Happy ever after
The wedding had been perfect, Olive has decided. Nothing could have possibly gone better, and she cannot stop smiling. Warm for a September day, nearly hot. Everything on time, every detail exactly as she imagined, exactly what she had hoped for for her and her new husband to begin their lives together. Husband. Even the word sounds delightful, and she whispers it around the curl of her lips. “Mrs--” she begins, her eyes crinkling.
He's sleeping now, next to her, a gentle rumble of his early-morning breathing keeping the smile fixed on her face as she recalls more details - the gleaming white dress with its billowing yards of satin, her breathless vows to 'love, honour, and obey.' Everyone cried, of course, even she did. At the altar, coming up the aisle, but always beaming as every bride ought to be, her mouth hidden behind the layers of lace netting cascading over her features.
And the whirlwind blur of afterwards - hundreds for the ceremony, but it seemed all of London turned out in the Estate’s mirrored ballroom to toast the happy couple. The newlyweds had barely gotten a moment to spend together between well-wishers, being whisked away for photographs, always, always crying, smiling.
She rolls over, careful not to wake him just yet, beaming over at the tuft of blond hair sticking straight up in the back. Her fingers stretch, pristine and unmarred hands gently brushing it back into place, eliciting a warmly sleepy sound from the man she’s married. Twin bands of gold glint on her finger, flowers wrapping both with pristine significance - a clematis blooms from the metallic walnut shell of her wedding band, three camellias carved around the pink gems in her engagement ring, slipping through his tousled golden locks. It isn’t long before he’s stirring, rolling to face his bride, watery blue eyes taking in the sight of Olive on their first day as man and wife.
His face is more perfect than she remembers, gaunt cheeks and hollow eyes claiming her, sending a shudder of worship burning through her body.
“Good morning, my dove,” he whispers, reaching for her cheeks to claim her lips with his own.
Her lips meet his in a wire-tight, breathless kiss, locking her into the embrace. Green eyes are made bright with the welling of tears, prickling at her skin with their wetness.
She cannot stop smiling.
***
Olive’s eyes fly open, hair plastered against her head from the sweat drenching her nightclothes. Her heart is working so hard she can see it through the thin coverlets, but she isn’t interested in her inner workings. A quick glance is enough to reassure her - brown hair and Jenson’s visible face are enough for her to let her lungs fill with air, quiet as possible. From the way he’s shifting, ever so slightly, it seems as if he might actually sleep through her nightmare - and to her, that’s just fine. He’s done enough, today.
She slips from under the covers, carefully, not bothering with a dressing gown as she traces through the halls of the Estate, through the ballroom with its high portraits, through the kitchens, stopping just long enough to secure a link of sausage. Barefoot and in nothing more than Jenson’s nightshirt, she calls out over the gardens for a particular wispy hound.
When at last, Caesar arrives, Olive sinks to her knees, wraps her arms around the great bulk of semi-corporeal dog, and buries her face in his fur as she murmurs a quiet request. She couldn’t say if it was her gentle pleading, or perhaps the meaty bribe, but the pair of them are soon back in the bedroom, where the hound circles as Olive makes her way back under the sheets beside Jenson. One single teal eye flicks open from somewhere on her fiance’s chest. She drapes an arm over the edge of the bed, fingers dragging through black fur, and she closes her eyes, hopeful, sinking back into a delightfully restful slumber where she plays fetch over a broad, open field with a certain hound.
He's sleeping now, next to her, a gentle rumble of his early-morning breathing keeping the smile fixed on her face as she recalls more details - the gleaming white dress with its billowing yards of satin, her breathless vows to 'love, honour, and obey.' Everyone cried, of course, even she did. At the altar, coming up the aisle, but always beaming as every bride ought to be, her mouth hidden behind the layers of lace netting cascading over her features.
And the whirlwind blur of afterwards - hundreds for the ceremony, but it seemed all of London turned out in the Estate’s mirrored ballroom to toast the happy couple. The newlyweds had barely gotten a moment to spend together between well-wishers, being whisked away for photographs, always, always crying, smiling.
She rolls over, careful not to wake him just yet, beaming over at the tuft of blond hair sticking straight up in the back. Her fingers stretch, pristine and unmarred hands gently brushing it back into place, eliciting a warmly sleepy sound from the man she’s married. Twin bands of gold glint on her finger, flowers wrapping both with pristine significance - a clematis blooms from the metallic walnut shell of her wedding band, three camellias carved around the pink gems in her engagement ring, slipping through his tousled golden locks. It isn’t long before he’s stirring, rolling to face his bride, watery blue eyes taking in the sight of Olive on their first day as man and wife.
His face is more perfect than she remembers, gaunt cheeks and hollow eyes claiming her, sending a shudder of worship burning through her body.
“Good morning, my dove,” he whispers, reaching for her cheeks to claim her lips with his own.
Her lips meet his in a wire-tight, breathless kiss, locking her into the embrace. Green eyes are made bright with the welling of tears, prickling at her skin with their wetness.
She cannot stop smiling.
***
Olive’s eyes fly open, hair plastered against her head from the sweat drenching her nightclothes. Her heart is working so hard she can see it through the thin coverlets, but she isn’t interested in her inner workings. A quick glance is enough to reassure her - brown hair and Jenson’s visible face are enough for her to let her lungs fill with air, quiet as possible. From the way he’s shifting, ever so slightly, it seems as if he might actually sleep through her nightmare - and to her, that’s just fine. He’s done enough, today.
She slips from under the covers, carefully, not bothering with a dressing gown as she traces through the halls of the Estate, through the ballroom with its high portraits, through the kitchens, stopping just long enough to secure a link of sausage. Barefoot and in nothing more than Jenson’s nightshirt, she calls out over the gardens for a particular wispy hound.
When at last, Caesar arrives, Olive sinks to her knees, wraps her arms around the great bulk of semi-corporeal dog, and buries her face in his fur as she murmurs a quiet request. She couldn’t say if it was her gentle pleading, or perhaps the meaty bribe, but the pair of them are soon back in the bedroom, where the hound circles as Olive makes her way back under the sheets beside Jenson. One single teal eye flicks open from somewhere on her fiance’s chest. She drapes an arm over the edge of the bed, fingers dragging through black fur, and she closes her eyes, hopeful, sinking back into a delightfully restful slumber where she plays fetch over a broad, open field with a certain hound.