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She’s starting to get jealous of the future Countess Gloucester.
Leonie doesn’t know what she looks like, or what her name is, but Leonie feels a sense of envy brewing in her gut, turning her green whenever she thinks of nameless, faceless lady.
When her emotions get the better of her, wrapping her up in a twist of jealousy and anger and helplessness, Leonie imagines that Lorenz doesn’t know what she looks like either. He, like her, is in a state of blissful ignorance towards the woman who will lay claim to his heart and form the basis of Leonie’s misery. From what Lorenz says—or at least, used to say—she’ll be of genteel manners, sensitive in taste, delicate and fashionable. She’ll match him in every aspect, protecting his soft spots, hardening his diamond-like barriers, and compliment him in every way imaginable: a perfect match for Lorenz Hellman Gloucester.
She’ll probably be willowy and slight, swanlike in features, fairy-esque in her beauty and charm, an otherworldly creature… Countess Gloucester will be everything that a common-born woman with dirt beneath her nails and a debt on her back could never hope to match.
He’ll probably have an arranged marriage. Nobles usually have that. Leonie thinks as she plaits a mass of ivory flowers in her lap into a crooked wreath. No choice. Poor guy.
Lorenz will probably first learn of his wife in the form of a marriage contract. Erwin and Rosalind Gloucester will be eager to speed the process. A Garland Moon bride for their treasured son, the realm will celebrate his wedding for a week, white roses will be in short supply upon his nuptials. Nobles like the Gloucesters like their schedules and agendas, their procedures and traditions.
The thought of Lorenz marrying someone else doesn’t exactly enthral Leonie. She likes to think that she’s the only one who really… knows him. And that’s stupid to say when Claude’s right there and he and Lorenz definitely have history. Or any member of the Roundtable. Or even the servants at Rosedale who probably have seen him naked.
In the big picture, Leonie is nothing more than a passerby. The girl who was in the right place at the right time, and being frank, was easy. After all, Leonie was the one who offer first, and Leonie is the one to continually invite him into her room after the candles have been extinguished and everyone else has gone to sleep.
Maybe he’ll have a portfolio of potential brides to select from. Given how the war’s going, they may be the victors… Couple that with being the second largest territory in Leicester, having a leader who is well-liked by his people, and a weird sense of misplaced charisma, fashion and especially deep coffers… well, Lorenz may have no short supply or admirers looking to marry into the noble House Gloucester.
What does she look like? Leonie wonders again, ignoring all the warning bells and red flags popping up in her head. Her fingers are mechanically at work, weaving without thinking. The future Countess of Gloucester. I bet she’s pretty. Probably has big tits too.
What will it be like, after this? After the war? The monastery provides the perfect shield to continue seeing each other. She shelters him into her room under the cover of night when she needs to be held, to be possessed by him. She touches his wrist when they are departing from war council, a code only they know, signalling that she needs him. The days are long when they are separated from each other, missions and tasks parting them, and she uses her imagination but it is not the same. Once or twice, they’ve even hooked up while out on a mission together, keeping as quiet as they can, fumbling to make contact as silently as possible within the confines of canvas and spikes. Each time she lays with him, Leonie grasps, clinging to him, holding tight to the pieces of him that Lorenz will allow her to hold.
Her mind begins going down that dark, dreary path. One day, this war will be over in some form: victory, loss, draw or death of one of them, and upon that time, their relationship will have to change. Leonie can’t imagine riding up to the austere gates of Rosedale and lying through her teeth about a planned meeting with the new count, a poor guise for sleeping with him. It wouldn’t work, not when his schedule is kept by valets and butlers and secretaries hired to program and plan Lorenz’s every waking moment for maximum efficiency.
At some point, they will have sex for the last time. She will hold him in her arms for one last time, claim his lips, his body, maybe even his heart for just a moment, and then they will have to stop. It will be because of propriety or honour or duty, or maybe even a betrothal that will sever them in two.
At some point, they’ll stop being friends too. At some point, Leonie and Lorenz will see each other in some professional capacity and have to pretend that they were only classmates, perhaps even friends, for a very short time. The Count certainly can’t be seen to be buddy-buddy with a mercenary, especially not Jeralt the Blade Breaker’s best apprentice, it’s not a good look for all those haughty nobles at the Roundtable and court. What would they say…
Leonie begins to the dread the day it will happen, her fingers stilling against the white rose wreath. That green-eyed monster preys upon her now, thinking of the apparition that is her excellency, the future Countess Gloucester. She worries her lip as she remembers last night. She had collapsed back into her bed after their last round, her sweat-slicked body against his. They don’t ever say much before or after, never had, and this time was no different. He must have thought she had fallen asleep. He had pulled her close, breathed deep, bending his body to fold against hers, his soft lips meeting the freckled skin of her neck. She’d been awake, curiosity taken hold of her, and felt his arms tighten around her waist. A kiss so reverent, tender, precious, pressed against the nape of her neck, just below her damp hairline.
And then she’s suddenly on a weird train of thought, thinking about how she could be perfect and pretty: stop cutting her hair herself and pay a stylist to do it or finally relent and let Hilda give her a trim. A little more care to her wardrobe and foregoing repaying her debt—just for a little while—and buy some shirts that don’t have the sleeves or legs ripped off. A lesson in etiquette from Claude maybe, scratch that, just careful observation of her social betters as Lorenz would call them. Maybe then he’d finally notice her beyond her current guise of friendship and fucking.
It could be me. She thinks, momentarily thinking of herself as Countess Gloucester. Rosedale and everything that comes with it, Lorenz at her side. She’d soften his caustic points, arm him with charm and wisdom from her education as a mercenary, match him toe for toe, jab for jab, spite for spite and kiss for kiss.
With enough training, Leonie could become Countess Gloucester, a woman of good taste and high spirits, bringing new life to Rosedale, helping lead the realm into a new era of prosperity. Certainly, she’d cause an uproar, but Leonie’s the type of girl to never back down from a challenge… Besides, she could make allies over a pint; maybe the Roundtable could be charmed by her country manners into liking her.
For one bright, hopeful moment, Leonie thinks that it could be her. Countess Leonie Gloucester, her excellency, wife to Count Lorenz Hellman Gloucester.
Then she glances down at the wreath in her hands. Right. There’s some things that a makeover can’t erase. Like the cracks on her fingertips from dryness or the callouses on her palms from training. Dirt beneath the nails that won’t come out. A tender cracked nail. No amount of makeover or training could change the fact that she was born as the eldest daughter of a hunter, that her family are as common as she, that she incurred a ridiculous amount of debt trying to dream beyond Sauin. And Captain Jeralt—
Jeralt.
He wouldn’t want me to throw away this shot on a guy. Leonie thinks, abandoning the garland and getting up. There’s work to do after all. Not even if I really like him. If I could be really, really happy with him.
She begins packing up this silly fantasy of Countess Leonie Gloucester in boxes. Leonie fills it up, folds the lids, packs it away and goes back to pretending, just like before.
Lorenz thinks about his future bride more now than he did when he was a lovelorn student.
He knows his sincerest wishes for what she’d look like. A warm smile, fairly straight teeth to compliment his own slightly imperfect ones—perhaps she would be the only one to make him smile with teeth instead of hiding his daunting, crooked imperfection behind a smirk. She’d have freckles, very different from the alabaster and lily-white ladies of court. Stubby fingers with work-rough hands, dirt beneath them from a hard day’s work in the garden, a lover of plants and hard work. Uneven bangs. A woman of the people, for she was once one of them. A laugh that fills the entire room and once you hear it, you want to hear more more more—
He thinks about his bride's sun-kissed back and how her arms strain when he ruts hard into her, hidden in the stables. He thinks about his bride, cupping her hand to her mouth to keep from crying out as he kneels before her like the pious man he is, giving prayer to her cunt. His bride, a trembling, moaning mess in his bed, so beautifully undone from her usual, professional, hard crystal of perfection, crying out his name—Lorenz, Lorenz, Lorenz—
His bride, held in his arms just for a moment before she slips away and begins to dress. Before she dawns her helmet and rides off into battle. Before she sneaks a kiss to his knuckles and leaves on a mission for four agonizing days that leaves him sleepless, hungry for her flesh and consumed with the thought of her.
His father has made comments about the selection of a bride and securing the family name shortly after this damned war ends. There is much to consider when a political match is made. Contracts to be drawn up and carefully poured over, wording to be adjusted over and over, territories to be merged, assets to be reviewed… All before a wedding announcement that can be made before the realm and court.
As he sits, fingering a white rose garland, abandoned by steps overlooking the fishing pond, Lorenz’s mind wanders to Leonie. He wonders if her parents were arranged. As loath as he is to admit his ignorance, Lorenz does not know what goes on in the villages, especially the remote ones like Sauin, hemmed in like a seam by mountains and forests. It is not easy to reach any village in one’s chay and fours, besides, Lorenz has scarcely travelled beyond Rosedale.
Did they have the choice? He thinks, touching the soft petals of the garland. Is it done by a matchmaker like in Edgaria or through negotiations of family and friends?
It dawns upon him then, his fingers closing around the wreath’s delicate plait: would she have an arranged marriage?
He thinks of Mr Pinelli then, because of course, Leonie would never, ever give up her proud name. Would he be sturdy and stout? Probably strong and tall, with a robust build, a fearsome creature certainly. Only someone as proud and confident as she could match Leonie. He probably would smile widely at everyone, be so personable and easy to talk to that he could charm an old mule. And probably could drink her under the table, lovingly teasing her as he carries her home after she’s had too much to drink.
Mr Pinelli is probably a vivacious, proud, outgoing sort of man, exactly the type to charm any woman, but especially the Blade Breaker II. He is probably surefooted and good with horses, ready to support her no matter what, to ride at a moment’s notice with her mercenaries, to patch her wounds and listen to her tales of derring-do.
To stay by her side, even if she must refuse his hand in favour of her dream.
No. Leonie will probably never marry. Lorenz thinks hurriedly. Why would she settle down at all when there is a big, wide world to see? When there is Jeralt to make proud? When a debt hangs over her head and will for a long, long time.
That cushions the blow. No man, or woman, will take Leonie’s heart. And that includes him.
(Still, Lorenz is human and his emotions and fears prey upon him like a hunted animal. He is jealous of the future Mr Pinelli, the Blade Breaker II’s lover.)
So, while admiring the careful plait of the garland’s weave, Lorenz decides that he will stave off marriage for as long as he can. There will come a day, certainly, where he cannot outrun it any longer… His father will pass and he will grow old too, and Gloucester must have an heir, but until that fateful day, Lorenz will make his expectations so high that no one may match his ideal of a woman.
She must match him toe to toe in strength. She must be a skilled rider. A skilled negotiator is a must, and by the goddess she must be personable, how else will Gloucester get along? A redhead, preferably, with a smile that makes any heartache a little lighter and a person that rivals the sun’s warmth. Not to mention she must be a horrible slow dancer but very good at a jig or any one of the faster-paced dances.
But how long may I hold off marriage? Lorenz wonders. If they are victorious there will be much rebuilding to do… Perhaps a decade? Yes, that may be enough to slip from his parents’ grip without being known amongst society that he is a confirmed bachelor.
Though, the more he thinks about Leonie, the harsher the realization becomes that their relationship will end with the war. And being a confirmed bachelor with the hope of someday reuniting with her when she is a renowned mercenary is incentive enough to don the shameful title.
He plays with the wreath, then looks down upon it. His imagination runs away with him, for he thinks of finding Leonie right now, almost possessed with desire to place it upon her brow and memorize the sight of her in it.
She’d probably ask if I hit my head or if Darcy threw me. Lorenz realizes with a snort of disappointed laughter. Goddess, but I am a fool.
He leaves the wreath where he found it. Papers and notations to be made call his name, beckoning him back to the Golden Deer classroom, which acts as the Roundtable’s post office for the time being. He thinks about his sisters, and the chance that they might marry and have children. Maybe then an heir will come about and he would be freed from the duty. Line of succession secured… Of course, barring that neither of them carry a Crest. He may escape without marrying.
Though… if his bride were an exceptional individual whose crass remarks and temper stole his heart, then Lorenz would be compelled to marry.