Women of House Daimitov

Ievae felt as the tightened string of a viol must when readied for a performance. She was not ready for hers. The dreams of marriage and parties she had cultivated as a child seemed at once within her grasp and yet still elusive. An arranged marriage to Pharrael seemed a hollow victory. And now that the day had arrived, and she sat with her family as the festivities danced on around her, she felt only disappointment.

“Stop frowning, for Lileath’s sake,” her brother hissed, reaching beneath the table to grip her knee. Jhernir would have been the epitome of asur beauty, only he had a habit of bearing his teeth when he was angry. Some of his pale hair had come loose from his topknot as he loomed over her. “I thought you wanted this.”

Ievae said nothing, for there seemed nothing worth saying. She slid her grey, blank stare over the Daimitovs on the other side of the courtyard, straight backed and dour at their table. Pharrael only seemed to get taller and taller, yet he crumpled in on himself as if he wanted to disappear. He looked miserable.

His mother and sister flanked him. Yia, Lady Daimitov, was a tall woman, and her colouring made those who did not know her a little nervous. Her skin was so pale it was translucent, her hair like a wispy black spider’s web that hung perfectly straight down her back. She had Pharrael’s face, softened to a woman’s countenance, and she wore no adornments. None of the women of house Daimitov did. All wore plain, simple clothes, and identical expressions of stoic resignation. Lady Daimitov met her gaze briefly, then turned away, mouth set firmly. Some of the other women turned their reptilian stare onto Ievae as if to further drive home the point. Her kind of woman was not welcome. It had been Baeos who chose Ievae for Pharrael, and well she knew how the mother had railed against it. 

Shelaie, Pharrael’s little sister neither approved nor disapproved, of anything it seemed. She was a bundle of pale golden energy. She twitched and shifted in her seat as if overcome with excitement, little hands madly grabbing at any food that came within her striking range. Her lips and fingers were stained from berry juice. Large pale eyes goggled at everyone from within her skull, the tiny pinpoints of her pupils darting around, unable to settle.

“I just thought it would be more colourful. More glamorous,” she said a last, just to have something to say. Jhernir scoffed loudly, digging his nails into her thigh.
“These are working class people. Most of them have family that grew up under Malekith before he…well. What did you expect? They’re not like us. Especially the women. Just look at Lady Daimitov, she’s practically a druchii,” Jhernir almost spat.

Ievae glanced at him, lips set in a thin line. He looked resplendent in his formal robes. She scowled, squinting as the jewels on his front caught the light. He looked as if he were the one getting married.

“If they are so below us then why am I marrying into their family?” Ievae asked, giving him a level look. Jhernir plucked at his front until his robes settled as he desired. His lips worked furiously a moment before he hissed at her,
“Just keep your mouth shut and make sure they like you. Don’t ruin this for us.”
“Us?” she pressed.

Jhernir reached across his plate and began piling vegetables roasted in the meat juices of a fowl onto it. He seemed to be ignoring her.
“Jhernir? I don’t understand.”
“Us. Father and I. By the gods, you are annoying. Stop talking to me,” Jhernir scooped food onto her plate as he spoke, a slight sneer pulling at his long, straight nose. “If you must know, anyone who marries into their family gets a cut of the spoils from the raids. And we need the money. Not that I expect you to understand that. We are living off our name, so don’t-”

A shadow fell across their table. Jhernir open his mouth to let loose a torrent of complaints, but abruptly shut his maw as he looked up. A tall, angular looking asur smirked at them with all the confidence of a prince. The angles of his face were accentuated by the severe style he wore his red hair, pulled tight and secured at the base of his neck in a cue. He wore the robes of an archmage, and a large cloak of animal fur that drew many furious eyes to him.

“Harridan Seraelius, Pharrael’s employer. And you are his bride to be, I assume?” he asked caustically, still smiling.
“Yes,” Ievae murmured. He laughed, tapping his staff against the stones.
“My condolences!”