Of Dowries and Double Chins

[Guest denbu]

 

A plot most fattening is brewing in the Kingdom of Bountia. Old King Tract's favor is waning among the nobles,  and the treasure room is looking a touch light. Better suited to tipping back bottles than lording over court, he's never been very good with managing the kingdom. Thankfully his totally trustworthy and stalwart advisor, E'greasior, has a solution: marry off the princess and capture a fat dowry. She'll need to grow for their gain. 

**This is a finished multi-chapter story. I'll upload as I format them.**

Feedback, critique, or any other input is valued and welcome. I'm trying to improve, so please share if you feel inclined. 

 

A Disappointing Banquet

 

     Seated alone at an immense table upon a raised dais, King Tact scowled into the sea of gloom stretched before him with the distaste of a jeweler scrutinizing a flawed gem.

     The hall’s perimeter was fenced by rows of braziers, and yet despite the stones cast by their orange glow, the room was dank as a cell.

     The fires dearth of heat and light was overcompensated in abundance by ropes of greasy smog that stung the eyes and seized the throat. An unfortunate and necessary consequence, he was told, of the poor harvest forcing a substitution of lumber for dung and lard. A negligible difference, he was promised, once the merrymaking of the harvest banquet began.

     Several hours in and he wasn’t sure when that tipping point of celebration would arrive.

     From some dismal corner the minstrel slouched over his lute and plucked out a handful of limp notes that plopped like used bath rags.

     Jutting from his seat at the head of the hall, an archipelago of tables stretched onward, consumed by the darkness. Their faces rife with crosshatched knife scars and ring-stains alluding to faded glories. Head slumped, he stared back into the writhing darkness at the smattering of silhouettes within the void haunched over platters heaped with untouched food. Their mumbles and whispers were the tide for this sea of gloom, and the occasional knife-scrape across a plate the gull’s screech.

     The only thing with appetite here are the shadows.

     One noble among them, misjudging the pitch of the light, slunk along the wall toward the exit. Tract slammed a gnarled fist onto the table, launching his surrounding collection of drained goblets. The man froze mid-step and swiveled a sheepish glance over his shoulder.

     “Is the Fall Harvest not to your liking?”

     “Not at all! Uh, I mean, yes?” He whipped his head about, looking for help. “Can you repeat the question, Majesty?”

     Tract pointed to a vacant table, following the man’s slumped march back to the feast. “I’ve ordered executions with more zest than this! Shall I call for the hatchet man to liven the mood?”

     Nothing but the long stretch of silence, and yet he felt their eyes upon him.

     He snatched a haunch from a nearby platter and tore into the crisped skin with a furious snap. The savory meat did nothing to abate his ire, and so he chased it with a gulp of wine. The acid cut through the grease, and made for a fine pairing, but the twirl of flavor was a fistful of ash poured over his tongue. He slurped a mouth of wine, swished it, and chased it with another guzzle, then raised his drink and nodded at the cup. Wine paired with wine was a match better suited to his mood.

     And so another flagon in the fire in his chest was blending with the steam in his head, giving fuel to his rage. He rocketed to wavering feet, sent his chair hurtling to the floor. The echo reverberated throughout the room, snuffing what signs of life remained like a lone candle’s flame.

     “A toast!” He thrust his cup like a banner, sloshing crimson waves about. “To another successful harvest!” He raised it for a sip, found it empty, and dashed it to the floor. With a snap he summoned the serving girl over and snatched another goblet. “May we be gracious for Lord Tinybottom’s vineyard. Rise, Sir!” He squinted out at the tables, trying to discern which shadow would rise to his call. None did. “Where is the old wineskin?” he groused.

     A jerk at his sleeve. E’greasior leaned out from the murk to whisper, “Not present, Majesty.”

     “Hmph. To the dogs with him.” He squinted into the abyss, deceived by his the drink that any blob discerned itself from the others. He brandished his half-gnawed haunch and swung it at the crowd like a mace. “This roast hog, with skin so supple, undoubtedly came from Lord Sweingud’s farm. Rise and bask in your King’s glory, Sweingud!”

     A yank. “Absent, Sire.”

     He whomped his cup upon the table, the drink erupting in a crimson geyser. “What?!”

     “It’s mostly minor Lordlings. Distant kin, third sons, nephews. That sort, Majesty.”

     E’greasior’s words were a damp blanket smothering the pyre of fury within him, leaving naught but steam and smoke. Just hot air. Tract slumped in dejection as he deflated.

     He hurried the rest of the toast crestfallen, “Then may we pay bounty to the land itself, and to what further gifts Bountia’s fertile lands may offer.” Needing no signal from the crowd, he upended his drink and chugged, sparing himself the humiliation of the few half-hearted replies.

     The stampede of boots and slippers as they departed was the most vivacious the hall sounded in months.

     He watched them scurry toward the doors, none lingering to curry his favor as they once had. Already deep in his cups, he was slumped over with wine and self-pity, but still dragged an arm toward a cup. Rather than a goblet’s neck, he grasped a woman’s touch.

     The alabaster hand settled on his shoulder, rousing him from his brooding. Its twin brushed his bristled cheek with a rasp, displacing the cliff of crumbs as they avalanched onto his lap. He squeezed the hand and held it against his cheek, relishing the lilac scent before kissing it.

     “It was a lovely meal, Father. And next year’s bounty will be grander yet.”

     “Bless your sugared heart, Descia.”

     Of the cornucopia his lands and hands had reaped, none was more treasured that his only child, the crown jewel of Bountia. Her silken hair, blacker than a raven’s wing, flowed like a cowl to frame her ivory face. A pearl wreathed in stygian. So much like her mother.

     A surge of sharp claps accompanied by a pair of clopping boots roused him from the respite.

     “Quite so, quite so! The Lady’s tongue is as smooth as any Tinybottom vintage, if I may be so presumptuous.” Gnashing his teeth, he swung his blood-hazed eyes sharp enough to decapitate the intruder.

     “—Faireweather,” Tract growled.

     “—Julius!” Descia squealed, clasping her hands to her bosom delighted as a babe.

     “Actually, it’s Lord Faireweather,” the man corrected as he polished his nails against his vest. “Ever since father’s most unfortunate,” he flung his head back and draped an arm across his eyes, “and untimely demise.”

     Tract rolled his eyes. ‘Untimely’, my chaffed ass. The late Faireweather Senior’s “mysterious” death at the Cliffs of Trepidatious Height had been a favored topic among the court’s gossipers last season. Alas, what he wouldn’t give to have those hens clucking again.

     Descia, pure of heart and unripe of mind, dashed toward Faireweather, and clutched his hand against her bosom. “Sincerest sorrows, my lord. I daren’t intend to dredge such painful memories.”

     Her touch dispelled his grief quicker than a child’s sand castle in the waves. “Blessed am I for the Lady Descia’s bounteous heart.”

     She raised an arm, slender as a swan’s neck, and fanned delicate digits over her mouth as a ravenous blush razed her cheeks. The coquettish giggling belying her feigned stoicism while Tract’s grumbling hid none of his own feelings on the matter.

     “Father,” Descia tilted toward him on a waist to make a wasp green. “Lord Faireweather,” she giggled, “has a new stallion stabled on his estate. I’d so love to ride with him today. I shall be home before the moon’s light touches the first stone of the East tower.”

     Tract’s veined eyes, dull and red as faltering coals, flitted between Descia’s blush and Faireweather’s wolfish smirk as his rapacious gaze crawled along her behind. “Stallion?” The hoods over his eyes flung open, and the blooded orbs bloomed with realization. He pushed his chair back and tried to stand, forced to lean onto the table, dizzied. “Des, I don’t—”

     But Faireweather was already leading her by the hand, as confident as a stable master with reins. “He’s quite the stud, m’lady. I’m sure he’ll take to your filly. She’s three now, which means ready to breed.” He leaned close to whisper something, invoking a burst of giggles and a playful swat from the princess.

     The iron-studded door crashed shut behind them, blasting a swift gust that extinguished the candles along the walls and engulfed the room in sudden darkness, like a sheet dropped over a birdcage.

     He knotted his brow as the faint afterglow of the door faded from his sight. He understood, but altogether too late. Descia had blossomed into a woman as unknowable as any other had been to him.

     “That bastard. E’greasior!”  A skeletal hand descended on his shoulder. Its chill touch seeped through to his flesh, making him shiver.

     “Sire?”

     “Have the captain of the guard trail them. I want a full account of their goings on. It should go without saying that if "Little Faireweather" should make an appearance, I want him de-rooted. May the line end with the father’s fetid fruit if needed.”

     “Quite so. I shall dispatch the orders at once.”

     The chill lingered.

     His face sagged further. “Yes. We’ve more to discuss.”

[Guest denbu]

Chapter 2: A Plot Most Fattening

 

     Tract stumbled through his chamber, kicked through a crumpled pile of clothes, unearthing a wine-tacky goblet concealed within. It rolled across the room and clanged against a wall with a chime. He dragged the back of his hand over the bed’s pristine surface before crumpling into a splintered chair by the window and watched the Moon make its arcing ascent, a fat gold coin tumbling in suspension.

     A sudden exhaustion pounced on him and he tilted his head onto the satin pillow at the head of the bed, careful not to place his whole body on the inviting surface. A puff of orange peel enveloped him as his eyes drooped.

     “Oh, Clara.” He burrowed his face into the pillow and nuzzled. “It went all wrong when you left.”

     A latch clacked shut.

     “Shall I send for more wine, Sire?” Egreasior’s voice was naught but a murmur, but deposited into Tract’s ear like a lover’s whisper.

     The offer was ambrosia. Panacea for the days ills. Just a nightcap to assuage the feast’s humiliation. To ease his worry over Descia. She’s a woman now, he’d have to let her go eventually.

     He dragged his wine-soaked tongue rasping against his chapped lips. Mouth sandy as if he hadn’t already guzzled more than his share just an hour prior. The affirmation sat on his lips like a notched arrow, growing more difficult to withhold each moment. As he hoisted himself from the pillow, the final fading whiff was sobering. Clara’s remnants girding his resolve.

     “I’ve had my fill this night.” He approached the window on steadier footing, and leaned against the sill, taking effort not to gawk at the Moon or how close its beams fell to the tower’s base. Instead, he surveyed the untilled farmland stretching over the hills. “What in the blasted depths was that turnout tonight? I didn’t recognize a single face in that pinch of stragglers. Just a clutch of boys without a chin’s bristle between them for a beard.”

     “Our Lords and Ladies are being tempted to more… accommodating hosts.”

     Tract spun as if to answer a duelist’s challenge. “And what house is more accommodating to them than their own King? Bountia fills their bellies and their coffers! They’ve grown fat and complacent from my land and her gifts.”

     “Quite so, Sire,” E’greasior glided from the darkness and sat. “But Bountia’s antiquated. We produce the finest grains, the richest wines, and the plumpest swine.” E’greasior waylaid his retort with a gloved hand. Tract clamped his mouth with a snap. “However, the world has changed in your lapse since Lady Clara’s passing.”

     Tract winced and returned to the sill, doing his damndest to avoid the moon.

     “Nobles are a fickle sort, as you know. Their hearts sway as easily as a banner in the wind. They’re branded with Bountia’s crest, but of late the gusts blow East.”

     “Feh! The East is a barren waste. Naught but an abundance of Sun suited only for harvesting sand and dust.”

     “Compared to Bountia, true, but tastes shift. Luxuries are what they hunger for. Their cravings aren’t for the stomach, but satiation of the mind. They discuss philosophy on plush feather poufs and plump silk beds. They’re enamored with a thing called ‘plumbing’ as well.”

     “What use is a soft seat? Why trade a knife for a feather? A powerful horse for a…” he waved his hand, searching.

     “A book, Majesty?”

     “Yes! Those.”

     “Such is the way of the world. What is rare is desirable, and what is bountiful becomes common. The nobles seek novelty.”

     “They will find their decapitation most novel!” He thudded his fist against the stone, and regretted it as he held the throbbing thing to his chest.  “What about those working their farms?”

     “The lapse of Noble interest forced many off the land. Nothing will change. They are being seduced in new courts as we speak. They learn to love foreign ways. And worse yet, our coffers are past insufficient levels. We may yet only have a year of stores from last season’s taxes.”

     Tract’s head stooped as he leaned on the sill like a wrung rag. “Is there nothing left?”

     E’greasior shrugged. “The larders are near to bursting with all the missed banquets this past harvest. If nothing else, Bountia lives up to her name.”

     Tract trailed the stone walkway beneath the window and contemplated the drop. Maybe the world has changed, and here I’ve only grown moss.

     “A fortuitous marriage could revitalize the kingdom,” E’greasior tapped his chin. “And the Princess has been of age for some time...”

     “No, I could never use her as a bartering chip. She should be free to choose her own way.”

     “Quite so, Majesty. Regardless, she’s clearly smitten with the new Lord Fairweather.”

     A growl rumbled in his chest at the thought, but the glint of the Moon’s arc caught his eye from the periphery. The celestial glow cupped his face and for a brief, blessed moment, he felt the comforting guidance of Clara’s hands on his cheeks. “Who would suffice?”

     E’greasior’s face split into a rictus smile. “The Mountain King has yet to wed.”

     A snort. “Biertgut? He’s a hermit. Besides, the North is even worse off than we are. A gaggle of rock farmers.”

     “Astute as alway, Majesty, but as you recall—tastes have changed.”

     “Taste for rocks? Speak sense, E’greasior. I’ve no patience for soft words.”

     “The Mountain King’s border ranges the entire Northern peaks. His mines harvest and hoard more gemstones each year.” E’greasior wrung his hands together. “Nowhere else on the known map could one find jewels to rival his collection. Each more resplendent than the last, glimmering with their own spectral light. If the Nobles are looking East to feed their souls, then we shall give them a feast for the eyes. Trinkets and baubles and stones of every color and shape to ornament their neck and fingers. Hell, even their toes!”

     Tract quirked an eyebrow at his aide’s uncharacteristic vigor. “And how do you propose we get any of it? Their marriage alone guarantees us nothing.”

     “The Northerners hoard peculiar traditions as they do gems, Majesty. Instead of a typical dowry or simple ring, they fashion a waist-chain embedded with each variety of precious stone. A different gem for each three links around the bride. The value would be…otherworldly.”

     “But Descia is slight as a sparrow,” Tract said, rubbing his throat. “Her waist is narrow as a swan’s neck. Biertgut would fashion a chain of only 2 stones. Maybe 3.” He shook his head, turning back to the night sky.

     “How true, Sire. She takes after her late mother’s highlander blood. And with how often she’s been riding with Lord Fairweather,” Egreasior eyed Tract’s hackles bristle and smirked, “she may be even more slender than ever. Well, I suppose we can puzzle this another night.”

     He walked to the door, but paused at the precipice. “Shall I send for the cooks to whip you up a late meal? The larder is near bursting with excess. Even more after the poor turnout at this Harvest feast.”

     Tract snapped to attention. “Wait! Egreasior, I have a brilliant idea.”

     “Do tell, Sire.” The door swished shut behind him.

[Guest denbu]

Chapter 3: A Proposal, Threat, and Dismissal

 

     Her meal was austere as always: a single unsalted, boiled egg. Using the edge of her spoon, she tapped a crack along the its orbit, spinning it with precision until a perfect fracture formed.

     Across the feasting table, her father was taking a particular interest in her process. He was shifting about, struggling to peer over his own lavish spread.

     She frowned and lowered her spoon. “What ails, Father? If it’s your stomach, I won’t be dredging that argument. Late night meals are best ignored.” She grimaced as E’greasior leaned down to whisper to her father. “As are private conversations during meals.”

     E’greasior’s serpent eyes slithered across the table to settle on her. His eyes on her made her flesh prickle and itch like a pair of fingers hooking under her skin. It made her want to tear away, but instead she cleared her throat, scooting closer to the table’s edge and haunched her shoulders, hoping to close herself off from the leer.

     Once her father shook his head and waved off his shadow, she sat a bit straighter.

     With a fluster, he attacked his spread as though he just found them. “Yes. Fine, Des. Just starved this morning,” he said around a mouthful of sausage.

     She tilted her head at him, eyebrow raised. “You had quite a fill last night as I recall.”

     Stretching her neck above the banquet spread brought him into focus. The drink and food had done him no favors since Mother’s passing, but this morning in particular he looked awful.

     His cheeks were sagging on his face like mud rolling down a mountain’s slope, and his head lolled between his shoulders, a teetering boulder, prepared to roll in either direction with the slightest nudge.

     He waved off her worried scrutiny and choked down a mouth of wine. “And what of you, dear? You left so early you hardly scraped at your plate. I can have the cooks bring you something more,” he looked over his shoulder, “substantial?”  E’greasior gave a slight nod. “And why don’t we get you some salt for that egg? Some bite to start the day, eh?”

     She held her palm against her waist and pressed, pleased to feel the muscular spring of a stomach taut as a sailor’s knot. “You’re thoughtful, but ladies must be their own taskmasters in those matters. Salt provokes bloating, and the slightest misstep in a diet invites the court vipers to strike. Daughter of the King or no, every woman of the court must battle scrutiny.” She peeled the egg’s helm, cored the yolk orb, and disposed of it untouched. “Besides, if I ever hope to attract a husband worthy of Bountia’s throne, I’ll need to be in trim conditioning.‘Cows for the fields, not the court.’ That’s what Julius says at least.” Her smile slipped once she saw her Father’s grimace.

     “Descia,” he said, placing both palms on the table’s surface, bracing himself, “there are important matters to discuss.” He tucked his chin into his chest. “Clara, guide me…”

     E’greasior took a step into the light. “What the King means to say is you’re to be wed.”

     Her spoon clanged against the bowl. “Pardon? What’s he blathering about?”

     Tract’s head slunk further as E’greasior’s rose from behind, holding a palm toward her as if that were enough to quell her bubbling rage. “Calm now, Princess.”

     She rose, fluid as a whipping current, and slammed her hands onto to table, knocking glassware and cups over. Tract winced from the force which rattled the dishes and toppled goblets. A rivulet of wine wound to the edge of the table. A stream flowed, forming a puddle.

     Drip. Drip. Drip.

     She leaned her weight onto coiled arms, unblinking sight refusing to withdraw from her father’s. Eyes imploring his from across the room, plumbing their murky depths for some hidden explanation. “Daddy, please. What’s this about?”

     Tract tilted his head up toward her. His chin trembled as his mouth bobbed like a hooked bass.

     “Des,” he croaked. “Please, just—”

     “—It’s already arranged, Princess,” E'greasior said. “A suitor has offered a favorable bid with an excellent dowry offering.”

     Drip. Drip.

     An arranged pairing? Why hadn’t they advised her? What about all the things she’d yet to see past Bountia’s borders? What about Julius? She thought herself a woman, independent and capable, and yet she felt her throat tightening as the corners of her eyes throbbed. She pounded her fist on the table to cover the sudden sob she choked off. Tearing her face from the two men, she permitted a few hot tears to plop on the table. “So it’s come to this, Father?”

     He sat, head bowed and tucked. Solemn as the tomb.

     “You’ve nothing to say to the daughter you auctioned off like a goat behind closed doors?”

     Tract Stirred. He’d aged decades in the proceeding flurry, and the man who looked across the table resembled a doddering grandfather rather than the protector and advocate he’d been in the past.

     “Des, please understand. This is hard for me too.”

     “I refuse.”

     “What?” E’greasior hissed, baring glistening yellow teeth at her. “Listen here, girl. This is beyond your station to oppose your father’s will. He is still your King. All our King! It would behoove you to be an obedient cow, if that’s how you choose to see this generous opportunity!”

     Drip.

     She swiveled her head toward him. It only made sense E’greasior was orchestrating this. He was the only one who could make her father listen. Whatever plot he wove would end now.

     She slid a carving knife off the table and hefted it, testing its balance. “Do you know the best cure for a snakebite, E’greasior?” She pricked the tip of her finger at the blade’s point. “No poultice or anti-venom works half as well. The best cure is to behead a coiled viper on sight!”

     She vaulted over the table and bolted forward. Her sight was clear, eyes dry, aim steady. She couched the blade at her hip, priming it for a thrust, and charged him. Her court slippers whispered on the stone floor as her gown fluttered behind her.

     She screeched as she approached the cowering advisor. “What say you, snake?”

     E’greasior yelped, scrambling for further refuge behind his King’s throne. Twisting to dive behind Tract’s seat, he slipped on the puddle of wine from the overturned glass and stumbled to his knees.

     Almost upon him now. She saw the twist of his spine outlined against his robe as he cringed. She maneuvered the blade’s point like it was part of her hand, aiming to sever that crooked curve.

     “Descia!” Tract was in her path now.

     His voice was a clarion-call slicing through the fog tunneling her towards an execution. Her legs slowed, knees churning sluggishly, until his expression stopped her outright. The disappointment dispelled her animus and the knife slipped through her limp fingers. She collapsed into his arms. Her tears were staining his chest. Once again, she was just a terrified girl seeking comfort on her father’s lap after a nightmare.

     “Hush now. Shhh.” He smoothed the rumples on her dress as he embraced her.

     She sobbed into his shoulder. “But why? You said I’d find my own way. That it wasn’t for anyone else to decide.” He took a sharp breath as his body went rigid.

     “Yes, my darling, but a King’s duty usurps a Father’s promises.”

     “But you’re both! Shouldn’t I have more opportunities? Even lesser noblewomen can marry whomever they please.”

     He pulled away and held her at arm’s length. He studied her face, his own expression swirling between concern and pride. A fresh tear trailed down her cheek. With a swipe, he ran a rough thumb under her eye and snuffed its path. “I’ve done you a disservice, if that’s how you see things. Your mother would know what to say…” His eyes drifted over her head, honing upon something only he perceived.

     She reached out and touched his arm. “Father?”

     He shook himself. “What’s the relationship between a ruler and their subjects?”

     “The natural order is to preside over them. We reward their loyalty with access to land and titles.”

     “We’re not the masters of the land, or of the people who work it. Bountia has no masters or slaves. We don’t preside, we protect. We guide, but only in the direction that benefits all. They have entrusted me to be the living embodiment of their will. A receptacle. One day you’ll inherit that burden, and it’s time you know that what we do is to benefit the kingdom, not ourselves.”

     As they sat, E’greasior scrambled off into the enveloping folds of a curtain. “And part of that duty means I can’t keep you as my little girl. You’re a woman now, and it’s passed time to include you as my peer.”

     “Why the urgency? This is all so sudden.”

     “We’re in a grim state. Bountia loses favor daily. We’re losing a war I didn’t even know was being waged. And we may enter tensions with the Eastern kingdoms, if we aren’t already. Something drastic is necessary so you inherit something better than what I did when I took the throne.”

     His eyes drifted off to a far wall in the hall, and she followed them to a portrait of her young parents. He proud and imperious, her mother wild and untamable. A far cry from the couple she remembered as a girl.

     “Did you know your mother and I were an arranged marriage? Long before you were even a tickle in her belly, there was a terrible war. And we decided a wedding was better than a crypt. We learned to love. Your mother and I. Impossible as that seemed in those early years.”

     He stroked a strand of tear-plastered hair from her cheek. “It got easier with a little girl romping through the halls. And now you know. You’re tied to the land, the people. Our collective future. It’s too much responsibility for my little girl, but not the future Queen. This is as plain as I can convey: without your cooperation, Bountia will fall. And swiftly.”

     Her stomach was a stone, but her father’s appeal softened her resolve. “I understand.”

     She didn’t, but the glimmer in his eyes forced a slight tug at the corners of her mouth.

     She’d need to tell Julius.

[GetThiccer]

Awesome! Looking forward to more

[Guest denbu]

A Faireweather Fiancé

 

     The thunder booming between her thighs was exhilarating. She clenched and curled her toes, relishing the damp hair brushing between them as the muscles clamped and released as he moved with expertise. She leaned into the thudding momentum, sending the impact rocketing through her pelvis and along her spine like a lightning rod tingling the base of her skull in a web of electricity. His pants and snorts settled into a rhythm, and soon enough she found her place among the composition of his bodily orchestra. The longer they went, the less she needed to guess when to shift her weight or lean. She anticipated his movements, read his desires as they melded into a single entity, breathing and moving in tandem. Perfect unity. It allowed her to just arch her back and submitted to his instinct to take control. She slipped her hand off his neck, running it through her loose hair and yelped as he darted in an unanticipated angle.

     “You’re magnificent,” Faireweather said. “Few women can ride like that.”

     She opened her eyes to see his smile gleam as he rode beside her. “Have you ridden with many others, Lord Faireweather?”

     “None who compared to your talent in the saddle. Any women who can handle a stallion like that don’t live in castles.”

     The deep stretch of her hips across the horse’s berth made him nod in ravenous appreciation. He leaned over to take the reins and pulled them in. “He wants to go farther, and I don’t blame him.”

     “You were right. He’s spectacular! I’ve never ridden a horse so strong and swift.”

     He smirked. “He takes after his master in that, I assure you.”

     “And what of his endurance?” She blushed. “What use is being quick to the gallop if it won’t reach the pasture’s edge?”

     “Wait until our vows are complete to be certain of that.”

     She shifted in her saddle, tugging her fingers through her hair. “Father will be furious that we annulled his arrangement...”

     She yelped when he leaned in from astride his own horse to snatch her close, and moaned when he tasted her with a hungry kiss. Eyes fluttering with ecstasy as the worries slipped away.

     “The King will support what makes you happy. You’ve said as much. Besides, he’ll be at ease to see the kingdom in capable hands. It’s well known the first Faireweather was almost the original King of Bountia, but in trademark Faireweather generosity, graciously yielded to your own ancestor. And ever since, we Faireweather’s have pledged undying loyalty to the royal family. I daresay they sculpted the crown with a Faireweather’s head for scale.”

     “I’m not sure he’d agree with your recounting of history, but I couldn’t care less about the claim to the crown. Julius, I want to see the world! Everything I’ve ever known was inside these borders, but Bountia can’t contain me any longer. I’ve outgrown it.”

     “And we will. I promise if you stay by my side, I’ll lavish you with all the world’s bounties.”

     She cupped his cheek. “Let’s see the world together, Julius.” He leaned in for another kiss, but just before their lips met, her horse exploded forward in a bursting gallop. “Catch me if you want another taste!” she called over her shoulder.

     He watched her bound off, taking particular notice of the way her hips rolled with the gallops. “Damn, I can’t wait to see her ride.” He licked his lips as a surging lust for power and pleasure painted a mural in his mind. Two quick kicks to his horse’s side. “Hyah-hyah!” He pursued, eyes never wavering from the prize so near at hand.

 

[Guest denbu]

Tract’s Resolve

 

     Tract slumped into a chair in his private quarters, sinking until he was eye level with the side table and the pristine bottle of Tinybottom vintage. A corner of crisp parchment peeked out beneath the bottle’s butt.

     To Bountia’s future,

     E.

     He glid a finger along the bottle’s curvaceous body, up to its tapered neck, and thumbed the cork with a half-hearted effort. Seeing Descia’s face that morning had broken something in him. She was right to feel wronged. He’d promised her so many things, and dashed them all over breakfast. And one night of plotting with E’greasior.

     Was this the only solution? What about expanding trade routes? Bountia had subsided for so long off demand delivered to his doorstep. Perhaps building a cargo fleet to deliver goods to new ports? The Lord of the mountains was infamous for being prickly, but not unreasonable.

     Bountia’s prior king, his father, had a decent working rapport with Biertgut in the past, even making use of the mountain passes for trade. Tract flagellated himself once more for another squandered relationship he’d allowed to sour during his reign. He’d been too complacent in accepting the state of affairs he’d inherited. His father left everything so pristine he needed do little else than keep the nobles happy and wait for the collection carts to ferry in the goods each month. And I even screwed that up.

     He strode to his desk and swept the thick sheath of dust off its surface and rummaged through the drawers.

     “Aha!” He laid a yellowing sheaf of parchment beside an inkwell with some coagulated ink, but pulling the quill from the sludge and seeing the lumps drip off the tip stirred some doubt. It had been years since he’d written a letter himself. That was usually handled by… E’greasior. How much of the daily operations of the Kingdom he left to his aide was beyond Tract’s understanding.

     The door to his chamber swung open before he could muse on the matter any further.

     “Excellent work this morning, Majesty! An iron hand sheathed in a velvet glove.” E’greasior was more animated than Tract had ever seen him. His usual pallor, which gave his face the coloring of an aged cheese wheel, was beaming with the shine of a polished copper.

     Tract spun on his heel, crumpling the parchment behind his back.

     “Ah! I see you found Tinybottom’s vintage.” He whipped out a small knife with a deft flick, sliced the wax seal, and with a hearty tip upended the bottle, and poured a lake of crimson to the goblet’s rim. Tract stared at the surging waves glug out. The sour scent wafting across the room had his tongue tingling.

     “E’greasior—”

     “My men uncovered this while investigating the Tinybottom estate under suspicion of lapsed taxes.” E’greasior winked. “The old miser had this sequestered in his private collection. Turns out the stingy bastard was keeping the best stock for himself.”

     “I was contemplating—”

     “What of, Sire? Nothing I can’t handle for you.” He twirled the goblet beneath Tract’s nose, who despite himself, inhaled a whirl of the drink before accepting.

     “Thank you.” He studied his muddled reflection in the drink’s surface. Sad red eyes burrowed into him. “It’s about the wedding.”

     “Naturally! Please, have a taste first. These grapes are too fine to squander.”

     Just a sip to calm his mind. He tipped the rim at his parched lips, and a gush of the stuff splashed into his mouth, coating it with flavors of oak and fruit. He swished it about, savoring the bitter tingle as it subsumed his tongue in rich aromatics. His head swam as the warmth filled his chest. He took another, greedier, gulp.

     E’greasior’s slitted stare lasted but a moment, but his smile was full and genuine as he spoke. “I dare say the wedding preparation should get underway. I’ve already commissioned Bountia’s best cooks to arrive for duty. They’'ll be ready to cook within the week. And there’s a new hand-selected retinue of handmaids for Descia’s chamber. I have instructed them to give me regular updates on any “developments” as we move towards the date.”

     “Developments,” Tract’s echo was hollow as he tried to focus, vision already swimming from the infusion of drink. “Well, that’s what I thought we ought to discuss—yes, thank you.” E’greasior tipped the bottle upright as the wine glugged to just beneath the rim.

     “Let me stop you right there, sire. Understandable for a father to worry over his only child, his daughter at that, to leave his side. But you knew this day would come. Whether you’re a humble herdsman or the King, we all must allow the chicks to tumble from the nest. Trust me when I tell you this is a trial of mind over flesh. Descia is duty-bound as a princess first, and your daughter second. I scant need to remind you of your own words, do I?”

      E’greasior delivered his words with such surety and speed as to knead Tract’s wine-soaked brain with the adroitness of a seasoned baker working the morning dough. “Yes, but wouldn’t it be better for us to, um, consider other options?” His tongue was already fumbling, sliding words into one another in a slur.

     “Your cup, Sire. I have another bottle here.” He topped him off once more. “Of course we can discuss, but you yourself conceived of the brilliance of this wedding. It would be above my station to suggest anything else.”

     “My idea?”

     How exactly had that conversation after the feast gone? Even remembering lunch was a burden for him most days. And he’d been so blasted full of drink and food that night he only recalled the descent into merciful oblivion on his bedside chair.

     “Oh yes, Sire. It was the ingenious machination of an erudite mind. Like a polished pearl, yours is.”

     “… A pearl?” Tract mumbled, struggling to follow the stampede of words.

     E’greasior was reaching for yet a third bottle when an urgent rap on the chamber’s door stayed his hand.

     “What in the blasted Hell?” E’greasior murmured. “Enter!”

     A man hurried in, circumvented Tract wobbling in his seat, and rushed to E’greasior’s side. He whispered something which robbed him of his ruddy coloring.

     “She did what?! When were they last seen?”

     The man shrugged. “We lost sight of them after this evening’s meal, sir.”

     “And you’re sure the doctrine supports such a claim?”

     “Yes, sir. We’ve had our scholars researching the laws since we received word. It’s a legitimate claim.”

     “Find her. Now!”

     Tract struggled to follow the conversation between the two men, having lost the thread of conversation in the flurry of exchanges like a child sitting at the adult’s table.

     The man bowed. “As you will, so it shall be, sir.” He hurried from the room as quick as he arrived.

     E’greasior rubbed the bridge of his nose, then top-ended his own untouched glass as he stewed.

     “What’s happening?”

     “Your daughter, the Princess Descia, and that man-shaped manure pile Faireweather have eloped. It seems the young lordling has usurped Biertgut’s claim on the lady’s hand through an arcane law from Bountia’s founding. I’ll give that sycophantic ass-licker his due. It’s a brilliant play…”

     Tract heard nothing else as E’greasior prattled on. His face was flush as a sun-ripened tomato with the juices flowing to the surface—close to burst. The pleasant swim his mind was taking in the ruby sauce was now dispelled, leaving only a furnace of rage. “She what?! Find her!” Tract flung the goblet against the far wall in a petulant display, but thankfully for the chambermaids, he’d drained the cup long before its flight.

     E’greasior rolled his eyes. “Yes, Majesty. Right away, Majesty. I’ll call for the captain of the guard to take your instruction on how best to handle the matter.”

     “Girl thinks she’s grown? I’ll give’r what she’s asking for.”

     The face Tract made gave E’greasior pause. “Sire?”

     “Bring me the cooks when they arrive. We have a wedding to plan.”

 

[Guest denbu]

Buying a Three-Legged Horse

 

     Descia marched to the banquet hall and flung open the door. The room reverberated full with her furious stomps as she took her seat at the furthest length of table across from her Father. The door slammed shut in a thunderous ‘DUN’ as she smoothed the ruffles in her lap and gave a curt nod to the server, who deposited her customary unsalted egg. Her gaze pinned on her father all the while.

     At the other end of the table, Tract was stirring a bowl of beige porridge, and occasionally scooping a measured spoonful out. He hadn’t even looked up from his meal when she’d stormed in. Him being unaware of her engagement to Julius was impossible. That he thought of the late Faireweather senior as a persistent cowpie under his boot, and even less of Julius, wasn’t a well-guarded secret among the court. That he wasn’t fuming or shouting disquieted her. She came prepared for tears, shouting, thrown plates—the usual, but all he did was stir his damned gruel, like some tired old man.

     His absent vigor somehow made her more upset than any of the rest, even the arranged marriage.

     She cleared her throat as she lifted the small spoon beside her bowl. “I trust that you’ve heard about myself and Lord Faireweather.” She flicked her eyes up from the egg, but if he heard her, he didn’t stir. “Father.”

     “There’s much left to plan, Des,” he spoke more into his bowl than her.

     “What?”

     “Your wedding. Much goes into those affairs. There’ll be fittings, feasts, tastings, more fittings, more tastings.” He shrugged. “Repeated endlessly until the day.”

     She stood. “I’ve told you I’m not marrying Biertgut. My hand belongs to Julius Faireweather! And—”

     “I know, dear, and I’m happy for you both.” His smile stole her steam, and she plopped into her seat like a soggy fish at the market stall.

     “Oh. Well,” she smoothed her lap once more, “I’m glad that we’re on the same page.”

     “You’re a woman now, but that doesn’t mean you’ve grown. Not my little bouncing girl on her first pony anymore. You’re so much like your mother when I met her. A coal in her belly and damned if she was going to let court procedure or royal trappings douse it.” He swirled his untouched goblet, studying its surface for some runic revelations as if it were a crystal ball.

     “Father, I’ll always be your little girl, even if I’m someone else’s woman. I’ll have to begin on the preparations! So much to do.” She sprang from her seat and left the room.

    “My little girl, yes,” he murmured.

     As the door swung shut behind her, she couldn’t escape the creeping unease in her bosom. For someone who’d just gotten all that she wanted, there was a pervasive sense she’d just bought a three-legged horse.

     Just nerves. You’re to be married, after all. She envisioned Faireweather waiting for her at the altar and all doubts faded.

[Guest denbu]

 Get The Ball Rolling

 

     Descia slammed the door of the banquet hall and tottered down the hall toward her room, cradling an overfull stomach with one arm and holding a fist to her mouth to stifle the bubbling surge of acids in her chest. Close at heel was a retinue of various servants, some jockeying among themselves with platters of more food for her to taste. They all clamored for her attention on various wedding matters.

     A seamstress snipped a pair of scissors and swung a measuring tape overhead. “Princess! You’re due for weekly measurements!”

     “Majesty! A moment of your time on which roses for the garden dance!”

     “Your Grace! We must discuss the seating for the next feast!”   

     She tried to pump her legs higher to beat the horde, but her pistoning knees knocked into her distended stomach, juggling it, and that made her even more nauseous.

     This must be what a fox feels with hounds on its tail.

     However, she wasn’t near nimble enough to evade her pursuers, and in actuality, was setting a rather pathetic pace slogging through the halls. Her body propelled itself by momentum, a machine of jiggling, swaying, sweating, and panting. Each step elicited a wince and whimper as the vicious cramp from having just sat through a four hour tasting climbed her calves into the depths of her overworked thighs.

     One serving boy, balancing an entire platter of lamb ribs, struggled to break out from the pack. “Out the way!”

     A younger girl, disadvantaged with ferrying a tiered platter of tarts and puddings floundered at his flank, desperate to reach Descia first, but he was nimble, and not above jabbing an elbow into her side to gain the lead.

     He pushed the platter up to her face as he matched her sluggish pace with ease. “Princess! You must taste the sauce on these.”

     The waft of savory tang buffeting her face made her squelch, but she recognized him, and knew he wouldn’t desist. She ran a finger along the platter’s edge.

     A thick dollop of the amber sauce rolled down her knuckle as she gave it a flick with the tip of her tongue. Her eyes shot wide as her shuffle slowed to a shamble. The rest of her finger slid into her mouth and she sucked like a pacifier. Her body tingled in quiet ecstasy as the flavor spread along her tongue. The boy smirked over his shoulder at his smaller rival.

     “It’s divine,” she moaned. “Give me a piece, boy.”

     He tore a rib from the rack. “Happy to oblige.”

     She snatched it, slid the bone past her lips, and with the slightest suck, the meat detached and dissolved on her tongue in an orchestra of rosemary, plum sauce, and oils.

     “Lady Descia! Lady! Please taste the puddings I have for you,” the girl huffed at her hip, shouldering past and ignoring the boy’s scowl. “There’s almond-cream, apple-orange, rice pudding with cinnamon sprinkles from the East, banana pie, and those pear jellies you been liking from the last few tastings.” The girl hoisted the platter above her head to just under Descia’s chin. The pastel desserts glistened in the light. Bowls of pinks, oranges, and yellows were more seductive than gemstones as they shimmered within her widening eyes.

     “They all look like Heaven.” Her stomach gurgled in anticipation at the display despite also feeling as though it would burst in a colorful spray from weeks of nonstop feasting.

     “Why not try them all?” the girl coaxed as she placed an enormous serving spoon on the tray.

     The bedroom door was in sight now, near enough to touch it with a few quick strides, but the mere thought of running exhausted her even more than she already was from a day of eating. The short walk from the feast alone had her thighs trembling, not to mention how sluggish she’d been feeling of late.

     The others glutting the halls descended into bickering over who would be next. “Just a taste, then I’m retiring to my bed!”

     She wielded the spoon with a flourish, honed from dozens of feasts over the past dozen weeks. She pierced the surface of a yellow tart and scooped out a glob of quivering banana pie. The creamy texture was a wave of sugar through her mouth and down her throat. “Heaven above!” She cupped her cheek and swooned before launching back into the tray with renewed hunger. It was sickening, and yet she couldn’t stop chewing, swallowing, scooping more. Her cheeks bulged as she chewed the amalgam of fruit chunks and bread crusts. In a matter of moments, and with a few quick scoops, the spoon clattered among the emptied bowls.

     “Lady Descia! A fitting, please! I need current numbers or the master tailor will have my fingers!” said the seamstress, swaying the measuring tape like a white flag above the crowd.

     “Com—” Descia belched into her fist. “Come! And be quick. I need a nap.” She dragged her feet to the door as the seamstress shoved through the thronging mass of complaining servants and into Descia’s chamber.

     The neglected majority of the crowd grumbled their discontent as they dispersed, filtering past the lean figure concealed within their center. A second group lingered, huddling among themselves and puffed their chests, bragging who had gotten the Princess to taste the most from their plate.

     “Line up and present,” E’greasior said, pulling out his coin sack.

     The boy with the ribs walked up, his prior confidence replaced with an abashed slouch. Studying the boy and his offering, E’greasior scoffed.

     “Is that all?”

     “She had one, Sir. But I got her to taste the sauce, and she loved it, just like you said. She’d have eaten more if someone didn’t get in my way.” He glowered at his rival.

     “Blame yourself, not your competition.” E’greasior dropped a pinch of copper onto the boy’s tray.

     His face sagged, watching the coins sink into the sauce. “Yessir.” He turned to sulk off.

     “Tarnis!”

     E’greasior flipped another coin his way.

     The boy fumbled the silver mark flicked at him, only just gripping it. Holding it up to his face, the shine of the polished coin eclipsed his eye. “Thank you, Sir!”

     “That’s an incentive to show what you could make. There’ll be other opportunities. Observe what the Lady prefers and make your selections in the kitchen more wisely next time.” Narrow eyes honed in on the boy’s sauce smudged cheeks. “Don’t just pick what you want to taste. And if I catch you skimming again, you’ll be back to catching rats by the tavern!” The boy nodded and hurried off.

     “Next.”

     The small girl approached, holding her tray out with clear pride. “She ate all of’em!”

     “Excellent job, Ellis. Brilliant of you to use the ladle.” He dropped 6 silver pieces into her cupped hands.

     “Next.”

     The line of servers marched onward as he assessed their plates.

[Guest denbu]

 Midway Measurement

 

     Descia leaned against the windowsill, struggling to fit her arms within its frame, despite once being able to dangle her legs through. The sleeves of her gown were taxed to the point that she was having trouble lifting her arms. She pinched the puff on her underarm and winced. Her body ached so terribly after the last ride she hadn’t found the strength, or resolve, to leave her bedroom and sneak to the barn in months.

     “Gods, I’m getting out of condition…”

     The seamstress peeped from her tool-kit. “Come again, Princess?”

     “Nothing.” She squeezed back into the window and sighed with longing as a warm breeze lured her to the fields below. “These preparations have kept me so busy I haven’t seen Julius since the proposal. Or the stables. Mayhap I should ride to his estate today?”

     The seamstress wrung the measuring tape as her eyes flitted from the princess’ broad hips to the chamber’s door. She angled herself between Descia and the door, corralling her with the tape held wide.

     “There’s much to be done, M’lady. We need to maintain an updated measurement as the day closes in. And didn’t Master—Lord E’greasior say during the rehearsal there were details to discuss?”

     Descia grunted as she plied herself from the window. “Ugh. The man’s an anchor round my ankles. Let’s get these numbers done with. I’ll still have time to slip out if you’re quick.”

     “As you wish. Please disrobe.” The seamstress gathered a length of tape and stretched it across her wingspan in preparation.

     Descia fumbled with the corset, fingering the bloat at her middle. “Is that really necessary? Surely you can get some accurate numbers without all the effort?” The prospect of exposure set her heart hammering near as much as the walk to her room from the feasting hall. She leered the working physique of the seamstress. The woman was ignorant how her wiry arms and firm waistline taunted Descia.

     “It certainly is! With your gown on we won’t see your accurate figure.”

     A droplet of perspiration rolled down her back. “Very well. I’ll need to get dressed for my ride anyway.”

     She pulled the cords laced at her back, and the release of pressure was immediate where the tension was highest. Her stomach, still firm from the feasting, expanded to its full width as she yanked the vice away. She cradled the dome in the crook of her arm, sighing as the pull on her back lessened.

     Before she could even beckon her, the seamstress was inspecting her.

     She ran a hand along Descia's flank in an effort to smooth it. “Turn for me.” She pulled the tape across her back, tutting and muttering.

      “It’s beyond me why we do so many of these,” Descia said, as the seamstress bobbed in and out of sight. “My figure won’t have changed very much since the last week.”

     “Just precautions, Princess. You’re a woman, and I’ve seen many ladies of the court,” she cleared her throat, “mature, as their weddings approach.” She pinched the underhang of Descia’s arm and shook it, watching the wobble and nodding along.

     “Hey!” Descia rubbed the reddening pinch marks.

     “… Very nice. Excellent development from last month.” The seamstress muttered, squinted, poked, and scribbled notes. She pulled the tape around Descia’s bust until it looped. Brows furrowed as she read the number she wrapped once more and adjusted the ends a few times. She flashed Descia a tight smile, shaking her head.

     She clamped her hand  over the modest mounds, blushing. “I’ve yet to grow into my figure fully. Mother had a bounteous chest. I’ll be fine…”

     The seamstress tutted as she scratched out the measurements. She roved down and around swell of Descia’s hips before loosening the width of the tape and cinched it across the belly button.

     The snap forced a belch faster than Descia could muffle it. “Oof! Careful! I’m still full from the meal. Wouldn’t it be best for me to do this after riding? I’m sure to sweat a bit of this out,” she pressed on her potbelly, “after a few days.”

     The woman’s scrabbling hastened as she leaned close enough to Descia’s stomach for her breath to tickle.

     “Not to worry, Princess. It’s best to do it now.”

     “And why is that?”

     “Ah, hmm. Well obviously it’s easier to take away than add material. It’s customary to upsize gowns to be tailored in closer to the day. What if you and Lord Faireweather were to conceive an heir before the ceremony?”

     Descia blushed. “That would never happen! He’s a gentleman.” Her wistful smile implied the possibility was not farfetched.

     “It’s happened more often than you’d think. And we all see the truth of it. You’ve got the man smitten. The sewing room gets plenty of requests to make accommodations for “unplanned guests” before a wedding. We’re experts at adjusting gowns to conceal ‘problematic’ areas. Were you too young to attend Lady Tinybottom’s ceremony? Let’s say she didn’t live up to the name when she walked the aisle.”

     Descia cackled. “Do tell! I’ve heard stories she needed two chairs at the altar.”

     The women chatted about court gossip as the seamstress worked. As Descia got dressed, the seamstress creeped to the door, dropped a folded note to the floor, and slid it beneath her heel to the door’s edge. A tiny hand crawled under and plucked it. On it were three numbers and one word.

     28-27-41

     Horse.

[scl04]

I'll be looking forward for more!

[Guest denbu]

My Waistline For A Horse

 

     After the seamstress packed her tools and left, Descia scrambled under her bed and crawled toward the bundle of clothes hidden at the far ends.

     “Oof!”

     Her butt caught against the top lip of the frame, waylaying her crawl.

     “Come!” She pushed. “On!” She shoved herself in, feeling the wood scrape over her cheeks. With the tip of a finger she hooked the bundle, and dragged it closer. She wiggled her hips and flailed her legs, trying to pry herself loose, but she was wedged tight.

     This damned child’s bed.

     She eventually got her riding clothes and herself out into the hall.

     The crowd stalking after her filled the halls with the intoxicating scent of meats and sweets. If their goal was to lure her from hiding, knowing how her mouth watered and knees buckled would redouble their resolve.

     “Princess?”

     “Lady Descia!”

     “Princess Deeescia! I have a new herb crusted lamb for you to taste!”

     Slippered feet swished against the carpets as she trundled down the hall before heaving herself around a corner and squishing against the wall. She poured sweat into her dress, making of it a damp rag plastered to her back. Her chest hitched as she gulped ragged breaths with the same insatiable greed during the desert portion of banquet tastings. Once the voices, and smells, closed in, she forced her mouth shut and inhaled shallow breaths, ignoring the burning in her chest.

     A snarling voice hushed the crowd. “Where is she, you pack of donkeys?”

     “We lost her, master.”

     “One job. A single task. Keep track of her, find her, feed her. How hard is that!”

     “… That’s three jobs, sir.”

     The sudden smash of silverware on the stone floor lodged a breath in her throat like a sidelong bone.

     “Find. Her.”

     “Yessirr. Sorry, sir.”

     Hand clamped over mouth, she peered round the corner as the horde of cooks, servants, and servers stampeded down the hall. Their eyes darted like hounds overcome with bloodlust as they pulled back curtains and peered into rooms. Some even pulled at the rugs, as if she could hide among the fibers. They clambered over each other and surged down the halls. A many-limbed hundred-eyed thing prowling for her, worse than any monster from her childhood fairy tales.

     Once the mob’s steps receded into a further section of the castle, she plied herself from the crevice with a pop. Hands sinking into her hips, she crumpled into herself and risked a handful of heaving breaths. Down the hall she saw the splattered platter and an upturned tray, but no signs of anyone else.

     Since the preparations began, the servants had become unrelenting. They were always plying her with food and pestering her with questions. But worst of all was E’greasior’s incessant presence at every feast. Whatever obsession with her wedding he harbored eluded her, and yet there was no doubt he was stirring more than a few ladles in the stewpot that was her wedding. He thought himself subtle, but she saw the servants reporting to him.

     She gave herself a scolding pat on a plush cheek. When you’re not too busy eating.

     She rubbed her bloated stomach, frowning at the semi-permanent sphere it was becoming. So many of her days were now consumed with consuming. The marriage should have been her choice, not her Father’s or E’greasior’s. So why did an opportunity to do something for herself make her feel so out of control?

     She shook her head to clear her mind of the swimming vision of E’greasior’s cackling face and the creep of insecurities. She needed to get out of the castle and feel the wind on her cheeks, to ride and feel like she was steering her own course. Even if just for a day. As the wedding encroached, it became clearer that having a moment to herself in the confines of the castle was becoming impossible.

     She patted her forehead with the back of her arm, grimacing how it came back sopped with sweat like a farmhand. Her knees ached, her feet were numb, and the less she thought of the way her body jiggled now the better. It all made her cringe with disgust.

     Why not head back to your room and get the kitchen to send up another few of those chicken pies and take a nap? It was already an exhausting day. The stables can wait another day.

     Down the hall her chamber door hung open in invitation. The temptation swelling once she noticed the corner of her bed waiting for her to throw herself upon its surface and nap. She considered succumbing to the seduction of taking a day to relax.

     No! I won’t let myself be a layabout. I’ll be a fat barn cat soon enough.

     She sidled along the wall and ducked through a servant’s door. The castle had many side passages the staff used to keep out of sight, but she knew them well from days playing hide-and-seek with Father. She hurried to the stables with her riding clothes bundled in a sack under her arm.

     The intermingling sweetness of fresh hay and the sharp, but not unpleasant, animal smells were ambrosia to her. It was a reprieve from the cloying of fry oils and sugar.

     The horses greeted her with nickers and stamping hooves as she passed. She held out a hand to each, allowing them to nibble and sniff as they pleased. The corner of her eyes stung as hot tears squirted. Being separated had done more to her than she could have realized. This was where she belonged. The barn was a gateway. It was freedom and exploration. It was life itself.

     “I’ve missed all of you terribly.”

     She stopped at her favorite mare, Spiritus, stroking her neck as she unlatched the gate. “Let’s ride, girl.” Spiritus trotted out, rocking her head about in excitement. She giggled as the horse nudged her. “Just a moment. Let me get dressed.”

     She unknotted her bundle and pulled out a pilfered pair of men’s riding pants. Father disapproved of a lady wearing pants, but she found it so much easier to ride with them than her layered skirts.

     As she grew older, she understood her status as a “lady” was an imposition on things she couldn’t do, or that weren’t appropriate. And with the wedding encroaching, “lady” became a command of what she should do, which meant days filled with inane decisions and cooing attendants feeding her sick. Once the suggestion she could be, would be, a “proper lady” of the court was something she prided herself on. Now the word rankled her, made her flinch when uttered, because she knew its truth: a collar, not a pedestal.

     She wriggled her legs into the pants but was stumped when meeting the resistance of her thighs and bottom. Rings of excess pooled over the sides as she shimmied the waistband up in increments of inches, but the progress was tedious and taxing. That her body had begun to behave and move in strange ways was still something she was unaccustomed to, but the breeze cooling the perspiration on her bare ass as it swayed and shifted of its own accord shocked her with a terrifying lurch in her stomach. A stomach that blended into a stack of bunched rolls as she bent over. Her tongue lolled at the corner of her mouth as she whipped her damp hair off her face. She struggled to lift a sore quivering arm to wipe her sweat, and so she allowed the sweat to pour and pelt the ground with dewlets.

     “There’s, ungh, no way I can’t,” she grunted, pulling as her arms sore quivers became muscle-deep quakes of protest, “get these up!”

      The intrusion of her body on her desires wasn’t something she recognized. Or would accept. In a final feral snarl, she forced the pants up to her hips, accompanied by the sound of a dozen stitches popping and tearing to accommodate the girth she was forcing into them. “There,” she gasped, swaying with nausea from the effort, “easy as pie.” Her stomach gurgled at the mention. “Just to get the rest in.” She reached around herself and pushed on wide cheeks, forcing them into the seat of the pants.

     After a few tries she gave up. Not in defeat! But it was getting dark, and she wanted to ride before then.

     She waddled stiff-legged over to Spiritus, incapable of bending her knees, and threw a saddle over her back. After securing the straps she gripped the horn and hooked her foot into the stirrup. She made a few test hops to get a feel, but all things worked against her. Her weight, her exhaustion, the pants, her siphoned strength and stamina, all things pointed to there being no hope of making the last step herself.

     Even Spiritus understood the pitiful state of her rider, and in a merciful display, lowered herself in a kneel.

     “Oh bless you, girl,” Descia hoisted herself over the saddle like a sack of grain and groaned as the horse lead them on. “I’m a touch out of practice.”

     Spiritus rolled her eyes as she trotted them to the trails.

[Guest denbu]

Beware Strangers Bearing Gifts

 

     The intruder stooped in her doorway, a misshapen shadow stretched into the suggestion of a man.

     “My, my,” E’greasior said, “Is there no room for gratitude in your chest, Princess? I come bearing a gift.” He tapped an overlong nail against the ornate box on her bedside. “I know you think me a villain…” He paused. She didn’t interrupt to correct him. “… Charming. Regardless, I know how much you love to ride your little ponies about,” he flickered his hand, “and so I thought I’d give you an early wedding gift.”

     Eyes never wavering from his own, she dragged the box across the bed, ensuring its width bisected the space between them. She felt safer that way. As should he. I’d leap across it if I weren’t so full. She pulled off the bow, ripped through the lace, and tossed the handwritten note to the floor. The way his jaw clenched gave her a small thrill, but once she lifted the outfit she regretted her malice.

     “Heaven above!” She pressed a finger to her smiling lips as she unfurled the new riding outfit. “It’s immaculate.” She held the jacket to her chest, thumbing the embroidered house crest on the breast. “This is Bountia’s, but I don’t recognize this one here?” She turned the jacket toward him, pointing to the crest on the opposite side.

     “No, it figures you wouldn’t. That’s the seal of your mother’s clan. There're no records of it held within the castle, but she was a master rider, as I’m sure you are. Certainly where you got your sense of ambition from. I heard you could use a new outfit. Something more properly sized.”

     Had she misjudged him all this time? The research he’d done for the gift was self-evident. It dwarfed all others she’d received. Better than the court gowns her Father gave every year.

     She shook the tears from her eyes. “I don’t understand. Sir, I am beyond humbled by this gesture. I’ve been so cruel to you these past weeks, but I understand your firmness now. You love Bountia.”

     “I live for Bountia, Princess. My hope is this gesture may be the first twig in constructing a bridge between us. To that effect, I’ve wiped your schedule for preparation and planning duties.” He wagged a boney finger, “For today only, mind you. Leave the tedium to me and enjoy a ride. Be sure to tell me all about it when you get back.” He showed his teeth in what she assumed was his effort at a smile.

     His awkward efforts evoked a nervous smile from her. The poor man’s face was ill made for expressions of joy. Nonetheless, his gift stirred her heart. She tottered across the room towards him, making him flinch as she approached, and recoiled when she embraced him in a hug. He was rod thin beneath his robes, and jagged as a skeleton.

     “Oh, thank you so much, E’greasior. This is the kindness I’ve needed during these strenuous days.”

     “Yes. Quite.” He slapped her back with two stiff pats, as much to share the moment as to beat her off. “I’ll leave you to it, Princess. Please enjoy.” His cackles rang down the hall as he left.

     She laid the clothes on her bed and disrobed. She rubbed her side where a red welt was forming. Did he pinch me?

     “A generous gesture from a strange stranger. Sounds like one of those omens the soothsayers give.” She giggled, trying not to over-think it. The rider’s outfit was perfect, with form-fitting breeches, but with enough given slack to allow her to lean and shift as needed, and the jacket fit her arms with none of the pinch of her old one. It must have been a boy’s fit. They don’t make these for ladies after all. Until now. She held the jacket to her chest and did a little dance.

     She strutted through the halls on her way to the stables, unmolested by the horde for the first time in months. So enthralled with the day off, she didn’t once question how her father’s aide knew she desperately needed a new riding outfit, or her exact measurements.

***

     The overcast sky shrouded the stables that morning. As she climbed the hill leading to the barn, she could see a small group gathered. Some leaned against their neighbors, incapable of standing unaided, and one man kneeled, head between his knees, his body trembling as quiet sobs rocked him.

     She waved to them, calling out, “What’s happened?” None turned at the sound of her voice. She quickened her pace and trudged up the muddy hill, unconcerned about the way the mud mucked her boots and splattered her new cream pants. An icy hand crept into her chest and gripped her heart. “What’s wrong?”

     The grizzled, stable master spat. “Ye’dun wanna go in there, Princess. There’s been an accident. It’s… too much for a lady to witness.”

     Without thinking, she ran toward the barn, but was hooked round the waist by the stable master and swung off her feet. Her voice soared in a hysterical lilt. “What’s going on? Where’s Spiritus?”

     But his arms were iron bands constraining her, but his voice was that of a shattered man. “The support pillar rotted. The roof’s collapsed. None,” he took a ragged breath, “None of’em made it. A few got hobbled. There’s naught but the sword’s mercy for those. It’s ghastly. Too much for a lady to see.”

     She thrashed against him, a snared rabbit squirming and kicking for its life. The cords in her neck leapt to the surface as she howled. “No! That’s a lie! You’re wrong. Spiritus! Come, girl!”

     And as if the sound of her voice were force enough, the roof of the barn twisted and buckled, causing it to squeal and shriek as though aware of its own imminent death.

     “Look! Someone’s still in there,” said a stable hand, pointing to the entrance.

     A boy was squeezing through the debris, caught under a beam. The stable master gripped Descia even tighter, for her safety and his own grief. “Get out! Hurry, boy!”

     The boy’s arms scrabbled in the dirt for purchase, his nails raking lines as he tried to drag his body out even an inch. Suddenly, the barn gave a final wailing shriek and collapsed into itself. Beams tumbled and planks exploded in a spray of splinters. “Tarnis!” The stable master threw Descia back as he ran into the wreckage.

     She sobbed at the destruction, but she wailed for herself.

[Guest denbu]

Chapter 12: Depressed Descia Devours

 

     Tract didn’t bother to knock before entering Descia’s chambers, knowing well enough not to expect any reply. He pushed through the door with his shoulder, the clatter of collapsing pillars of dishes and trays announced his arrival well enough. He scanned the floor as he waded in, seeking, and failing, to locate any central footpath leading from the door to the bed. The clutter expanded more with each visit, like lichen creeping across a forest floor.

     He took a wide step over a spot which last he saw was a sauce stain, now dry and crusted over, and despite his caution stepped into an empty tray, flipping it over onto his boot, while his other foot kicked one hill of shredded gowns and crumpled skirts.

     Her room was reminiscent of his own after Clara’s death. The graveyard of a mourner drowning their grief under food and drink.

     “Des?” He called in the direction he assumed was her bed, but the gloom filling the room was disorienting, almost preternatural, made his navigation further in a legitimate danger to a man of his age and drunkenness. “It’s like a bear’s den,” he muttered, struggling to kick his way to the cave’s heart. “Descia! You awake?” Something huge twisted in the shadows. Realizing he was heading in the wrong direction, he changed course, and trekked toward the mass. “Des, I’m worried about you.” He wobbled on one leg, and tested the footing by poking a mysterious pile with the other. “It’s been…” he trailed off, struggling to recall the date or when he last saw her, unsure to either point. “It’s been a while, darling. I haven’t seen you out. I’ll forget what you look like at this rate.”

     A guttural snort made him jump, dislodging memories of a bad boar hunt from his youth. His gut forewarned him of danger, but he dismissed it as drunken foolishness. It’s not a beast, she’s your daughter. Get hold of yourself, man. But his brow was slick and his palms tingled with nerves the way they had on his first hunt. Was it wise to stir her? She needed to heal in her way. Maybe he should just leave her to it and relax with a drink…

     A muffled voice came from under the layers of sheets and quilts. “What’s there to eat?” it demanded.

     It was the first time she’d acknowledged him since the accident. Perhaps he hadn’t visited as often as he should have in that intervening time, but E’greasior gave him regular updates. Said she was doing well. He looked around the room and frowned. Maybe not as good as I was hearing.

     “You, ah, hungry still? The maids have an entire system going. You should see them, it’s the damndest thing.” He chuckled, but even to his own ears, it was mirthless. “They, uh,” he kept up his steady progress toward the bedpost, reaching toward it for support like a vine in the swamp, “have a chain of them going all the way from your room to the South wing where the larder is. You know, for buttered bread loaves? Stuff that doesn’t need any cooking.” He kept his voice low and even, as if he were approaching an unpredictable dog, or a skittish horse. “Then there’s another line of them that goes to the kitchen. Some of them go in, some come out. They’re all carrying food and platters. You got your old dad’s appetite, that’s for sure.” He thumped his belly to lighten the mood, but something about the gesture ratcheted the tension such that he could feel it ** as he was. “Des? Just a little joke. Heh.”

     “… Nevermind. M’not hungry anymore.”

     “Oh no, no. Darling! What do you want? I’ll have it in here before you’re out of bed. How about you come down to table? I’d love to see your face. Anything you want, I’ll have it out for you.” He pleaded to her, or his best estimate of where she was in the blanket cocoon. “You build a pillow fort under there? Just like when you were a little girl.” He smiled in the darkness, reminiscing. “You’d get so worked up over something and run in here to make a little castle under the covers.” Reaching the edge of her bed, he leaned in and placed his hand on the covers, but she jerked her leg back. “Des, I know you’re hurting. And I also know that’s worth less than a bucket of piss when someone says they understand, but believe me, I’ve lived it.”

     The bed screeched in protest as the lump rolled about.

     “I just don’t have any energy left,” she said. “I’m so tired. There’s nothing worth getting out for anymore.”

     “But you can’t just lock yourself up in here for the rest of your life, Des. You’re young, you’re beautiful. Eating and drinking is no substitute for Sun.” His nose twitched. “And fresh air. What of Faireweather?” He knew he was desperate to use that rake’s name, but anything to help his girl. “He’s worried about you. There’s a stack of letters wide as a baker’s loave he’s written. Have you written him once since… you know?”

     The hill of covers rolled again, forcing him to brace himself against the bedposts as the bed bobbed and rocked.

     “I don’t want to see anyone right now. I’ve no taste for it.”

     “But you do for those fried pork ribs, eh?” He nudged a spongy lump in the middle of the bed. These goose feather pillows are soft as a cloud! I’m starting to see the appeal of the East. “I can have an entire rack down for you. Just please let your handmaids come in and pick up. You come down, they come in, and we take it day-by-day. How’s that sound, Love?”

     “… Alright. But no one else, just you, ok? I’m not presentable.”

     His heart swelled with the concession. “Anything you want, my pearl! I’ll head down and wait for you.” He made his way back to the door, stepping around the plates and trays. He stopped at the edge of the door, “I love you, Des. Your happiness is what I live for.”

     “Father?”

     “Yes, my moon?”

     “Do you have paper on you? First serving I want…”

     He emerged into the hall with a sheaf of papers under his arms and leaned against the door to catch his breath.

     “How did it go, Sire?” E’greasior asked, leaning past to peer into the room. Tract thumped the stack of papers into E’greasior’s arms.

     “Well, she’s hungry.” Tract wiped his brow from the expedition. “But she said she’ll come down. That’s a victory for me. She needs to get out. S’not healthy living like that.” He mopped his dripping face. “God, I need a drink.”

     E’greasior snapped, and a server scurried over with a glass and carafe.

     “Blessings,” Tract said and downed the cup. “Another important matter. She doesn’t want to be seen, says she’s not presentable.”

     “I could surmise from the smell,” E’greasior murmured. “That’s understandable. The Princess is despondent. Of course we’ll respect that. But what of Faireweather? He’s been hounding us for a visit. By all claims he may see his bride.”

     Tract waved his hand. “No, no. The little weasel can wait until she’s ready. I don’t want to send her deeper into the hole. And Lord knows the kitchen staff deserves to see their families. They’ve been going night and day for too long. We’ll have to start paying them to complete the preparations for the wedding at this rate.”

     “You know her best, Majesty. It would be tragic to worsen the Princess’ condition. Why don’t you retire to your quarters? I’ll send for you once we complete the preparations for her meal.”

     “Bless your diligence. I could stand to put my feet up.”

     E’greasior bowed as Tract slumped against the wall and stumbled away. Once the King was out of sight he snapped again. A serving girl appeared at his side. “Tell Tarnis to bring a bottle of Tinybottom vintage to the King’s quarters. No need to distress him with further aggravation.” He scowled at the girl’s contorted face. “What? Don’t dally, girl. I’ve no time for games.”

     “It’s just,” she looked down, “Tarnis, he’s gone, Sir. He…”

     “Hm? Yes, the barn. An unfortunate sacrifice. Find someone else to get the bottle. Here. Bring these to the kitchen.” He shoved the stack into her arms. “And give this to the cook,” he tossed her a fat jingling sack, “he’ll be working overtime soon enough. Afterwards, send the falconer to my chambers immediately. I have a letter to write.”

[Guest denbu]

A Queen-Sized Seat

 

     E’greasior stalked the length of the banquet table, inspecting every element. The spread covered the entire surface of the table, yet only a single seat was set with utensils. Servers lined the walls at rigid attention, a battalion of soldiers awaiting command. He halted at the head of the table, stomped once, and faced his troops.

     “Positions!”

     At his command, the ranks of servers and servants took a synchronized step forward, their collective stomp a resounding thunderclap in the banquet hall. Each reached toward the table and gripped the multitude of cloches upon the platters and plates. With a slice of his hand they lifted the covers, releasing billowing pillars of steam which ascended into a pooling nimbus of delectable scents. The room filled with a haze, fogging the windows from the cornucopia of flavor.

     Glistening honeyed yams and sauce-encrusted hams, slabs of charred steaks piled into a hill seeped blood, carafes of wine and berry juices refracted the light from the windows in a kaleidoscope of prismatic colors, mountains of mashed potatoes overflowed with gravy rivers, ziggurats of tarts, pies, cakes, and jellies with suspended fruit chunks covered the other half of the table. The feast stretched into the distance, dwarfing any past harvest gathering.

     E’greasior leaned forward to inspect each dish, nodding as he went. “Excellent work all. My compliments to the chefs for this spread. I know how difficult it has been for each of you, don’t think I haven’t noticed your individual sacrifices. Each one of of you is invaluable to Bountia.” He paused before each server, laying a gentle touch on an arm, or patting a shoulder, and meeting each of their eyes. They beamed with pride, but the exhaustion was clear on their faces.

    “What’s the occasion, Master E’greasior? The harvest bounty isn’t for weeks,” asked a server.

     “This is for a very special guest,” E’greasior said. “A Queen and her retinue. A diplomatic visit.”

     A wave of excited gossip erupted among them.

     “How spectacular,” cried another server. “The King hasn’t entertained a guest in years.”

     “Do you think he’s courting a Queen?”

     “Nonsense! None could replace Lady Clara.”

     He clapped his hands and they fell silent. “Enough speculating, you lot. Take the rest of the day off. You’re all expected to report back at the usual time tomorrow.”

     He paused at the head of the table as they filed out. He studied the wooden seat tapping his chin. “This won’t do most likely.” He removed the seat and dragged over a wooden bench in its place. “And the last touch,” he snickered as he placed an egg cup with a hard-boiled egg and delicate spoon. He watched the banquet door swing open with glee. “The cow’s come home.”

***

Arrival

 

     The hall was silent as a tomb with only a single pair of candles flanking the feasting hall doors were lit at the far end. A far cry from the usual bustle of servants scurrying about.

     Only the rasp of her bare feet on the stone floor and bellowing breaths disrupted the hush. She stumbled, blinded by the sting of sweat in her eyes, guided only by the encouraging smells lingering from further on. The allure of what awaited pushed her harder than she had in months.

     With a bulging fist she clutched the makeshift bedsheet toga enshrouding her bulk. The swathes of fabric not clinging in damp sweat patches vacuumed into errant crevices and overlapping rolls along her body. The rest pooled into folds of excess above her waist just before it tapered into the explosion of her celestial hips and legs. The seams across her backside stretched and screamed, threatening to shred as each cheek undulated with rolling waves.

     Each step was a trial as her knees and lower back blazed with fire as if imps prodded her with flaming tridents. Her legs were sculpted pillars of lard, islands grating with friction as she forced them to slid past the other. The only respite from chaffing was the natural lubricant her outpouring of sweat provided. Her shape forced her to lean forward in order to counterbalance the momentum of her wobbling rear, otherwise she would have been pulled back, collapsed and capsized from the strain. Bands of atrophied muscles clenched in agonizing cramps, and the terror of them snapping spurred her past exhaustion like a whipped ox plowing the fields. Each clomp radiated bolts of agony from overburdened knee and hip joints that seized her breath. They creaked and crunched, pulverized into a paste from the pressure she exerted upon them.

     Forced from the asylum of her room with the enticing trappings of a reinforced bed, beckoning to her even now, the degradation was overwhelming. The reality of her deterioration, foisted upon her by a brisk walk, was an ice bucket dumped on her sleeping head. Denial and ignorance were privileges now deprived. She couldn’t comprehend the perversion of her body until coaxed by the chins to leave her room and waddle for a meal, like how one never grasped how ** they’d gotten until they stood and fell face-forward into a pile of their own mess.

     If only she could wake up tomorrow hungover, regretting one night’s poor decision instead of months of lurid living. The state of her body was nightmare on loop, a carousel of horrors spinning out of hand. Imprisoned within herself, she refused to accept that this was her true self, rather than a deformed cage holding her spirit. The woman she once was, the vibrant, elegant princess with dreams of shirking duties to the crown and exploring the world, Descia herself splintered that self off, banished to languid existence only in the recesses of her own mind.

     She plopped her arm against the iron-studded door, repulsed to see it sag along the wall well below where she placed it, and tried to steady her heart. It slammed against her chest so hard she could count the beats in her ears, and with such vicious thuds as though it meant to burst forth and live a more fulfilled life on the floor rather than trapped in a clogged cage.

     She leaned against the doors and lumbered through.

     The scent was a trampling stampede of decadence and temptation. Her nape tingled as a current coursed through her, making her hair stood on end, and her fingers curl in reflex as her mouth overflowed with mindless seduction.

     She would be concerned about exercise tomorrow.

     Today she was hungry.

[Guest denbu]

Rejection

 

     The door swung behind her, bounced once off her jutting cheeks, and slammed shut as she waddled with renewed vigor toward the table. In a rare moment of self-restraint, only her roving eyes devoured the spread. For the time being.

     “The cow’s come home.”

     Eyes darted to the voice as her face rippled with rage and shock. “Who’s here? I demanded to be left alone for this meal!” She grunted and raised a thick thigh before plopping her foot down in a petulant quiver more pitiful than intimidating. Her hips were still seesawing as the intruder stepped into the light to be identified.

     She snarled, gripping her bedsheet-gown tighter to her chest. “E’greasior.”

     He smiled, bowing. “Princess.”

     “Make yourself scarce, fool.” Chins creased as she swiveled her head on the tube of flesh her neck had swollen into. “Where’s Father?”

     His eyes roamed the expanse of her body the way a wolf saw a stray calf. “The King is indisposed with more important matters.”

     She sunk a dough-ball fist the ridge of flank and rolled her eyes. “How enticing could the same Tinybottom vintage taste?”

     “I’d imagine as tantalizing as the same thousand egg-tarts you’ve eaten this month.”

     “Keep your mouth shut, I just saw a fly escape. My appetite is waning just looking at you.” She lumbered toward the head of the table, ignoring how his gaze tracked her.

     “You losing appetite? You'd have to lose weight before that. We’d sooner see the return of Giants, although I may have found the last one.” His cackle bounced around the room, raining upon her from each side in a cruel chorus. “Is that gown a new trend, Princess? I never pegged you for such a fashionista.”

     She opened her mouth for a retort, but all she could issue forth was a wheeze, and so she followed momentum and hunger toward her seat. Spent beyond exhaustion, she knew her legs couldn’t carry her back to the sanctity of her room without resting. Besides, she’d already made the trip, and damned if she let this bastard stop her from getting what she came for. Collapsing onto the creaking bench, she sighed in relief as her hips creeped along the surface until they rolled over the edges.

     He bowed until his leer nearly rested on her shoulder. “How may I serve you this evening, my Lady?”

     I’d lay him out if it were worth it. She squished her bicep and considered how well it’d go. “Am I so alluring that even a eunuch gapes like a bitch in heat? You can best serve the kingdom by tumbling off the South tower. I’ll listen for the thud as I enjoy my pudding.”

     “Eunuch?” He snapped rod straight. “Pardon my eyes, Princess. Your face is so full and aglow. My curiosity lead me to wonder which it was: heavy with child or roast duck. How else could a lady explain such prodigious developments? Ah, pardon, but I realize my mistake once more, that’s merely drool and sweat.”

     The table rattled, and her arm jiggled from the slam. “What do you want?”

     “No need to become perturbed, Princess. It’s not good for the heart.” He tapped the hollow recesses of his own. “I’m here to serve, as you can see,” he flourished his arm across the table, “I’ve orchestrated a feast of your favorites this evening at great expense. All of them. I can retrieve whatever you’d like so you can invest full attention on what you’re best at. Besides, I don’t think you’re in much condition to be walking, let alone fetching.”

     “I’ll be fine. You’re not needed.”

     “Ah, but what about when your guest arrives? Won’t you be too preoccupied discussing details of your ceremony to serve yourself?”

     Guest? The anxiety did not creep. It pounced. Her heart was thumping. She couldn’t get enough breath in her chest.

     “Who? I told my Father I wanted to be alone. I don’t want to see anyone. No. No.” She gripped the sides of the seat and pushed with trembling arms, but the walk spent her, made her helpless. More than usual. She made the trip, assuming she wouldn’t need her legs again for a few hours at least. Her eyes darted to the Hall’s doors, to E’greasior’s smirk, and down to her own fat lap and dimpled knees.

     For anyone to see her like this. To see her at all. It was unbearable. What would they say? The rumors they’d spread about how “Bountia’s Jewel” went to seed and bloomed into a whole tree. What if it was one of the court women? How they’d sneer and giggle behind their Eastern fans. And where had she gone and seen this past year? Just the inside of her bedroom with the vista of the same far wall. No one would even recognize her anymore. She was once the best female rider in the kingdom. Better than any of the men, even! She’d compete with… Spiritus.

     She winced as the memories reeled across her mind. Saw the barn collapsing once again, the beams tumbling, heard the whinnies and clarion squeals of those trapped inside being crushed, and the boy Tarnis lost in the rubble. How his mouth moved to form a word his lungs couldn’t provide the breath for, and then his sudden vanishing beneath the rubble. His face loomed in the dark behind her, imprinted on lids each night before sleep, and in some dreams she believed she heard his last words.

     “Princess?” His hand sunk into her shoulder, wobbling her, and she was yanked from the field and that barn, transported back into the dining hall. “Calm yourself! A poor jest, even by my standards. Here, start with the first dish.” He slid the egg toward her.

     The smell of the food roused her. Salvation and damnation on a plate. Her breath hitched in her chest, ragged and erratic as she leaned on the table for support.

     “Food. Yes. Something to eat and calm the nerves.” She reached for the spoon and cracked the shell with precise, delicate taps out of habit before even realizing. The egg was diminutive. Not even an island on the ocean of food spread before her. Was this what I used to eat? She gaped at the table, then the egg. She dropped the spoon beside the cup. Her hands were still nimble and worked of their own accord as she picked up the egg and de-shelled it, studying the pristine pearl. Swiveled it between fingers nearly as thick as the egg itself, eyes filled with fascination. This is who I used to be. Austere. Graceful. Beautiful. She scowled. Sheltered. Protected. Unhatched. The anger was upon her again. The blistering resentment at herself, at her station, at her father. At her body. Her fate.

     He cleared his throat. “You eat it. You understand that well enough, I’m sure.”

     She shoved it into her mouth whole, obliterating it with two bites and a gulp. No longer. I’m different now. More and less than I was. She pivoted toward him. He took a step back. The pallor of his face drained to that of curdled milk. “If you ever serve me an egg again, I assure you will beg for death.”

     “Y-yes, Descia.” She glowered. “Princess.”

     “Better. Go fill a platter for me. I require distraction.”

     She watched him scurry as a faint smile settled in anticipation of his delivery.

     They settled into a rhythm like that for a period. Descia devouring and E’greasior ferrying whatever combination of fare she pointed to with the tip of her spoon. Time passed, measured in plates cleared and the graveyard of stripped bones discarded at her side. As the surrounding detritus accumulated, she slowed as some semblance of satiation settled within her stomach. She leaned back on her own cushioning, descending into the familiar torpid haze as the blood rushed from her overactive mind to the more essential task of metabolizing the avalanche of calories her belly hoarded. She glanced at a window. Her eyes closed with a lethargic blink as she processed.

     “It’s dark now,” she said in a haze, resting her hands on her lap, feeling safe and insulated within her girth. The bliss of post-meal was the only time she tolerated her size.

     E’greasior leaned on his knees, gasping. “It’s been so for some time now.”

     The creak of the Hall’s door interrupted their odd, yet halcyon moment.

     “I have arrived! Hell-looo, Bountia!” Boisterous laughter echoed. A tall, broad chested man strutted in, dragged his finger along the feast’s remnants on the table and whistled. “Is it Harvest season so soon? Looks like I missed a grand showing. Where’s the old wine-sack, eh, Greasy-ore? Did the King leave any kegs for the rest of us?”

     The arrival rejuvenated E’greasior. “Ah, Lord Faireweather. How fortunate to be graced by your arrival. Was my falcon waylaid, Sir? You’re only a half-dozen hours late by my estimation.” E’greasior’s slitted eyes swiveled to observe Descia, reveling as the realization dawned and she struggled to stand. “Oh, no need to hurry off, Princess. Relax and I’ll get you pair a plate of what will be available for your ceremony.”

     Concealed within the pleasant haze she sensed the panther of anxiety prowling once more. “But you said, it was a jape?”

     He slunk off to the kitchen through a side door, cackling all the while.

     Faireweather took a seat down the table from her and kicked up his feet, not even deigning to look in her direction.

     She was faint. Was this a plot to further humiliate her? Tears brimmed, stung her eyes as she looked upon the face of her husband-to-be. Tall and strong, straight and lean as a broadsword. Unchanged. Perfect in perpetuity. She should run. Say nothing, don’t meet his eyes, just get up and waddle out without being noticed. Before E’greasior or anyone else came. This was just a dream, after all. She was still in her room, asleep, and any moment, the maids would rouse her for first breakfast. She pressed on the bench and tried to roll to her feet. A few inches up. She could feel her bench-wide ass just beginning to lift off. She shook from the strain, but she was almost there! On her feet and just walk out. That simple. No one would stop her.

     “So, you’re a princess, huh?” Faireweather asked as he dug a nail into his teeth. “Have we met? Greaser said something about us having a ceremony together? Another feast, eh? Looks like this one was pretty good. I’m miffed as a castrated bull old-Tract didn’t invite me. Bastard’s getting foggy these days, I hear. It won’t matter much, anyway.” He clopped his boots on the ground and leaned forward. “I’ll be marrying Descia, his daughter. You’re looking at the next King, sweetling. Where’d you say you were from?”

     He didn’t recognize her? No, of course he didn’t. She was thrice her old size. Maybe more after that meal. Her heart lurched in longing and pain. How could he not know his own bride? Who she was, what they had. It went beyond the physical realm! He’d told her so many times before under the moon. No, fool, this is better!

     “Yes, from Southern peninsula I am,” she said in her best approximation of what she imagined an Ibertoan accent was. “Small island. You would know not.”

     “Heh. That so?” He was back at the stubborn shred in his gums.

     It’s working! She chastised herself for being so stupid and succumbing to despair. This is my second chance. Faireweather and I, we still have a future together. She squeezed a thick roll slung over her hip. If I can change, that is. I’ll diet, get some exercise. There’s still time before our wedding. She needed to buy time as she got to her feet.

     “King you are to be?”

     The shift in conversation toward himself got Faireweather invested once more. “That’s right! I’ll even invite you for my feasting ceremony.” He squinted at her from across the table and let out a low whistle as he shook his head the way a farmer would at the biggest pumpkin on the farm. “And commission a few more wait-staff and cooks. Probably add another table off to the side for you…”

     She rubbed her gelatin, embarrassed by her size once again. “How… regal of you.” She rocked forward once more, building a modicum of momentum. Almost up.

     “Real gal?” His face twisted up. “Lady, I’m a man.”

     Was he always this dull? “Means kingly. As King would do. Generous and welcoming to all.” Another lurch forward. Every inch closer to the edge of her seat gave her hope. You mean your bench, you fat cow. Her anger fueled her, gifted her a second wind.

     “Ah! I’ll have someone write that down for me. Rear-gull. Got it.”

     She was almost up. She could feel the tips of her toes scrabbling at the floor as her legs dangled over.

     “More and less. Excuse, meal has tired me. It had… many guests.” She glanced at the battlefield strewn down the table. “King Tract said was biggest in decades. You will inherit a great kingdom with your bride.”

     “That many?” He balked. “Bastard, cut me out on purpose…”

     She gripped the table’s edge and pulled herself the rest of the way onto her feet. The aches and tearing pains were back as the weight settled on trembling muscles and pulverized joints. Walking twice in the same day was more exercise than she’d gotten in weeks, if not months. As she tottered toward the exit, she couldn’t help herself. “You said little about bride. The princess?”

     “Descia? Oh Gods, she’s spectacular. Between you and me, she’s the most gorgeous woman in the kingdom.” He tilted his head back and closed his eyes with a smile.

     She blushed despite herself. The man who will make me his queen. Mayhaps no sharper than a cheese knife, but he’s sweet as a pudding bowl.

     “Just thinking about her is getting me excited. Her hair is like silk.”

     She dragged a finger through her knotted curtain of oily hair.

     “God carved her face himself from the finest marble. Sharp jaw, cute little nose, a neck like a swan! You got those wherever you’re from? They’re these white birds and they have,” he thought for a moment before spreading his arms across his chest, “really long and thin necks! They’re quite something.”

     She fingered the waterfall of fat-folds pouring under her chin. “Am Ibertoan, and I know what swans are—”

     “They’re great. You should see them sometime. And those eyes! Lord help me, but the way they shine when she’s excited. Like emeralds in Moonlight.”

     My eyes? She fluttered her lashes at him. This is my chance! He’ll see I’m still me. Grab me and confess his love, just like a real-life fairy tale.

     “Something wrong with your eye? Got a crumb in there?” He guffawed, slapping his knee. “Some oil splatter while you were hogging down?”

     Evidently not. “I leave now.” She began the labor of heaving one thigh past the other, wobbling as she made the slow progress.

     “And her ass!”

     She haulted. “Excuse me?”

      “Pardon, My Lardy. I’ve had a few drinks. I haven’t sheathed my tongue for court, but it’s like,” he reached up and gripped the air,” a horse’s. Firm. Tight. Perfect shape. Not, uh, as big as a horse’s I should add.” His eyes hovered over her jutting hips, the corners of his mouth sliding into distaste. “I must ask, but are all people from your island proportioned similarly?”

     She snorted. Bastard! “Pardon?”

     He slapped his forehead. “Apologies. I forget you don’t speak well. Everyone fat,” he puffed out his cheeks and looped his arms around his waist as he swung them about, “like you? I’ve never seen a woman like you. Where did you say you were from?”

     Her face was crimson. “Ibertoan!”

     He was inspecting something under his nail. “Come again?”

      “I’m Ibertoan!”

     “And where’s that? Ah, whatever. Did you see Descia tonight? You’d know her if you saw her.” He whistled as he made waves with his hand to display her shape.

      The door swung open as E’greasior reentered. “Princess Descia! Leaving so soon? Don’t you have more to discuss with his Lordship Faireweather? Your wedding is soon.”

     Faireweather’s other boot dropped. His jaw hung slack as if a mule had kicked him as a boy and he was never quite right after. “Des? Who? Her?!” He jabbed his finger at her and looked to E’greasior.

     “Why, yes, my Lord. Of Tract’s own loins. Don’t you see the resemblance?”

     “That’s not possible.” He marveled at her.

     “Julius, please just listen for a moment. I’ll explain. The horses,” she was hysterical, gibbering. Tears poured onto her food stained bedsheet. She made a wobble towards him, arm outstretched, thinking if he just laid his hand on her face, he’d see past the exterior.

     He jerked back, knocking his chair to the ground. “This is an infernal jape, Greasier!”

     “Julius! Please listen to me! I’m, I’m your wife! Your queen!” She sobbed. She took another lumbering step, her arm outstretched, but he leapt back, the whites of his eyes bulging with terror. He jabbered to himself as he backed toward the door, his finger never dropping its accusatory stab toward her disgrace.

     “No, no. Stay there, beast. Descia is—she’s beautiful! She’s not,” his eyes roved from her feet up, his face contorting with each inch, morphing from shock to disgust before settling on sizzling malice, “not you! Her arms are long and delicate. Her face is slight and sharp. You’re wide as three guardsmen.

     She risked another step, ignoring the pain, but her exhaustion and girth offset her balance, causing her to step on a wayward edge of the bedsheet. With a yelp, the covering tore off her body, fluttering to the ground, exposing her indecency and shame.

     “Augh!” He shielded his eyes and flung himself against the door as if a battering ram just hit him.

     E’greasior’s gaze was more clinical, but no less disgusted. “What strange proportions. The mid-line is disappointing. As is the top,” he muttered.

     This wasn’t real. She didn’t believe it was possible. She’d fallen during a ride. Spiritus was standing next to her, waiting for her to get up. It was a long delusion concocted within the recesses of her mind. The carnal terrors of her insecurity as a woman, her fear of duty, her selfish desires manifested as extremes. An amalgam of the worst things. She refused to accept she was here, experiencing this. She felt her consciousness slip out of her body, and she was watching it from above, entirely detached from the horrors playing out. And then her mind shattered, retreated into itself to protect her from the barrage of pain buffeting her.

     When she came to, she realized she was sprawled on her back beside the bench with the sheet draped over her.

      She leaned up with a grunt and looked about. “Where’s Julius?”

     “The Lord Faireweather left, M’Lardy.”

     “What?”

      “He left, My lady. It’s a shame to see these plates go to waste. The chefs have been in the kitchen the whole day.” He lifted the cover of a dish on the table and, once again, the seductive scents of lard fried meat wafted into her brain, seducing her against better choices. She swooned despite herself. She needed to forget. To sleep and bury this moment under lard soaked bread loaves and pudding cups.

     “Help me up. I’ll eat it.” She groaned as she rolled onto her knees and reached  for E’greasior.

     “I’ll get a guard to help with that.” He evaluated once more. “Maybe a retinue.”

     The idea of several men seeing her, the Princess, made an invalid at twenty by her own obesity—it should have horrified her, instead, she said between gulping breaths, “Call them now. With haste. I’m hungry.”

      His face split into a demonic rictus-smile.

[Batman76]

I am nowhere near caught up but holy shit, this story is a master piece even before the weight gain kicks in!

The setting, the characters, the writing, the pacing, all of it is just amazing!

And then when the pounds pop on!

Part of me is slightly peeved it's so quick. That we don't see the early stages of dessica going from reed slender to just a hint of padding where she first needs a corset.

But the other 95 percent of my brain sees 

"28-27-41"

 

And can only scream "pear pear pear pear PEAR"

 

 

 

 

[Guest denbu]

On 5/10/2022 at 10:03 AM, Batman76 said:

I am nowhere near caught up but holy shit, this story is a master piece even before the weight gain kicks in!

The setting, the characters, the writing, the pacing, all of it is just amazing!

And then when the pounds pop on!

Part of me is slightly peeved it's so quick. That we don't see the early stages of dessica going from reed slender to just a hint of padding where she first needs a corset.

But the other 95 percent of my brain sees 

"28-27-41"

 

And can only scream "pear pear pear pear PEAR"

 

 

 

 

Wow. I'd be flattered to get feedback like that from anyone, but as a big fan of your own stuff, that's huge to hear. I'll try my best to not let that get to my head. 

I'm ecstatic that you, and anyone else reading along, is enjoying it. It's amusing you say the pacing is good, because that was my biggest concern with it. I couldn't tell if it was too much of a slog before the weight element kicks in. This is my first finished story, and when I started it I couldn't decide between a Weight Gain-story, or a Story featuring weight gain. I tried to write it as it came without forcing a focus on either, but I was afraid toeing the line might have disappointed either, and both, camps of readers. 

And I suspect that part of it feeling so quick (despite the completed thing wobbling onto the scene at a chunky 30K words) is that uncertainty of what the narrative thrust should have been. Originally there was a lot more world building and minutiae of Descia's daily life (where you would have gotten some of the meat in-between bamboo pole and hibernating bear scenes), the politics of court and interactions with foreign rulers, and E'greasior having a more fleshed out plot brewing behind the scenes. But the story would have probably been even more unwieldy and just transformed into being an actual novel, so a lot of the excess was shaved off to maintain a semblance of keeping it engaging. 

And yes, I'm a slave to pear supremacy. It's such a fun shape to imagine in scenes because it allows a character to maintain a delusion of mobility, even if just in their mind, but also it serves a plot purpose. 

I'm into the final stretch of chapters, just need to do some editing and formatting, so I hope that you catch up soon. 

And again: thank you so much for reading--that goes for everyone in here. 

[Guest denbu]

Second Thoughts and Third Servings

 

     The weeks flitted by as the Seasons melded into one another, and Descia went unseen, precluding herself from any court appearances. The only evidence the hermit-Princess still yet lived was the train of dishes ferried to and from her chambers at all hours.

     The bottle chimed as E’greasior tapped it against the rim of the lopsided gauntlet hanging from Tract’s hand. The ringing roused the King from his haze.

     “Trust the process, Majesty. The girl is hale and hardy as a bull. It’s only natural she would nurse her first heartbreak in such a manner.”

     “So you say,” Tract wrestled his words out with a tongue abused as a bar rag, “but she’s been sequestering for too long. That bastard Faireweather,” he hiccuped, “broke my girl.” His chin slumped as his tirade faded into a sigh, too sauced to feel proper rage.

     “Now, now. Remember the plan? We’ve set our eyes on Biertgut and his mines.” His eyes flickered, milky and opaque in the firelight.

     Tract knotted a fist in a tangle of his hair, anchoring it there as he pulled his head back to meet E’greasior’s. Watery eyes burned as if there were sand packed under his eyelids as he struggled to focus them.

     “Biertgut? Be damned with all that. I just want to see her again.” The splash on his pants surprised him. He grunted at his tipping cup and slurped.

     “And you shall. Reborn as a Queen! She’ll dissolve the borders between Bountia and the North. Their union will spawn a new nation.”

     “But she’s not agreed to it. Another marriage after the last? A bucket with no bottom can’t draw from a well. She’s no capacity for it.

     “And that’s where you’re mistaken, Majesty. Her potential is bottomless. More than you could know. Allow me to speak with her today. I’m sure I can lead her to reason. Trust that you’re both in capable hands.”

     Tract’s reply was a full-throated snore and the “clink” of his empty cup rolling across the floor.

***

     Despite embracing the life of a hermit, Descia reinforced her presence throughout the castle. The kitchen’s oven flamed at all times, and the chefs and their staff held rotating shifts to accommodate the demands issued from the Northern tower. The kitchen staff weaved intricate lines throughout the castle like a trail of ants.

     E’greasior dodged and bobbed through the crowd, but as he entered the hall leading to the Princess’ chamber, the throng outside her door was at a standstill. Servers carrying empty plates pressed up against those carrying steaming meals, each jostling for passage.

     “Make way, you goats!”

     He tucked his arms in and wielded his elbows as daggers, stabbing and thrusting into the exposed vulnerabilities in the crowd, whisping through their seams, and making gaps in the wall of bodies. He stamped his heel into the toes of one server more embroiled in hurling threats than heeding his path. The woman crumped and howled on the floor. He used her as a step to clear the final path to the doorway.

     Crossing the threshold from the hallway into the room was like stepping into a pocket space that existed outside the castle, Bountia, and perhaps even the Earth itself. It was difficult to catch E’greasior on the back foot, but the squalid chambers gave him pause as he took a tentative step further into the fey room. Sound, light, even the air—the room warped everything within its bounds.

     Curtains drawn so tight, they permitted only the faintest suffusion of sunlight to seep into the room. His slitted eyes adapted in a few moments, revealing the rut wound through the jumbles of trash and detritus like a river eroding a path through boulders. Some piles of plates were waist high, teetering as he stepped past, and threatened an ominous chain-reaction if even a single fork fell at the wrong angle. Animalistic lip smacking, slurping, and moist gnashing resonated throughout the room, growing louder as he snaked along the riverbank. As he drew closer to the bed the grotesque orchestra of gormandizing crescendoed.

     “Ahhhh! Where’s the rest? Hello?! Where are you lot? Was there another avalanche?” The voice wavered between haughty demands and hysterical concern when no response came.

     E’greasior stepped out from behind a swaying tower of plates. “Hello, Princess. Enjoying your breakfast? I see your bed’s support finally gave out. It served admirably. Perhaps your father will hold a banquet in honor of its service.”

     The mattress laid on the floor, her body covering it’s surface edge to end. Even among the gloom, her pearly flesh stood stark in the darkness. Splayed legs jutted out from her body at opposing angles, incapable of meeting in the middle from the spreading pools of her thighs. Her aqueous hips rolled toward the bed’s edges, threatening to spill over, and yet her top half was that of another woman altogether. Her waist tapered in like a pyramid’s point, still bloated and soft from the gorging, but giving the appearance that some alchemical fusion had spliced two errant halves together.

     She grabbed an edge of the bedsheet with a whimper and attempted to pull it over her indecency, but the sheet didn’t move, pinned as it was beneath her bulk. A few fruitless tugs left her panting, and she relented to draping a corner over the puffy mounds of her breasts.

     “What do you want?”

     “To serve your next meal.” He snapped, summoning the furious tap of feet. He snatched the bowl from the serving girl and dismissed her with a look. The bowl brimmed with a porridge made lumpy from fruit wedges and berries.

     “I have nothing to say to you.” The hunger in her eyes belied the conviction in her voice as she studied the bowl he stirred.

     He only grinned. A second snap and another attendant was handing him a jug of fresh cream. “A little sweetness with your meal? Even a lady on a diet deserves the occasional treat.” He tipped the spout, releasing a velvet river of cream into the bowl.

     Her tongue flicked along her lips, coating her mouth in a sheen of drool. “Make it quick.” She reached with a grunt, waving her hands at the bowl.

     “Tut-tut! Please, allow me.” He slid the spoon’s edge in and pulled up a dollop. She closed her eyes and opened her mouth, but he stopped just before he reached her mouth. “How are you faring, Princess? Clearly you’ve been enjoying the larder’s wares this winter.”

    Her nose twitched and her nostrils flared as her eyes popped open with annoyance. “I’m well, sir. Let’s not play at having anything worth discussing. Just,” she grunted and leaned, her fingers grasping, “gimme the food and fuck off.”

     He waved the spoon just out of reach, shaking his head. “Barnyard language for a barn animal.”

     She could smell the fresh cream seated upon it. So… close! But her quivering stomach muscles couldn’t sustain the effort. She quivered, spent, against the headboard. She whimpered. “Please.”

     “Such a shame you were on bedrest during Faireweather’s marriage last season. It was an enchanting event. Although the swans they released made quite a mess. Shat everywhere. Alas, beautiful things are often misleading. Roses and thorns, swans and shit, princesses and…” he looked her up and down.

     She gave a listless tug at the sheet once more, but let it drop to her side, accepting that constant humiliating exposure was a given when you grew too big to hide your shame.

     “What do you want to hear? That I’ve gone to seed? That I’m nearly bed-bound? How the sight of my body repulses me?!” Her voice hitched as tears sprouted, but she choked them back, refusing to give him the satisfaction. What sick pleasures he got from her humiliation was something only he could deign to give, but she was tired of feeding men’s ego. “If you think you’ve bested me, you bastard —” The sweetness in her mouth was sudden and euphoric. She wrapped her lips around the spoon and sucked the sugar until she only tasted metal.

     Her tongue surfed among the waves of cream as she chewed. The seeds of the strawberries popped with tiny crunches. The moans filling the room were unbecoming of a princess, or a lady of the court, but thankfully she was neither. Not any longer.

     “You say we’ve nothing to discuss,” he stirred the bowl again, “but there are matters which affect even you, My Lardy.” Another spoonful silenced her objection. Her brows furrowed as she worked her jaw into a furious grind and grimaced at her tormenter.

     “Now that’s a look could turn a man to stone. About the only hard thing you have left, it seems. I’ll cut the fat,” he kept her sated liked a babe at the breast with each scoop, “after all your personal feasting, the Castle’s reserves are near depleted. Your Father’s been too lenient with you. Too permissive. They raised a soft, spoiled girl and filled her head with fairytales and dreams.” He jabbed a stiletto-finger into her rippling thigh for emphasis. “So who’s surprised your selfish plot to elope last year failed, and let’s be honest—no suitors are scaling the castle for your hand. You’ve literally eaten Bountia and this castle into debt. Do one selfless thing in your life. Accept the marriage to King Biertgut. Otherwise, we’ll all go hungry by year’s end. You included.”

     “Fwn. Din cur,” she said, spraying flecks of debris on his robes.

     “Listen here, you bench-assed brat!”

     She gulped. “I said fine, you animate rat’s tail. Gimme more.”

     Shaking his head, he fed her another spoonful. “You… accept?”

     She jiggled in what may have been a shrug. “As you already emphasized, there're few opportunities for a woman like me. Food is life, and yet,” she dropped an arm to her side, “it feels like I’ve hardly lived at all.” Her face was sullen as she rubbed her stomach. “New scenery might do me well. I’m tired of this room. There’s nothing left for me in Bountia anymore. Not even food.”

     He left the bowl resting on her bed as he left. Was it so simple? He felt as though he’d lost somehow. Maybe he was hoping for more fight, but the girl was docile, defeated. Cowed.

     She called out as he trudged away, “And send the next one in! Lunch shift start soon!”

[Guest denbu]

The Wedding

 

     The morning of her wedding arrived as any other, except when she snorted herself awake she was caught within a maelstrom of handmaids flitting about, cleaning, sewing, and ferrying out the remnants of her most recent late night feast. All performed under the withering gaze of their taskmaster looming in a shadow-dappled corner.

     Once E’greasior noticed she was awake, he unfurled a crooked finger at her and the women pounced.

     One gripped Descia’s hand, fanned her fingers and polished her nails, a pair rushed over brandishing palm leaves wider than they were and circulated air to cool her, another stretched a measuring tape and angled it across her body at all angles, muttering measurements and dimensions all the while, and a doddering woman stirred brushes in powders and pigments, obscuring them all in a magenta cloud, and from behind the smoke wall swiped at Descia’s face, making of her brushes color coated viper strikes, plying hues from unseen flanks. Amid the flurry a girl scurried among the swarm, dodging and ducking as the others worked, until she weaved her way to the bed. She wrestled against the tide of an oceanic hip to make space on the edge, plopped herself in the exposed divot, and presented a platter of hand-cakes, which Descia grabbed more from reflex than hunger. As she ate the girl daubed along her neck-folds with a soaked rag, clearing accumulating crumbs and sweat.

     “Careful, girl! You’ll run my work.”

     “Yes,” the girl said. The elder woman sucked her teeth. “Sorry, Ma’am.”

     “Nevermind her, Princess,”  said. “Just let me touch up a bit more around your chins creases.”

     The makeup brush was no longer swishing, but trembling in her wrinkled hand. She stared at her feet as Descia plugged her with a stiletto-sharp glare, the only thing with edge left to her.

     The woman painting nails snickered.

     “Hush up, Malrude!” Dallia bowed to Descia. “Pardon. Slip of my tongue. Getting old as it were.”  patted and brushed her pallet with fervor, concocting an even more robust cloud to conceal the red creeping onto her own cheeks. “Just a touch more to highlight your natural features.”

     Descia snorted at the platitudes. Natural beauty. Like the cheekbones and jawline eroded by the tide in the lead-up to this wedding? Any semblance of hope to glimpse even a vestige of her old body or face died during the preparations for her first, now defunct, ceremony.

     Descia shoved another cake into her mouth. “I’ve no use for sugar on words, just my treats.”

     “However you prefer…”  adjusted the angle of her brush and chiseled the illusion of an incline from the slope of the Queen-to-be’s chins.

     Dallia’s wilt made Descia regret her bite. It stirred a feeling in her gut that may have been guilt, but which she dismissed as hunger.

     She pushed the longing for exploration from her lard-coated legs, expelled the memories of Summer sun on her skin, and ignored the ache in her heart. It was best to concentrate on the things that served as her two cardinal directions: duty to Bountia and hunger.

     So what if my heart is hollow? I’ll fill it soon enough.

     She snatched another cake from the platter, studied the golden disc for a moment, contemplating, before shoving it whole into her mouth. Each cake chewed was another plunge her mind took, submerged in the opiate of mindless gorging.

     Just another star snuffed like so many dreams dashed.

     As the woman toiled, she ate, but eventually her hand scrabbled among crumbs. She raised a drooping arm and flicked a painted nail at the girl quivering on the bed’s edge. “More.”

     She yelped, scrambled for another tray, and toppled the hill of treats to the floor, spewing their marmalade innards.

     “Atrenda, you bark-brained imbecile,” E’greasior said from his corner. “Although, I’m sure the princess wouldn’t protest eating from the floor.” Descia smoldered, and his dog’s lips peeled back like a rotted fruit rind, exposing his sneer in return. “Eat well, Princess. A woman in your condition need hoard her strength just to make it to the altar.”

     “Your concern is touching,” she tossed a jam tart into her waiting mouth and chewed it with vigor, “but unwanted.” She spewed a stream of flakey crumbs in his direction.

     He recoiled, brushing the flecks from his robe. “As unwanted as a brisk jog, Princess?”

     “Atrenda, be a dear. Leave the rest of those with me. E’greasior shall dispose of the detritus. He’s quite comfortable with garbage as is.”

     The girl plucked a dozen of the treats off and stacked them on Descia’s stomach, who snatched and devoured them as swift as the girl could deliver. Atrenda gave an imploring look back, but Descia shooed her toward E’greasior. She handed him the platter.

     He crossed his arms. “I’m not your attendant, girl. Handle your own messes. The King entrusted me as overseer for all wedding preparations, and I will see this union through.” He shuddered. “To your consummation bed if need be.”

     She fluttered her eyes, sending her best ‘come-hither’ smirk as she slid a ruby nail along the submerged lace waistband of her thong, tugged it from the sloped fold of her hip and released it with a *snap* that sent quakes across her pooling saddlebag. His eyes wavered from hers as he tightened the protective coil of his arms around himself.

     “Don’t be coy. I’m sure you’d just love to lurk behind the canopy post of my marital bed. Trust how well you’ve conveyed to me every day since the arrangement how important the ceremony is. Almost as if you’d prefer to be the blushing bride yourself. Alas, you’re no longer required, and it’s nigh time for my dress fitting. Despite you scarcely counting as one, it would be improper for a man to be present as a lady disrobes.” She waved a drooping arm and fluttered her hand at him like a fat bird struggling to take flight. The curtain of her underarm swayed in redoubled effort to banish him. “Shoo. Be gone and lurk among your own. The rats in the dungeon should serve as worthy companions, I think.”

     “Think? About all you can manage these days is eat!”

     Descia nodded and Atrenda pushed the plate against his chest until he was ejected into the hall. Seeing his face twist with rage as the door slammed gave her the first genuine smile that day.

     “He makes my skin creep,” Atrenda said, her back sliding against the door.

     “It’s about the only thing he’s good at,” Descia said through a mouth crammed with tart. She clapped her hands, two quick cracks. “Alright, ladies, it’s time to do what you’re paid for.”

     They maneuvered several woven sheets beneath and around her girth, forming a rudimentary pulley, with Atrenda pushing for leverage from the back. What ensued was a circus of jiggling, slipping, groans, and shouts until Descia was erected into a seat on the bed.

     The ordeal wounded her pride near as much as it winded her body. A sheen of sweat coated her face as her tongue lolled. The attendants fanned and patted her dry as  brushed under her chins again for a final touchup.

     Lord help me, I’ve gotten fat.

     She raised her arms to allow the women to pull her simple silk slip over her head. They picked at the fabric as it snagged in various creases until she was bare. The bite of the Fall air from the adjacent window was a blessing, and she relished the chill wicking the sweat off her damp back.

     Now seated, she had the unflattering vantage point to see her body from an angle she rarely could. She slid a hand along her terrain of folds, frowned as she cupped a diminutive breast, neither fuller than a ripe apricot. As her hands sledded across her acreage of alabaster skin her frown slipped into a grimace as she thumbed the web of crimson scars where her skin was torn across the base of her hips where thighs smashed together like two ocean tides colliding. Within the pockets where she presumed her knees could be found were two deep ridges, folded over like the deep slashes the bakers used on their dough to allow for proper expansion into loaves. Her feet were beyond sight, but flexing her toes gave the familiar resistance of ten inflated digits struggling to wiggle.

     A hand on her back. Dallia’s. “Best not dwell. You’ve a big day ahead. Let’s get you dressed.”

     Atrenda hauled over a black bra, the band as long as she was tall, but the cups swung empty and taunting, so small even an orange would overflow their capacity. The mere sight of the thing exhausted her. She cast it away.

      “Why bother,” Descia said, “all’s it will accomplish is to further fumble Biertgut’s fingers tonight. And I’d rather move past that ordeal sooner than not. Just start with the garter.”

      A pair of maids kneeled, looked to one another and nodded before hoisting her legs over their shoulders to form makeshift stirrups as another maid pulled the lace stockings across her chest to arm’s length. They began the process of sliding the band past plump painted toes, over padded feet which hadn’t felt the surface of a floor in weeks, yanked over the roll where delicate ankle bones were once visible, and hauled over calves round as barrels. Malrude maneuvered the garter with the precision of a surgeon, gnawing her lip without a breath exhaled since the start, but once the lace was demanded to assume dimensions to enclose thighs no tailor could have accommodated for, the first popped stitch tore through the room like canon fire.

     Everyone held their breath, still as graves, except Descia, who wheezed from the strain of holding herself up.

     The kneeling maids were red-faced and buckling, flagging fast as veins pulsed on their foreheads and the cords along their necks trembled with tension, threatening to snap.

“Dallia,” Malrude called through gnashed teeth, “hurry over! I need help ‘fore they’s crushed.”

     The older woman shuffled over quick as old knees could carry. They worked in tandem, rotating, pulling out snags caught in folds, pressing and rolling sheets of fat into compliance until the fabric, strained to near-transparency, rested beneath her hips, and before the band even snapped into place, they grabbed the women caught under Descia’s legs and jerked them out before they were caught in the avalanche.

Dallia held one of them, shushing and rubbing her back. “Is alright, dear. You’re safe now.”

     Malrude swiped her arm across her forehead. “It’ll take all of us to do the garter.” She eyed Descia’s bulk, her mouth twisting. “You included. We’ll go at your mark.”

     “Grab her other arm, girls,” Dallia said.

     “Alright,” Descia said. “Once more, girls. And work together this time. Heave!”

     They gripped her forearms and pulled until they were red in the face.

     “Ho!” they yelled together. They gripped her forearms and pulled, their grips slipping from the slick of sweat pouring off Descia, but the ordeal with the garter and stockings had exhausted them, and all they managed was to rock her a few meager inches off the bed before she hit the mattress like a hale bay.

     Descia sniffled and whimpered as they floated in at the edge of her vision, their faces encircling her as they looked down.

     “I know it hurts, dear,” Dallia said. “We’ll get the dress on you. Sure as the Sun we will.”

With pleading eyes, Atrenda wrung her hands. “And I’ll go get you another plate of those tarts you like.”

     Descia watched with longing as Atrenda hiked her apron over knobbed knees and ran. The sight of her legs pumping filled her with something other than tarts—envy. All around her, they flaunted their mobility and exuberance, taunting her with the blind cruelty of that which was taken for granted.

     “Someone grab the dress and we’ll pull it over the top."

     “No, no. We should do bottom first,” said another maid.

     “Are you daft?” Malrude said. “We’ll never get it around the first leg that way. We’ve a better chance of putting pants on a horse.”

     “Maybe if we do one leg at a time? It opens wide in the back. Big enough for a few of us to stand shoulder to shoulder.”

     “And how’re we to get her out the door anyhow?” Malrude said. “Load her up on a cart like a pumpkin to the fair?”

     Dallia sucked her teeth. “Watch your tongue! The Queen’s no gourd.”

     Malrude eyebrows shot to the ceiling as she threw her hands at the bed. “Ain’t no Belle either. I’ve an Uncle could get two hale men and a smallish wagon in here.”

     Another maid leaned in, whispering, “Do you think it could hold her?”

     “Oh grand," Dallia said. "And we’ll just have an ox take up the rear and carry the train? Maybe a goose to carry the veil?”

     “Better ox than me,” Malrude said. “Aren’t getting me on the wrong underside of that.”

      Atrenda nudged open the chamber door, carrying a stacked platter. “I’ve got the snacks,” she said with a squeak. Her eyes were wide. “What’s everyone yelling about?”

      Descia closed her eyes, willing their bickering to coalesce into a droning hum.

      What will he be like? I’ve not even met Biertgut yet. My husband to be. Nor even seen the Northern peaks where I’ll spend the rest of my days. The absurdity of it all didn’t elude her, but at moments like these, as several women debated the best manner to maneuver her as if she were a tipped cow or a collapsed barn, all while she prepared for a wedding she never wanted, to a man she’d never met, it was overwhelming.

      It started with a tickle in her chest, erupted into a barking chuckle, until spiking into peeling shrieks. The hysterics of a lunatic. It shocked the rest, sending one woman the floor where she scrambled backward on her hands and signed a holy symbol. Those holding her arms threw them down and withdrew as if they were the red-hot grips of a witch’s cauldron.

     She watched their exhausted pity curdle into terror and repulsion, and that was when the tears flowed, neither bitter nor mournful, but a release of repressed pressure after a year’s accumulation.

     Dallia placed the back of her hand against Descia’s forehead. “Is Grace feverish?”

     “Is she well?” Asked the maid on the floor, peering over the bed’s edge.

     “She’s warm, aye.”

     “Tsk,” Malrude scoffed. “She sweats when she eats! Nothing new here. Either we pull’er up or I’ll send for help, but let’s be on with it.”

     Her belly ached from the bubbling of giggles, but the outburst purged her. For the first time in months she felt emptied, and it was invigorating. She shook their doting hands off. “I’m fine.”

     And then she did something that astonished even herself. She pushed herself up.

     Despite the soft sheaths coating her arms, the daily exercise of lifting, rolling, and pushing her heft had established a pragmatic foundation of muscle. She rolled toward the bed’s edge, pulling with her legs as she pushed, and with a parade of wobbling scoots, slid herself upright. A cacophony of cracks and pops shot off as the full brunt of her weight pushed down on the overloaded musculature and frame buried beneath the blubber. She staggered like a toddler, but they sturdied her.

     Dallia stroked her backrolls. “Princess?”

      “Hmph! She could do that all the while?” Malrude said. “What were we killing ourselves tugging her around for?”

     “Hush up now, Malrude.”

     Descia scanned the room, seeing it for the first time. Much of the clutter was clear, but remnants of her epic feasting were incapable of being purged, as evidenced by the stained tapestry along the walls. Her gaze settled on the redwood armoire in the corner, filled with her old court attire, untouched for over a half-dozen seasons. No longer.

     “Atrenda, go to my wardrobe and fetch my corset.”

     The girl hopped to her feet, beaming to be of use, and like a squire retrieving her lord’s breastplate to prepare for an ensuing battle, hauled over a whalebone corset.

     Malrude snickered. “Is that the whole whale?”

     “Close. It’s the ribcage of an infant,” Descia said. “Now, help me with this. I intend to look like a mountain’s peak,” she patted thwapped her hip, “and not just its base.”

      They threaded the cord through the dozens of eyeholes and encircled her torso.

     “Pull it tight now. Don’t be gentle,” Descia said through clenched teeth as she held her breath in. Malrude planted her foot on Descia’s back as  pulled and loosened the cords.  She eyed her profile in the mirror, twisting and turning. “Not bad at all,” she mused. “Bring the dress now. We’ll pull from the top.” Descia gave Malrude a look that made the mouthy maid suddenly interested in the fit of her shoes. “You’ve a viper’s tongue, but you were right. I need that kind of honesty in my chamber."

     The dress slipped over her top with ease, and with help, they pulled the rest over her lower half, the folds and frills tapering out across her hips, concealing their width. She swished about, peering into the full-length mirror against the wall, and ran her hands across her stomach and down her hips. One could hardly tell at all. She unpinned the bun of her hair and shook it loose until it tumbled down her back. The reflection in the mirror frowned as she ran fingers through the mats and knots.

     “Bring me the brush from the table there.”

     “A combing’s in order, Princess,” Dallia said. “But that’s a horse brush. You won’t get any straight lines with that.”

     Descia stroked the back of the pine brush as memories of Summer nights in the barn took shape. Farewell, girl. “I’m well aware, but I’ve been trying out a new look.” She cocked an undulating hip. “What do you think?”

     She pulled the pig-bristles through her hair with the same controlled bursts she’d use when Spiritus had matting. Once she removed the knots, she tossed her hair over her shoulder and admired the mirror’s image. Her hair was a stygian ocean, filled with waves. A warning to any man who’d foolishly sail without concern. “Much better.” She caught sight of the enamored faces of the women behind her on the mirror’s surface. “How do I look?”

     “Magnificent,” Dallia said.

     “Improved,” Malrude sniffed.

     “Like a Queen!” Atrenda said, wrapping her hands around Descia’s thick fingers.

     She patted the girl’s head. “My thanks, sweetling. It’s a matter of working with what you have, not what you want.” She frowned for a fraction when she looked at her reflection, but Atrenda’s gap-toothed grin stirred her. “You two, grab the train and let’s be on. I’ve heard there’s a wedding today.”

     Dallia and Malrude lifted her lace train as Descia wobbled toward the door. She tried to take it head on, but became wedged when her hips met the frame. She pulled against the frame as the maids pushed at her back until she popped out into the hallway on the other side for the first time in months.

     “I may have rolls, but I’m done rolling over.”

[Guest denbu]

Biertgut

 

     She waddled with an imperious air down the hall toward the ceremony. Late-coming guests milled along, drinking and chatting, but her girth demanded clearance, as did her presence demand consideration. Her glacial pace exuded a regal aura, and the guests bowed as she and her attendants cleaved a line through the crowds. However, whatever outward presentation she conveyed belied the utter agony of being on her feet. Each step was in actuality a wobbling stomp on swollen ankles, which threatened to roll under her disproportionate weight at any moment. One area of the planning Descia had not relegated, aside from the meals served, was the tailoring of her own gown. Through clever design and masterful tailoring, the dress provided merciful obfuscation through multiple layers and skirts, transforming her belabored waddle into an effortless glide.

     Standing before the door, she signaled Dallia, who patted her damp forehead, and then, placing both hands on the doors, she steeled herself before pushing through.

     Past this point, just this line on the floor, it’s where everything changes. I’m leaving my old life in the hall and stepping into something new.

     But she wasn’t afraid of the unknowable. She was done with the fantasies a girl concocts about how the world beyond her bedroom window will be. Leaning on the crutch of ‘sure things’ and ‘true love’ left her flat on her back. Whatever laid in wait on the other side, she would take comfort knowing she faced it prepared. As much on her own terms as was possible.

     She shoved through the doors and waddled down the aisle, doing her best to keep her chins up and ignore the agape faces of the nobles who’d known her since she was a a younger girl, and a much smaller woman.

     A rabid energy seized the room as frantic whispers, shocked gasps, and noxious gossip tore through the crowd.

     “Did Tract have another daughter?”

     “That can’t be Descia.”

     “Is that all the dress?”

     “Where is she under all that? What a curious fashion choice to have such a wide profile…”

      “Good God! She’s fat as a—”

     With a jerk, an avalanche cheek walloped that gossiper as she passed, knocking him dazed onto his wife’s lap.

     She cast her gaze across the crowd. They were all too enamored with the spectacle to bother closing their mouths, let alone avert their saucer-eyed stares. For the first time in some time she was presenting herself among the court-folk, and her cheeks were aflame with embarrassment, but she maintained her demeanor as would befit a future Queen—haughty, and above the musings of the small folk.

     Near the front she saw Faireweather and who she presumed was his new bride. His wife whispered to him behind a cupped hand, all the while pointing at Descia as she drifted past. He gave a single curt nod to her, his face contorted as if he’d just quaffed a pail of curdled milk, and stared hateful lines into Descia’s back as she drifted past.

     Nearing the altar, she could see her father in rare-form for the day—sober, with E’greasior beside him, serving as officiator. His hooded eyes tracking her made each agonizing step sting that much more, but she held her eyes ahead, praying that if any miracle would occur on the day, it would be the stone altar collapsing and caving in his misshapen skull. She searched for Biertgut, unsure who or what to look for, but saw no one over the heads of the crowd.

     How strange. Is it possible he’s yet to arrive? She chewed her lip as she paused. Or has he climbed out the window after spying me about the castle? The disappointment surprised her. To be abandoned by a man she’d never met wouldn’t be the most surprising element of the wedding, considering her metamorphosis assured anything else would come a distant second, but her pride couldn’t withstand much more battering these days.

      Her father stepped down to take her hand and helped her clear the last step up. His cobalt eyes were lucid. They scaled her physique, uncertain, seeing her unclouded for the first time in months if not years. Brow furrowed and eyes misted, he leaned down. She gripped it, pulling with a hoggish grunt, and almost taking him to the floor as he crumpled from the burden.

      “Goodness,” he said under his breath and wiped his forehead. He looked into her eyes as he placed his hands on her waist and gave a slight squish. His brow sagged over worried eyes. “Descia, you… I didn’t know,” he said in a stammer, surveying her hulking figure.

     She misconstrued the tears in his eyes and embraced him against her folds. “Oh Father.”

     “Hnnfff!”

     He beat against her broad back, struggling for air, but her excess absorbed the feeble blows like raindrops over the ocean. She mistook them for the shuddering sobs of a man lost in emotion. Seeing her stoic father overcome gave her the resolve to be strong for them both.

     “Don’t cry for me. Today is a rebirth for us. Bountia will prosper, I promise. I promise to come visit every Harvest Feast.” She released him with a sucking pop from her spongy embrace.

     He sucked air in whooping gulps like it was his favorite vintage. “There’ll always… be a seat… at my table… for you, darling.”

     “What a beautiful sight,” said a voice from below. “It stokes the flames in my heart to know I’ll marry into a family where the ties run so deep.”

     She spun, searching, and felt something bounce off her hip.

     “Watch out now, dear!” called the voice. “Look down, if you please.”

     With a stiff bend under the pressure of her corset, she angled herself and saw a short man with a neat cropped beard. He held out a hand bedazzled in an assortment of glimmering rings.

     “An honor to meet you, Descia.” He bowed, disappearing from her sightline once more before popping back up.

     “King Biertgut?”

     It would shock the girl she once was, appall her even, to be seen with a man of his stature, let alone wed him. She thought of Faireweather, slim as a spear, broad as a shield, his confidence in the saddle, his slick tongue. And recalled his unrestrained cruelty when she was at her lowest point. Even now she sensed the malevolence he beamed from the crowd, felt it like a brazier of coals radiating heat at her back. He blamed her for ruining their love, his snatch for the crown, by not being the same girl he’d proposed to, but she wasn’t that same girl with a head filled with fantasies, and she had since learned not to expect real worth to be found on gilded surfaces or ornamental speeches delivered under the moonlight.

     Biertgut gave a chestful of good-natured laughter. “Aye, tis me. The lord of the Mountains.” He gave a deft twirl and posed. “We’re a stocky sort up North. My Ma always told me I was built like a gold brick, but maybe a touch taller.”

     She gave a crooked smile at his display, struggling to not view him as a jester. Her pause may have made a less confident man wilt under the circumstances, but Biertgut was unperturbed by his uniqueness. A lesson worth learning from him. She offered her hand and blushed when he lay a delicate kiss on it.

     “Forgive me, King Biertgut— “

     “Tut! The name’s Magni, and I’m not your king. I’ll be your husband, and soon, I hope your friend.” His eyes were aglow, playful but not deceptive, and focusing on hers with rapt attention. Her chest stirred. She wasn’t sure when a man last looked at her the way he did in that moment, even when she was thin. Maybe never.

     She fanned the heat on her face and cleared her throat.

     “Very well. Magni.” She winced as she swayed back and forth on her feet, hoping to relieve their burden. The numb tingling was climbing her legs into her lower back now.

     Magni rubbed his chin. “Please, Descia. Take a seat. There’s no need to be discomforted.” He lifted a bench above his head and carried it over with ease.

     The temptation to take the seat was almost as strong as her urge to flee the probing eyes in the crowd, but what would it say that she was too feeble, too fat to stand for her own ceremony? She leaned over, scrutinizing the small man. “Do you mock me?”

     He smiled, shaking his head. “The only jokes I’d tell to a lady are the ones she’d laugh at too. When you’ve lived as I have, you learn to dismiss the things others say about you.” He swept his hand at the nobles gathered with the casual flair of one haggling over apples at the market. “Today is for us. None others. So please, sit if you’d like, or stand if you prefer.”

     “I’d rather stand than stand out anymore than I already do…” she whispered to him.

     He winked, hopped down and disappeared into the crowd. A moment later, he reemerged, carrying an empty seat and placed it beside her bench. “Hup!” He hopped atop it and was now near eye-level with her. “Now we’ll match.”

     The whispers among the crowd crescendoed with scandalous gossip at the whimsical sight of the dwarf and his goliath bride.

      She had known nobles who’d gone to extensive effort to conceal balding or court ladies who used alchemical concoctions worth a farmstead’s bundle of gold just to smooth some skin, and yet here was a King without a shaving of shame. Or rather, he saw nothing to be ashamed of. You’re a strange one, Magni. He smiled at her, and she blushed. The glint in his eye was compelling, and she found his confidence intoxicating.

     She sat, sighing in relief as the bench groaned and bent.

     “Grand, grand! Shall we continue?” Biertgut said.

     Remembering he was at a wedding, E’greasior fumbled for the scroll. “Er, yes, let’s.” He unfurled the scroll and cleared his throat. And yet the last opportunity for a barb at Descia, obese to the point of near helplessness, fanning herself on a bench, was too good to let pass. “So good to see you fit in your gown today, Lardy Descia. I’ve never seen so much white up close, and the way you just floated down the aisle. It’s as if they plucked a whole cloud from the sky. You just fill up the entire room.”

     Before she could reply, Magni leaned in, his face unlined without a frown, but his eyes were flinty. “A cloud can bring shade or rain. Both are good. But I advise caution, Sir. They’re just as well to drop a bolt and split rotten logs. It portends an ill-fate for the one who insults a bride at her wedding.” His tone carried along like an affable stranger sharing passing wisdom at the tavern, and yet E’greasior diminished under the scrutiny of a man a third his height. “Now carry on with your duty and read the rites. Or if you’re stalling to conceal not knowing your letters, I’m sure there’s a lad or lass somewhere about who could use the practice.”

     “I, uh…” E’greasior twisted the scroll in his hand and stared at the floor.

     “Something interesting between your feet down there? Speak up for them in the back, man,” Biertgut said, leaning on the back of his chair.

     “I apologize, Princess.” Each word tumbled from his mouth like a smoldering lump of sulfur.

     She quite enjoyed seeing him squirm. Magni gave her another quick wink and grin.

     Tract cleared his throat. “Well put, Lord Biertgut. Good on you to rise above as the bigger man.”

      A perceptible tension materialized. Descia sucked in a sharp breath, E’greasior stared in bafflement for a moment, before a cruel grin peeled his lips, and one of Magni’s eyes bulged in telescopic analysis at Tract, who swiveled his head to each of the others, uncertain.

     Sudden realization dawned on him. “Oh! Not in that way, I meant you took the high road.”

     “Father!” The raucous guffawing would have made her jump if she were standing, or still capable of leaving the floor unaided.

     Biertgut leaned over and slapped Tract on the arm. “Good on you, old man! They told me Tract was sharp as a tack.”

     Tract rubbed his arm, his cheeks flushed red. “Yes, quite so…”

     They completed the rest of the ceremony without incident. Until E’greasior finished reading the ceremonial vows.

     “You may now give your bride with the traditional waist-chain.” His serpentine tongue flicked across the line of his lips in anticipation.

     “Waist-chain? What of a ring?” She pressed a hand against her compressed stomach and fingered the straining whalebone corset.

     “It’s just a tradition we have up North, my dear. Rings impede work, so we prefer belts for celebrations. More pragmatic.” He spun on his chair and gestured to the back of the hall.

[Guest denbu]

The Belt…Fits?

 

     As if the couple did not provide their guests enough fat to chew on that evening, the statuesque figure clad in full armor who marched down the aisle at Biertgut’s beckoning was another eccentric wrinkle in a wedding that bucked all convention. Under one arm swung a battered and charred leather bag of the type Descia had seen the carpenters and blacksmiths use to store their tools.

    The figure stopped at the foot of the altar, stood before Biertgut, stomped once, and bowed. “Your tools, sire,” the knight said, surprising all except Biertgut to hear a melodious woman’s voice ring within the helmet.

    Biertgut rolled his eyes. “We scarcely need more theatrics today, Huelva.” He took the bag, hopped off his seat, and poked through its contents, pulling out pliers, hammers, and half a dozen other assorted items.

     Huelva removed her helmet, releasing a waterfall of flame-red hair which tumbled across her shoulders as she shook her head. Struggling to turn on her seat and observe the woman in full, Descia was awed even still. She towered above them all, despite the height added from the platform.

     “My apologies. I did not intend to embarrass you,” she spoke as stiff as she stood.

     Biertgut was half submerged in his bag, like a child being gobbled in some beast’s maw. “You couldn’t embarrass me if you tried.” He crawled further in, tossing soot coated tools over his shoulder.

     “Here we are!” He pulled out a length of gold chain links and then dove back in and produced half a dozen precious gemstones of varying color and design, all the size of a man’s fist.

     “Glorious,” E’greasior whispered. Tract’s eyes grew wider as Biertgut extricated stone after stone, creating a small hill worth a castle. The two men glanced at each other, a pair of foolish grins between them. They whispered in excitement, emphasizing their hushed conversation with erratic gestures.

     But Descia was most enamored with Huelva. The warrior was unconcerned with gold or gems, but only had eyes for Biertgut. Her expression was peculiar as she watched his stubby legs kick. She felt an acute self-awareness fester in her stomach, which crawled into her chest and seized her heart, making her breathing even more strained. Huelva was all the things she wasn’t. To Descia, she seemed the most free woman she’d ever seen. A paragon of strength, standing in the wide stance of the sort she’d seen men in the training square assume during drills. Whereas Descia sat on a bench all to her own, a testament to court living, a dumpling stuffed to bursting with sugar and bread, wrapped in a bow of lace and silk.

     She struggled to twist herself toward the woman. “Are you the King’s guard?” Huelva gave a cock-eyed glance and a grunt.

     She was sweating again. Why was she so intimidated? Something about Huelva’s aura projected hostility like a stiletto trained on Descia’s throat, waiting for justification to plunge.

     “No,” Huelva said, not deigning to look at her.

     Descia frowned. “My apologies, but clearly you’re the King’s attendant. What is your role?”

     Huelva hooked her thumbs into her belt, a patinated leather strap, and yanked it forward with some showmanship, as if that were answer enough. Descia looked over to her father and E’greasior for some guidance, but they were enthralled in their boyish chattering. It might have been charming if she wasn’t desparate for some reassurance.

     “My role does not differ from yours,” Huelva said. “Even if I perform it differently.”

     “Pardon?” She shook her head, jowls wobbling. “I’m not sure I understand.”

     “Not his attendant, his field-wife.”

     “His what?” Descia never heard such a status before, but understood ‘wife’ well enough. “You’re married to the King?”

     Huelva rounded on her with a face like a ** of boiling oil. “Oh, aye. No different from you’re to be.”

     Descia threw her hands up, aware of her helplessness to defend herself from anything more threatening than a pudding bowl.

      “Aha! Here we go,” Biertgut said, pulling himself upright with an emerald the size of an orange. “The main adornment.” When he turned toward them and saw Huelva hulking over a cowering Descia, he sighed. “Would you behave?”

      “I—she.” Huelva pointed at Descia, but Biertgut’s expression was unwavering.

      “We talked about this,” Biertgut said. He tottered over and reached up to grip her simple leather belt, firm but not forceful. “I made this for you, and I know you understand that. It means we’re bound. Nothing will break between us,” he gestured toward Descia, “even if we add a few notches here and there for new accommodations.”

     His and Huelva’s eyes locked. The distance between them was several feet, but his meaning beamed, penetrating the warrior’s guard and melting her fierce expression in seconds.

     “Magni… I’m so ashamed,” she said, voice soft as velvet. “I felt inadequate. It’s been you and I for so long, and I just believed it would be that way longer.”

     “What is the greatest strength in battle, Huelva?”

     She hung her head. “Adaptability.”

     “Aye. We all need courage to face the unknowable. Today changes everything,” he placed his hand against her breastplate, “but also nothing. We are as we always were. Always will be. No matter how the wind blows or the way the world twirls.”

     She kneeled, still well above Biertgut’s head, engulfed his hand in both of hers and held it against her breastplate. They held each other’s eye as a tome passed between them. She rose, all vestiges of rage placated.

     “Magni, who is she? I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Descia demanded.

     Biertgut looked more like a bashful boy than King as he ground the stone beneath the toe of his boot.

     “It’s as she said. We’re man and wife. I wished there were a better way to have explained this.”

     “Before we wed would have been such a way!”

     “Do not speak as such to him!” Huelva said.

     “Allow me to explain,” E’greasior said, stepping between the two women, but once three sets of eyes clapped onto him, he skulked behind a bewildered Tract.

      “It’s a tradition of the North,” Biertgut said. “A wife for the throne, and one for the field. She oversees the army, the mines, all the North’s trade. A King shouldn’t trust anyone less than his wife to handle such matters. Huelva is my wife, and your equal in that respect. Neither of you will be more or less than the other, but it’s something we all must adapt to.” He reached a hand to Huelva, who took it, and the other to Descia. “I cannot promise your lives will be as they always have, nor do I seek such in my own. Change is pain, and pain is growth.”

     When Descia prepared for this ceremony, she covered all potentialities of a stuffy noble husband, the sneers of the court, E’greasior’s barbs, her father’s drunken stupor. Yet nothing could have prepared her for this torrent of twists. Pain and change. She knew both well by now, but growth was something she still sought. Perhaps this was the first step towards such.

      “You spoke of adaptability, Magni. I’ve undergone my own trials leading to this wedding, and one thing I’ve learned is that those who say nothing will change are always the first to leave once it does. So long as you stay true to your words this day, I will be true to you,” she turned to Huelva, “and you.” She took his hand, calloused yet tender.

     “Do you accept, Huelva?” Biertgut said.

      She twisted her mouth in sour displeasure, but extended her hand, palm up, to Descia, completing the oblong circlet.

     E’greasior’s rasping voice shattered the moment. “And what of the gemstone belt—er, the waist chain?” He asked still cowering behind Tract’s robes.

     Biertgut rolled his eyes as he released their hands. “Aye. How foolish of me to be lost in the moment. Descia, could you please stand so I may measure you?”

     She rocked about on her rear and flexed her legs to test their reserve strength, but all she received was a quivering in the core of her thighs and a deep ache in her hamstrings. “Could we perhaps do it seated?” Even suggesting she stand made her sweat.

     Biertgut looked her over and nodded. “I understand, but it’s impossible to do it right that way. I’m sorry to ask.”

     Huelva extended her hand once more. Her expression was neither mocking or cruel as Descia leaned onto the support. An arm like an iron band looped around her back and under her arms.

     “HNGGFFH!” Huelva howled as she towed Descia off the bench.

     Biertgut approached, holding the ream of golden links.

     “Hold the lead about where your bellybutton is.” He handed her the first chain and walked around her circumference as the chains “tik-tik-tikked”. He came back into view at her front, frowning.

     “Is something the matter?” Descia said. It was terrible to be measured in public like this, but what Biertgut said next was worse.

     “It’s just that I expected the belt to require… more. Not good or bad, just surprising is all.”

     She took a sharp breath. The corset. What would happen when she took it off later? Would the chain split her in half? Would he think her a deceptively vain pig for trying to conceal her true dimensions?

     “What?! How many links is it?” E’greasior screeched.

     “It’s as many as it needs to be,” Biertgut said. “To say a number wouldn’t be proper.”

     “Not proper?” E’greasior jabbed a crooked finger at the trio. “What mummery have you pulled, girl?”

     “None! I’m as I was this morning.”

     “Lies! You ate five trays of roast duck this morning and cleared the larders the night before. There’s no chance you’ve lost weight. Did you conspire with a witch? An alchemist? What’s the meaning of this?”

     Tract stepped forward. “Enough!”

      “Father?”

     “But your Majesty,” E’greasior said, his voice wheedling, far from the smooth confidence he often wielded around Tract. “It would be ill-advised to get an inaccurate measurement for this. Remember what we’ve discussed?”

     “I remember well enough, and I’ll need to lie with myself for what we’ve conspired. But avarice won’t blind me any longer.” He shook his head. “Let it be, E’greasior, or I’ll have you vacated from the hall if necessary. Let my girl have her moment with her husband.” He gave a look to Huelva, looming as a bulwark between Biertgut and Descia. “And her… wife.”

     “Avarice? You thought the belt was the dowery?” Biertgut asked.

     “Well, yes.” Tract Shrugged. “Why else use such a valuable trinket?” 

     Biertgut chuckled. “You’ve misunderstood, Tract. The recipient wears the belt at all times. Forever. To remove it or break its circuit is to null the oath.”

     “Forever?” E’greasior gibbered as he reached a quivering hand toward the gold.

     Descia fingered her middle in contemplation.

      Biertgut ignored them as he retrieved his tools. He placed a hand on Descia’s flank to adjust the chain. His brows quirked. He tapped a knuckle against her side, listening to the thud, saw the worry on her face, and winked. “Well, no reason it should be uncomfortable. I’m not stingy, so let’s add a few extras on for flex, eh? I passed by the feasting hall earlier, and looks like we have quite the meal ahead of us.”

     She breathed a sigh of relief. “How astute, Magni. Best to be adaptable.”

     Biertgut guffawed as the wheel of gold “tik-tik-tikked,” once again. “Now you’re getting it, Descia. Welcome to the family.” Biertgut fitted the final gem into the central buckle-socket. The emerald’s cast was luminous, strobing prismatic rays across the room as Descia adjusted the waist-chain. “This was the finest emerald we’ve yet excavated from the mountains. Fit for a dragon’s hoard. I chose it to match your eyes. Is the fit to your liking?”

     “It’s glorious.” She twirled about, allowing the array of various stones to catch their share of light.

     “I’d allow for nothing less. Shall we retire from all the excitement?”

     “Yes, I think my feet could use a rest.” To her surprise, Huelva was once more at her side, enduring as a marble pillar. Descia’s eyes misted as she laid a hand on Huelva’s arm and sagged against the other woman. “You can go on ahead, Magni,” she said before realizing her folly. She was so used to being the slowest in any group.

     “One thing I think we can both enjoy about this pairing is that neither of us is swift on our feet. We’ll have plenty of time to chat on our way back.”

      Descia was already sweating from the few tottering steps she’d made. “I’m… not much… for talk… while exercising.”

      He gave her hip a gentle pat. “That’s alright. Huelva’s not much for conversation either.”

     Huelva grunted as she stabilized the new Queen.

     He walked alongside his bride, whistling an asynchronous tune. She looked down at him through eyes stinging and blurred with sweat, knowing she looked about as fine as a ransacked city. “Magni?”

     He swiveled his eyes up to her and tooted an inquisitive note.

     “I know I’m not,” she puffed, “what you were expecting from me. Not what a Queen should be.”

      His brows furrowed. The first time all evening he looked rankled. “And where did you get such a gift?”

     “Which would that be?”

      “The one that lets you peer into a man’s mind. That’s quite the trick.” Before she could suck another breath for a response, he said, “Descia, you’re everything I heard the jewel of Bountia was—beautiful, clever, and kind. I’ve an eye for quality, and I’ve yet to get an evaluation wrong.”

      Is this more of his charm?

     “But I’ve changed so much these past years. I’m not who I was.”

     He studied her crestfallen face. “You’re not who you used to be, aye. But none of us are.”

      “Not metaphorically, Magni. I mean…” she fingered the neckline of her gown, picking at the lace. “I’m not too fat for you?” She looked at him, fearing her own boldness and what such a question might elicit.

     His face was contemplative as he closed his eyes and rocked his head.

     “Only if I’m too short for you,” he said, grinning.

      “Not at all!”

     “Then it’s settled. Ours will be a marriage without judgment. I find you enchanting, Descia. How much of you, or of what geometry, doesn’t complicate my feelings.”

     They walked in relative silence the rest of the way, Descia panting and moaning, Huelva grunting, and Biertgut whistling. When Biertgut reached up for Descia’s hand as they made their way, she didn’t resist. And that was the first day where the red on her cheeks was caused by something other than her size.

[Guest denbu]

More Ore

 

     Descia settled in well among the North, finding the people earnest and humble, a pleasant departure from the stuffy Nobles to the South, and the concern of the frigid Northern climate was overstated, considering her insulation was far better suited to the peaks than the humid valleys of Bountia.

     She held free rein over the hollowed mountain bastion they built the Northern Citadel within, and wasn’t lacking in love nor sustenance, and yet despite her heart and stomach being provided for in abundance, she found her days growing listless.

     A retinue of servants hand-fed her from the personal feast as she lounged on a bed-sized chaise. She draped an arm over her eyes as she feasted. “I just need more, Magni."

     Biertgut was overseeing the transport of the most recent mining excavation. “Sounds as if you’re soul-starved,” he said, inspecting a crumbling white rock which turned to dust under the slightest pressure. He clapped the residue off his hands into a cloud before waving the cart away.

     “I’m not much starved of anything.”

     “It’s not a jape, dear. You need something to throw yourself into. Everyone in the Citadel’s got a calling. Some carve, others miner, and I enjoy my tinkering. No one is told what they’re to do, just whatever calls to them. Find something you’re passionate about, and make that your pursuit.” He squeezed in beside her and leaned in for a kiss.

     She puckered her plump lips and received his bristles with a smile, but threw a blubbery arm back over her eyes in a dramatic flourish. “The only thing I do these days is eat, but I don’t know if I’d say it’s my ‘passion’.”

     He brushed her lips with a thumb. “Please cheer yourself, my Love. I live for your smiles.” He plucked a sliced apple wedge and brought it to her eager mouth. “A sweet for my sweet?”

     “You’re too good for me.” She devoured his offering, but after a single chew her eyes shot open as she smacked her lips. “What is that? What’s this flavor?” She looked at her feeding servants.

     They looked at their fruit plates and shrugged.

     “Just the usual fair, my Queen,” one said.

     “Oh, that’s me,” Biertgut said. “It’s this damned powder rock. Stuff’s got a funny taste. That junk’s been the only thing we’ve gotten from the new mine for months.”

     Descia heaved herself up, her body shimmering like a small lake, forcing Biertgut to grab onto a jutting roll for balance.

     “That ambrosia is from the mine?” She grabbed his hand and dragged her tongue across his palm in slow, measured strokes.

     “Please, Descia! Save that for closed doors.”

     Her tongue flicked between his fingers, along the tips, savoring the tingles in her mouth. The more she licked the deeper her moans. “Where’d you send the yield with this?”

     “Off to the incinerator.” He shrugged. “It’s where we send all the junk ore. What’s gotten into you?”

     “No! Bring it here. Are there other varieties?”

     He rubbed his chin. “Aye. There’s a soft pink stone that’s terribly sweet. Another one that’s sour. Some’re spiced. There’s a variety of’em. Like I said, it’s all we’ve been getting for months now. I was going to have the mine collapsed and move onto the Eastern shaft.”

     Ideas flittered into her mind as she considered possibilities. “Bring me the cook. I want to try something.”

     “What’ve you got brewing?” He gave her a crooked grin. “I love when you get that look.”

     She fluttered her eyes at him. “When I’m plotting?”

     “That,” he said, taking the plate from the servant beside her and dismissing the rest, “and when you’re hungry.” He pushed another fruit wedge against her lips. Her eyes rolled with euphoria.

     “Oh Magni,” she grabbed his lapels, “feed me something else.”

[Guest denbu]

The Future Is Fat

 

     Noble and commoner alike packed the market square outside the castle as the crowd meandered from one food stall to the next, like cattle rotating in the fields searching for the next patch to graze. Faireweather could never have envisioned a scenario where fine silk slippers would trudge through the mud alongside workman’s boots, or imagine nobles eating outside, and dropping food waste in their wake like so many hens pecking at scratch.

     But the world had changed in dramatic fashion these last few years.

     A bulging noblewoman tottered past, fistfuls of fried fare occupying both hands, and so she used her arm-length cleavage, packed so tight into an outgrown silk gown that her bosom pressed above and over the hemline, to hold a skewered hunk of seared meat. His lip curled in disgust as she took a chomp from her left, then a lick from her right, before leaning into her chest valley to take a hardy gnaw on the wagging cleavage-meat. She went on her way, happy as a hog, and unconcerned how the indentation of a fist-sized bellybutton on her swaying gut showed in a dress that no doubt cost more than a peasant’s cottage.

      A swat on his arm dragged his gape to his side.

     “Julius, don’t stare,” Vepia said. “You’ll make me jealous.”

     “I wasn’t staring! These people are a disgrace to their station.” He pointed to the hopefuls awaiting evaluations thronging the gates leading to Bountia’s castle. Guards lined the walkway, herding the crowd into order as they funneled them through the gate like a throat working around a lodged lump of half-chewed meat. “First, they herd us like cattle.” He shoved a drunken man who stumbled across their path back into the crowd. “And now they allow the peasants to walk among their betters.”

     “Calm yourself. You’re making a scene.”

     “Me? Look at the state of these people.” He pointed to the crowds clamoring at the food stalls.

     “I know! Everyone’s just enormous this year, but I have a good feeling about this Harvest Feast.” Vepia steered her bulk to an angle and jutted a hip. “How do I look?”

     He dropped his eyes at his wife’s feet and forced them back up to her double-chinned pout. She’s taken to this new trend like a sow to the trough. “You look fat as a bred cow, and that dress hasn’t fit since the Spring.” He shook a roll under her armpit. “And you’re popping out the top and sides.” He inserted a finger between two stacked rolls on her stomach, surprised by how many knuckles submerged. “One more pastry and it’ll shred.”

     He saw much of the same among the mixed crowd of nobles and commoners. The allure of the prestigious Harvest Feast’s influence extended as far and wide as any of the bloated waists and asses present.

     Vepia gasped, pressing a hand against her bulging bosom. “Julius! I’m glad you noticed.” She leaned in with a grunt and kissed him, transferring a residue of grease onto his mouth. “I’ve been trying harder this year. It’s been so humiliating. We live in Bountia and we’re one of the last to be granted entry.”

     He spit and wiped his mouth. “Why even bother? I’ve been to dozens of these. It’s nothing but country folk bragging about whose patch grew the biggest squash or what hen laid the most eggs.” He crossed his arms.

     Vepia pinched his cheek and gave it a little wiggle. “Aw! Don’t pout, my prince. I know you’re jealous about missing out on all of that boring old man chatter.”

     “Stop that!” He shook her prodding fingers away. “It’s not old man chatter! Kings from the 4 corners come to this to discuss matters that shape the world. Treaties are signed, borders moved, peace brokered! I’ve a claim to the Bountia throne, as you know.” He straightened his sleeves and postured.

     “Yes, yes. The Faireweather’s did something or other 500 years ago.”

     He scowled, raising a finger to lecture her.

     “But you went before it became such a big gathering.” She gave a petulant stomp and wobble. “I’ll just die if we don’t make it in this year. I’ve been hearing so many rumors about the Queen’s fare. There’s nothing else that tastes like what she brings each year.”

     He pinched the fat swath under her chin. “Are you drooling?”

     “I just need to taste it! I can’t stand being left out when all the other ladies get in. If we don’t, we’re just going to end up sitting at home for the next week while everyone else is feasting. Again!”

     “You could use a week off from eating.”

     She giggled and swatted at him. “You’re silly, Julius. You know you can’t make it in unless you can last the entire week. I have to build myself up for it. Besides,” she twiddled her fingers at a flock of enormous women waving across the square, “robust figures are fashionable.”

     He gagged as the herd of women stamped off, their hips colliding off one another’s in a perpetual jiggle. So much lost potential. How’d the world get to this point? When did madness overtake order and reason?

     They worked their way through the food stalls toward the group being processed at the gate. Bellies, busts, and butts bumped and bounced them along a hallway of obesity. Everywhere he could see, there was a celebration to hedonistic glutting and gormandizing. Servers manning the market stalls lining the square haggled with customers serving a variety of fried goods and fruit pies. One overrun stall’s sign read: “FRY ALL—We’ll fry ANYTHING’.” Noble men and ladies toddled about, squirting grease and jam onto fineries with no regard to appearance.

     “Fried HOG!” hollered a server, working his way through the crowd. “I say I’ve gots HAWG here! Cooked in its own laaard!” There was a frenzy as coins clinked into his cup and fat paws grubbed at what remained.

     “Just shameful,” Faireweather said. “Look how they scramble.”

     “Whass’ dat, Boolus?” Vepia was shoving a half-dozen cubes of the crisped meat into her mouth, her cheeks bulging as she chewed.

     His wife’s gluttony was becoming too much for him. Made his stomach churn each time she adjusted her clinging dress, or pulled fabric from the stack of rolls sagging off her waist, only for it to snap back as she shimmied along. Heat surged up his neck, watching her swish grease-stained hands along the front, leaving smears and fingerprints.

     He hadn’t married her for the conversation, but now what was he left with? Each night he did his best to beat back the aggressive lust that overcame her after an intense feeding, but resisting her was like fighting off a bear, and she always got more… forward, around the Harvest too. He shuddered, thinking about how she would be tonight.

     That’s it! I’m done with the indignity of it all. He raised a stiff finger in her face, prepared to berate her. He was going to give her a full serving of what he thought of her porcine body.

     “Vepia! Clear the fat from your ears and listen here—”

     “Save it, Julius,” she said, not looking at him. “Look! The crowd’s thinning at the gate. I think they’re turning more people away this year. Let’s hurry, we might get lucky.” She grabbed him round the wrist and waddled forward, yanking him along as she cleaved a path through the crowd, bouncing competitors away with a flurry of belly and breast.

     They closed in on a whimpering man pleading with the gatekeeper.

     “I’m sorry,” the guard said, “but you don’t meet the requirements for this year’s feast.”

     “No! Look again, see?” the man said, jostling his gut. “I’m just as hungry as any others and twice as big as the last fellow you let in! I bring gifts for the King and Queen, they’d be interested in what I can offer.”

     “No amount of gold will gain you entry, Lord Unctuous,” the guard said, unmoved by the desperate display. “Move or be moved, Sir! Next.”

     Faireweather shook his head in disbelief as the nobleman waddled off toward the food stalls, deflated. “That was Avrous Unctuous.”

     “Who?” Vepia asked as she shoved the last few cubes of cubed pork fat into her maw in a last-minute effort.

     “He owns docks on half of the continent. He’s one of the richest men in this hemisphere. He used to sit on the elder’s council a few years back.”

     “Rich men don’t like to spend money. Must have been skipping on food this year.” She surged forward, tugging her husband along like a wayward child. “Yes, hello. How do?” She thrust her chest and stomach toward the guard, forcing him to take a step back. “We are Lord and Lady Faireweather. Perchance there’s some seating left for old friends of the Queen?”

     “Hmmm.” The guard cast a scrutinizing eye over Vepia’s rotundity. “May I?” He gestured toward her stomach.

     “By all means.”

     He hefted her stomach by the lowest, drooping roll and allowed it to slap back down against her thighs with a clap. “Very good density there, Miss. You’d be shocked how many stuffed gowns and shirts we get.”

     “Oh, how awful! Isn’t that so, Julius?” She slapped Faireweather’s arm to get his attention.

      “Huh? Oh, uh, quite. Yes, one of the greatest tragedies of our time.”

     The guard looked Faireweather up and down, frowning.

     “Step forward, sir. Prepare for inspection.”

     Before Faireweather could object, a commotion at the rear of the crowd disrupted all proceedings. Rhythmic clomping announced a new arrival.

     A unit of guards marched, pushing the crowd into the margins.

     “Make way! Clear a path! Queen’s carriage! Make way for the Queen!”

     The crowd split, moving the fastest any of them had the entire day. Two columns of horses, 4 deep, stamped their way toward the gate, pulling an immense carriage covered in an elaborate display with gold filigree and diamonds. The crowd roared, reaching outstretched grips of food as an offering to the procession.

     “Queen Descia!”

     “Bountia welcomes you home, grace!”

     “Please! Let me in, Majesty! I have urgent matters to discuss!”

     One of the carriage windows rolled down as a stout gloved arm waved a turkey leg like a scepter at the crowd. The crowd cheered before the arm withdrew. A moment later the plump hand reemerged, turkey-scepter in tow, but this time with a monstrous bite exposing the white meat. The crowd’s roar grew tenfold as they each took a bit of their own food in tribute.

     The retinue of armed guards marching alongside shoved any among the crowd, overcome by desperation to touch the carriage or even the hand.

     Faireweather looked on in awe as the horses drew near the gate, but instead of passing through, the coachman reined the horses in, leaned back toward the carriage, listening to a hushed voice, and nodded. The carriage rolled to a stop right before Fairweather and Vepia. The coachman hopped down and ran to the side, opening the door and pulled out a small ramp.

     A diminutive man in simple garb climbed out and hopped onto the ramp. “Let me get the other door, dear.”

     He released a hidden latch, which sprung the entire side wall of the carriage up like a folding falcon’s wing.

     Clad in a sheer white stocking, a leg near as wide as a whale’s fin emerged from the carriage’s interior, slow and laborious. Its twin followed, and at the ends of each were feet round as bread loaves, stuffed into shoes fit to burst. The entire carriage sagged as the shoes stamped onto the ramp, which began its immediate protest as the wood buckled and steel squealed like a dying thing. An assault of prismatic rays emerged forth from the darkness of the interior’s confines, forcing Faireweather to shield his eyes. Even through the blur he saw a white mass fill the opening of the carriage’s opening before it began the slow descent to the ground. Like a cloud. Grunts and heavy breathing announced the Queen’s arrival.

     “Lord Faireweather, what a pleasant surprise,” a husky voice panted.

     He lowered his arm, revealing his distasteful face at the spectacle before him—his Queen.

     Somehow, Descia had grown even more massive over the years. How it was possible for a woman to be as wide as she had grown was beyond his comprehension, but he figured the world’s scholars would study her remains for years to come.

     “My Queen,” he said through grit teeth and bowed.

     She held out her hand. He clamped his teeth further as he held it, surprised at its weight alone, and kissed its pliable surface.

     “I haven’t seen you at any of the Feasts these last few years,” Descia said. “You so used to love being among the movers and shakers in court way back. You remember what they say, Julius? Once you stop showing your face at these things, you’re forgotten like last year’s harvest.” She chortled.

     “Quite so, my Grace,” he said, still bowing.

     “Come now, no need for such formality. We used to be so close. Give me a hug before I’m on my way. Father should be down to meet me and Magni soon.”

      He swayed on his feet, dizzied at the prospect of touching her body, but knowing to offend her would surely mean the dissolvement of his estate, if not worse. He lifted his head, gaze passing her fat feet up to ankles, which rose straight into pillar-like calves. His eyes lingered on her waist, awed by the dragon’s hoard of jewels and gold hanging from her chain. He looked at her face, so round he’d never be able to recognize her as the girl he almost married.

     She smirked at him, causing her cheeks to fold into jowls and her chin to waterfall over into the next fold on her neck. He hesitated as she reached out to him. She was twice as wide as him, the fattest person he’d seen at the gathering today. The biggest living thing he’d seen up close.

     She curled her finger at him the way she’d done so many times after a romp in the hay after a day of hard riding. In that same way, he remembered. The one that said ‘Come for another’. He struggled to remember what her body looked like back then. It felt like a lifetime ago, although it was only a few years past. His mind conjured the hazed memory of the tight taper of her waist resting over the firm, but full backside straddling a saddle. But the memory was being corrupted by the reality before him. A bare figure materialized nestled among a pile of hay, calling to him as a ghost from the past, but as he approached, he saw the body was not resting on the pile, it was the pile. Too terrible to embrace. His mind urged his legs to flee, but her presence snared his body in stasis, caught in a moment that seemed to stretch to the infinite.

     A shove from behind sent him careening into the awaiting embrace, like a fly spiraling into the spider’s web. “Don’t be rude, Julius!” Vepia called out.

     Traitor! He cursed his wife in that moment as he stumbled forward, unable to stop, into Descia’s grasp. The pliable wall of flesh he fell into absorbed the shock and dispersed it throughout. Despite Faireweather being a full head taller, the force did not move Descia even an inch.

     “That’s a good boy,” the Queen said, wrapping her arms over his back and squeezed.

      He sunk into her. Deeper into the void until even the yammering of the crowd faded, enveloped by folds which molded around him. His crotch and abdomen pressed tight into her stomach and hips. He wrapped begrudging arms around her back, lacing them through her rolls. She smelled of lilac and fried dough. The canyon between the top of her ass and the avalanche of rolls along her lower back enveloped his arms. Something about the sensation of being swaddled by this behemoth was stirring. His tension lessened as he stopped resisting and breathed deep the enticing scents emanating off her. For a bizarre moment, he felt safe within her embrace. Secure.

     And then it was over. She pulled away from him, her face moving from surprise to a mischievous smirk as she looked down at his belt and then up at his face.

     “Well then, Lord Faireweather. Some stallions still remember how to sprint, eh?”

     He blushed as he straightened his pants. “It’s a pleasure as always to see you well, Descia.”

      She quirked her eyebrow. “Do not get overly familiar, Lord Faireweather.”

     “I, uh, ahem. It’s natural, uh. I didn’t mean to, uh.”

      A sharp whistle at their feet brought his eyes lower again. It was the King, Biertgut, looking up at Faireweather. “Oh aye, I remember this pup. Sure missed out on a good thing.” He elbowed Faireweather in the leg as he laughed. “Come now, Love. I see Tract coming down the road now.”

     “Yes, we should head on now,” Descia steered herself forward, but stopped halfway. “One moment, Magni. And who’s this delectable darling?”

     “That’s my wife, Lady Fair —”

     “I’m Vepia, Grace! Pardon, if I don’t bow, but,” she drummed her gut with a slap, releasing a bassy thump, “I’ve been eating well on the way toward the gate today.”

     “Is that so?” Descia said, her eyes crawling over the well-fed beauty as a predator would a plump calf. She flicked them to Faireweather and smirked. “Why don’t you join me and the King on our way up to the castle? You can sit next to me. I’ll give you a little sneak of some of what I’ve prepared this year.”

     Vepia squealed in delight as she tottered over, hooking hers and Descia’s arms.

     “What about me? She’s my wife!” Faireweather called out as the two behemoths turned to toddle off.

     “Hm, well, you come in through the gate, Lord Faireweather. The guard will inspect you and mayhap I’ll see you at the feast this year, but if not, well, there’s always the next. You really should put some meat on those bones, by the by. One must keep up with the times, right?”

      He watched the women chat their colossal hips smashing together as they swung. His current wife and the woman who would have made him King. The past and present converging in unexpected ways. Vepia had never looked so small in comparison. He turned to the guard with a sheepish grin. “As you clearly saw, the Queen and I—”

     “Next in line!”

     “But!”

     “Move or be moved, Julius.” The guard’s menace was palpable. The man’s eyes spoke of a longing for violence barely constrained that turned Faireweather’s spine to jelly. “Next, please. How do you do, Madam? Mind if I inspect?”

      Faireweather wandered off, confused and despondent. He sat on a hay bale, head in hands, and wondered when the world had left men like him behind.

     “Don’t let it sour you. There are those among the capital who have distaste with the current ruling family,” a voice wheezed beside him.

     He jerked toward the voice, but found only shadows. A skeletal man with a yellow pallor stepped out from the gloom.

     “Who are you? And what do you mean?”

     The man looked so familiar, but he wasn’t sure from where he’d seen such a ghoulish face. That he was wearing what looked to be a threadbare robe covered in horse manure didn’t aid his memory any further.

     “You don’t remember me, do you?” The strange man stepped into the light and cackled.

     A flicker of realization raced across his mind. “Greasier?” Then the smell hit him. “Gods, man! You reek.”

     E’greasior’s face deformed with rage. “E’greasior! You dolt. And yes, I’ve been working in the shadows toward this day. We can overthrow that fat bitch for all the humiliation she has piled atop us who don’t subscribe to her rule.” He spat.

     “You’re saying there’s a resistance?” Faireweather’s heart soared. “You know, the Faireweather family has a more legitimate claim on the Bountia throne—”

     “Yes, yes. I’ve heard that all before. It’s dubious. At best. Regardless, we must organize!”

     “Count me in, old man. How many are there? Where are you all headquartered?”

      “You’re the first, but we can meet in the goat barn after midnight. It’s when my shift ends.”

      “Excuse me? Aren’t you Tract’s aide? Or do you have an equally hideous brother who works in the castle? I’d rather talk to that one.”

     The stable master stomped over. “GREASY! The Queen’s horses here need stabling! What’re you doing slacking off?”

    E’greasior cowered in the man’s shadow. “Yes, sir! Sorry, Sir! I’m on it,”

     “You should have been on it. We’ve got stables that need mucking out, and if there’s any by tonight that ain’t clean, you know which one you’ll be sleeping in. Now get.”

      E’greasior scurried off, scooping to grab a pitchfork and bucket on the way.

     “Damned worthless help I get these days,” the stable master groused and walked off.

     Faireweather walked back into the market square, unsure what he’d just witnessed.

     “Fried HAWG! Get yer pig cooked in its own laa-rd!”

     He waved the man down. “Over here! Let me get some of that.”

     Maybe next year, he thought as he bit into the greasy cube.

 

End

[Guest denbu]

And that's it folks. Thanks for those of you who read and stuck with it. I appreciate all of you. 

[46400839]

This was probably one of the best stories I've ever read on here. Pacing was excellent and this was one of the few weight gain stories where I was eagerly refreshing the page every day, not just for more fat content but because I was genuinely invested in what was happening. It would have been nice to see more of Magni, Descia and Huelva's married life but considering how long this story is already, perhaps I'm just being greedy. 

 

Excellent job.