Chapter Text
In a sunlit room, deep within a palace in London, a man sits. He is not resting patiently; rather he is humming with barely suppressed energy and obvious annoyance. His palm is bouncing where it lays on his jogging knee, his jaw muscle twitching every so often. His other hand is flexing in and out of a fist where it hangs by his side.
In front of him stands a nervous wreck of a painter, cringing behind a large panel and looking as little as possible at the murderous gaze of the sitter. The painter is thinking that he will need more black paint when the man finally speaks.
“It’s been an hour. Am I really still needed for this?” He snaps. His dark brows are drawn together.
The painter trembles. “Y-y-your majesty, the long hours are only to ensure that your beauty is depicted as faithfully as it deserves.”
The man snorts, which surprises the painter, most of whose patrons have never thought twice about the flattery he spouts.
“Well, if you’re really trying to depict the truth of my beauty,” the man says sarcastically, and rises, “I’d better get as far away as possible, or else my betrothed will flee the second she lays eyes on it.”
The painter sees his life flash before his eyes- how could his carefully chosen words have given such offense? “B-but, your majesty-“
He is cut off by the slam of the door. Left alone, he considers the half-finished portrait. If he need not appease the man’s vanity, then there is little need to conform the painting to the usual conventions. Cautiously excited by the thought of a challenge, he begins to correct the contours of the outlined face, extending the nose, widening the corners of the mouth.
After all, no matter what he looks like, what girl wouldn’t want to marry the king of England?
***
In another sunlit room, this time beyond the foam-capped waves of the channel, deep into the heart of France, a young woman is also sitting for her portrait.
The painter has not started yet; an attendant is still tucking flyaway hairs, arranging the drape of her necklace, and pulling her turned-back fur sleeves a little higher.
“Rose,” the young woman snaps, then softens her tone regretfully, “please leave me be. You’re making me nervous.”
Rose snatches her hands away. “I apologize, your grace. I am over-excited.”
She gives her attendant a sad look. If you knew me better, she thinks, you would be sabotaging me, not prettying me up.
The painter peeks around from behind the panel. “What beauty!” He remarks. “I have never seen the like. But please, your grace, might I be delighted by the sun of your smile?”
“Am I to smile the whole time?” She inquires. It sounds like a sure path to a headache.
The painter shakes his head. “No, your grace, only while I am painting the miracle of your countenance.” His own brightens as a happy thought occurs to him. “Think of your betrothed, your grace!” He cries. “What maiden would not be overjoyed with the prospect of wedding the king of England!”
She stretches her lips over her teeth, and hopes it resembles a smile more than a grimace. Not this maiden, she thinks.
Her protector nods knowingly from his position by the back wall, behind the painter. Strength, his expression says.
And strength is something that Rey, newly discovered Duchess of Lorraine, long exiled and disinherited Princess of England, betrothed of King Kylo I, is certain to need in the coming days.
***
A week later, Rey stands on a short wood platform, again displaying herself for artisans. This time, it is the eyes of three dressmakers that drink her in, swooping about her person with pins and yards of luxurious fabrics. She is only in her shift, but she finds it oddly more comfortable than the heavy dresses she is daily laced into, these recent months. Like this, she can breathe freely, unencumbered by the hoops of a farthingale or the heavy layers of her kirtle and dress. Her mouth quirks up at one side. I could even- and wouldn’t they be scandalized- I could even run.
One of the dressmakers holds up a length of blue-green silk against Rey’s cheek.
“What a lovely color for your skin,” the dressmaker sighs.
“Mm, yes,” agrees another, her arms heaped with black velvet.
Rey nods. It is a beautiful shade, light rippling across the fibers like reflected sunshine skipping across the wavelets of a lake. It’s not the shade of deep waters, nor those particularly shallow, but a perfect medium that invites you to take a swim.
“That one, then,” she says. “I’ll have a dress of it.”
The ladies exchange looks. The one who had held up the fabric clears her throat tactfully. “I did not mean to suggest it in seriousness, your grace. Maybe for some undersleeves, or a forepart?”
“Why not a dress?” Asks Rey, puzzled. Then, her face drains of color as something occurs to her. “Is- it too expensive?” She whispers shamefacedly.
Luke had told her that money was no object, especially for dresses, but why had she taken him at his word? Everything was so beastly expensive, and she ought to be trying to save money for him, show him some speck of gratitude for everything he had done for her-
“Oh no, your grace!” says the one with black velvet. “We were told, our king has already purchased all of these fabrics. Whatever you choose will be your wedding gift, and he will have clothes for himself or for his queen out of the rest.
“Oh,” Rey says, a little horrified at the luxury that surrounds her, but impressed with what she is sure is the result of Leia’s masterful persuasion. “But why not that silk then?”
Again the ladies fall silent. This time it is the third one, holding a basket of pins, who speaks up.
“It is said that your betrothed exclusively wears black. Not out of mourning, but personal choice.” This seamstress, a short young woman with rounded features, hesitates before continuing, her eyes lowering from Rey’s gaze to the floor. “It was thought you should like to match him, as his bride.”
Rey has developed a sorry habit of daydreaming recently, and it’s only now that she sees what her earlier trance had ignored: Except for a few flashes of brightness, almost every length of wool, velvet, silk, and linen that these dressmakers have strewn about the room is black.
“That’s… rather odd of him,” Rey says slowly, and is relieved when the dressmakers titter instead of frowning at her irreverent words. “Well,” she continues, straightening her spine, “I don’t see why I must deprive myself because of his choice. In fact, I don’t want to take a single black gown to England. It may be the fashion there, but I am a daughter of France, no?”
The dressmakers nod, hesitantly, but starting to smile.
Rey is emboldened. “Take those dark fabrics away.” She commands, and then cocks her head questioningly. “Would you happen to have anything in yellow?”
It is just then that Rose slips into the bedroom chamber. She is walking quickly, and carrying a sealed envelope.
“Your grace!” Rose says brightly. “I have a letter from your betrothed.”
Rather awkward timing, Rey muses. She steps down from the platform to take the letter. “Thank you, Rose.”
She examines the seal; a thick, red circle of wax embossed with the Great Seal of England.
“Your grace.”
Rey looks up, and wishes she hadn’t. Rose is raising her eyebrows with a look that can only be interpreted one way.
“It was written for your eyes only.” Rose whispers, dimples shining with her smile.
Rey blushes. What could this man, who only learned of her existence three months ago, possibly have to say to her? She thrusts the letter back into Rose’s hands. “Read it,” Rey says with a boldness she does not feel. “I don’t think he could have anything so private to say to me as of yet.”
Rose hesitates, but one look at Rey’s embarrassed, angry gaze is enough to have her opening the envelope.
“To my dearest betrothed and awaited wife-“ Rose begins.
“My heart and I surrender ourselves into your hands, beseeching you to hold us commended to your favor, and that by absence your affection for us may still grow, for it were a great pity to increase our pain, of which your absence from our court produces enough and more than I could ever have thought could be felt, reminding us of a point in astronomy which is this: The longer the days are, the more distant is the sun, and nevertheless the hotter; so it is with our love, for by absence we two are kept a distance from one another, and yet the fervor between us grows, at least on my side; I hope the like on yours, assuring you that on my part the pain of absence is already too great for me.”
Rose pauses for breath, overwhelmed by the long sentences.
“When I think of the increase of that which I am forced to suffer it would be almost intolerable, but for the firm hope I have of your unchangeable affection for me: And to remind you of this sometimes, and seeing that I still wait to be personally present with you, I hope that you may gaze upon the portrait I have sent, which, you must know, I am constantly wishing myself to exchange places with, if it should please you. This is from the hand of your loyal servant and friend, K. R.”
When Rose finishes, she is shocked to see Rey on the verge of tears, trembling. “Your grace,” she says awkwardly, “it- it is good that you are so touched-“
Rey bursts out laughing. She sits down on the bed, doubling over with the longest, loudest cackle she’s given way to in maybe her entire life. “It’s just too funny,” she snorts out.
Rose pats her awkwardly on the shoulder. The dressmakers, not sure what to make of it, start gathering their things to leave.
“There, there,” says Rose, clearly uncomfortable.
“Oh, Rose,” laughs out Rey. “How could that man- that angry, dark ghoul from the portrait- write something as silly as that?”
And through her giggles, she thinks of when she first saw Kylo Ren’s portrait- that rainy, grey day when the English ambassador had arrived-
The ambassador had removed the portrait cover with a flourish, and Rey found herself looking at the face of her betrothed for the very first time.
It was not a peaceful face. Rey shivered as she took in the dark, bold gaze, eyes seeming to dissect her from behind the layers of varnish. He was attractive, she had to admit, strong features accentuated by the dark, wavy hair that fell just to his collar. His mouth was wide and sensual, and Rey could not help but wonder what it will be like to be kissed by those lips. But was it a true likeness? She turned to gaze questioningly at Luke.
“That’s him,” said Luke, seeming to read her mind. “It’s a better likeness than I expected, actually.”
Rey turned back to the painting. She tries to recall what Leia had told her about portraiture; the hidden symbols and messages. There is the ermine draped over his shoulders, for royalty, obviously. There is the chain that hangs over his chest, the individual oval links filled with a wrought gold version of Anakin Skywalker’s six-rayed sun heraldry. Emphasizing himself as the familial and spiritual heir to his grandfather, she realizes. But she finds her gaze returning to those fierce, dark eyes. “He looks… fearsome. Almost angry,” she had said carefully.
Luke sighs from behind her. “He looks lost to me.”
Rey's laughter trails off as she remembers the sad tone of Luke’s voice.
“-part of the tradition of courtly love,” Rose is saying. “Such letters are meant to- inspire devotion.”
“Courtly love?” Rey asks, confused. She sits up.
“Did you ever read the tales of King Arthur? The Knights of the Round Table?” Rose asks.
Rey scrunches her nose. “I was not allowed to read anything besides pious works.” She says with a slight undertone of resentment.
Rose’s mouth softens. “Surely you’ve heard of them, at least. Guinevere and Lancelot?”
Those names spark recognition. She has heard them from Leia, during one of their daily etiquette lessons, which, despite the valuable knowledge of culture and influence that the older woman tries to impart, often has the effect of sending Rey off into daydreams. Rey is not a natural ambassador. She much prefers her lessons with Luke, which had started with sword-work, but have long since also progressed into... that study, which she is not to discuss with anybody besides Luke and Leia.
“Yes, I think so,” Rey says slowly. “Wasn’t Guinevere the queen? And Lancelot the knight with whom she committed infidelity, betraying the king?”
“Ah, that’s the thing,” exclaims Rose, “theirs was a pure and unconsummated love-well, at least for a long time. The idea of a man in service to an unattainable woman, who proves his goodly feelings through respectful words and acts of devotion. This is what courtly love means.”
Rey can’t help but laugh. “That doesn’t seem like a good example for a marriage. Love outside of wedlock- and I should hardly think this union is to remain unconsummated.”
Rose exhales sharply, exasperated. “That is not what courtly love seeks to emulate. It is about unselfish, spiritual love that transcends the carnal.”
Rey is surprised into seriousness by the irritation in Rose’s tone. This is the first time she has seen her lady-in-waiting even slightly lose her temper. Rey thinks of all the times since she came to the French court that Rose has carefully dressed her, gently corrected her manners, or whispered a name or piece of advice in Rey’s ear just in time to prevent a faux pas. It is never done with judgement, Rey thinks. Maybe she has more to learn about unselfish behavior than she thought. Rey takes Rose’s hands, startling the other young woman.
“I am sorry, my friend.” Says Rey simply. “Tell me more. How should I respond to his letter?”
***
A month later, an attendant enters Kylo’s privy chamber. He is carrying a letter that has been patiently waiting in a messenger’s leather bag, on sweating horses and salt-sprayed ships, carried past the crop fields of Artois and through the hedge-lined lanes of Kent. The valet thinks it is a precious letter that he hands to his master, deferentially murmuring its introduction.
But his master, sitting at his desk, tosses it to another table without a second glance. He seems not to notice or care when it slips right off, landing perilously close to the fire grate.
The attendant snatches the letter back to safety, his eyes wide. “Your majesty, would you prefer I bring it back another time?”
The king is scratching out his initials with his quill, making his way through the daily mound of paperwork. “There’s no need,” he says without turning around. “Have it brought to the poet who wrote my letter. I am sure she has done the same. Let our writers converse without interference.”
The attendant hesitates. There is always some element of uncertainty as to what will spark the monarch’s temper. “The writing on the outside… It seems a rather childish hand. And I have heard that the duchess had not the education befitting her station, your majesty.”
The king’s hand stills. “You think she wrote it herself?”
“I think it a distinct possibility, your majesty.”
Kylo turns in his seat and holds out his hand. He is curious.
Once the valet has dropped the missive into his hand, he unrolls the paper and begins to read.
The writing is cramped and irregular, certainly not the hand of one accustomed to correspondence. The content, as well, is not the perfumed words of a seasoned courtier.
It really is her own work, he thinks. It is a passable reply to what his poet had written, obeying the conventions of royal courtship- yet the words a shade too honest, the metaphors simple.
I wish I might respond equally to your majesty’s declaration of affections, the letter closes, but as of yet I am too unschooled in the arts of love. I trust by our meeting that we may grow to delight in each other, and that our marriage might grow as a tree that provides shelter and nourishment to us.
He looks pensively down at her letter, tapping his fingers on his chin. This letter was written by her hands- the girl from the portrait.
He had been sparring in the courtyard with Hux when Snoke came to fetch him. He was pressing the red-haired earl steadily back across the grass, blinking away the sweat dripping into his eyes, when he’d felt the cold presence of his mentor behind him.
Kylo Ren.
Distracted for a moment, Hux had lunged forward and insinuated the hilt of his sword to lock with Kylo’s, twisting it from his hand. Only the presence of Snoke had kept Kylo from snarling while the pain of his wrenched wrist coursed through him. But he did not have to go entirely without revenge. Closing his eyes, he pulled before turning around, hearing with satisfaction Hux’s yelp as he appeared to trip over nothing at all, falling heavily to the ground.
Opening his eyes, he was met with the cynical, coldly amused face of Snoke, Duke of Somerset. “Not very sporting.”
Kylo looked at the ground, still holding his throbbing wrist. “No, your grace.” Behind him, Hux was rising, rubbing his head and cursing. It made Kylo nervous when Snoke referred to his powers in front of others, however obliquely.
“It is fitting, however, for a monarch to be victorious in anything. He must not let weakness show-“
“It is the death of kings.” Kylo finished.
Snoke beckoned him with a gesture. “Come. The portrait of your bride has arrived.”
Inside the palace, Kylo stared at the painted wood panel. A girl stared back, beautiful and slightly defiant. She was dressed in the French fashion, with a hood resting far back enough on her head to allow the painter to display her brown hair, neatly parted and swept back. The horizontal neckline of her gown showed the slight rise of her breasts, decorated by chains of gold and pearl. Kylo began to feel a slight heat, which he could blame partly on her continental look. Most English women covered all of their hair with boxy gable hoods, hding their necklines with the modesty of a partlet. She is an unusual sight, he thought, and for more reasons than the cut of her dress. Royal marriage candidates, man or woman, by and large chose to drape themselves in jewels and bits of tat for a betrothal portrait, sacrificing grace for the chance to display symbols of fertility, wealth, and piousness. Yet, while her hood and neck were adorned with pearls (perhaps a reference to her virginal purity), her hazel eyes were the first thing one noticed. She was not a beauty after the fashion of the day- her hair too dark, her mouth too wide, her cheekbones angular and high. Yet it was a struggle for him to tear his gaze from her face, and he tried to cast his notice on her other decorations, which were only a thin gold chain and a-
“Rather whorish for English tastes, no?” Snoke said, stepping beside Kylo. “And very little to show, even with that neckline. Not the most promising for her fertility.”
Kylo swallowed and looked at the ground. She will be the queen consort of England, he reminded himself. Her body will be everyone’s business.
“Notice that pendant, lad? If I’m not mistaken, I see the work of the twins in it. That necklace disappeared from the inventories when your mother fled.”
A golden K, pearl drops hanging from the bottom of the letter’s two legs, sits between the girl’s collarbones.
“The house of Kenobi,” he says.
Snoke nods. “What a shame, after all your grandfather did to save this country from those tyrants. Still, we Englishmen have long memories, and her heritage will lend you credibility.”
Kylo nods. While he has the loyalty of some of the wealthiest and most powerful peers in the realm, the mercenaries who had cut down his mother’s forces have long since returned to their various homelands, leaving a vulnerability to those who would reinstate Queen Leia. The idea of marrying Kenobi’s granddaughter to placate the peers who still value the memory of a long-dead despot is greatly distasteful, but the coffers have been emptied by the wages of the mercenaries, and all the pageantry of a royal wedding will cost relatively little, compared to another war.
“Don’t forget,” Snoke says sharply, “it was your uncle who found her, hidden though she was in that rural convent. She will be grateful to him, and that is a powerful motive. Who knows what he has asked her to do?”
Coming back to the present moment, Kylo hardens his heart. He begins to reread the letter- not for pleasure this time, but to study his adversary.