Edge of Lust: Myrna

Some days he waited, prolonging the longing simply for the purpose of making it more desirable, which, she acknowledged, did indeed increase her ache, till he descended on her with ferocity matched by her own.

Other days, she would tear her clothing from her before he could even turn around after shutting the door. On these days, she attacked him, made him bow at her feet and please her and worship her until she was satisfied or at least tired of tormenting him.

Myrna didn't know how much time passed with these habits filling the bulk of her time. She remained divided; the same friend and confidant she'd ever been to Genevieve. Nothing there changed, and that startled her. Genevieve still confided primly with her friend about an especially good night with her husband, and Myrna listened with the same protective understanding and mothering Genevieve had always expected and craved from her. From these snippets, she gathered that the king and queen's sexual relationship was existent and satisfactory to the naïve Genevieve. But she was well aware that it was subtle, low-key, conservative—all the things Genevieve's family had expected of it, and none of the things Frederick lusted for.

A part of her comforted herself that she was being able to provide for her best friend's husband what she could not provide herself. The other part of her was dead. She felt nothing. Excused nothing. Had no rationality for her behavior, but lived simply by instinct.

The same numbness accompanied her the day that Genevieve gushed in glee that she was officially three days late for her cycle and completely sure she was pregnant. Myrna, whose cycles had never been consistent, thought this certainty unmitigated, and calmly congratulated her mistress while reminding her that it was a bit early yet to tell for sure. Genevieve's reaction was childish, though not tantrum-based, and she maintained her confidence. Myrna was legitimately shocked when another three weeks went past with no sign of blood, and on the fourth, Genevieve was green with nausea, but tickled with excitement.

Once it was confirmed by more than just Genevieve that there was indeed a royal heir on the way, a prophet of the Hralna religion paid them the standard visit to foretell the sex of the child, and thereby determine to which of the houses or kingdoms the child would be betrothed to maximize the stability and success of Edgeran.

Myrna cared little for such soothsayers, but Genevieve genuinely abhorred them. She was horrified that such blasphemy should be imposed upon her. Myrna sensed Genevieve had never really gotten over the betrayal of her family when they required her to wed this unbelieving, foreign dignitary, no matter the necessity of such a union to ensure their coal rich lands stayed in the possession of Genevieve's family. No matter how handsome and winsome he was—qualities which the majority of Genevieve's prospective suitors had lacked in abundance.

Myrna did not blame Genevieve for her resentment and woundedness. Nor did she blame Genevieve's parents for requiring it. It had been a wise decision—the only decision, really, when it came down to it. How else could the poor and obscure kingdom of Gwennel expect to maintain any semblance of sovereignty in the face of the Great Unification of the Nations that every other large kingdom was embracing than to forge an alliance with one of the most powerful kingdoms among its members? Gwennel was only being spared from annihilation because its rich deposits of coal were efficiently mined by the generations of Genevieve's people for hundreds of years. Had any of the powerful kingdoms possessed a slave-force to do the work, they would have no need of Gwennel and it would quickly have been obliterated. But none of them wanted to get their hands dirty, and it was so much easier to make friends with those who already knew and embraced the work than it was forge a new generation of miners from scratch.

But Genevieve knew none of this. Or if she did, it did not matter to her. Myrna, rather than being disgusted with her best friend's naivety, felt obligated to protect her innocence. The rest of the world might continue on its bloody way of subterfuge and power mongering. But Genevieve, spotless soul that she was, could be spared the horrors of reality, and kept snug in her swaddling of idealism.

The soothsayer arrived after dinner one full moon night. Genevieve was still awake, but refused to see him till the morning, putting off her misery as long as possible. When the court assembled on the morrow, Myrna provided a steady companion to her queen, who exaggerated her delicate state, milking it for any excuse for an excuse to be made for her to put off this blasphemous prophet.

But Genevieve's indisposition due to pregnancy was certainly not enough to excuse her presence at a sacred foretelling ceremony. So, reluctantly, leaning on her maidservant more than necessary, Genevieve approached the stage where the prophet stood, holding his seerstone and dangling a chain laden with potent incense.

Myrna was more impressed than expected with the seer. He seemed unpretentious, if predictable. He paid more attention to the air around him than he did to Genevieve or her passive aggressive sighs.

He was nodding his head now, eyes closed, deep in thought, but willing to share with those spectating. "It's quite clear," he said in a clear if elderly voice. "The energy emanating is undeniable. A female is within." An audible sigh of delight could be heard from Frederick from his seat on the throne, and he shifted nervously excited. The prophet nodded again with greater certainty. "A girl child is what is forming." He opened his eyes, and his eyes met Myrna's as she held her lady's protesting hand.

He nodded again, then looked away. "Of course this matters little if the kingdoms subscribe to my latest teachings of the equality of unions . . ."

The prophet was quickly hushed and ushered off the stage, as Frederick rose to his feet and addressed his court. "A girl!" he shouted in unbridled joy. "This confirms that the betrothal of the heir of Edgeran will be to the heir of Naphtali, where Queen Lajoya and King Jorjet reign in wisdom and justice." He could barely contain himself, and raised triumphant fists into the air before making a hasty exit.

Genevieve was sulking and Myrna led her back to her chambers, the piercing look of the prophet vivid in her mind.

Things continued on much as they had. Genevieve grew more excited about her impending delivery, and Myrna continued fucking Frederick at any opportunity. Nothing of note changed. Till, one day, Myrna turned off her instinct long enough to reason that if Genevieve had become impregnated by this man after prudish, regular, but not incessant fucking, what should render her, the incessant fucker, exemption from such status?

She met the possibility with her typical impassiveness, but started to track her cycle from that moment on, and grew increasingly apprehensive when it never arrived.

With no professional royal physician to declare her officially with child, all Myrna could do was guess. For the first time, jealousy and resentment toward her lady pushed at the stasis of her emotion. She pushed it dutifully away, but it didn't take long for Myrna to realize that, in all likelihood, she shared the same fate as her best friend, by the same man.

She didn't know what she would do. Her impassive nature allowed her to ignore it. Nothing was happening that changed her current condition. Myrna half-wondered if Genevieve's sickness had been psychosomatic, and hated herself again for allowing resentment toward her best friend to surface. But regardless, Myrna maintained her usual energy and health. She was tempted to chock it up to superstition, till she began to feel the movements and she could no longer ignore it with every part of her brain, and some small bit of it acknowledged that she carried a bastard of the king.

She surprised herself by not being resentful of the fetus. She was angry, as much as she ever was at the general state of things and the accepted repression of the masses, it was true. But it wasn't exacerbated by the unknowing, unimplicated child. It was more a laughable obstacle she knew she must someday face and a subliminal threat to the bond between her and her lady.

But for now, life went on much as normal. And Myrna found herself actually excited about the birth of her best friend's royal child. She held little confidence in the proclaimed sex. But she knew she was human enough to appreciate innocence in infancy, and knew she would derive great satisfaction from tending the soon-to-be-heir. In moments of indulgence, she even reasoned that her condition would render her able to fill the position of nursemaid, which could only be a positive turn of events.

In the meantime, oblivious to her condition, Genevieve procured a woman to be the potential wet-nurse. Genevieve, interestingly enough, selected a pregnant woman who had no husband, but was due for delivery a few months prior to the queen, herself. Myrna had no idea why she chose such a woman instead of an older, children-grown-still-lactating woman. But since she didn't disapprove, she made no protests, despite that the one selected was the self-same Ophelia, notorious for not tucking in sheet corners right.

If one such as she could become pregnant without incurring the judgment of the prudish Genevieve, Myrna wondered if she ought to tell her of her own condition, if not being expressly forthright with the parentage. But Myrna found it easier to just exist as she always did, as companion to the pitiful, but wonderful Genevieve—queen of the greatest realm and wise to the least of knowledge.

Myrna's stout frame made it easy to mask her growing belly, and she took to wearing looser clothing. She also tended to visit the king's chambers less, and only at night when the shrouds of darkness could keep him from getting a good look at her swollen form. Clothing might be enough to obscure it from the outside; but naked and lost in passion, there was no telling what secrets might be brought to light.

And so time passed till Genevieve was nearing her delivery. That meant Myrna was likely close to hers as well, but she thought little of that, allowing herself to be fooled that if she ignored it long enough, a solution would present itself. In the back of her mind, she considered that she might give the child to the poor Ophelia, who had delivered a stillborn two months earlier. Ophelia had been kept on as a second lady-in-waiting, which didn't bother Myrna a bit since she welcomed the extra help.

Compassionate Genevieve agonized over Ophelia's suffering, taking it upon herself to provide a safe, comforting circle where Ophelia could join in the caretaking of the royal child to salve the wound of losing her own. Myrna wasn't sure if the gesture would prove to soothe or sting the childless girl. But lanky Ophelia never said much, and little seemed changed about her.

The nearer Genevieve's delivery loomed, it was announced that Queen Lajoya and King Jorjet of the coastal kingdom, Naphtali, would be arriving to welcome the child, bringing their own little heir, a prince with an impossibly long name who would be the betrothed of Genevieve's newborn.

The information had little effect on Myrna, but Genevieve was frantic about it. The combination of having her child's sex declared and being promised away without even being consulted, was too much for Genevieve. Never very social to begin with, Genevieve grew increasingly withdrawn from visitors. Myrna saw her stress weighing heavy on her and tried to help her best friend cope. She rubbed her aching feet in the evenings, hummed peaceful tunes at night and stroked her hair as she let her sleep in the mornings. But not even Myrna could shield her from the course of events, and soon came the day that the Naphtali royalty would arrive.

Stay tuned for more Myrna in The Edge of Lust: Tales of Desire, Passion, and Conquest.