Chapter Two: Cythera

 

Sleeping with Cythera, back in the summer of 439, had been a mistake.  It was not that Raoul had not loved her.  In fact, he had been rather fond of her since her first days at court.  Not only was she beautiful, with her ash-blonde curls and dimpled smile, but the girl was the sweetest person he had ever known.  When she had first come to court, Raoul was wary.  He knew that they came in droves to marry rich sons of richer lords—and he seemed to fit that description perfectly, according to the madwomen who pestered him at every court function.  But she was friendly, and proved to have a cool head on her shoulders during intense situations.  He liked that.

 

During the last four years of King Roald’s reign, he realized that she was not married, despite numerous offers.  When asked why, she merely shrugged and stated that a noblewoman of independent wealth had no reason to marry, if she did not want to.  This encouraged even greater friendship between them, and with that grew a mild flirtation.  There were times when Raoul shocked himself by attending garden parties, where he spent the afternoons hiding behind hydrangeas, covertly searching the lawn for the pretty lady.  His friends had gaped on the final Midwinter party before Queen Lianne’s death, when Cythera had lured him into a dance.

 

But after the Coronation Day disaster, in July of 439, such mild flirtations seemed pointless.  People were injured throughout the palace.  There was a pile of corpses to be separated and taken to either the Chapel of the Black God or Traitor’s Hill, where they would be burned.  But through all of it—the security reports he had to collect, the triage the healers were managing, the aftershocks of the horrendous earthquake—his attention kept turning to beautiful, serene Cythera, who was walking among the wounded, gently washing the faces of soldiers and civilians caught in the morning’s crossfire.  She paid no heed to her own wounded arm, bleeding through its bandage.

 

Watching her, Raoul could not begin to deny his love.

 

And that evening, they were given the chance to speak for the first time all day.   But when they faced each other in the dim lamplight of Cythera’s sitting room, Raoul realized that words were completely unnecessary.  He crossed the room in two quick strides, his lips upon her before his arms had time to wrap around her body.

 

The next morning, when he awoke with dark blonde curls spilled over his face, he tried to piece it all together.  He did not regret their actions, but he wondered if sorrow and fear were always going to be the driving forces in his love life.  When Cythera awoke, she gave him no chance to apologize; they made love again.

 

Cythera was not a fast woman, like Lady Delia.  Raoul was certain that he was her first and only lover during their three years together.  She grew to prominence in King Jonathan’s court as the queen’s assistant.  She was perhaps the busiest person in Corus, save Gary, and this suited Raoul’s hectic life perfectly.  Weeks would pass without ever seeing the capital, when he roamed with the King’s Own—but whenever he came back there was a welcome reception.

 

After three years, though, Raoul could see its wear on Cythera.  She rejected marriage proposal after marriage proposal, and though he recalled her childhood words about matrimony, he was filled with guilt.  He had no wish to marry, though Cythera stirred within him the closest thing to that desire.  He felt as though he were stringing her along, and despite her protestations, felt that he was taking advantage of her.  His remorse led him to the realization that he had to make a choice: propose or end it all.  And Raoul did not want to be married.

 

So they had drifted apart, occasionally meeting at parties and exchanging longing or confused looks across the room.  Sometimes they would have polite verbal exchanges, barely hiding feelings that were still shared between them.  But more often than not, Raoul completely avoided Corus. 

 

He did his best to feel nothing more than guilt—it had been his decision, after all.  He had no right to misery and pain.  But he knew it would never be that simple.

 

Then one December, Gary confided in him.  Duke Gareth had suggested Lady Cythera as a most suitable wife—but Gary was not sure.

 

“Do you love her?” Raoul had asked nonchalantly.

 

“Do you?”  Gary had looked at him with penetrating brown eyes that lacked their usual spark of playfulness.  Cythera had told him everything, it seemed.

 

Raoul gave his side of the same story, assuring Gary that any love he had shared with Cythera was long gone, that Gary could court her with a clear conscience.  “I don’t like it,” he told his long-time friend, “but my opinion hardly matters if you grow to love each other.”

 

On to Chapter 3