This love is like a curse (54)
As if floating among the clouds, lost in the reflections of memories, Thalia gradually returned to reality.
She raised her heavy eyelids with difficulty - the flickering lights of candles floated into her field of vision.
As she stared blankly at them, the blurred sensations began to become clearer.
Overcome by a strange emptiness, she slowly raised her upper body.
For some time she could not understand where she was.
Only a few seconds later did it dawn on her that she was lying in a strange room, in an unfamiliar bed.
With a blank look, Thalia slowly looked around the luxuriously furnished bedroom and suddenly felt an unnatural feeling, causing her to lower her gaze.
Two legs stuck out from under short trousers.
No. These were not her legs. Such a deformity could not belong to her body.
With a shaking hand, she ran over her lumpy knees, as if covered with frozen wax.
The shape of the legs was unnatural.
The shin bone and kneecaps were barely noticeably displaced, and the pale skin was covered with scars as rough as tree bark.
Looking at the long welts that stretched from her shin to her thigh, like cracks in broken porcelain, Thalia began to scratch them with her fingers.
It seemed that if you remove this lumpy crust, then underneath it your pearly, radiant skin will reappear.
Ignoring the burning pain, she peeled off the reddened, inflamed spots with manic stubbornness. Blood began to flow from under the skin.
She looked at this with a shocked face, when suddenly a creaking sound was heard somewhere nearby.
Sharply raising her head, Talia opened her eyes wide: Seneviere was reclining in a chair with velvet upholstery.
The Empress, her bright blue eyes sparkling in the darkness, looked at her silently, and then parted her scarlet lips, as if soaked in blood, and said in a sweet voice:
- Why open a wound that has barely healed? I'll have to call the healer again - such a hassle.
With a sigh, she put the small book she was holding on the table and frowned her graceful eyebrows.
Talia, without taking her eyes off, whispered with dry lips:
“What did you... do with my body?”
At her question, full of disbelief, the Empress's eyes widened slightly, and then curved into a crescent shape. As if she had heard a funny joke, Senevier chuckled softly and shook her head:
“I don’t think you have the right to ask such questions to a mother who even called the Eternity Clan for you.”
-...
- Don't look like that. I know you don't trust me... But this time, for your sake, I really did everything I could. And even I am annoyed that the result is like this.
Her snake-like gaze slowly slid down Thalia's body and settled on the bloody scars.
The girl hastily pulled the blanket over her legs. Her fingers trembled under her gaze, as if looking at something disgusting.
Senevier sighed softly and continued:
“I wanted to deal with those who treated you, but, according to them, they did everything possible.” Not only the bones were damaged, but also some muscles and nerves. They passionately insisted that even the current recovery was a real miracle.
And, despite the fact that her daughter was on the verge of collapse, the empress continued to speak in a frighteningly calm voice:
“These scars seem impossible to remove.” They cut the damaged area many times and cast magic, and each time the ugly scars appeared again. Probably due to the fact that they were left for too long without proper care, the skin tissues simply became deformed.
Her lips released a short sigh again:
“But you can’t blame the palace magicians either.” If they had rushed to close the wounds, the skin might have remained clearer... but you would never have been able to walk again. And now at least you are able to move. Be content with this.
Every word stuck like a hot nail.
When Thalia froze, barely realizing what was happening, Senevier finished off, looking at her petrified daughter:
- It's a pity.
Thalia slowly lowered her head.
The Empress, looking at her thoughtfully, rose from her chair and came closer. Gentle fingers with the scent of flowers touched her cheek.
- Thalia. Do you remember how I said: the beautiful and the weak always become the object of the hunt?
Talia found it difficult to meet her gaze with her clouded eyes.
Senevier's face, as if carved from pearls, gold and sapphires, was distorted in tears.
She continued speaking with such affection, as if she were telling an old fairy tale:
“Then what happens to the weak and the ugly?”
-...
“The ugly becomes an object of ridicule and contempt,” her voice sounded almost affectionate, but every word burned. “Not only will this not become an object of desire, they won’t even try to take it away.” He is simply trampled upon, ridiculed and rejected. Because people by nature are always looking for someone to hate and despise in order to prove their superiority. And a flaw is an ideal target.
Talia tried her best to hold back her tears, but a strangled sob still escaped from her throat. The words that flowed from her mother’s lips hurt her much more than a bleeding leg.
Looking at her daughter’s face, distorted from crying, Senevier clicked her tongue in displeasure:
- But don't worry. I will never allow my daughter to be in this situation.
Cold fingers, like the legs of an insect, brushed away a strand of disheveled hair from Thalia’s cheek. A smile flashed in the mother’s eyes, like a quagmire, promising even greater despair.
* * *
Inside the great temple located within the imperial palace, thirty-four coffins were carefully displayed. While the priests walked around, pouring holy water and muttering prayers, the assembled visitors took turns laying flowers.
Astros, sitting in the worship hall and watching this long and tedious ritual, glanced at his half-brother and sister.
The eldest brother, as usual, sat smugly in the place of honor, and Ayla Roem Girtha, worthy of the nickname “perfect princess,” expressed grief in an exemplary, refined manner.
Outwardly nothing unusual. However, the Astros couldn't shake the feeling of strange inadequacy.
Lost in thought, he soon realized that his stepsister was seriously irritated by something. Despite the rather believable portrayal of sadness, her eyes were cold as ice, and her lips were tightly compressed.
“What is she so angry about?”
Unlike her older brother, who always showed off his emotions, Ayla usually hid behind a calm smile. She never showed weakness. And now, in front of everyone, she allowed herself to show her feelings. It was really interesting.
“Was she really that upset that the wedding was postponed?”
Astros's gaze automatically slid to her fiancé.
The longboat Raedgo Siekan stood at the altar with his back perfectly straight and calmly watched the funeral ceremony. He looked more like a statue installed in a temple than a living person.
The Astros, interested in his almost static figure, looked him over carefully from head to toe.
The future Duke of Siekan wore an impeccably tailored doublet, tight-fitting armor-like trousers, and a long, dark blue cloak that flowed from his left shoulder. Although the outfit was rather modest, in the eyes of the Astros it looked much more sophisticated than the elaborate costumes of other aristocrats. He could even somewhat understand why Ayla was so upset that the wedding was postponed.
“...After all this, they will most likely have to wait until next year to go on pilgrimage again.”
And this meant that the wedding of Ayla Roem Girta with the future Duke of Siekan would most likely be postponed until next year.
With this thought, the Astros' face immediately twisted. My heart became heavy.
He suddenly sincerely wished that his half-sister, who always looked at him with disgust, would leave for the dukedom as soon as possible.
“Or maybe they will still decide to break traditions and get married as planned?”
The Astros looked pleadingly at Sir Siekana.
“Please... Take Ayla Roem Girtha to the East.”
And at that moment, as if having heard his absurd prayer, he turned his head.
The Astros winced and lowered his eyes.
It seemed to him that this look penetrated directly into his thoughts - and his heart sank with anxiety.
Note:
1. Doublet - a short fitted camisole of the 14th–17th centuries, the predecessor of the modern vest.