Beyond the Blue Light

by V. Anh Perigaea

  Which was why this passion so baffled her and at times seemed to be calling her from outside of herself. It overtook her senses in ways that she was not accustomed to, as if she was being pulled into a vortex, one that filled her with thoughts not her own and her heart with longings beyond her own experience. The hope of seeing him again was essential. Any feeling to the contrary would send her into a mood so despondent that she lost interest in eating or action of any kind. She rarely found a reason for such a feeling, for his letters continued to come, though they were never exact in their timing.

  Admittedly, in the beginning of their discourses, any delay in what she considered the “usual amount of time” sent her into a fit of anxiety, in which she would descend into one of these hopeless moods. In these states she could scarce lift a morsel of food to her mouth, and her mind would race over the situation, making every waking moment a torment. She’d wonder to herself, was the last letter the last she would ever receive? Was there some goodbye within it’s language that she’d failed to interpret? She’d pour over her most recent letter from him, searching for a sign of any finality in his words, any sense of a summing up. Occasionally she’d convince herself of one, but before long his next letter would come, and her worries would cease.

  After a time of this cycle repeating itself, and each time finding that his letters continued (despite her despondency and fears), she began to trust in his affections for her; the affections she’d sensed on the edge of that northern lake, and that she sensed written into every word of his letters. But of this passion, she told no one; not even her aunt. For in her heart, she still felt it was a sin against her father. And yet, the force of his pull broke down every wall of resistance, even those of her most dearly-held familial ties and compassions. She knew that she would betray anyone for him, even herself.

  On her twenty-third birthday, after she and Ascelin had been communicating for several years, her aunt spoke of important news. Aunt Everild had seemed giddier than usual, even more so than when she’d informed Maryone of her intention to put on a ball some six months prior. On that day, Aunt Everild led her into the sitting room, the one she’d brightened and made her own with new linens and furniture. Taking Maryone by both hands, she led her to a chaise, where she plopped down next to her in a graceful movement. Her eyes beamed expectantly as she informed Maryone that she’d “chosen a match” for her.

  Trying not to be overtaken by the swimming melancholy that hit her, she held her breath and looked down at her hands, her mouth a quivering line as she awaited the name of her intended. She locked her jaw that it might not contract in agony. Her chest burned as her mind scanned the inventory of old, gray noblemen and countless other bachelors she’d met at her aunt’s arrangement. It couldn’t be helped, she felt herself sickening; she must look pale as a ghost. She swallowed hard, bit her lip and blinked back the tears forming in her eyes. Looking up, she met her aunt’s eyes as long as she could - a mere flicker - and braced herself for the words.

  “Why my dear,” Aunt Everild said, her expression turning to concern. “You look rather feeble. Here, take some tea.”

  Maryone pushed the cup away gently with her hand.

  “Who is it?” She whispered, trying to keep her voice steady.

  She tried to speak again, but her voice failed her, a mere choke at the back of her throat.

  “Why, my dear,” her aunt said cooly, as if offended. “You shouldn’t fret. Would I choose poorly for my only niece?”

  Maryone paled further. Aunt Everild’s question and pause were met with continued silence, so she cleared her throat and continued.

  “It is a man,” she said, her voice somewhat scolding. “To whom I have spoken several times. He has inquired of your availability, though he’s asked little as to your character, which I find rather peculiar. He seemed only to care that you are available. He has recently come into his inheritance, a great fortune I am told, and is of a fine, noble family. He is quite a superior match for you, you may be sure.”

  Maryone’s chest continued to broil, her heart to jerk and choke her.

  “His name?” she asked weakly.

  “Why my dear,” her aunt said, “It is that same young man whose letters haunt these hallways only too constantly, and for whose presence you yourself pine. Do not think I am blind to the melancholic turn you take at their absence. Your young, noble beau has written a fortnight ago to ask for your hand. A rather lucky turn for you, my dear, and an opportune match to be sure. He means to come in ten month’s time, and you shall be married the day you turn twenty-four. It is all arranged and done. I have already written my consent to the man. Think not that I shall take on any further matchmaking on for you, my dear, for you are twenty-three and have had use of my services for far too long already. I am spent. You shall be married and my duty to your father complete. And there shall be no more talk of it.”

  Maryone’s mouth lay agape and her eyes wide. Her aunt seemed willing to indulge her this weakness under the circumstances, and didn’t make note of it. Maryone cared little either way. Relief and exhilaration overtook her, and she broke into gasping tears, burying her face in her hands, unable to stop the strange, guttural sounds that gasped from her throat. Her head sank forward until it was nearly on her knees, decorum forgotten; and she felt her aunt’s hand cover her head.

  “There, there my dear,” she said, “I’m sure it is a shock. But your life won’t change so very much. You needn’t be afraid.”

  Maryone wasn’t afraid, she was elated to tears. For some time this worry had been weighing her down, a trickle of anxiety at the back of her mind. She knew it was dangerous to allow such a strong preference to develop when she was uncertain who she’d be matched with, but she’d felt she had no choice, no control over her heart; not even from the beginning. It was as if powerful hands were forcefully splitting her grip, or a thick, gushing wave was washing her away. She’d been afraid that this day would come, but that she’d be forced to accept the hand of another. She’d hoped at the very least that she’d be allowed to grow old, unfettered by an unwanted union, and perhaps see Ascelin once again. But she’d never allowed herself to hope for such an outcome, one so dearly held by her heart, one that could make her so happy. He wanted her. Truly, he wanted her as she wanted him. The thought crossed her face in the widest smile she’d ever shown; filling the empty, lonely places in her heart to the brim. She felt she’d come alight. Such a confirmation of what she’d hoped for and suspected was the brightest thing she could ask in this world. She wondered why he’d never said anything to her about his intentions. Truly, they’d never declared their love for each other, but she thought it was clear enough. Why would she continue such a long discourse with a man in whom she held no interest? Surely, he could not be in doubt of her feelings. But perhaps he was in doubt of her feelings, and meant to have her anyway. This thought filled her with a mercenary pleasure. That he may want her badly enough to defy her will thrilled her devilishly.

  She spent the rest of the day in a dreamy haze, replaying her memories of him in the north that were now so faded from revisitation they possessed little connection to reality. It had become difficult to imagine his face, but she recalled very clearly the way it felt to be near him, the sense of his countenance, the potency of his presence to her eager senses. She reclined in various abandoned places, unable to focus her thoughts. Every image, every concept drew her back to visions of him.

  Toward the evening, she found the will to exit her daydreams enough to write to him; though she felt bashful and coy, and didn’t know what words to use to address her future husband, her beloved, the man with whom she would soon be intimate. The thought of him sent a shock of bliss and shyness through her. What language should she use? Should she now speak to him as a lover, or would he find such a manner offensive and unladylike? She knew nothing of his sensibilities on such a matter, and dreaded displeasing him most violently. These considerations made it even more difficult to focus her thoughts,
and she found that two long hours had passed before she’d finished half a page. Eventually, she finished the letter and sent it off, deciding on a manner both friendly and cordial, but omitting any effusive professions of passion that might alarm him. She expressed gratitude and surprise at his refusal to inform her of his intentions. But let him know, in the most proper way she could manage, of her happiness at learning of his actions.

  Her mind washed into a blissful sleep, the sounds of the swaying trees a chorus as she lay face up in the dark, her window open to the night air. Was he listening to the same night? Could he feel her heart now? Truly, he must sense her bliss and hopefully share it. Often she glimpsed an image of him. It only ever lasted a moment, but an impression would come over her of his face, his state of mind; and later in a letter she would find evidence that it’d been so. Every night she dreamt of him, and when she woke, still she felt him. He had possessed her. He owned her. He had drawn her in like a deity, a devilish principality pulling her ruthlessly from afar. She could not resist, but nothing in her wished to. She would be drawn down into hell with him, or for him. It didn’t matter. How she would spend ten months awaiting his arrival, she didn’t know. But if it felt anything like this night, she would welcome a lifetime of it.

  ~

  After many anxious days and nights, the time finally came for his arrival. Guests had been invited to officially celebrate the betrothal, and to welcome the groom, which only made her more nervous. She was dressed in finery, a deep-cut gown of a light peach hue that suited her pale skin nicely. Her aunt had seen to her being decked out like a fine doll, and she’d received so many additions to her trousseau that she felt buried in the trappings of a lady. She paid much attention to her toilette as well, perfecting every detail down to the smallest curl.

  For the first time since her transition into a fine young woman of standing, the guests who spotted the grounds seemed invisible. In the past, such company would’ve made her self-conscious, but today they seemed like so many useless props. She searched their faces only for Ascelin, indifferent to the expressions that answered back; her eyes snagging occasionally on features but never finding their desired object.

  When he arrived at the gate, she heard it, like a sudden silence falling around her. She heard it both from the commotion at the back of the house where the guests stood upon the portico, and in a strange bump in her chest. The knowledge of his presence appeared like a fixed point within her, one that’d always been there, a small voice drumming up loudly at his nearness. She froze as she listened, her body rapt as she clutched her glass of wine. Guests clucked indifferently around her, their sounds facile and meaningless, a din of white noise.

  The sounds at the front of the house changed, shifting to muffled social sounds of greeting and conversation. Despite her attempts to distract herself, her senses honed in, exacting and obsessive, listening with hyper-vigilance. Though she tried to stay calm, her hands shook and her breath came short. She tried to steady her breathing, to stop the small gasps that were starting, telling herself he would be some time inside the house, being received by her aunt and speaking to other guests. Her nerves would have some reprieve before he came, and when he arrived, she would be composed. But the moment when his face would loom up before hers, that his eyes would be upon her, was coming soon; and the thought of it rose up in her chest like a fiery wave. She turned her back to the house and breathed deeply. Nearby guests continued their conversations oblivious to her struggle, or perhaps just merciful enough to pretend they didn’t notice.

  A mere moment brought him upon her. At the raising of everyone’s eyes, and the feel of their looks upon her, she knew it was true; he had come. They all turned when he was announced, but she remained stiff. She closed her eyes and steadied herself, and forced herself to turn around.

  His face was rugged and his eyes as ruthless as ever. The young man whose brute strength could’ve meant death or redemption all that time ago in the north country still shone out. But now, his features were surrounded by the finely groomed hair of a gentleman, rising above the perfected costume of nobility. Though rich and genteel, his eyes betrayed a past of savagery and hardship, boring into her mercilessly, drinking her in. She felt her knees waver beneath her. Her heart pounded like a frightened rabbit’s, too quickly, it seemed, for her breath to keep up. It pattered quick and shallow, and her efforts to breathe became increasingly labored. He was walking directly towards her, his stern, glowing gaze forcing a wanton vortex open within her body. Surely, she should resist and conceal such feelings, put a stopper on them. Otherwise, all the guests would see her savage, desperate desire for this man. They would see that she was no lady, but an impure witch who longed devilishly strong for this man. And surely, it was never politic to let any stranger see so deep inside one’s heart. As he approached, it all became too much. She felt herself pale and faint to the ground.

  When she awoke, aging ladies were leaning over her, fanning her where she lay on a chaise. She’d so many fans going on her at once that she found it hard to breathe beneath their varying wind currents. She pushed herself up, though the ladies tried to keep her down as they called for her aunt. A moment later, Aunt Everild came flying into the solarium, her skirts fluttering as she kneeled next to Maryone.

  “Come now, girl,” she scolded. “Fainting dead away like a scullery maid? It isn’t becoming, not at all. What will your intended think?”

  Maryone tried not to dread the prospect. She was helped up into a stand by the aid of several ladies, though she didn’t need the assistance. Surely enough, through the blurred glass of the windows, Ascelin stood conversing with another male guest, his expression one of disappointment, and perhaps - did she see anger? A shock of fear rent her and her nerves rose up in protest again, but she forced herself forward, for she was dying to speak with him. His face warped from behind the glass as she moved along the long line of the solarium, making her way to the door where she rushed out, striding determinedly towards him. She no longer cared for impressions, only to affirm her appreciation of his arrival. She could sense, from the turn of his eyes, that he knew she was coming toward him; but he waited a moment before looking in her direction. Something in him seemed troubled, as if he’d been chided. She pushed the thought aside as she moved ravenously forward, stopped and held a low curtsy.

  “Milord,” she said nervously.

  He looked up, his eyes sparkling somewhat, but his expression was still heavy. He bowed stiffly, his eyes never leaving her face. Their predatory expression was still as present as it had been all those years ago.

  “Have you been fully refreshed after your journey?” She asked cordially, seeing to her duties as hostess, though she felt foolish standing on ceremony with one she felt she knew so intimately.

  His eyes betrayed some confusion at her formal manner, perhaps surprised by it after the long, informal hours they’d spent alone in his bedchamber, and their lengthy, heartfelt association by post. But he played along.

  “Aye,” he answered, a smirk shaping his lower lip as his eyelids lowered speculatively. “Your aunt has been most gracious.”

  “Then I pray, come my lord,” she said, taking hold of his arm, “And walk with me, for I am in need of air.”

  He allowed himself to be led away by her onto the grounds. His air, though noble, still bore with it a sense of the rebellious, virile young man accustomed to thinking for himself, who despised adhering to social customs; a beast just tame enough to allow himself to be led. He was rich too, but showed nothing of the selfish, pompous indifference common to most nobles. He’d grown up without the indulgences that so many rich young men do, so hadn’t been spoilt by them. She found his presence very refreshing in that way, while still exceedingly provocative to her nerves. Her breath caught in her throat as they sauntered toward a nearby garden surrounded by ivy walls that boasted a small fountain at the center. She looked up at him often, smiling nervously; but neither of them spoke. Taking a deep breath, she was dete
rmined to be genuine and calm. She sensed that he had not judged her for her earlier fault, and meant to forgive herself for it.

  “How was your journey?” she asked.

  “The misery that one might expect,” he answered, flashing an indulgent smile in her direction. “But easier than it would have been across land.”

  Maryone’s mind was instantly snapped back to her father’s fateful journey over land, and she could tell from the shift in Ascelin’s eyes that his thoughts did as well. But she tossed the image instantly aside, and smiled up at him coyly.

  “Very true,” she said, though she had no experiential knowledge of traveling by sea. “Did you see any great sights on the way?”

  They continued their conversation in this manner for some time, awkward but eager. Ascelin’s movement in new circles of society was evident, though he was clearly the same man she’d known before. Every sentence that escaped their mouths was civil and correct, but brimming with meaning that strained to be heard. His eyes lingered too long on hers. Their movements swayed and hesitated. The space between them felt strained and choreographed, awash with some potent quality; as if wishing to be filled. When he pulled, she pushed. She had the strange feeling that, despite his calm demeanor, he was biding his time calmly, strategically; laying in wait for the moment to strike. As if he wished to possess her, knew he could possess her, but not yet.

  As the light faded, he stood and offered his hand, and she took it in a show of acceptance. He tucked it closely to his arm as he led her back to the house, where lights were being lit. The sun was setting and the fine meal that Aunt Everild had prepared would be served soon. As they went, she felt herself relaxing more deeply than she ever had, the gift of his presence becoming apparent. He soothed and thrilled her. She felt a blissful future reaching out before her, promised by his presence; assured with each step they took. Being near him filled her with such elation that she couldn’t help but blush and smirk, bowing her head to hide her ridiculous, giddy smile.