The Betrothed
for National Novel Writing Month
Day 8
Darrick’s first view of the house came after over two hours of driving through the mountains, on twisty roads abutting up against steep drop-offs that made just looking out the window an anxiety-inducing proposition. Even with that threat, however, Darrick couldn’t stop looking, previous worries temporarily forgotten. He had never seen real mountains before – the little nubs they had back East didn’t count, he could see now – and the view was utterly mesmerizing. Stark rocky angles, slopes barren of any vegetation at this distance, contrasted against soft white peaks to create a perfection of form he had not thought to find outside of pictures. The clear, thin air presented no obstacle to his viewing, and the mountains leapt out in sharp relief against the blue sky backdrop. The sight consumed him, and glances that he thought took but moments ate up whole minutes; by the time they turned off the main road, he looked down at his watch and was shocked to see over two hours had passed. The view from the side road was less spectacular, but that was made up for when they rounded a curve and their destination came into view, seeming to spring up fully formed from the ground.
Darrick had been thinking of it as a house, but it truly was a mansion, sprawling over several acres of ground, wings jutting out from every side. It looked anachronistic to Darrick’s unpracticed eye, a place resting comfortably in the relatively recent past; certainly, the style brought to mind images of untamed moors and doomed gothic lovers rather than ski vacations. As with Richard, however, Darrick found that he had halfway been expecting a drawbridge and a moat; still, unlike with the priest, the real thing was more than dramatic enough for Darrick’s expectations. Several turrets towered up into the sky, and the entire place loomed over them as they drove up to the front door, a massive slab of heavy wood intricately carved.
The car came to a smooth halt, and the drive jumped out to open the door for the group. They climbed out and waited as the man also retrieved their luggage from the trunk, but very quickly declined to have him take it in for them. Cynthia led Darrick and John up to the door as Richard took the driver aside; it took Darrick a second to realize what must be happening now, but when he did, he very quickly averted his eyes from the two men. No need for me to see that, he thought. Just knowing it’s happening is bad enough. A part of him did want to watch, to see his first example of Atlantean magic in action, and he felt more than a bit guilty over the voyeuristic and unworthy impulse, so he very quickly turned his attention to the large door in front of him. It was made of some dark, very hard wood which kept the intricate details of the carvings sharp. The carvings themselves were of vines and leaves twisting around geometric shapes, as though the door were covered in some wood-colored vegetation. In the very center was a design of three concentric circles, pierced in random locations by radial line fragments. His mother lightly touched this central design.
“Darrick,” she said, and Darrick was surprised at the soft, almost reverent tone of her voice, “this is Poseidonis, the capitol of Atlantis. This design is carved on the front door of every Atlantean home, to keep our true home always in the forefront of our memories, and as a symbol to all the Houses of our unity. Remember that, for one day your own home will bear its likeness.” Darrick recognized it now from his studies – interestingly enough, both from his studies with his mother and his Ancient Philosophy class from school from the week they had studied Plato. The three concentric circles were the three great canals of the city – according to Plato, built by Poseidon himself – and the radial lines the various bridges and smaller canals built by the later citizens to connect the various parts of the city. Darrick could see how the remaining Atlanteans could have chosen it as their symbol. It was immediately recognizable, but also random enough to pass for a simple decoration when seen by outsiders.
Cynthia placed her palm on the center of the icon, and the door opened smoothly, its bulk swinging back with seemingly no effort, admitting them into an expansive room. Though the exterior appeared at least a century old, the interior of the mansion was thoroughly modern. A large, flat-screen TV, mounted on a far wall before several couches, in particular caught Darrick’s notice. The room itself was huge, its arched ceiling lined with wooden beams and the hardwood floors covered with thick, colorful rugs.
“Wow,” he said, caught off-guard. “Nicer than I expected.”
“And just what were you expecting?” his mother asked curtly, looking back at him. “Oil lamps and wood stoves? Or maybe a thatched roof and mud walls?” He couldn’t meet his mother’s stare; that was somewhat more in line with his mental picture for the dwelling of ancient magic-wielding Atlanteans. His mother looked disgusted. “Our race has preserved the ancient knowledge of man, lost to all others since the beginning, and you expect us to live like primitives?” She snorted, then rolled her eyes. “Please, try not to embarrass me with any similar statements when anyone else is around.” She returned her attention to the staircase on the far side of the room where a middle-aged couple and a young man in his twenties were descending. John caught Darrick’s eye and shrugged, then walked over and sat down on one of the couches before the television. Darrick started to follow, but John waved him back. I guess this is Mom’s show now, and I’m her prize exhibition.
“It looks as though the Martins have seen our arrival,” Richard said to Cynthia. “Good. I won’t have to call them then. I have a few items of business to take care of before the Presentation tonight, so I’ll leave you to get reacquainted. It is good to have you back.” He smiled, an expression of genuine warmth, and disappeared through a sidedoor. Cynthia looked sad to see him go, but very quickly refocused her attention on the people who were even now approaching, and Darrick followed her lead.
The people from the staircase had now made it down from the balcony above. They looked completely normal to Darrick; they would not have stood out from any couple he passed on the street. In fact, they looked very similar to his mother – same dark hair, same slender build. Is that what Atlanteans look like? Or is this the result of many generations of very close breeding? Darrick didn’t know enough about genetics to know if it was safe for the same ten families to keep marrying each other, but he was fairly certain that doing so would produce a group of very similar-looking people, and that was certainly what he was seeing here. Just how closely related to me is this girl they want me to marry?
The older man and woman both bowed to his mother, just as Richard had earlier, and Cynthia made the returning gesture. Formalities completed, Cynthia thoroughly shocked Darrick by rushing into the woman’s arms as they both laughed and exclaimed loudly how wonderful it was to see the other again. The man who Darrick took to be her husband looked on with a tolerant smile, so Darrick turned his attention to the younger man standing a pace behind them. The young man was already regarding him, and Darrick nearly took a step back at the hardness of his expression. After the initial surprise, though, he was determined to give as good as he got, and returned the appraisal with interest.
He appeared to be Darrick’s age, or maybe a few years older, and looked so similar to the older couple that he could only be their son. But unlike the naked joy of his mother or the tolerant amusement of his father, his stance was one of naked aggression and contempt. He looked Darrick up and down, and Darrick felt himself weighed in the balance and found severely wanting. Darrick tried the same trick, but his opponent did not seem so much as fazed, and Darrick felt more than a little intimidated. The staring match lasted for just a few seconds before their mothers separated themselves and each pulled their respective son forward to be introduced.
“Jessica,” Cynthia said, “this is Darrick.” At the introduction, Jessica repeated her bow and Darrick placed his hand briefly on her head, to Cynthia’s approving nod. “Darrick, this is Jessica Martin, the mother of your intended.”
“My lord,” Jessica said, as she straightened, “it is an honor to meet you, and a joy to know that soon I will greet you not as subject but as family.” Darrick’s heart skipped a beat at that statement, and his stomach tightened a little as well. He had to fight down an urge to correct her. He went through a similar tableau with her husband, Anthony, whose deep voice made the declaration even more ominous.
“Jessica and I were very close when we were children,” Cynthia told him, “though we haven’t seen each other since I married your father.” She looked over at John, sitting by himself, and her resentment was obvious, at least to Darrick. She covered it up quickly, though, presumably to not disturb the Martins. “It was one of my happiest moments as a mother when they agreed to betroth you to Abigail. I look forward to meeting her, Jessica.”
“And she can’t wait to meet all of you at the Presentation tonight,” Jessica responded. “But we can’t forget my son. My lady Cynthia, this is my son, Patrick. Patrick, this is the Lady Cynthia and the Lord Darrick.” Patrick made his bows, proper to the inch, and yet somehow the bow he gave Darrick was a gesture of insolence, not obeisance. Or maybe that was just how it seemed to Darrick, since neither his or Patrick’s mother commented. But the hooded glare he gave Darrick even as he bowed his head left little doubt in his mind. As Patrick rose, though, his father met his eyes, and Patrick paled ever so slightly. Darrick suppressed a smirk. Nice to know someone’s keeping him in line.
“Patrick is betrothed to Elizabeth Connor, though their bond has yet to reach maturity,” Jessica was saying. “But then, Abigail has always been more mature than him, even though she’s two years younger.” Jessica chuckled at her own pun, but Patrick turned his icy stare to his mother then, and even Darrick had to wince at the bluntness of the statement.
“Everything in its own time,” Cynthia replied, “or so Richard always taught us, anyway. I’m sure your chance will come soon enough, Patrick, but until then, enjoy your sister’s wedding!” Patrick forced an amiable mein that did not touch his eyes.
“I’m very happy for my sister,” he said in a passable imitation of honesty. “Maybe this will give me the opportunity to learn from her mistakes.” Cynthia and Jessica both laughed; Darrick wondered if they saw the sideways glance Patrick threw in his direction. Anthony cleared his throat ostentatiously, loud enough to jerk Patrick back to a semblance of propriety and the two women out of their giddy conversation.
“I know the two of you want to catch up, dear,” he said, placing a hand gently on her arm, “but you might want to let them get settled in first. At least show them their rooms and let them put their things away. We have a long day ahead of us, and there will be plenty of time to talk at the feast tonight, after the Presentation.”
“Of course, of course,” Jessica said, looking back at her husband fondly and placing her hand over his. “You must be exhausted after your flight and the drive up. We have you in the first floor of the north wing. We’re in the south. You should have some time to freshen up before preparations begin.” She turned to Darrick. “Try to get some rest, Darrick. I’m sure you’re excited to meet Abigail – I know she is to meet you – but you don’t want to go into tonight without at least a nap to reinvigorate.”
“I’ll do my best,” Darrick said. The realization of what was going to happen in just few hours was coming down on him hard; breath was hard to take and his heart was pounding in his chest. Either I go ahead with this and seal my fate, or I say no, and God only knows what these people will say, or do, about that. They seem nice enough, but so did that priest Richard, and he just wiped a man’s memory. The huge mansion was feeling more than a bit like a prison now, the walls closing in, as he picked up his luggage and followed his mother down a hallway, his father falling in behind them.
for National Novel Writing Month
Day 8
Darrick’s first view of the house came after over two hours of driving through the mountains, on twisty roads abutting up against steep drop-offs that made just looking out the window an anxiety-inducing proposition. Even with that threat, however, Darrick couldn’t stop looking, previous worries temporarily forgotten. He had never seen real mountains before – the little nubs they had back East didn’t count, he could see now – and the view was utterly mesmerizing. Stark rocky angles, slopes barren of any vegetation at this distance, contrasted against soft white peaks to create a perfection of form he had not thought to find outside of pictures. The clear, thin air presented no obstacle to his viewing, and the mountains leapt out in sharp relief against the blue sky backdrop. The sight consumed him, and glances that he thought took but moments ate up whole minutes; by the time they turned off the main road, he looked down at his watch and was shocked to see over two hours had passed. The view from the side road was less spectacular, but that was made up for when they rounded a curve and their destination came into view, seeming to spring up fully formed from the ground.
Darrick had been thinking of it as a house, but it truly was a mansion, sprawling over several acres of ground, wings jutting out from every side. It looked anachronistic to Darrick’s unpracticed eye, a place resting comfortably in the relatively recent past; certainly, the style brought to mind images of untamed moors and doomed gothic lovers rather than ski vacations. As with Richard, however, Darrick found that he had halfway been expecting a drawbridge and a moat; still, unlike with the priest, the real thing was more than dramatic enough for Darrick’s expectations. Several turrets towered up into the sky, and the entire place loomed over them as they drove up to the front door, a massive slab of heavy wood intricately carved.
The car came to a smooth halt, and the drive jumped out to open the door for the group. They climbed out and waited as the man also retrieved their luggage from the trunk, but very quickly declined to have him take it in for them. Cynthia led Darrick and John up to the door as Richard took the driver aside; it took Darrick a second to realize what must be happening now, but when he did, he very quickly averted his eyes from the two men. No need for me to see that, he thought. Just knowing it’s happening is bad enough. A part of him did want to watch, to see his first example of Atlantean magic in action, and he felt more than a bit guilty over the voyeuristic and unworthy impulse, so he very quickly turned his attention to the large door in front of him. It was made of some dark, very hard wood which kept the intricate details of the carvings sharp. The carvings themselves were of vines and leaves twisting around geometric shapes, as though the door were covered in some wood-colored vegetation. In the very center was a design of three concentric circles, pierced in random locations by radial line fragments. His mother lightly touched this central design.
“Darrick,” she said, and Darrick was surprised at the soft, almost reverent tone of her voice, “this is Poseidonis, the capitol of Atlantis. This design is carved on the front door of every Atlantean home, to keep our true home always in the forefront of our memories, and as a symbol to all the Houses of our unity. Remember that, for one day your own home will bear its likeness.” Darrick recognized it now from his studies – interestingly enough, both from his studies with his mother and his Ancient Philosophy class from school from the week they had studied Plato. The three concentric circles were the three great canals of the city – according to Plato, built by Poseidon himself – and the radial lines the various bridges and smaller canals built by the later citizens to connect the various parts of the city. Darrick could see how the remaining Atlanteans could have chosen it as their symbol. It was immediately recognizable, but also random enough to pass for a simple decoration when seen by outsiders.
Cynthia placed her palm on the center of the icon, and the door opened smoothly, its bulk swinging back with seemingly no effort, admitting them into an expansive room. Though the exterior appeared at least a century old, the interior of the mansion was thoroughly modern. A large, flat-screen TV, mounted on a far wall before several couches, in particular caught Darrick’s notice. The room itself was huge, its arched ceiling lined with wooden beams and the hardwood floors covered with thick, colorful rugs.
“Wow,” he said, caught off-guard. “Nicer than I expected.”
“And just what were you expecting?” his mother asked curtly, looking back at him. “Oil lamps and wood stoves? Or maybe a thatched roof and mud walls?” He couldn’t meet his mother’s stare; that was somewhat more in line with his mental picture for the dwelling of ancient magic-wielding Atlanteans. His mother looked disgusted. “Our race has preserved the ancient knowledge of man, lost to all others since the beginning, and you expect us to live like primitives?” She snorted, then rolled her eyes. “Please, try not to embarrass me with any similar statements when anyone else is around.” She returned her attention to the staircase on the far side of the room where a middle-aged couple and a young man in his twenties were descending. John caught Darrick’s eye and shrugged, then walked over and sat down on one of the couches before the television. Darrick started to follow, but John waved him back. I guess this is Mom’s show now, and I’m her prize exhibition.
“It looks as though the Martins have seen our arrival,” Richard said to Cynthia. “Good. I won’t have to call them then. I have a few items of business to take care of before the Presentation tonight, so I’ll leave you to get reacquainted. It is good to have you back.” He smiled, an expression of genuine warmth, and disappeared through a sidedoor. Cynthia looked sad to see him go, but very quickly refocused her attention on the people who were even now approaching, and Darrick followed her lead.
The people from the staircase had now made it down from the balcony above. They looked completely normal to Darrick; they would not have stood out from any couple he passed on the street. In fact, they looked very similar to his mother – same dark hair, same slender build. Is that what Atlanteans look like? Or is this the result of many generations of very close breeding? Darrick didn’t know enough about genetics to know if it was safe for the same ten families to keep marrying each other, but he was fairly certain that doing so would produce a group of very similar-looking people, and that was certainly what he was seeing here. Just how closely related to me is this girl they want me to marry?
The older man and woman both bowed to his mother, just as Richard had earlier, and Cynthia made the returning gesture. Formalities completed, Cynthia thoroughly shocked Darrick by rushing into the woman’s arms as they both laughed and exclaimed loudly how wonderful it was to see the other again. The man who Darrick took to be her husband looked on with a tolerant smile, so Darrick turned his attention to the younger man standing a pace behind them. The young man was already regarding him, and Darrick nearly took a step back at the hardness of his expression. After the initial surprise, though, he was determined to give as good as he got, and returned the appraisal with interest.
He appeared to be Darrick’s age, or maybe a few years older, and looked so similar to the older couple that he could only be their son. But unlike the naked joy of his mother or the tolerant amusement of his father, his stance was one of naked aggression and contempt. He looked Darrick up and down, and Darrick felt himself weighed in the balance and found severely wanting. Darrick tried the same trick, but his opponent did not seem so much as fazed, and Darrick felt more than a little intimidated. The staring match lasted for just a few seconds before their mothers separated themselves and each pulled their respective son forward to be introduced.
“Jessica,” Cynthia said, “this is Darrick.” At the introduction, Jessica repeated her bow and Darrick placed his hand briefly on her head, to Cynthia’s approving nod. “Darrick, this is Jessica Martin, the mother of your intended.”
“My lord,” Jessica said, as she straightened, “it is an honor to meet you, and a joy to know that soon I will greet you not as subject but as family.” Darrick’s heart skipped a beat at that statement, and his stomach tightened a little as well. He had to fight down an urge to correct her. He went through a similar tableau with her husband, Anthony, whose deep voice made the declaration even more ominous.
“Jessica and I were very close when we were children,” Cynthia told him, “though we haven’t seen each other since I married your father.” She looked over at John, sitting by himself, and her resentment was obvious, at least to Darrick. She covered it up quickly, though, presumably to not disturb the Martins. “It was one of my happiest moments as a mother when they agreed to betroth you to Abigail. I look forward to meeting her, Jessica.”
“And she can’t wait to meet all of you at the Presentation tonight,” Jessica responded. “But we can’t forget my son. My lady Cynthia, this is my son, Patrick. Patrick, this is the Lady Cynthia and the Lord Darrick.” Patrick made his bows, proper to the inch, and yet somehow the bow he gave Darrick was a gesture of insolence, not obeisance. Or maybe that was just how it seemed to Darrick, since neither his or Patrick’s mother commented. But the hooded glare he gave Darrick even as he bowed his head left little doubt in his mind. As Patrick rose, though, his father met his eyes, and Patrick paled ever so slightly. Darrick suppressed a smirk. Nice to know someone’s keeping him in line.
“Patrick is betrothed to Elizabeth Connor, though their bond has yet to reach maturity,” Jessica was saying. “But then, Abigail has always been more mature than him, even though she’s two years younger.” Jessica chuckled at her own pun, but Patrick turned his icy stare to his mother then, and even Darrick had to wince at the bluntness of the statement.
“Everything in its own time,” Cynthia replied, “or so Richard always taught us, anyway. I’m sure your chance will come soon enough, Patrick, but until then, enjoy your sister’s wedding!” Patrick forced an amiable mein that did not touch his eyes.
“I’m very happy for my sister,” he said in a passable imitation of honesty. “Maybe this will give me the opportunity to learn from her mistakes.” Cynthia and Jessica both laughed; Darrick wondered if they saw the sideways glance Patrick threw in his direction. Anthony cleared his throat ostentatiously, loud enough to jerk Patrick back to a semblance of propriety and the two women out of their giddy conversation.
“I know the two of you want to catch up, dear,” he said, placing a hand gently on her arm, “but you might want to let them get settled in first. At least show them their rooms and let them put their things away. We have a long day ahead of us, and there will be plenty of time to talk at the feast tonight, after the Presentation.”
“Of course, of course,” Jessica said, looking back at her husband fondly and placing her hand over his. “You must be exhausted after your flight and the drive up. We have you in the first floor of the north wing. We’re in the south. You should have some time to freshen up before preparations begin.” She turned to Darrick. “Try to get some rest, Darrick. I’m sure you’re excited to meet Abigail – I know she is to meet you – but you don’t want to go into tonight without at least a nap to reinvigorate.”
“I’ll do my best,” Darrick said. The realization of what was going to happen in just few hours was coming down on him hard; breath was hard to take and his heart was pounding in his chest. Either I go ahead with this and seal my fate, or I say no, and God only knows what these people will say, or do, about that. They seem nice enough, but so did that priest Richard, and he just wiped a man’s memory. The huge mansion was feeling more than a bit like a prison now, the walls closing in, as he picked up his luggage and followed his mother down a hallway, his father falling in behind them.
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