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moonshine-nightlight · 2 years

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Nothing's Wrong with Dale: Part Sixteen

It’s been a week, but you’re fairly certain your fiancé accidentally got himself replaced by an eldritch being from the Depths. Deciding that he’s certainly not worse than your original fiancé, you endeavor to keep the engagement and his new non-human state to yourself.

However, this might prove harder than you originally thought.

Fantasy, arranged marriage, malemonsterxfemalereader, M/F

AO3: Nothing's Wrong with Dale - Chapter 16 - MoonshineNightlight - Original Work [Archive of Our Own]

[Part One] [Part Two] [Part Three] [Part Four] [Part Five] [Part Six] [Part Seven] [Part Seven.5] [Part Eight] [Part Nine] [Part Ten] [Part Eleven] [Part Twelve] [Part Thirteen] [Part Fourteen] [Part Fifteen] Part Sixteen [Part Seventeen] [Part Eighteen] [Part Nineteen] [Part Twenty] [Part Twenty-One] [Part Twenty-Two] [Part Twenty-Three] [Part Twenty-Four] [Part Twenty-Five] [Part Twenty-Six] [Part Twenty-Seven] [Part Twenty-Eight] [Part Twenty-Nine] [Part Thirty] [Part Thirty-One] [Part Thirty-Two] [Part Thirty-Two] [Part Thirty-Three] [Part Thirty-Four]

You excuse your maid, Miss Adir, once she’s finished helping you get ready for tonight. This is the first official wedding party.

Yes, some people have arrived for the wedding festivities. Yes, the tournament and the hunt were for the wedding. But they are not formal social events, not in the way tonight will be. Tonight is the first night you’ll be publicly announced, publicly introduced, along with Dale, as a betrothed couple—one who will be wed in less than a month’s time. There will be dancing, and feasting, and socializing, as there will continue to be for the next few weeks.

You’re grateful this first event is likely the smallest and that it's here, on this Northridge estate you are starting to think of home, as at least familiar, but your nerves are still holding you tight in their grip. And this is only the beginning as tomorrow you leave for the city for the next series of balls and galas until it’s time to come back here for the wedding itself. The weight and anticipation is making the air feel thick, prickling along your skin.

You don’t even know why it's making you such a wreck.

You’ve known practically your whole life you were going to get married—you wanted it back when it seemed like perhaps you’d not make it, when you were too sick to leave your bed for days. Even once you got better, once you started going to a real school—the idea was an exciting one. Then, when it had been harder for your parents to find you a match than expected, you grew worried once more that you would not get to have your own family. You were relieved and filled with trepidation when the match with Northridge was settled. Meeting Dale had only increased your conflicting feelings, but it had also solidified everything in your mind. He had been easy enough to read, to prepare for, to see the rest of your life with. You had felt strangely settled with that final piece in place, for good and for bad.

Then Dale changed and so did everything else. You found yourself back on that ship in a storm, ups and downs. Trying to weather waves you couldn’t predict.

Or maybe it's simply that you had focused only on being married—not getting married, with all the socializing and spotlight you’re not used to and don’t like.

Nothing to do about that now. Northridge is too steeped in tradition to have a simple marital feast on its own, Grandmother and Grandfather too invested in seeing their heir, their grandson—the only son of the son taken from them so violently—to have this affair be anything less than everything. Northridge has kept to itself these last few years in aprticular, their children scattered and so all too happy for an excuse to gather everyone together and celebrate.

You stand up from the chair before your dressing table where Miss Adir had pinned the last of your braids, unrolled the last of your curls, fixed the decorative comb in your hair just right. You run your hands over your skirts once standing, making sure nothing’s been crushed, no layers caught on each other. Your busk is pressing a bit against your sternum so you reach into your pockets and tug on your chemise to better adjust the padding in that area.

The white of your dress makes you a bit nervous for stains, but the patterns of dark blue and black that are part of the design help to mitigate that worry. Wearing such an obvious display of Northridge colors—only Northridge colors—is odd. They will be your colors soon, the light blue-gray and green of your family colors no longer the colors others will associate with you, with Portsmith. Only the white is the same between your new family and your old.

You remember seeing your oldest sister come home for summer solstice, a year after her marriage, in bright red and orange. It had felt wrong, it had made her feel like a stranger already—more of a stranger than she already was. Since her husband was from Khanit, she spent half the meal speaking in his language—speaking so fast you could barely catch a word or two despite your lessons.

That feeling had lessened over the time spent with her again, as she once more became familiar. Callalily had remembered to bring you books from her travels, had introduced you to new foods in the city, had helped convince Mother to let you try riding despite your still weak muscles. And yet…

You grasp the doorknob and walk through the doorway, trying to push such thoughts aside. You would not become someone new just because you are being married. Callalily likely didn’t either, you were just too young to understand the difference a year could make even without visible growth, even to an adult–missed all the other factors that had led to the change.

Of course, she didn’t marry a demon.

Maybe that’s where your renewed bout of anxiety was truly coming from.You hope that with the tournament out of the way, the opportunity for him to display certain inhuman strength or other characteristics is low—especially since he seems better contained at diner these days. Now the challenge will come from all the socializing that is to come. Will his memory of Dale’s ability to comport himself in social situations hold true? Will he remember everyone he should?

With so many people to talk with and interact with, the chances of him to say the wrong thing, for people to notice something as wrong with him, for someone to notice anything is incorrect, increases dramatically. What if someone far more versed in demons and the Depths and possession is able to simply look at Dale and know?

And you’re not particularly skilled at conversation–too much time alone when you were young. You’d been counting on the original Dale to dominate these conversations so you wouldn’t have to participate overmuch. Now, you need to navigate them with the demon possessing him.

You curl your fingers into your hand so your nails can dig in because you’ve just remembered your walking to the grand hall and you don’t know what expression is on your face, but you’re pretty sure, given the concern that passed over Miss Adir when she glanced at you, that it must not be a good one.

Breathing in deep, you try to calm down. You need to focus on right now, on what comes next—not all the wedding galas. Only this one. You can handle one ball, here in Northridge, can’t you? You can walk down the stairs even with all those eyes on you, you can dance with Dale and eat dinner and make polite conversation for one night. In just a few hours, you’ll be back in your quiet, dark, bed for the night—and you don’t even have to stay up tonight reading because you finished reading that book from Dale’s private study that the Steward had snuck you.

It had been surprisingly informative regarding herbal and plant remedies, beyond the demonic, and had a clear theme: very few things that could hurt a demon would not also poison a human. In fact, often stronger doses of poison for humans was what the book claimed to actually be effective against the demonic—both in their form or those possessed or those imbuing themselves with demonic energies and influences. Demonic influence often gave one strong abilities to resist such tactics—which is why they were sought out in the first place. And even substances which could hurt demons and not humans usually either had to be in very high concentrations, mixed in exacting quantities, or be given to one under the influence over a long period of time—none of which is Grandfather able to do at this time.

You can only hope he doesn’t stumble upon something genuine and that perhaps if you and Dale continue to be well despite whatever he does use, he might give up on this idea. Of course, the best way for him to lose faith in this theory would be for Dale to act as close to his original self as possible whenever Grandfather is around and that is out of your hands.

You’re jolted from your thoughts as a footman ushers you into a waiting room near the top of the grand staircase where other Northridge family members wait along with a few people you don’t recognize.

One of Dale’s cousins beckons you over and you wait for your own turn to be announced with them. However, as one of the main guests of honor, your turn is last so alone or in pairs, they leave—not having pressed you too hard for conversation which you’re grateful for.

There are few enough people still waiting, that you decide to stand up and linger closer to the door, ensuring that once again your skirts are sitting well.

“My lady?”

You straighten with a stifled noise of surprise to see Dale in the doorway of the waiting room. “Lord Dale,” you reply, hoping your voice only seems breathy to your own ears.

He takes his cane and slides it into a holder on his belt before offering you his arm. “It’s nearly our turn, if you are ready?”

“Yes,” you reply. Then you take stock of his outfit. He’s in matching Northridge colors, his pants and shirt are white to match your own, with a deep blue waistcoat and black overcoat, a matching black design on his waistcoat. It’s clear that they are making their statement tonight as the future Lord and Lady of Northridge as well as Northridge’s victory in the tournament.

“I’m pleased that we were able to coordinate well,” Dale says with a grin. “Grandmother hadn’t been sure we would, but I knew this dress of yours would go wonderfully with my suit.”

You had received a message regarding how to dress tonight, but you thought it had come from Grandmother, not Dale. “You remembered this dress?”

“Of course,” Dale replies as you walk over to the doorway, just out of sight, to wait for your cue. “You wore this lovely dress on the day we were introduced.”

“Oh, yes. I’d nearly forgotten,” you say, because you had. Dale had come in off a ship, a plain but well made travel suit in black is what he had been wearing. He had seemed to study you then, at that first meeting, you in his family colors. He had looked… satisfied enough by the end of his appraisal.

This Dale looked upon you with far more warmth in his eyes.

“You look splendid as well,” you blurt out, just now realizing that he’d complimented your dress, remembered it even, and yet you’d not done the same for him.

He preens at your words, smile growing as he pulls on his labels with his free hand. “Thank you, my Lady.” When his eyes meet yours once more, they are crinkled at the edges.

“…heir apparent, Lord Dale Tiberius of Northridge,” came a booming voice, interrupting your thoughts and letting you pull your eyes away from Dale’s. How long had you been caught this time? “And his betrothed, Lady…” You and Dale begin to walk as the herald says your name and your focus is drawn to making sure you don’t trip down this grand staircase—it’s never happened before, not outside of the school, but it’s something you only need to witness once before the fear is engraved upon your memory. Poor Melissa had broken her nose.

Dale keeps one hand on the railing and the other entwined with your own as he steadily guides the two of you down the stairs. You keep your skirts up enough to be confident in your footing, grateful that Dale is steering the pace—you always have to spend more than half your attention on not going too quickly and then overcompensating and going too slowly.

After the first step, you keep your head level as you look out over the packed grand hall. You hope your expression is appropriately schooled and doesn’t show any of your dismay at the large crowd. At least it is evening enough that the candle light flickers, aiding you in blurring the others present so that you might pretend there are fewer present. As you reach the floor, you walk over to greet Grandmother and Grandfather by the dais for supper.

However, they are not yet upon it as there is only one way to properly begin a betrothal ball: with a dance. Grandmother, with her voice skilled at projection, speaks of the match made between the pair of you and you are grateful that while speaking, you can simply look at her and not everyone else here.

“Our esteemed guests,” Grandmother winds down her speech and you can hear the musicians up in the higher ring of balcony which encircles this room begin to play softly, “please join me in inviting our lovely couple to start tonight’s festivities as those we are here to celebrate.”

Polite applause fills the room as Dale turns to you to murmur, “Shall we?” Of course you will, but something about the look in his eye is comforting, as if he would listen if you said no for some odd reason. It makes it that much easier to nod though and he leads you out to the dancefloor.

It’s a familiar song and a waltz you know, but everything about the situation feels new. Dale’s arm slides around your waist while his hand grasps yours. You always expect his arm to be warm against your back, but it isn’t. While not cold either, you mostly notice how solid and confident his hold is as he leads you through the first steps of the dance to the right. Fleeting concerns regarding his balance and his inability to use his cane while dancing flit through your mind, even as you keep each other steady.

Instead, your concerns turn in a new direction when his blue eyes with their deep pupils lock with your own. You’ve forgotten how much a formal dance of this kind requires eye contact with your partner. Dale’s eyes in particular hold such danger to you, so easy are they to fall into, that you’d not thought of how that might impact dancing with him.

As he turns you, you feel a momentary panic rise in you, the crowd around you a blur, before his gaze draws you back in like metal to a lodestone. His hand returns to your back as yours does to his own, your hands above your heads as you spin, eyes still training on each others’.

As you separate and come back together, you can’t help but think about what makes this dance different from the only other formal waltz you had with Dale. It's the way this Dale leads, you think, that is the most different. Dale had been an accomplished dancer, had prided himself on his ability and the dance had been fine, but as with most other things with him, it had come with expectation. As he danced with you, his gaze had been assessing, waiting, and evaluating you. He was a skilled dancer and he expected his future wife to be as well. Once he seemed satisfied with your skill, the focus had been on showing, impressing the others with his ability.

This Dale too is a proficient dancer but he seems to have more enjoyment in dancing itself, rather merely in the spectacle. He moves more naturally, there is less rigidity in his lead, less performance to it. Even something as simple as managing your height difference better makes every step and movement flow that much smoother. And without the added pressure of his expectation for you, it is easier for you to get swept up in the movement. You’ve always danced better when you’re able to stop thinking so hard.

The music picks up speed and so do you two. Lost in the moment it takes another separation for you to realize other couples, including Grandmother and Grandfather, have joined you on the dancefloor. You feel an additional bit of tension release in your shoulders now that you two are no longer the center of attention, now that others are here as well. You know you’ll still finish the dance by yourselves, but your self-consciousness eases for the moment.

The next spin pulls the pair of you even closer than before, the solid line of Dale’s body against yours in a way that sends a jolt of anticipation up your spine. While his hands weren’t warm before, they are now and every place the two of you touch seems to only grow more obvious, press on your senses, on your awareness more. As the dance slows in the middle, you can’t help but appreciate the subtle scent of wood and something spicy—perhaps cinnamon—that envelops Dale. The absurd urge to rest your head against him, to press even closer, enters your mind and refuses to leave.

You’re grateful when the dance picks up again, the air against your face as you spin helping you clear the haze your closeness had inspired even as his eyes call you to drown in them once more. Even that seems safer than your other thoughts and so you let him keep you captive with his gaze while you perform the last moves of the dance.

When you finally come to a stop, another polite round of applause fills the room before Grandmother starts to speak again. “While typically, I would have to ask my gracious grandson to relinquish his betrothed so that she might share a dance with the worthy knight who won the tournament, Lord Dale has decided to be selfish this evening.” Chuckles sound throughout the room, including from Dale himself while heat fills your cheeks. “In an effort to keep his fiance in his arms, he has valiantly won the tournament. And so, I invite you to once more lead us in a dance.”

“My thanks, Lady Deidre,” Dale replies, projecting his voice throughout the room as his Grandmother did. To the room at large, he says, “I do hope you’ll forgive my impudence and join us as you see fit.”

The atmosphere of the room, despite the wine not flowing for very long, is warm and cheerful as you begin the far faster dance, intended to mirror the athleticism of the tournament. This time, your concentration is primarily on the steps themselves, on keeping pace with Dale, on your breathing, and less on Dale himself—there’s simply not enough of your focus to manage it. Other couples are quicker to join you this time, although on a wide spin you notice Grandfather and Grandmother have elected to sit this particular newer, quick step dance out. Indeed, the others you catch glimpses of are younger in general, although there is one older couple in particular—contemporaries of Dale’s grandparents from the fief next to Northridge—who more than keep up.

By the time this dance finishes, the music continues without interruption and you find yourself breathing heavily. A glance up at Dale and you find yourselves in agreement as he leads you off the floor and towards the dais.

“I am starving,” Dale murmurs in your ear, his other hand covering your own on his arm. “How long until some food is brought out do you think?” While you are able to catch your breath, your heart continues to race nearly as fast as it did while dancing as Dale keeps you so close. You tell yourself it is merely because of the crowd, and the same reason for putting his head so close to your own to speak, but that doesn’t help you calm yourself for whatever reason.

“I believe Grandmother said Chef is going to test some recipes tonight for the wedding feast,” Dale continues as you weave through guests, nodding and smiling to those who catch his eye. As you get closer to the high table, you see that while food is not out yet, drinks certainly are. Nearly everyone you pass has wine. You decline the page offering you a glass, wanting some water after the dancing before you have anything else to drink. “ I hope some of it is venison. I particularly enjoy how Chef prepares it.”

Dale doesn’t have a free hand at the moment, given his free hand is over your own, and makes no move to change that. Unfortunately, that also means he hasn’t remembered to start using his cane again. Just as you’ve nearly reached Grandmother and Grandfather, someone jostles Dale and it's enough to disrupt his balance. His words stop abruptly as he starts to fall. You brace yourself, trying to help steady him as he nearly falls backwards, but end up hitting into the edge of his grandparents’ table all the same.

Grandfather comes over to help but in the confusion manages to lose hold of his completely full wine glass. You don’t know what instinct possesses you—likely it's merely the fact that it’s Grandfather’s—but you manage to tilt Dale in such a way that the spilled liquid ends up splashing over you and missing him entirely. The next minute is filled with more confusion as more people try to help, as a variety of handkerchiefs are handed over to you and you both are ushered into seats.

“At least it was only white wine,” you say with the best smile you can muster, wiping off your neck and collarbone with Dale’s handkerchief.

Grandmother agrees, while Grandfather watches you carefully before turning to order a page to bring a more substantial cloth for you to dry with. Something about that extra attention makes you realize that while the drink might have looked like wine, it didn’t feel like it. In fact, it feels far more like water, but mildly scented in some faint, but familiar way. You can’t quite put your finger on it though and you’ve no idea why Grandfather would lie about what he’d been drinking.

Or, given the glass had been full, not drinking. Had he spilled his drink on you on purpose? Even given his suspicions that doesn’t make any sense.

Between your swirling thoughts, all the additional attention, and Dale’s own sincere apology to you for kicking off this chain of mishaps, it’s not until a small hand towel is pressed into your hand and you return Dale’s damp handkerchief to him that you figure it out.

Since Grandfather is on the other side of the table, caught up in teasing from Grandmother about being clumsy after so little to drink, he’s unable to see what you do as Dale folds his handkerchief absentmindedly before looking down with a frown. He lets the handkerchief fall to the ground when he sees the way his fingertips and palm have reddened as if mildly burned where he had been holding it.

You’ve no idea where Grandfather managed to get blessed water from Mount Tresihorn, but he must have. You’ve heard all altars had a bottle of such water, the most prized for its purity and power, but for Grandfather to have been able to get it worries you—as well as him willingly wasting so much. How much more does he have? Will this convince him that it won’t work on you? What about Dale? Will this convince him his theory is wrong or only drive him to consider new methods?

Dale reaches for the towel you set down and wipes his hands off. You can’t help the relief that fills you when his hands come away with no burns. It must only be direct contact with the water that causes the reaction. As your eyes linger on his hands, you feel like you are being watched so your eyes dart up to where Grandfather is only to find him still turned away from you.

Your eyes swing up to find Dale’s fixed on you, his body as rigid as it had been in the tent. You can’t read them and you’re strung too tight to do anything more than offer him a weak smile before busying yourself with pouring some water. You hope this isn’t a sign of how stressful the next few weeks are going to be. You’re not sure you can handle this much excitement.

[Part Seventeen]

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