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“Her name is Lucybelle Troike.”
Naberius plays idly with his dinner, some sort of venison imitation with asparagus and potatoes au gratin, while his father speaks at him rather than to him. He didn’t even like venison; he only tolerated it for the sake of his mother, who adored the damn thing. It seemed anytime he was forced into a family dinner with them, venison was inevitably on the menu. Whatever pleased his poor mother, he supposed.
“She comes from a very affluent family. You may recall her father, Lord Tricititis?” His father said in that tone that meant he’d better recall something about this family, or he’d be in trouble.
“I believe we’ve met.” They hadn’t. “That’s the family with seven daughters, correct?” He asked through a mouthful of potatoes, which made his mother shoot him a scolding look.
“The very same.” His father hadn’t noticed his bad manners, or if he had he just hadn’t mentioned it. Proper manners and ‘acting like a gentleman’ had always been his mothers thing, admittedly, something she’d drilled into him from a young age. Who knows how much of it had actually stuck.
“I don’t recall any Lucybelle. Which one is she?”
That, apparently, was a very silly thing to say, as both his mother and father began to laugh at him. This was, amongst other things, very irritating. He hated being treated like a dolt, a foolish child who didn’t know a damn thing, like not knowing who this random girl is was somehow the worst social faux-pas he ever made.
“You’ve met Lucy! She was at your 13th birthday. As I recall, she gifted you that book of Poetry, and then implied you were illiterate.”
Naberius’ face fell in shock and horror. No. King Undying, No. This couldn’t be happening to him. Little Lucy, who had a unibrow until she was 15 years old, and who always hovered along the edges of the dance floor at ALL formal events, and who had never heard of mascara in her entire life. His parents wanted to set him up with plain old Lucy.
And it hadn’t happened exactly like that, for the fucking record. She, covered in hair, with horrid buck teeth and a slicked-back bun so tight he could see the veins popping out of her forehead, had handed him a book of Seventh House poetry and refused to make eye contact, shuffling awkwardly. He’d asked ‘What am I supposed to do with this?’, which seemed perfectly reasonable to him, and she’d blinked once, then asked:
‘What? Can’t you read?’
“HER?!” He’d slammed his hands on the table, rather immaturely. “You can’t be serious! She’s a bore! She’s got less personality than a scrap of cotton fabric! Why not someone else?! Someone worth their title?!”
His father didn’t justify his outburst with the same energy, only continuing to delicately cut his meat with a fork and his trident knife (which drove Naberius mad, but what could he possibly do about it?)
“She has much to offer the bloodline.”
“What could she possibly have to offer the bloodline?!” A piece of asparagus flew off his fork onto the floor, and his mothers dog clamored for it like the greedy bastard he was.
The former Cavalier Primary only smiled calmly, like they were having a very ordinary conversation about the weather, and not the worst thing to ever happen to him.
“She graduated top of her class studying literature at Terfrater. She’s very intelligent, with great athletic ability. No formal Cavalier training, but she’s been a Principal Dancer at the Trinit Institute of Art for four years now. That’s not an easy company to get into!” He laughed this bellowing thing, like what he had said was remotely impressive or interesting at all. It wasn’t, at least not to him.
“A dancer's build would complement you quite well, hm? Should make for bearing excellent Cavaliers.” His mother added, which only made his stomach churn. The concept of anyone bearing anything of his made him want to throw himself off the balcony right into a hoard of hungry Anthropopigites. Naberius Tern was a lot of things, and parental certainly wasn’t one of them, especially not at the age of 23.
“Why do we have to do this now? Ianthe and Coronabeth aren’t even dating anyone, let alone thinking about heirs! Why bother setting me up until Corona has ascended the throne?! Especially with someone so... so dull!”
His mother, apparently, took offense to that.
“Naberius! What a horrible thing to say about a young lady. I’m sure she’s a pleasure to be around, if you’d give her a chance.”
“Personality,” His father chimed in, “is unimportant in the long run. Her genes are top of the line, and she loves children! Besides, she brings some much-needed height into the lineage.”
Both his parents had snickered at that, while Naberius seethed.
“I don’t need some fucking ballerina or her goddamn genes- I won’t fucking do it! You can’t make me-“
“Naberius.” His father suddenly got very stern, bringing his knife down on the table hard. Naberius shut his mouth faster than he’d ever done anything, because when his father was angry, there wasn’t much you could do but shut up and listen.
“You will marry Miss Troike, you will produce eligible Cavaliers when the time comes, and you will not complain about it like a spoiled fucking brat, do you understand?”
Naberius could only stare silently, jaw trembling with rage and humiliation, close to shattering his glass with one tightened fist.
“This has been customary since the dawn of the Resurrection, son. I had an arranged marriage, as did your grandmother, as did her father, and so on. Sacrifices must be made to ensure our legacy and the legacy of our House.” He did not ask if Naberius understood this time, because he did not intend to explain himself any further. Naberius was to be married, and that was that.
He wanted to scream. He wanted to throw up. How could he be tied down when he was still so young? Fresh off his latest breakup, he had intended to enjoy life as Ida’s most eligible bachelor for at LEAST a while longer. And of course, of all the beautiful young men and women on the Third, it just had to be her. That prudish, simple, plain-looking woman who Naberius could barely imagine holding a conversation with, let alone share the rest of his life with. He wore a sour expression, but bit his tongue obediently.
“Oh, you’ll come to enjoy the arrangement, Babsy,” His mother started in that saccharine sweet voice she used when she was attempting to placate him. “Me and your father are ever so happy, and the union gave us you, my strong boy.” Her hand reached across the table to settle over his, and Naberius didn’t have it in him to pull away. He forced a strained smile, nodding at her words.
“…yes, Mother.”
They seemed satisfied enough with that answer, and returned to their meal as if nothing had happened. The twins were going to laugh all the way to Dominicus and back when they found out about this. Naberius could already hear Ianthe’s droning voice saying: “Good luck, Babs. Let’s hope Lucy is as good in bed as you claimed your last girlfriend was.” She would say some demeaning shit like that. Naberius sucked up that aching feeling in his chest, and ate his meal in silence.
God, he needed a fucking cigarette.
——
“You’ll be marrying Cavalier Primary Naberius the Third in the spring.”
It wasn’t exactly what Lucybelle had expected to hear from her mother, especially not this late at night. Discussions regarding her future were typically a ‘over brunch’ sort of conversation. Lucybelle was already in her nightgown, snuggled up in bed with a romance novel to dive into.
“…an arranged marriage?” She asked, placing said novel on the bedside table. Of all the things her mother could have done for her, a marriage wasn’t on her list of hypotheticals. Her sisters were always the ones who expected to marry rich. Kristal, with her accentuated curves and love of parties, or Wyren with her excellence in Necromantic achievement. Not…Lucy.
“Don’t you think one of the others would be better suited?”
“Nonsense!” Her mother exclaimed, inviting herself into the room, trampling all over a pile of discarded training clothes. “Benedict Ternary himself named you the best candidate. All those years of dance lessons paid off!” She looked especially proud of herself, as if she was the one who put Lucy in dance classes to begin with. She hadn’t. That was her father.
“But…” Lucybelle began slowly, sitting up in bed with a disconcerted expression. “I’m… going to be a governess. I’ve already applied to four Houses; I’m only waiting to hear back from the Sixth and Fourth-“
“Oh- Lucybelle! Why can’t you ever just be a normal type of girl!” Her mother pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration, emphasizing her point. “Any of your sisters would be ecstatic to be receiving news like this. The Cavalier Primary! Do you understand what this means for our family?”
“Well then why not one of my sisters? Why not Amybeth? She’s got a fine build, and she’s much prettier than me anyway.”
Her mother only rolled her eyes. “Oh, enough with the self-deprecation. It’s very unattractive, Lucybelle.” Lucy thought this was very funny, as her mother was always quick to remind her just how much she paled in comparison to her sisters, in looks and achievements. She only sighed.
“Mother-“
“I said ENOUGH! The dowry has already been paid! You are going to marry Naberius the Third, bear his children, and you’re going to be the picture of contentment. Do I make myself clear?!”
More like contempt-ment, Lucy thought, but she did not speak a word. She only nodded, resisting the way her eyes and throat burned. Her mother huffed, quite satisfied with herself.
“For the love of God, do not fuck this up for us, Lucybelle.”
And then she was alone, only the light of her scented candle to keep her company (mango, which she supposed was quite nice). The book on her bedside table, the one about an arranged marriage with an arrogant Prince, suddenly seemed much less appealing.
This wasn’t supposed to be her fate. Her whole life, she’d been the unappealing sister, and that was just fine with her. She’d be free to teach on another House, perhaps pursue a solo dance career, and settle down with a nice partner and have children on her own terms. Not… this. Made wife to a man born with a silver spoon in his mouth and an entire bloodline of Cavalier Primaries to fuel his ego for the next ten thousand years.
Feeling her emotions spill over, Lucybelle buried her face into her pillow, hoping the downy softness would be enough to drown the sound of sobbing.
She wondered, against hope, if he would at least have the decency to be kind to her.
God, she needed a fucking cigarette.