Fan Fiction ❯ Pillars of the Earth ❯ 1 ( Chapter 1 )
[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]
By: Maryanne Covington 
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Anime/Manga: Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Angst / Romance / Fantasy / Drama / Adventure | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 06.18.2006 | Pages: 1 | Words: 1.2K | Visits: 228 | Status: Work In Progress
etc
Anime/Manga: Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Angst / Romance / Fantasy / Drama / Adventure | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 06.18.2006 | Pages: 1 | Words: 1.2K | Visits: 228 | Status: Work In Progress
In her dreams, he was the dark shadow that played his hands over every inch of her body like something possessed. In her mind, he touched and felt and caressed her skin with a touch so gentle it felt like she was floating away, and when he bent over her and she arched up to him there was nothing but lust and passion and a flood of release. In these reveries he always lay on her heavily, molding her body to his, demanding response that she doggedly gave him again and again and again, every time he ordered it.
He did not exist, of course.
She lay now on her floor pallet with her eyes open, sweating through her nightgown. The night was dark–black, even–and the eerie silence that pervaded the air was only occasionally broken by the soft shuffle of the guards’ feet moving down the concrete of the corridor.
“Lady Sicily?” One of her maids was sitting up in the dark, her short hair mussed. Sicily looked over at her with a limp movement of her neck.
“I’m alright. Go back to sleep.” The compliance was instant. The duchess sighed softly and closed her eyes, willing the dream to come back. Her whole marriage had been arranged very quickly, of course, with the understanding on the side of both parties that for a five year period the groom would be completely unavailable. Thus, Sicily (the fourth and last of the British king’s children, three of which were boys) was transplanted immediately to the foreign realm of Dunqare, where she was expected to take a seat, take out a pad of paper and a quill, and take control of her new duchy with the confidence and grace that should have been allowed her by her husband. As it was, she had never even seen the man–if that was what he was–and she had “married” a representative of his.
“I hear he’s a monster,” her youngest brother had laughingly informed her while downing a glass of wine in her honour during the wedding dinner. “And by that, Sicily, you know I don’t mean tyrant. I hear he’s actually and really not human.”
She still had no idea. Dunqare had been a much more dreary, odd place than she could have ever begun to imagine, and the move from her father’s summer castle to her new villa by the sea was almost too much. She had been bedridden for a week and half. When she had finally risen and looked out at the shore, it was as if any remnants of her childhood were gone. A woman now, and married to someone whom she had never seen, she felt it was time to be an adult and step up to her role as the new duchess. People were going to come to see her, it was true, and she wouldnt turn them away if they needed her. When they did come, they came in droves: people filled her foyer and parlor, sitting across a long, pine table from her and verbally vomiting their grievances onto the wood before themselves. Unlike how her father had handled his peasants’ complaints, Sicily listened intently. She let them speak, some for hours at a time, and then finally, with a voice as calm and steady as the soft waves lapping at the beach on her property she resolved their issues, one by one. Her days were filled with managing the estate, and that very same week her nights began to allow the delicious dreams that she now gladly awaited with every slumber–the dreams when the same mysterious man came to her. He did not always take her right away, of course. Occasionally he looked pale, his massively tall, stron, lean frame dominating the room even as he moved to sit where she could pull off his boots and massage his shoulders until he relaxed and told her of the strangest things. Sometimes he would simply grunt as he passed by, collapsing onto a duvet or the chaise and tumbling into a sleep so deep that all she could do was stroke his long hair out of his face and pull his thick coat from his shoulders. He was older looking than she–Sicily guessed by atleast ten years–but his face was unlined and youthful, clever and strong. Though she could find no distinctive facial features in him in her dreams she knew he was devastatingly handsome. She just knew. There were the times when he seized her so roughly that she cried out, smashing her against the wall or a bedpost and giving her no room for objection. When his body was hot on hers and his strong hands held her down so she could not struggle, there was nothing but pure ecstacy for Sicily. She woke in the morning still feeling his bites along the nape of her neck and the bruises he left on her mouth when he kissed her as brutally as he sometimes did. She dared not speak of these dreams to anyone, especially since she knew her maids were paid by her father to report back to the parish church in the area of all activities the duchess performed. The priest of the whole affair was a younger man with a slicked back haircut. He visited Sicily twice a week to demand alms, a donation to the rectory, and to question her about her daily routines. Of course, everyone, including Sicily, knew that infidelity was punishable by death in Dunqare. Just why everyone was so absolutely certain that she kept a lover or was another lord’s mistress was completely beyond her; she hardly went out as it was and for all she knew, there were no other men beyond her gates save the local peasants.
She pushed the sticky, rough blanket off of herself and stretched her arms over her head. For five years, she’d left all of her fine clothes and housewares unpacked because many of the house’s amenities were locked and the keys kept by no one save their master. She had been set up in a guest room, albeit a large one, and had never once set foot into her marital chamber or her private boudoir. Her maids slept with her only because it was the custom without her husband present.
The peasants occasionally told her stories about how her husband was, like her brother said, not really human. He never listened to their complaints like Sicily did and seemed content to keep a dark manor into which the occasional beautiful girl disappeared and never reappeared. Some said he was a demon, others a shadow, and some still that he didn’t exist at all. His not being there for the first five years of his marriage just proved this to them: after all, with a lovely and kind wife as Sicily, what exactly could keep a man away from home for so long?
He did not exist, of course.
She lay now on her floor pallet with her eyes open, sweating through her nightgown. The night was dark–black, even–and the eerie silence that pervaded the air was only occasionally broken by the soft shuffle of the guards’ feet moving down the concrete of the corridor.
“Lady Sicily?” One of her maids was sitting up in the dark, her short hair mussed. Sicily looked over at her with a limp movement of her neck.
“I’m alright. Go back to sleep.” The compliance was instant. The duchess sighed softly and closed her eyes, willing the dream to come back. Her whole marriage had been arranged very quickly, of course, with the understanding on the side of both parties that for a five year period the groom would be completely unavailable. Thus, Sicily (the fourth and last of the British king’s children, three of which were boys) was transplanted immediately to the foreign realm of Dunqare, where she was expected to take a seat, take out a pad of paper and a quill, and take control of her new duchy with the confidence and grace that should have been allowed her by her husband. As it was, she had never even seen the man–if that was what he was–and she had “married” a representative of his.
“I hear he’s a monster,” her youngest brother had laughingly informed her while downing a glass of wine in her honour during the wedding dinner. “And by that, Sicily, you know I don’t mean tyrant. I hear he’s actually and really not human.”
She still had no idea. Dunqare had been a much more dreary, odd place than she could have ever begun to imagine, and the move from her father’s summer castle to her new villa by the sea was almost too much. She had been bedridden for a week and half. When she had finally risen and looked out at the shore, it was as if any remnants of her childhood were gone. A woman now, and married to someone whom she had never seen, she felt it was time to be an adult and step up to her role as the new duchess. People were going to come to see her, it was true, and she wouldnt turn them away if they needed her. When they did come, they came in droves: people filled her foyer and parlor, sitting across a long, pine table from her and verbally vomiting their grievances onto the wood before themselves. Unlike how her father had handled his peasants’ complaints, Sicily listened intently. She let them speak, some for hours at a time, and then finally, with a voice as calm and steady as the soft waves lapping at the beach on her property she resolved their issues, one by one. Her days were filled with managing the estate, and that very same week her nights began to allow the delicious dreams that she now gladly awaited with every slumber–the dreams when the same mysterious man came to her. He did not always take her right away, of course. Occasionally he looked pale, his massively tall, stron, lean frame dominating the room even as he moved to sit where she could pull off his boots and massage his shoulders until he relaxed and told her of the strangest things. Sometimes he would simply grunt as he passed by, collapsing onto a duvet or the chaise and tumbling into a sleep so deep that all she could do was stroke his long hair out of his face and pull his thick coat from his shoulders. He was older looking than she–Sicily guessed by atleast ten years–but his face was unlined and youthful, clever and strong. Though she could find no distinctive facial features in him in her dreams she knew he was devastatingly handsome. She just knew. There were the times when he seized her so roughly that she cried out, smashing her against the wall or a bedpost and giving her no room for objection. When his body was hot on hers and his strong hands held her down so she could not struggle, there was nothing but pure ecstacy for Sicily. She woke in the morning still feeling his bites along the nape of her neck and the bruises he left on her mouth when he kissed her as brutally as he sometimes did. She dared not speak of these dreams to anyone, especially since she knew her maids were paid by her father to report back to the parish church in the area of all activities the duchess performed. The priest of the whole affair was a younger man with a slicked back haircut. He visited Sicily twice a week to demand alms, a donation to the rectory, and to question her about her daily routines. Of course, everyone, including Sicily, knew that infidelity was punishable by death in Dunqare. Just why everyone was so absolutely certain that she kept a lover or was another lord’s mistress was completely beyond her; she hardly went out as it was and for all she knew, there were no other men beyond her gates save the local peasants.
She pushed the sticky, rough blanket off of herself and stretched her arms over her head. For five years, she’d left all of her fine clothes and housewares unpacked because many of the house’s amenities were locked and the keys kept by no one save their master. She had been set up in a guest room, albeit a large one, and had never once set foot into her marital chamber or her private boudoir. Her maids slept with her only because it was the custom without her husband present.
The peasants occasionally told her stories about how her husband was, like her brother said, not really human. He never listened to their complaints like Sicily did and seemed content to keep a dark manor into which the occasional beautiful girl disappeared and never reappeared. Some said he was a demon, others a shadow, and some still that he didn’t exist at all. His not being there for the first five years of his marriage just proved this to them: after all, with a lovely and kind wife as Sicily, what exactly could keep a man away from home for so long?