The word that comes to mind in the Common Speech is, despite her best efforts, whore. Others, equally loaded, follow it: concubine is the kindest, and not particularly kind. She stiffens a little, straightening away from him to scrutinise his expression, her own face slipping back into the cold, stony mask it has so often been.
It is the last part that softens her, at least once a moment has passed and she has had time to digest it. It speaks to a different kind of arrangement, if the children of it are not bastards - and the tone of how he says it is not dismissive, if she considers it. And yet, what does that even mean? Like a wife, but neither bound by oath? What is that, if not a whore or a lover? It is temporary, must be temporary - but there, again, he has spoken of children.
"I cannot think of another word than lover," she says, at last, and her tone is muted and quiet, as though from a distance. Her expression is still guarded, but she has begun to twist her fingers together, as though trying to pull together the tapestry of her thoughts. She looks at him from the corner of her eye, biting the inside of her cheek. There are so many questions before her, all of a sudden, and perhaps she should be grateful for the distraction - but mostly, she is just aware of her own uncertainty, how out of her depth she finds herself in all of this. She wants, with sudden sinking desperation, to ask whether he already has such a frylla or anything like it, or what it means to be such a woman, or even how she is meant to live among his people when they hold to such savage customs. She wants to find a way to balance her instinctive distaste for the idea with the strange hope of it. She wants to ask what makes a frylla, if there are no oaths to shape the arrangement, how it does differ from a mere tryst. She wants to ask so many things.
The one that comes out, when she opens her mouth, is the one that has been waiting longest, lurking since this whole mad scheme began, half-mentioned but not fully spoken.
"Is that what you would wish for? That I should be your wife, or your frylla, or your lover? For I would not have you as a husband, or whatever else it might be called, for the sake of obligation; I will not spend my life wondering if I am loved only as far as gratitude drives. So let me ask rather: what would you have me be to you?"
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sforzinda
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Date: 2025-04-04 02:58 am (UTC)It is the last part that softens her, at least once a moment has passed and she has had time to digest it. It speaks to a different kind of arrangement, if the children of it are not bastards - and the tone of how he says it is not dismissive, if she considers it. And yet, what does that even mean? Like a wife, but neither bound by oath? What is that, if not a whore or a lover? It is temporary, must be temporary - but there, again, he has spoken of children.
"I cannot think of another word than lover," she says, at last, and her tone is muted and quiet, as though from a distance. Her expression is still guarded, but she has begun to twist her fingers together, as though trying to pull together the tapestry of her thoughts. She looks at him from the corner of her eye, biting the inside of her cheek. There are so many questions before her, all of a sudden, and perhaps she should be grateful for the distraction - but mostly, she is just aware of her own uncertainty, how out of her depth she finds herself in all of this. She wants, with sudden sinking desperation, to ask whether he already has such a frylla or anything like it, or what it means to be such a woman, or even how she is meant to live among his people when they hold to such savage customs. She wants to find a way to balance her instinctive distaste for the idea with the strange hope of it. She wants to ask what makes a frylla, if there are no oaths to shape the arrangement, how it does differ from a mere tryst. She wants to ask so many things.
The one that comes out, when she opens her mouth, is the one that has been waiting longest, lurking since this whole mad scheme began, half-mentioned but not fully spoken.
"Is that what you would wish for? That I should be your wife, or your frylla, or your lover? For I would not have you as a husband, or whatever else it might be called, for the sake of obligation; I will not spend my life wondering if I am loved only as far as gratitude drives. So let me ask rather: what would you have me be to you?"