The evening was rough. Rough in the way that the jewels scratched her throat. Rough like the lace on her veil. Rough like her fiance's hands when he took her own. She could feel it in the air, the harsh boredom of the ceremony. Guests fanned themselves in the Mediterranean heat. And fifteen year old Ecaterina Adeline Sibylla of Spain walked down the aisle with a bouquet of white roses. Even they felt rough in her soft and delicate hands. She was a small girl, always had been, always would be. The top of her head barely breached the shoulder of her mare, the one she had been presented as a wedding gift. Her prince had gone above and beyond attempting to court her. There had been flowers, birds, songs, banquets, dances, jewels, and of course, a horse. In the end, it was her sister who convinced her to accept Alvaro's proposal. It was her sister who winked at her now as she came down the aisle. Every step made her feet seem heavier, the sleeves of her escorts seem cruder, the heat in the church seem all the more suffocating. The evening was rough.

She knew though, that the night was going to be rougher. The layers of her dresses would scratch horribly as they were peeled off of her. The hold of her new husband would be rough as he pushed her back. She knew his lips would hurt worst of all when they clawed at her skin. Even the smooth ceilings would be rough as she gazed at them with chafed eyes. She knew this like she knew the sun would set this evening; it would not be her first hard night with him.

Lingering on her dread, she nearly tripped as she came up to the altar. Thus, superstitious women erupted in nasty whispers of bad luck and misfortune, rumoring to one another what woe awaited the young bride. But the older women already knew, knew as well as Ecaterina that a foul night was only to be fouler.

She cursed herself as she stood before her fiance. His eyes flashed to the step where she had nearly fallen and back to her, promising punishment for spoiling his perfect day. And of course this was his perfect day. He had proposed to her the day she turned twelve, an eighteen year old man bending his knee to a pretty girl. She had denied him regularly the three years past, and he had mourned as she became all the more lovely. Her hair all the more silken, her eyes all the more wise, her smile all the more brilliant, and her flesh all the more rich. Now, at last, he had his golden girl before him, wearing his ring, promising herself to only him. Not that she had much choice in the latter, he had claimed her as his own at midnight in a garden not but a year ago. Still, she could barely look at him and not remember how those eyes had burned above her. The stars had wept with her, and he had whispered of his boundless love.

Everything was fast, everything was slow. The priest leaked words that dripped down the walls like molasses. Her prince sprayed words as harried and harsh as the spit that flecked her face. Her own flowed solemn as a dirty river, pooling down on the floor beneath her feet.

"I give my body to you, Alvaro, in loyal matrimony."

"I receive you."

She tried not to cringe when his lips conquered hers and his teeth cut her tongue, but she knew she had failed when his hand knotted in her finely adorned hair. His thick fingers frayed the braids and nearly snapped the golden chains that connected jewels. She spent an eternity in that moment, eyes open to the ceiling, begging of her god that she be released. Her skin bubbled into goosebumps from her neck to her ankles, trying with all its might to burst from the proximity. He was so close, too close, his arms wrapped around her, coiled tight like serpents, his thigh was thick between hers, and she could feel how his whole being envelope her, this was hell. This kind of slow heat that burned from him, the salt that surfaced his skin, the fire in his eyes, and the venom in his mouth. Everything in her hurt for freedom, but freedom she could not have. Rather his hand clung to her waist, his thumb followed her breast, and she swallowed hard as he began to escort her down the aisle again. That too, was rough.

She rode the horse he gave her to the reception, back in the grand palace where there would be food and feast and he would carry her from the unfamiliar Portuguese hall to his chambers. She loathed this, but who was she to defy him, now his wife, now this short girl with swooping eyelids and a mole under her jaw wed to a man as large and brutish as he. She couldn't disobey him any longer, she couldn't claw at him like she had before, this was her life. Well, if even that could be called hers anymore. The last thing that could be called hers was her fate, but even that was so tainted by him she rejected it. He was so much of it, of the rest of her life, that it made her want to end it. Of course, Ecaterina knew better, she knew so much better. There would still be happiness, even if she had make it herself.

It was that thought that carried her through the meal where maidens gushed over her jewels and dress and giggled about how handsome her husband was. They gossiped over how lucky she was, that he loved her so immensely, how he could have married any girl in Europe and he had chosen Ecaterina. Of course, he couldn't have married anyone in Europe, he was only a second son after all. This didn't stop them from telling her how lucky she was, lucky lucky lucky, 'Oh kitty this is perfect.' 'The wedding was perfect!' 'He's so perfect.' She could only bear it for so long. A half hour later she excused herself, and elegantly, nobly, she moved to her two older brothers. They were the best pair of brothers seen for quite some time, best friends as well as blood. The elder simply nodded to her and murmured congratulations. He was the kind of stoic that thrived on the battlefield. He was joyous only in military camps and laughing only when blades burned through bodies. The younger of the two smiled now though, he clasped her close and laughed celebration to her. When he heard her words freeze in her throat, his smile melted and he apologized. As they all should have.