall be equally pleasing too you. 

“The gifts were pleasant, as well, were they not?” he went on. “Of course, they were merely tokens. Promises. There will be more formal tribute when we…are…wed…” He sighed heavily, and his shoulders slumped. “Oh, Lady Istabelle, I'm sorry.” 

Istabelle’s paroxysm of dread at the mention of wed was abruptly interrupted by this last. She looked at him in disbelief, and found that he was looking back at her with a tired, helpless expression. 

“I'm sorry,” he repeated, shaking his head. “Please believe me when I say that I did not mean for you to be embarrassed, I thought Zara or someone else would have explained…”

He paused and gestured to a little stone bench set up against the wall of the garden. “Please, let's sit.”

  She followed him to it and sat, feeling very out of balance. This was not what she expected at all. Balanav stared down at his hands for a long moment, and then nervously plucked at one of the plants that was blooming next to them, a little shrub with pointed pink buds. 

“Istabelle,” he said, at last, “I did want to apologize to you.”

“Apologize?” She couldn’t keep the bafflement out of her voice.

“Yes, I...” He shook his head again. “I know this must have been so hard for you, coming here all alone, plucked from your home and family and transported here with so little warning, to be expected to start over where everything is strange and new. I know if I were in your place… well, I think I would be quite inconsolable.” He gave a little humorless laugh, still not looking at her.

“Istabelle…” he said, after a pause, “Did you like the book?”

“It was beautiful,” Istabelle said, carefully. “Pony said it was traditional.” 

“Yes. I went back and forth, on whether I ought to send it. Because, well, I thought it might be…too strong. I know things are already decided, I know it's all… politics, but it's not how things are done here in the North. An Omega ought to be given enough time to think things over. To choose. I would like to give you time to settle in. And I would like to… come to know you better.” At last he looked at her. “Istabelle, what I want to say is, now that you are here — will you give me the privilege of courting you properly?” 

Istabelle studied his face, searching for some hint of deception, some trick. But the gray eyes that searched across her own face in return flickered back and forth nervously, and held none of their previous, practiced confidence. His mouth was a thin line, not a serene smile. His body was curled in on itself with tension. He was not the Lord of the Mountain, now, just an anxious young man. 

“All right,” she said, quietly. “If you would like that.”

His smile— a real smile, this time— returned, and his shoulders relaxed in apparent relief. “I would. Very much.” 

He pressed the flower into her hand, gently.

“Here. To start.” 

She spread the pink petals with her thumb, and found that their inner surface had a dusting of soft purple freckles. 

“Cat's tongue,” Balanav said.

 “What?”

  “The name of the flower. Cat's tongue.” He gave her another shy smile, and gestured to the garden. “This is Zara’s kingdom, here, but I know a little bit. Well,” he added apologetically, “I'm sure you know much yourself.”

Istabelle looked out across the mass of plants.

“Not really. I think those are peonies, coming in there, and that's about it.”

Balanav stood, and offered her his arm again. They walked slowly down the lanes between the beds. 

“Bitter mint, swan's head, white tanra…” He pointed at plant after plant.

Here and there, a few enterprising bees buzzed over what was blooming. In the trees, birds chirped back and forth.

Against the back wall crouched a large, spreading tangle. It looked like a thistle, its gray-green leaves bristling with long spines, but its flower heads seemed to be going to seed already. Instead of gauzy white, the thistledown was a deep, brilliant gold. Istabelle reached out and pulled a clump from one of the heads. Its soft filaments shimmered iridescently even in the thin sunlight making its way through the clouds. 

“That,” said Balanav, “Is the spring thistle. It's always the first to bloom.”

Istabelle rubbed the down between her fingers for a few moments, and then opened her hand and let the wind pick it up and carry it away.

***

Istabelle, seated at the little washstand in her room, pulled the wooden comb through her hair slowly and carefully. She had exceeded the hundred strokes that Mother had always recommended, but it was better than pacing the floor like a restless child. 

That had been…whatever it had been.

The memory of all those eyes staring expectantly at her as she made her mistakes pressed upon her uninvited. She winced and exhaled forcefully, trying to expel the echoes of that burning humiliation. 

At least, she thought, trying to comfort herself, that first stumble had been all the show she had given them.  No complete panic, no tears. Her years in the Small Court after Father's death, as miserable as they had sometimes been, had at least been a good education in that regard.

Keep your head up, eyes forward, and always smile. 

Besides, the envoys that had presented themselves to her would have certainly still been just as cold even if she had performed flawlessly. As they were her ancient enemies, so she was theirs. They would never come to love her. Well, she did not feel much love for them either, so that was all right. She could make herself equal to them— be just as cold and hard. They would never see her weep. 

Would they?

The comb slowed. 

The fear gnawed quietly at the back of her brain. Could she make herself strong enough? Or would she be worn down, year by year, by the cruel eyes of the Kalnyakovis, by the cold and rain of their dark forests, by the hands of Lord Balanav? 

Balanav…

Beside the basin, the pink flower that he had given her rested at the corner of her vision. Here in the still indoor air, she thought she could just barely perceive a sweet perfume wafting slowly up from its gently wilting petals. 

“Istabelle, I wanted to apologize.” 

“Allow me the privilege of courting you properly.”

Apologize. Court me properly. Well, let him, then, if it makes him feel so good. Let him pride himself on how kind he's being to me. Let him flatter himself that he is a fine nobleman, instead of a barbarian jailer. An Omega must strive to please her mate, it is said. Ha! Some mate, a skinny Beta with soft hands. He merely seeks to hide his weakness. 

She raised her own hand up to slap it down on the flower and smear it across the wood of the vanity. Then, after a moment, she lowered it again. 

In her mind's eye, she saw Balanav’s face as he had spoken to her. She saw him on the garden bench, his tired, slumped shoulders, and heard the worry in his voice.

She should be angry, she knew. She should hate him. She was angry at herself for not being as angry as she should, and she hated herself for not hating him as she should. Was she not a traitor, in not doing so? 

He was not anything that she had ever longed for. How could he be? He was no good Valanais prince, with proud eyes and strong arms and forty green fields. He was not even an Alpha— he must truly be the last of his sire’s line, if he had been permitted to inherit the rulership of this place. 

Yet, neither was he precisely what she had dreaded. Beneath the stoic, serene bearing of the Lord of the mountain he had seemed…frightened. He was only one year older than she, Patrov had said. And yet the burden of ruling this place had apparently already been placed entirely upon his shoulders. To have to bear that, after the loss of his parents as well… 

Frightened and alone– perhaps we are not so different after all, whispered the voice of Istabelle, the traitor. 

Perhaps he had really meant what he said, in the garden. 

Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad here.

Now that was a truly terrifying thought. 

Istabelle ground the heels of her hands into her temples, as though she could squeeze out her brain like a sponge and have a moment of peace from the arguments going on inside it. She considered crawling back into bed and pulling the blankets over her head. But no, that wouldn't do. She had told herself that she would be strong. 

Instead, she set the comb down and walked to the open window, perched herself on the stone sill. The cold wind stirred her hair slightly as she gazed out across the side of the mountain. 

In traveling back and forth through winding corridors and twisting staircases, she had become hopelessly turned around, but now she knew that her room must face the South, because from the window she could see the open yard in front of the castle gate that she recalled from last night. She could also see over the trees beyond it and down into the town below the castle. She was surprised to see that it was a true, good-sized town— she had been expecting a small, rotting, ramshackle village. Even from here, there were more houses than she could count in a glance, many two-storied, and some of them even looked like they had slate roofs instead of thatch.

The sun was out now, and Istabelle could see the individual streams of smoke rising from the chimneys, drifting sideways in the wind. It was past midday; if there were fields around here the workers would have had their meals and their rest, and now would be carrying on with their labor, planting and tending… whatever they had for food here. Well, now she knew that there were apples and carrots, at least, and chickens, and cows, or more of those strange long-haired goats. Maybe flax, too. Or was it too cold here?

 Truly, I know so little of this place. I understand the language, but nothing else. 

 Very faintly, voices drifted up to her. Leaning a bit farther out of the window, Istabelle could see down into a little bit of the courtyard, where two people stood talking. 

That robe, that dress… Istabelle felt a little frisson of disquiet as she recognized them from this morning. It was the Lord Isillav, who had seemed to make Balanav so upset, speaking to his daughter, the girl that had looked at Istabelle with such hatred. The wind blew back her long yellow hair, which shone in the sun.

No discernable words reached all the way up to the window, but they looked as though they must be arguing— the girl stamped her foot and gestured emphatically behind her, while the Lord shook his head furiously. Abruptly, the blonde girl turned and stomped out of sight. After a moment, her father followed her. Perhaps they were going back into town. That would be a relief, to know that she would not encounter them in the castle unexpectedly— not when her presence seemed to anger both of them so, more than any of the others she had been presented to.

The wind was really picking up now, buffeting her face more roughly and sending the pale clouds scurrying across the sky. Istabelle watched the trees toss back and forth. 

Another, more distant movement caught her eye. Towards the southwest, running horizontally along the slope of the mountain rather than down it, a sliver of another trail through the trees was just visible. Moving in and out of cover was a tall, broad-shouldered figure on a dark horse. Istabelle felt a faint stir at the back of her neck.

Ranna…

At this distance, she could barely make out the color of the stranger’s hair, yet somehow she was sure it was her. She watched until horse and rider vanished into the cover of the trees. 

Thinking of the Alpha, the scars scrawled across her body, her strange animal eyes, Istabelle shivered a little. Now, that was a creature in the shape of her darkest fears. To survive all of those wounds spoke of a truly monstrous strength. 

I suppose it could always be worse. I could be betrothed to something like that .

But I wonder why—

There was a knock at the door. She jumped, and quickly slid down off the window sill. 

“Yes?” she called uncertainly.

“Your ladyship?” called a woman's voice. “It is I, Helenei, the keeper of the keys. May I come in?” 

Istabelle squeezed her eyes shut tight for a moment, then took a deep breath and straightened her skirts. 

“Yes, please do.” 

The door opened, and the older Beta Istabelle had met in the hall entered the room, the keys at her belt clinking. An Omega, a much younger male with long brown hair braided down his back, trailed after her. They both bowed to her, the boy slightly lower. 

“Your ladyship—” Helenei began. For half a second, Istabelle saw her eyes dart to the bed, where the white scarf lay after she had ripped it off and thrown it aside as soon as the door closed behind her. Her lips twitched slightly. Then she seemed to gather herself and smiled as she straightened up. 

“Are you well, your ladyship? I was worried you might still be tired from your journey.” 

“I am well, thank you,” Istabelle replied, forcing a smile in return. “The bath this morning was very welcome, and with the meal I am now very refreshed.” 

Helenei nodded approvingly. “That is good to hear. 

“Ah…Istabelle,” she continued, “If you'll excuse me, I took the liberty of telling Masha to unpack your things while you were at the meal.” She gestured to the wardrobe of dark wood, covered in the usual painted carvings, by the head of the bed. “She mentioned you did not have any trousers or boots. If you will allow it, I have been told to have you measured now, so that they might be made for you, and some new dresses and coats and other things as well if that would please you.” 

Istabelle’s chest tightened miserably. So it was to be as she and the other Omegas had feared— she would not be permitted her own clothes after all. The Kalnyakovs would dress her as one of them, in those strange gaudy swirls of color and dark heavy furs.

Istabelle bowed her head slightly to hide any waver in her smile.

“Oh, yes, of course.” 

Helenei nudged the boy forward and she stood, rigidly, as he moved around her with a leather tape, first wrapping it around her waist, then taking the measure of her shoulders, from her shoulders to her waist, then the length of her arms, and then crouching down to do the same for her legs and then her feet. 

She glanced surreptitiously at him. He was dressed in a much plainer version of what the Kalnyakovi Omegas had worn at the border fort— a long-sleeved tunic of pale brown, over a pair of long loose trousers in a darker shade. The tunic had geese and little curly leaves embroidered in white and green across the chest. Leather shoes laced up tight. And around his neck, the long white scarf, like the one she had been given. Would her new clothes be similar? She had not worn anything other than skirts since childhood. 

If Mother could see me she’d weep— 

No. No, she must not risk her own tears by thinking of Mother, not in front of these people. She bit the inside of her cheek and focused very hard on the details of the stone wall opposite her. 

“The taylor and the cobbler work quickly,” Helenei said. “I will tell them to prioritize the trousers and boots.”

“Thank you,” Istabelle repeated. “That is—” Her voice caught, and she swallowed. “Please tell his lordship that this is most generous of him.” 

“Oh, this was at the request of Lady Zara,” Helenei said blithely. “Of course she is very eager to learn more about you. She mentioned to me that she wishes to meet with you tomorrow. There are many things she wishes to discuss” 

Oh, Saints. She caught the look of horror before it made it to her face, but it was a close thing. 

“I see. In that case, please extend my gratitude to her as well.” 

 “Of course. Your ladyship, is there anything else that you desire? I am the caretaker of his lordship’s house; my only wish is that you should be happy and content here.”

Tell me what's going to happen tomorrow. Tell me just what Lady Zara wants to discuss with me! 

“No, thank you, I am very comfortable.” 

The boy was rolling up his measuring tape. Helenei bowed again.

“In that case, I will take my leave of you. If there is anything you should want, you may call for Masha. Good day, my lady.”

“Of course. Thank you.”

The boy bobbed a hurried bow as well, and then trotted after Helenei, closing the door behind them. 

Istabelle did not, in the end, crawl back underneath the covers, but as soon as she could no longer hear the footsteps going down the stairs, she did permit herself to fall face-forward onto the bed with a thump. 

← Previous Chapter | Start | Next Chapter →

[pecancrunch]

The Omega and the Tigress: Chapter 8

Read on Archive of Our Own here or below the cut!

The creak of the windows being opened woke Istabelle again. She rolled over with a low groan. 

After Helenei's departure, she had spent the rest of the afternoon  alternating between lying across the bed, feeling strangely heavy and distant, and pacing restlessly, extremities tingling with anxiety. She had tried compose a letter to Mother, some set of vague pleasantries telling her she had arrived safely, but words failed her. Supper had been onion soup with a great chunk of crusty brown bread, brought up to her on a tray by Masha. Then the sun had gone down, and she had crawled into bed one final time and sunk into a shallow, restless sleep. 

She poked her head above the blankets. The light was weak and gray. In the distance, birds sang only sporadically. The air coming in through the window was cold and damp; it must have rained last night.

Masha, meeting her eye, bowed and smiled. She was carrying another tray, on which an earthenware cup of something steamed gently. 

“Good morning, my lady.” 

Istabelle raked the hair back from her face and shuffled herself into a sitting position. 

“What is the hour?”

“Still early, my lady. Please forgive me, but the Lady Zara wishes to speak with you this morning, and she likes to get up with the sun.”

Zara. Istabelle felt her stomach turn over. 

  “Here,” Masha said, handing her the mug. “This will help you wake up.”

Istabelle gave it a cautious sniff. It seemed to be nothing more than an infusion of herbs. She sipped it slowly, feeling its warmth run all the way down from her mouth into her belly. It was bitter, but its edge was blunted with a bit of honey. Hadn't there been a keeper of the hives or some such thing at the meal yesterday? Strange— she had never thought that bees could survive in such a cold, inhospitable place. 

“Once you're done, my lady, I can help you dress,” Masha said, casually. 

The heat of the drink was pleasing, but it wasn't enough to dispel the cold dread that lay coiled in her chest. Istabelle didn't want to be dressed. She didn’t want to get out from the covers, didn't want to face whatever Zara had planned for her today. 

But does that matter?

She was alone here. Zara was an Omega, but she was Balanav’s only surviving relative, and furthermore, one that Patrov had mentioned was a trusted advisor. Istabelle could not afford to make any move that would alienate her, not when she and Balanav were not even mated yet. 

I must stay calm. If I panic I will only make a fool of myself. I must make a pleasing impression upon her— I must do better than yesterday. 

She finished her drink, as slowly as she felt she dared. Then, with a deep breath, she pushed back the covers and rose from the bed. The way the wet chill in the air washed over her skin reminded her unpleasantly of the last morning she had spent within Valanais borders. How long ago it already seemed! She washed her face in the basin, and then allowed herself to be helped into one of her warm wool dresses. Masha combed and braided her hair back, and then laced up Istabelle’s collar.

“A bit tighter,” Istabelle said, “Or it will slip.” 

Masha obeyed, but hesitantly.

“That isn't too tight, is it, my lady?” 

“No, it’s supposed to fit close,” Istabelle said, crisply. Surely, Kanyakovi Omegas wore collars, didn't they? It occurred to her now that she did not know because every single one she had seen so far had been wearing— 

“My lady.”

Masha was holding out the long white scarf to her.

She did not want to wear it. She did not want to feel it on her skin, coiled around her throat like a constricting snake around its prey. She did not want— 

She allowed Masha to wrap it around her neck, and adjust it to cover her collar. Zara must not think her ungrateful for the gift. 

The girl brought her her shoes, and then, at her request, her clogs as well. She wouldn't put it past this place to have leaks big enough to create puddles on the floor. Finally, Masha carefully draped her cloak around her shoulders.

“There we are. Are you ready, my lady?”

No.

“Yes, thank you.”

Masha bowed her head. “Please, follow me, and I will take you to Lady Zara.” 

Back down the winding staircase of the tower, and through the cold, echoing hallways. 

They seem to be following the route they had taken yesterday to the baths, yes, she remembered these walls of older, coarser stone, but instead of continuing straight they went left, down a different passage, which ended at a different door, this one carved with prancing fawns.

Masha gave a light courtesy knock, and then pushed the door open. The hinges creaked loudly. 

Istabelle had assumed that they were headed towards Zara’s own personal quarters, and had been expecting whatever passed for a Omega’s solar in Kalnyakov. But the long, narrow chamber they entered looked more like an alchemist's workshop. Its stone walls were lined with towers of wooden drawers, shelves crowded with bottles and jars filled with murky, unidentifiable substances, and racks from which hung bundles of dried leaves, flowers, and— no, that was not a whole desiccated lizard dangling by its tail, it must be a trick of the light from the lantern overhead. Underneath the many shelves was a long stone table built into the wall; atop it were mortars and pestles of three different sizes and a great wooden chopping block, darkened and scarred with age. Resting on the block was a long iron cleaver, which Istabelle’s eyes quickly shied away from, and next to it, a row of large stoneware jugs. A little hearth smoldered in the corner, sullen embers glowing only faintly. The air was tremendously thick with the pungent scents of dried herbs, smoke, and Saints knew what else. 

Why on Earth had she been brought here? Surely, all of this could not be Lady Zara’s. Or perhaps all the stories about Kalnyakovi Omegas were true. This certainly looked as though it could be the den of a witch. 

Against the other wall was a smaller wooden table, at which the Lady herself sat, scratching away in a massive book bound in cracked, stained leather with a rather bedraggled gray quill. She looked up as they entered. 

“Yes? What is— Oh, is it that late already? Thank you, Masha, that will be all.”

Masha bowed and retreated. The door closed out the light from the hall, plunging the bizarre little room into even deeper gloom. 

Zara set the quill down and turned to face her fully. “Good morning, Istabelle. It is pleasant to see you again.” 

Istabelle curtseyed deeply. “Your ladyship.”

Zara waved her hand dismissively. “Please, there is no need for that. To you, I am Zara.” Zara gestured to a second wooden stool at the table.

 “Please, sit. I was just updating the records.” 

Istabelle pulled the stool out and perched carefully. Sit up straight. Relax your shoulders. You are surely being tested.

“I hope that you are feeling well and rested this morning,” Zara said. 

“I am, thank you,” Istabelle replied. Smile. She must get this right. “Very much so. And yourself?”

“Oh, I am perfectly fine. I am glad to see that you have recovered from your long journey. Tatra and Patrov said it was not too difficult, and that the weather held for you.” 

“Yes, there was no trouble at all, for which I am very grateful.” 

“Good, good.” Zara shifted, and Istabelle saw a flicker of discomfort. “Ah, Istabelle… I did want to apologize, for yesterday morning. I should have mentioned what was expected of you. I did not mean for you to be embarrassed.”

 Smile. Did your nephew put you up to that? 

 “Please, your ladyship, do not mention it. It's quite all right.”

“Mm. Well. Still.” She tapped her fingers on her knee for a moment, but then her face softened into a slight smile. “Ah, but Baran told me you did enjoy seeing the garden yesterday.”

“Oh, yes, the garden was lovely. I have never seen one quite like it.”  

Zara’s smile deepened and she nodded approvingly. “I'm glad. You'll come to know it much better as the seasons turn and it starts to truly bloom. I know it shall become a haven and a helpmeet to you, as it has been to me.” 

A very brief hesitation. “Istabelle…on the road, did Tatra speak much to you of Baran and our family?

“Patrov did,” Istabelle said, carefully. “He told me that the former Lord and Lady Balanav are…are very sadly no longer with us.” 

Zara nodded. “This is so. Were the Lady Balanav still alive, she would be the one speaking to you, but she is not, so I do so in her place. As you are to be mated to my nephew, I would like to…learn about you. About what your education has been. What skills you may possess.”

Ah, I see, Istabelle thought. She wants to see if her boy has gotten a good bargain. That, at least, is familiar. 

“I am skilled in making arrangements for the table and altar,” she said. “My voice is well-trained, and I am well-versed in many instruments, especially the lute and hand-harp.”

There was another, slightly longer hesitation. For a moment Zara’s smile seemed to flicker slightly.

“Well, that is lovely, but I speak of more…practical skills.” 

“I can read, and write, in Valanais and Kalnyakovi, and do sums as well, keep accounts,” Istabelle replied, trying to think of what else Zara wanted to hear. “I can sew and embroider…”

Oh, the smile was definitely flagging now, taking on a strained quality.

“I see. That is… those are good things to know, certainly. Can you ride?”

“Oh, yes,” Istabelle said quickly. At a walk, on the smooth, manicured grounds of the Small Court, but Zara did not need to know that qualifier. 

A little nod of approval at that, at least, thank the Saints. “Well, that is good.” 

Zara picked at the end of her scarf for a moment. She cast her eyes around the room, and her lips moved as she spoke to herself silently. Then she seemed to come back to herself with a little shake, and she smiled at Istabelle again, this time a bit too brightly to be believable

 “As for the rest, well, there is no reason that you cannot learn. We can make a start of it today, now that the rain is stopped.” She stood, and took a cloak from a hook on the wall, and then a basket from beneath the stone table. Rolling back and forth within it were two long, polished sticks, their ends carved into forks. “You're dressed warmly, yes? Have you any cl— oh, you’re wearing them, how silly of me to not notice. Well, just follow me, then.” 

The rest of what? Istabelle snapped internally. Will no one here tell me just what they mean? What more do you want from me? Are you disappointed I don't know any wicked spells? 

At the end of the long chamber were three doors; Zara lead them out of the one on the left, and Istabelle found herself in the garden once more. 

The birds called back and forth tentatively beneath the dull gray sky. The  plants crowding the beds of the gardens were still covered in raindrops. Beneath the stalks and leaves of their taller companions, pale little violets were blooming, gleaming like tiny stars amongst the grim cast of this wet morning. 

“This way.” Zara turned down one of the winding stone paths, and Istabelle followed her. 

Her position, obediently trailing a few paces after the older Omega, stirred an uncomfortable sense of familiarity. As a very young child, when Father still held their land, she would walk with Mother through the gardens, following her as she carefully clipped a rose here, a sprig of lavender there, a delicate curl of ivy, a fat cluster of dark, glistening grapes. Then together they would carry such riches into the main hall of the great house, to arrange on the high table. When the periwinkle or the honeysuckle was blooming, Mother would weave it into crowns for them, or braid it into their hair. 

“The finest flower of an Alpha’s land is his Omega and his children. With this, we show everyone how beautifully he has made his land blossom.”

Could it be that, in spite of all the other strangeness, a similar custom was observed here? 

But Zara walked past the violets, a cluster of delicate snowdrops, the pleasingly bright green buds of the other plants, with hardly a glance. Instead, they followed the path back to the far wall, where there was a little wicket gate that had been obscured by some of the larger shrubs.

Perhaps she desires some wildflower that grows beyond the garden. 

Zara lifted the latch and then put her shoulder to the door and shoved in a most inelegant manner. 

 “It always sticks in the damp,” she grunted. “Must tell the carpenter to come and take her plane to it again— there!” 

The door scraped open, and Istabelle followed her through. They emerged outside of the boundaries of the castle, before the edge of the trees. To their right was a tumble of large rocks through which wound a gravely stream bed, dry except for a thin trickle of muddy water no wider than a finger. The stream led into the small, deep pond before them, which, like its tributary, was mostly empty, save for perhaps a foot of stagnant, slimy water at the very bottom. Its sloping banks were thick with the dry brown remains of last year's rushes. 

On the other side of the pond, a dirt track led away into the darkness of the forest. 

“Here. These—” Zara pointed to the rushes— “Are milk-reeds. We want the roots; their juices are very nourishing and excellent for all kinds of sickness. The ground is surely soft enough, as warm as it has been.”

To Istabelle’s surprise, she squatted down and drove one of the sticks into the mud at the base of a clump of reeds, wiggling it back and forth to work it deeper, and then twisted. With a wet sucking sound and a crackle of snapping roots, the entire clump was levered up, revealing a fat, knobbly bulb, like that of an iris. She gave it a brisk shake, scattering clumps of wet earth, then dropped it into the basket.

“There, you see? You can take the other stick and help.

“Come now, girl, it isn't difficult,” she added, as Istabelle hesitated. “We must get to it.” 

What, rooting around in the cold mud like a truffle pig? Istabelle thought. But what she said was, “My lady… wouldn't it be a bit easier and more pleasant to wait for the sun to come out and dry the ground somewhat? Surely in the meantime there is some other—” 

“No, we must harvest them now,” Zara said firmly, as she began to work the stick into the ground again. “It has been such a warm and early spring that soon the snow and ice on top of the mountain will melt and feed the stream, and the pond will be filled up and make this a task better suited to ducks. Furthermore, once the milk-reeds are submerged, they will begin to put out new blades, and bloom, and the roots will be used up like the fat of a sleeping bear and therefore be no use to us at all.” She pulled her quarry free, and then looked up at Istabelle. “Istabelle…I understand that our ways may be very different from each other. But as the Lord Balanav’s mate, there will be many duties that are expected of you. And with his dam-mother gone, it falls upon me to teach you—”

“Your ladyship!”

Istabelle jumped and they both looked up at the shout. A Beta woman, wide-eyed with panic, had stumbled through the gate.

“Your ladyship— it’s Cazyr— his water has broken—”

Zara straightened up with a frown. “Already?”

“Yes, my lady— I sent the boy down to fetch Father from town— please—”

 “All right, all right, I'm coming,” Zara said quickly, a hint of anxiety on her own face now. “Ah—” She handed Istabelle the digging stick. “Here, this still needs to be done. And Cazyr may have need of them. Fill the basket, and bring it back to the storage room. If the Goddess is good I will return to you quickly.” 

“But—”

Before Istabelle could voice any protest, Zara hurried after the woman through the door, and was gone.

Istabelle stood in disbelief for a long moment, holding the stick. The wind stirred the trees, scattering icy droplets across the back of her neck.

She considered going back through the gate after Zara. She did not want to be alone here, unguarded, with the gnarled trees of the dark forest looming over her. 

But she gave me a task to do. Perhaps…this is intentional. Perhaps it is all part of a test. She wishes to see how I will respond when she is not watching. 

What was the correct way forward? A proper high-born lady would not choose to dirty herself with harvesting vegetables, she thought. On the other hand, a proper Omega would meekly obey what commands were given to her. 

After a brief span of contemplation, Istabelle decided that “meek and obedient” was probably the safer bet in this situation. Did not Saint Alara of Aveignia humbly dig for fodder for her mate's flock with her bare hands, even as the wolves tore at her clothes and— oh, no, no, don’t think of wolves right now. I just need to fill the basket, and then I can go back inside.

She squatted down, very carefully, tucking her skirts and the end of her cloak into the crook of her knees. Gripping the stick awkwardly, she drove it into the ground at the base of one of the reeds, leaning forward to put her weight behind it. It sank into the dirt easily, and she twisted the stick back, as Zara had done. 

The reeds tore away from the bulb as she pulled it from the earth. It had been split near in half by her ill-positioned strike, and was now oozing a milky yellow goo. She dropped it in disgust. 

She tried again, placing the stick farther out from the next cluster of dried stems and working it back and forth into the earth slowly. Saints, somehow her hands were already covered in mud. But this time, she succeeded in lifting the root out of the soft ground without damaging it. She gave it a shake, like Zara had done, and managed to scatter dirt all over her lap. 

She permitted herself a sigh. 

What was the point of such a harvest, she wondered, as she dropped the first root into the basket and then began the excavation of a second. Why was Zara so interested in these muddy, lumpy things, when the garden already had many pleasing flowers beginning to bloom?

She pulled the second root from the bank and held it awkwardly away from her as she tried to shake the muck off; this time, it fell into her shoes instead. She slapped it into the basket a little bit harder than she intended.

They were nourishing and good for sickness, Zara had said. Were offerings here chosen solely based on their utility? It would not surprise her, that a cold, warlike people would have cold, warlike gods, who cared not for the delicate blossoms of spring. But again, why then did the castle bother with having a garden of flowers? 

One, two, three more roots joined their fellows in the basket. Her hands were beginning to hurt. In the Small Court, when she played the lute or the harp, Mother had always insisted that she wear finger guards.

 “The first thing a potential mate will look at is your face, to see that your expression is gentle and pleasing, and the second thing she will look at is your hands, to see if they are well-kempt and soft.” 

Well, I suppose none of that really matters no—

She shied away from the thought, reflexively. 

Another cold, wet breeze wiggled its fingers underneath the collar of her tunic, and she shivered again. She shuffled forward awkwardly to reach another stand of the reeds. She wished that Zara had chosen a smaller basket. 

One, two, three more.

She was getting into a bit of a rhythm now, but her hands were really burning— she was going to have palms full of blisters after this, she knew it. 

Ah, but there, a bit further towards the center of the pond, some of the earth had collapsed away, leaving the roots there exposed. Why, they wouldn't need to be dug out at all— all she would need to do was pull. Istabelle crouch-walked forward, grabbed a handful of the reeds, and yanked. Three bulbs popped free. She tossed them into the basket, and reached for another clump. She tugged, freeing another two bulbs. 

Her feet began to shift. 

Too late, she realized that the ground had fallen away because it was much wetter and loser here. With a shrill squeak, hands scrambling frantically for purchase, she slid down the bank and into the center of the pond. 

Her landing didn't make a splash, but rather a repulsive wet schlop. The stagnant and dirty water sloshed back against her legs like a slap as she flailed her arms wildly. 

After a long, terrifying moment, she found her balance again, and stood perfectly still for a moment, heart pounding, panting slightly. 

Oh, Saints, why?

She had managed to stay on her feet, at least, but now she was calf deep in the freezing muck. She could feel mud oozing into her shoes. Rather absurdly, she had managed to keep her grip on the clump of bulbs.

She stared up the side of the pond, now decorated with a deep gouge where she had slid. The angle seemed much steeper from down here. How was she going to get out without making a further mess of herself? How was she going to get out at all, without just slipping back down on the mud? 

A string of light, cheerful notes rose up through the morning air. They weren't from a bird. Someone was approaching the pond from along the forest trail, and whistling as they came. 

Istabelle’s reluctance to be seen in such a humiliating state was slightly lesser than her pressing desire to get out of the damned rancid sludge before her toes froze off.

“Hello?” she called out.

  The whistling stopped abruptly. She could hear footsteps crunching over the dried reeds on the other side of the pond.

Ranna appeared over the edge. 

For the second time, those startling animal eyes met hers. 

The Alpha’s hair hung loose around her face. She was dressed in worn, dusty riding leathers. There was a thin, pale scar that ran up across her left cheek and over the bridge of her nose that Istabelle did not remember. Had she truly been so transfixed in the Great Hall that she had not noticed it then? 

Ranna’s mouth fell slightly open in a little O, and Istabelle realized that she was just as surprised at their encounter as she was. And then, just as before, Ranna’s gaze flinched away from hers. 

“My lady,” she said. Her voice was as Istabelle remembered, low and rough. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I… I slipped and fell into the pond,” Istabelle said, and winced at how stupid that sounded. Well, obviously. 

Ranna hesitated for a moment, and looked around, as though she thought someone else might be coming, then back down to Istabelle. A pair of leather gloves was tucked into her belt. Slowly and deliberately, she pulled them free and tugged them on, and then squatted down and reached out to Istabelle. All the while, she did not meet her eye. 

Bereft of any better options, Istabelle stood on tiptoe to grip her hand, and the Alpha pulled.

Istabelle couldn't suppress a little gasp as she was levered upwards in one smooth, easy motion. She stumbled over the lip of the pond back onto drier ground. Ranna had lifted her as though she weighed nothing at all. 

Ranna stepped back from her as soon as she was balanced again.

“Are you unhurt, my lady?” Still, she did not raise her eyes. 

“Yes,” Istabelle said, shakily. “I'm just—”

Ranna bowed to her stiffly, and then turned and practically ran around the edge of the pond and through the gate into the garden. 

Istabelle was alone again. She realized her hands were trembling slightly. She was still holding the stupid roots. 

She peeled the edges of her skirts away from her legs. The heavy mud-saturated fabric immediately fell back and stuck again with a wet slap.

She closed her eyes, and spent a good count of ten thinking a great many words that her proper upbringing did not permit her to say out loud. Then she picked up the basket and went back through the gate into the castle garden. 

There was no sign of Ranna.

← Previous Chapter | Start

[pecancrunch]

kevin hense

[pecancrunch]

— June 2, 1912 / Franz Kafka diaries

[pecancrunch]

Hey hashtag writeblr, how do you all usually go posting updates? Links or just plunk the whole thing right in here?

[pecancrunch]

jason scottish

[pecancrunch]

Disclaimer these are just a small sampling of some possible writer traits I’ve noticed either in myself or in fics I read. Also consider a rb for sample size !

[pecancrunch]

Beset by the horrors and by horrors I mean the knowledge that I'm eventually going to have to actually think out a floor plan for this stupid castle.