Silk and Silver

I should note that Sari was hesitant to try even a single sip of wine. She said in Persevia it was a drink reserved for the "lenretera," which seems to crudely translate to "adults." How does Sari think herself a child? She's grown. She's had her blood. Hell, she's getting married. She's an adult in every sense of the word. So I told her that if she's old enough to be shipped off from her home and sworn to a man, then she is certainly old enough to have a cup of wine. Eventually she did agree to enjoy a well-aged merlot with me, though I'm not sure if it was more thanks to my convincing words or more from her overbearing need to do all she can to avoid my disapproval.

Sari fears me, friend. She fears the very possibility of my displeasure. She acts as though I'm likely to snap at the first perceived slight and strike her or curse her name, neither of which I've ever once done nor ever would do. It wounds me, seeing her act so sheepish around me. I see that look of unease in her eyes and I feel monstrous.

I voiced this concern to Mother and she assured me that Sari's fear is not a fault of mine. "It's their way," she said with a dismissing shrug, as though she were describing the weather or anything else that was utterly unchangeable. She said that, for a Persevian wife, the favor and good grace of her husband is paramount. "They have no greater duty," she told me.

I don't like that, friend. A wife that bases her life solely off the needs of her husband is not living any life at all. I decided then that I'd make it clear to Sari that there is no person whose feelings or desires she should place above her own. Not me, not her father, not my father, not anyone. She's not cattle. I refuse to let her see herself as such.

The next day, when Sari and I were enjoying a meal on a balcony overlooking the city, I began to take notice of her wincing and grunting in discomfort. I asked her what troubled her, but she was hesitant to admit anything was wrong. After some prodding, she admitted that the corset under her dress was particularly tight. I asked her who dresses her and she told me Missus Withers does. One of Mother's lady's maids. I asked Sari if she could simply request that her corset be tied looser, but Sari said Missus Withers was told by her father himself to ensure it was tied tight.

So I went and found Missus Withers that evening after supper, while she helped the scullery maids clean in the kitchens, and I asked her very kindly to tie Sari's corset looser in the future. She seemed surprised by my request, but she promised me that she'd do as I asked.

64^th of Summer, Year of the Gods 1322.

Last night was one for the ages, friend. I'm a married man. I fear my hand will ache by the time I've finished writing this, but it will be worth it, friend, that I can assure you.

The air was stuffy and humid in the church. The pews were lined to the brim with guests three hundred strong, men and women far overdressed for such a hot and crowded environment. I could feel beads of sweat trickle down my neck, though I admit I'm not sure if the sweat was more from the heat or more from my anxiety. I wrung my hands nervously as I stood with the High Priest at the altar and waited for Sari's arrival. I looked to my family on the pew closest to me and saw Father glaring daggers at me. He jerked his head towards my hands, silently demanding for me to be still and stand proper, and so I let my hands rest at my sides. Norman snickered, but Mother beamed me a bright, reassuring smile. Now that I think of it, friend, an artist could've painted them then and had the perfect framing of my family. Father being stern. Mother being encouraging. Norman laughing his arse off.

The chattering amongst the congregation was silenced when the doors at the far end of the hall swung open. Sari and the Sultan stood in the doorway, with the Sultan holding Sari's arm. Sari was garbed in a white gown that was far lighter than most wedding dresses I'd seen, without the long, sweeping train dragging on the floor behind her. There was a white veil over her face, but I knew it was her. I'd have known it was her even if it weren't our wedding. I know her figure. I know her long legs.

Have I written before, friend, of how portly the Sultan is? He waddled up the aisle with Sari as though he were a pair of stubby planks attached to a wobbling orb. I suppose it's unseemly to write so disparagingly of him while I write of marrying his daughter, but it needed to be said, friend, and you know me well enough to know that I mean no offense.

The Sultan walked Sari to my side and nodded to me before leaving to take his seat on the front pew on the side of aisle opposite my family. I brushed Sari's veil away from her face and found her glowing. Her violet eyes were glimmering and her teeth were bared in a wide, joyful smile. Any concerns I had of our nuptials being something Sari did not want was gone at that moment, friend. I'd never seen her happier.

Sari gave me her hand, and we turned together to face the altar. The ceremony began immediately. The High Priest wrapped each of our hands tightly together in a silken cloth, Persevian silk, no doubt, and had me repeat my vows after him.

"I take you, Sarisanya Fayarus, here, in the sight of Gods and men, as my wife in love, law, and faith. I swear myself to you, to protect you and to cherish you, forever, in this life and the next. Blood of my blood. Flesh of my flesh. Spirit of my spirit."

I met Sari's gaze as I said the words. I'm not much for metaphors, friend, but I tell you now that the violet in her eyes was a sea that I would never regret becoming lost adrift within.

Sari said her vows then. They were identical to mine, aside from my name. She kept her eyes on mine as she said them. When she finished, the High Priest pulled the cloth from our hands, but our fingers stayed clasped together.

"With the honor of the Gods," the High Priest began, "I pronounce you husband and wife." He fell quiet for a long moment, whether for tradition's sake or for dramatic effect I'm not sure, but eventually, he looked from Sari to me and said, "You may kiss."

The next moment seemed to last for an eternity. Truly, friend, it was as though the flow of time had slowed to a trickle. Sari and I leaned together in perfect unison, as though we were not two persons but one, and our eyes fell closed as we kissed. My mind became barren in that moment, save for one singular thought, a thought that I'll always remember: soft. The feeling of Sari's lips.

Time uproariously began anew when we kissed. The congregation rose from their feet and erupted into a thunderous applause. I'm surprised the walls managed to stay standing.

Things moved fast then. Sari and I were shepherded from the church back to the keep. Flower girls threw petals of red and white roses at our feet, and crowds of commonfolk watched and cheered from behind rows of armed palace guards. I've never understood that, the phenomenon of commoners cheering on the marriages of highborn, people they know nothing about, people who often care little for them and even conspire against them. Lowborn take any reason to be happy, I suppose. And any reason to drink. But don't mistake that for contempt, friend. I don't blame them.

Sari squeezed my hand tight while we walked, and I'm not sure if it was more from love or nerves. Equally both, I'd think.

The feast began immediately in the Great Hall, which was packed full with each of the three hundred men and women who observed the wedding. Sari and I and my family were seated at the long table at the helm of the hall, raised a few steps above all the others. Father sat at the center of the table, Sari and I at his right, and Mother and Norman at his left. Hordes of servants brought dishes of every food imaginable. Quail, goose, boar, mutton, venison, oysters, cockles, cheeses and nuts. Sari shared a goblet of wine with me without a second thought. She was laughing and enjoying herself, and thus I was as well. And her appetite was as ravenous as ever. I challenged myself to match her as she ate, but I could not. I'm almost laughing just thinking of it, friend. She must be at least thirty pounds lighter than me and yet her appetite shames mine. Her stomach is a bottomless pit.

I noticed Norman slip away from the table and sneak off, but, strangely, his absence didn't upset Father. I would find out soon where he'd gone off to, but at that moment, and I'm now ashamed to say this, I was glad he left.

Sari and I were brought gifts as we ate. Many, many gifts. More than we'll know what to do with. My cousins and aunts and uncles brought gems and jewelry, most of which were for Sari, but their well-wishing seemed secondary to their interest in marveling over my bride as though she were some otherworldly, silver-haired oddity. That angered me. So too did the shocked expressions on their faces when they heard her speak our tongue so well. It was like they'd seen a dog speak words. Perchance I took it too personally? Sari seemed unoffended. But she's my wife, and isn't it my duty, friend, to take things such as those personally, even if she doesn't?

The Sultan brought a thick, neatly folded blanket of pink silk. When other silver-haired diplomats and visitors brought more silk blankets, I realized it was some sort of Persevian tradition. By the time the last blanket was brought, we'd been given enough silk to fill an armoire.

When I looked up from a colossal goose Sari and I were sharing and saw Norman standing before our table, I feared the worst. I was worried that Norman had gone and retrieved some joke gift to humiliate me in front of my bride, but I realized it was a fear misplaced. The sheathed sword and swordbelt he held in his hands was not a joke.

"A prince needs a sword," he said to me, grinning as he always did. "So, with Father's blessing, I had this made for you. A sword worthy of royalty."

It was stunning, friend. The sword's hilt is plated with silver, the same shade of Sari's hair, and encrusted with a series of small, finely-cut diamonds. The scabbard is plated with silver just as the hilt is.

"Put the belt on," Norman told me as he handed it to me, and I did as he asked and fastened it around my waist. "The fit's good, isn't it?" he asked me. I nodded but said nothing. I couldn't find the words. "I made sure it was," he said. "I wanted everything to be right."

I put my hand to the hilt and rested my palm on the pommel. I shivered from a cold chill. I was astounded. I'd always wanted a sword like that, and now I have one. I turned to Sari, and she smiled when she saw the gleeful look on my face, like a child holding a fistful of sweets.

"Well, go on then," Norman said when I looked back to him. "Draw it."

I pulled the sword from its sheath and gasped as the steel sang proudly. The guests who heard it cheered and hollered and soon the whole hall had risen from their seats and applauded, Mother and Father and Sari included. Norman clapped with them. "Silver throat in the scabbard," he said, speaking of the steel's singing. "I figured you'd enjoy that."

"I do," I said, finally finding my voice again.

"I call it Silver," he said as he looked to Sari. "In honor of your beautiful wife. But you can rename it if you'd like."

"No," I said softly. "It's a good name."

I looked over Silver for a while, admiring its beauty and craftsmanship and its perfect weight in my hands before finally returning it to its scabbard. Norman and I looked to each other until, without words, we embraced in a firm hug. I closed my eyes and squeezed him tight. I can't remember the last time I'd hugged him before then. I'd missed him.

"And Brother," Norman whispered by my ear as he gave me a few hearty pats on my back. "I'd still appreciate it if, after tonight, you could sate that little curiosity of mine."

I remembered right away what he was speaking of. The "silver cunt hairs." I laughed as I shoved him off. "Away with you," I said.

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding," he chuckled as he left for his seat beside Mother.

"What did he say?" Sari asked me when I sat beside her again.

"He wishes us well," I told her. A good-intentioned fib, friend. I don't intend to make lying to Sari a habit. I just didn't want her blushing red from knowing his actual words. And she needn't worry. I absolutely will not be sating Norman's curiosity on that matter.

The feast lasted for hours, until after the sun had set. When the wine had run dry and the food had been eaten to the bones, Father ended the feast, and I shook the guests' hands as they left while Sari curtsied to them. When the hall had emptied, Father did not waste time. He had a pair of guards quickly escort Sari and I to our bedroom. "Good night," Norman bid us with a devilish glint in his eyes.

Our bedroom -- which, I should note, I have no problem referring to now as "ours" instead of "mine" -- was dimly lit. The only light was that of the fireplace, the flames of which burned bright but crackled quietly. When I swung shut the door behind us, I turned and found Sari standing before the fire. I strode to her and joined her side.

"Here we are," she said quietly as she turned to me, smiling weakly.

"Here we are," I said with a nod. When she rubbed her hand on her shoulder, I asked her, "Are you nervous?"

Sari looked away for a moment, to our bed, before looking back to me. "Yes," she said.

There was a sinking feeling in my chest after she said that. I don't blame her for being nervous -- I was nervous, even -- but I didn't want to lie with a girl who didn't want it with all her heart. It wouldn't be right.

"We don't have to do this," I said. I can hardly believe I uttered those words. I'd fantasized of lying with her on that night. I was lusting for it, hungering for it, I wanted with every fiber of my being to bed her. Any other highborn husband would've denied his wife the choice to reject him. But I don't want to be any other husband. I want to be me. "They won't know we didn't consummate," I told her. "No one would know."

Sari grabbed my hands. "I'm nervous," she said. "But I'm not afraid."

When I looked into her violet eyes, I knew she spoke the truth. There was none of that unease in her gaze that I'd so often fretted over. There was no fear. Only desire.

She pulled my hands towards her and pressed herself against me as she kissed me. Her lips were soft against mine. I put my hand to the back of her head, to her silver hair, and held her firm against me. I kissed her deeper, with more passion, and Sari welcomed it. Our breath turned hot and ragged, and our kiss turned lustful. Our tongues met for the first time, and it felt unlike anything I'd ever known. Her wet tongue pressed against mine was something both greatly pleasurable and greatly arousing, and I wanted more of it. I danced my tongue over hers, and when Sari's breath shifted into moans, so too did mine.

Then, suddenly, Sari broke our kiss and reared backwards from me. "What do you say in your tongue at this time?" she asked me as she scanned her eyes across mine.

"'I love you,'" I answered her, but I quickly shook my head as I said, "But you don't have to say it. You only say it if you mean it."

She put her hands to my cheeks. "I love you," she whispered.

I locked my gaze with hers. "I love you too," I whispered back.

And I meant it, friend. I don't know how. I'd known this girl for less than a week and yet, somehow, I meant it. I can't explain it, friend. But these things never do have explanations, do they?

Sari kissed me again and returned her tongue to mine. We kissed for a long while, our lips mingling as the heat of the fire washed over us. When my lust grew too strong to ignore and I managed to tear myself from her, Sari knew exactly what I desired. She put her hands to her shoulders and pulled her gown over her head.

I suppose I should stop here. It seems indecent to write in detail the consummation of my marriage to my wife. I wrote of that hour with those two whores in the House of Jewels, but that was different. Those whores had no modesty to lose. Sari does.

But when I'm old and my hair grays and my memories drift to a fog, I'll want to have you, friend, to have this diary to read. I'll want to be able to relive that night Sari and I first shared each other's love. Maybe it's lewd, maybe it's improper, maybe it's indecent, I don't much care. I want to remember that night exactly as it happened, with every bit of love and pleasure described exactly as I remember it.

I moved to the bed and sat on its edge, and I had Sari stand with her back to me as I unfastened the straps of her corset. I smiled when I felt how loose the fit was. Missus Withers honored my request. After I'd pulled the corset off, I moved to her garter and popped its back straps. I put my hands to each side of Sari's waist and turned her to me. I pecked a quick kiss on her flat stomach as I popped the garter's front straps, dropping the garter to the floor, and Sari giggled at the touch of my lips. Ticklish girl. Sari reached behind herself and unfastened her white brassiere, but her breasts yet stayed hidden beneath her long, silver hair. I brushed the locks of hair away like curtains, and my lust burned hot when I finally saw them. Her breasts have some heft but they stand well, with no sagging, and sport pink, perky nipples that point outwards. I can vividly remember the sound of Sari gasping when I first put my hands to them. I squeezed them and marveled at their feeling. The flesh of her breasts was warm and soft, but her teats stood hot and hard, flush with blood and lust.

I grabbed Sari by her waist and pulled her down beside me, seating her on the bed's edge. I slipped down onto my knees before her and turned to her, facing her crotch. I grabbed her white stockings, and Sari raised her legs for me as I peeled them off her. When they were gone, I sighed as I ran my hands up and down her bare legs, marveling over their smoothness. I had been looking forward to that moment I could first touch her legs for a very long time. They were perfect. Sari was perfect. She was everything I thought she would be. A silver goddess to call my own. Stunning and gorgeous from her head to her long, beautiful legs to her toes.

I kissed her again and again, putting my lips to every inch of her smooth legs, but even as absorbed in her legs as my mind was, my eyes kept peering at her white panties between her open thighs. I was lusting for more than her legs. So I ceased my kissing, grabbed the waistband of her panties, and pulled them down to her ankles, and Sari did her part by kicking them off her feet. I put my hands to her thighs and gently pushed them open, and Gods is she incredible. I don't much know of any standards of beauty for what's between a woman's legs, but Sari's cunt enthralls me. Though I was already like steel, my manhood hardened further at the sight of it. The outer folds of her slit are plump and furred with a fine, white-silver hair that's short and soft. Trimmed, it looks like. The pink lips of her cunt are partly hidden within her. She was sodden wet, her inflamed gash shining with moisture. With her legs spread, a strange scent rolled from her cunt, a scent unlike anything I'd ever smelled. Pungent and musky, but wholly and utterly erotic. My member twitched in my trousers at her scent.

An overbearing desire to taste her overtook me, and so I lowered my head down between her legs, but Sari's hands darted out as she grabbed me by my cheeks and stopped me. "What are you doing?" she asked me.

I spared her a quick glance before looking back to her cunt. "Kissing you."

She shook her head. "Those not my lips," she said.

"'Aren't,'" I corrected her gently. Then I smirked and whispered, "And yes, they are."