Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Okay, so no one will ever read this, but if for some reason someone stumbles across this fic... hey!!

But also:

**WHEN I SAY "MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH" I'M LITERALLY JUST DOING IT CAUSE IT'S TRUE... BUT I DOUBT ANYONE WILL REALLY CARE**

Chapter Text

Upon opening her eyes Ilaria was met with a commotion in the hallway beyond the door.  However, this was not unusual for a morning in Ferrara.  No, Ilaria lived in the Este Castle where it was always bustling with jobs to be done, events to be held, and people to be met. 

Without fully opening her eyes, or without fully realising where her fate would lead her Ilaria reached for her glass of sparkling water.  With delicate hands brought the cool edge to her slightly chapped lips.  One sip was all it took.  As the refreshing liquid passed down her throat, Ilaria moved to place the cup back on the sturdy surface of her mahogany bedside table beside the lamp with ancient frills with red and gold detailing along the edges.

Through bleary, pale blue eyes, Ilaria rose shakily from her plush four-poster bed as she did every morning, to take in the astonishing view of the city starting from the moat encapsulating the castle.  Her sight was met with startlingly sapphire blue water to the bright coloured buildings surrounding the outskirts of town. 

Suddenly, Ilaria’s vision began to swarm with black dots, as if a thick blanket of dark smoke was enveloping her into its folds.  Her hearing became a soft hum.  Disjointed buzzing.  Before she had the chance to panic, she was rapidly losing consciousness, and then once again became a crumpled heap among the burgundy silk of her bed sheets.

~~~

“…will wake soon, you must leave immediately Duke Mazzini!”

“I will not leave until you have done what I have asked of you, Dario!  This is my wife; she has humiliated me, and I will not stand for it any longer!”

As Ilaria slowly started to regain cognizance, she realised that she was no longer in the comfort of her own bed but sprawled carelessly on the bone-chilling stone floor of what could only be the dungeons of the castle.  Gradually, Ilaria’s heartrate began to rise until her heart was pounding painfully on her ribcage, just begging them to fracture.  She was most definitely not supposed to be here.  She had to escape, but how? 

Before long, the argument between the duke and the other unrecognisable voice, Dario, had died down until the air was filled with only the breathing of its occupants and thick anticipation. 

Hesitant footsteps made their way over until they were mere centimetres from Ilaria’s stock-still form.  The sound of crisp leather crunching was the only warning Ilaria had before there was harsh fingers being dragged through her once softly flowing auburn hair and then tugged sharply to stare into the steely, slate grey eyes of her crouching husband. 

“You should have known you would be punished for such unbecoming behaviour, my love”, the false calm in his voice enough for her heart to jump out from her throat completely. 

“I- But no, I nev- I never did anything Luca!  You must have misunderstood, I-”

“No?” Luca cut across sharply.  “I have simply misunderstood, you say.  Well, let me see then.  Ever since I have had the pleasure of marrying you, Ilaria,” he sneered, “you have failed to be what a wife should be.  You seek out the praise and flattery of other men, while you had me.  You treat gifts and tokens and gestures from other men the same as you do me.  Me, from my most noble lineage and them, they are nobody.  So, why, darling, pray tell, what is the use in having a wife who is not wholly mine and devoted to me?” 

“Luca, no, you have it all wrong, I swear it!  I was- am all yours!” She choaked on a sob.  “I was merely being polite.  You must believe me Luca!  Please, just trust me-”

But before Ilaria could finish her pleads, another set of footsteps cut her off in her ramblings.  As she went to move to turn her head it was yanked forcefully by another set of rough, stark white hands, with one of them clenching something resembling an off-white-coloured handkerchief. 

In her peripheral, she could just make out her husband staring unblinkingly with a look of anticipation and something close to unmasked eagerness gleaming in his eyes. 

The hand holding the piece of cloth began to move unflinchingly towards her face which was now sure to be the colour of sour milk as she trembled with fear.  The smell was acrid and somewhat metallic as it was hauled closer and closer, until finally it was settled forcefully covering her mouth and nose. 

As Ilaria’s vision started to blacken for the second time that day, the last words she heard, was a muffled, “Rest well, my love”.

~~~