Title: Lady Paramount
A/N: written for FE drabble on lj, to the challenge of "Noble." It was the round, too~
Lady paramount (Archery), the lady making the best score.
-Webster's Revised Unabridged Dictionary (1913)
It wasn't all fairytales, being whisked away by some handsome noble. The nobles were frankly, quite tedious and it made Louise want the presence of her husband so much more – if only because he was the only one of the lot who wasn't an arrogant blowhard. Louise did not like the dresses, the itchy lace and the too-tight collars that were the fashion of the day.
Most proper ladies did not take archery as a pastime, let alone a way of life. They did not proclaim to guard their husband, nor did they have any say in the doings of their husband and lord. Louise did not let this mire her down. She would not submit, in the end, she herself would change them. Archery would become fashionable for a time. Bows too, would become the sign of the wildflower Pent had plucked up from some hick town, a place smelling of cow dung and dust and mountain air; a place so small as to be a footnote on most maps. They stayed indoors where the musty air was diffused by potpourri scents which never quite captured the aroma of Spring coming onto the mountains, or the smell of after rain. They worked on their needlepoint and gossiped, but the servants always had the best gossip for they never sugarcoated it and gave it with all its bawdy truth.
She was an emblem, a fairy story come true. A commoner taken up by a high ranking man. They were the things girl's dreams were made of. Even the noble ladies couldn't completely scorn her, for she was a romantic figure come to life. But even if they at first disdained her, no one could ignore her. She was like staring at the sun, all brightness and humor. Some secretly (or not so secretly) emulated her loose braids and carefree ways, as if they could appropriate her own buoyancy and hang it in their hair as jeweled pins. The results always came a little too strained, one could simply not capture the sun as a hair-bauble.
She learned how to dance, and with time, her thick country accent lessened to the more genteel Etruian noblesse inflections. Her edges might have softened, but there was always a trace of that burning day, that wildness within her. No noble lesser or greater could take that spark from her, for it belonged to herself and Pent alone. It was their fire from the heavens, their wound about world boundaries that were strung as taut as a bowstring. She would don dresses for her lord, and take the tiresome dealings of the nobility, but she would never quite bend to them. She lived in this world via promise and pact and contract for her lord alone, nothing more and nothing less.