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moonshine-nightlight · 2 years

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Nothing’s Wrong with Dale - Part Six

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

However, this might prove harder than you originally thought.

Fantasy, arranged marriage, malemonsterxfemalereader, M/F

Story Status: Complete

AO3: Nothing’s Wrong with Dale Chapter 6

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

You don’t realize how tired you feel, going over endless wedding details inside the meeting room, until you notice how restless Dale has gotten.

While he’s always moving in small ways—shifting his weight, running his fingers along objects near him—after hours of debating what flowers should be ordered and arranged in what manner, what songs should be chosen, seating charts to be agreed upon, he has clearly reached his limit. Thinking back, he had similarly begun to get anxious this morning, but that lesson ended sooner.

While not feeling it nearly to the extent Dale is, you realize you too have begun to feel rather cooped up and sore from sitting at the same table for so long, bent over charts and papers. Since Dale is quickly reminding you of your youngest nephew when he desperately needs to relieve himself, you petition for a rest to step away from the arrangements.

Dale leaps to his feet nearly as soon as the words are out of your mouth. “A lovely idea.” He reaches a hand down to you, an offer to help you to your feet he offers thoughtlessly these days, his eyes on his grandparents. You appreciate his instinctive manners more than you expect, along with how agreeable he is to your suggestion. “I believe a chance to stretch our legs is just what we need before we tackle our next task.”

Grandmother smiles. “Of course, I forget how full of energy you young ones are.” She gestures out the large windows to the east garden. “Take your fiance for a stroll, sweetheart. My eyes would appreciate a rest even if my legs would not.”

You’re hopes to talk with Dale alone, for even a few minutes, are put on hold when Grandfather stands as well saying, “I think I shall accompany you.”

“Of course,” you murmur even as Dale tucks your arm under his to lead you outside. He’s cooler than you expect, even through the layers of his sleeves, but firm.

When you step onto the grounds, the breeze is welcome, even with the clouds reminding you of earlier in spring rather than how you think the weather should be this far into Pentary. You relax as you leave the more stifled indoor atmosphere. Dale must agree because you can feel tension leak out of him as you begin to leisurely walk toward one of the garden paths.

Grandfather’s reminisces about his own wedding, and how much simpler it was back then, are interrupted when the head gardener comes up to ask him a question. You’re mildly surprised when he waves you and Dale to continue on your stroll while he speaks with the man. Perhaps he really had just wanted to take a walk himself instead of some outdated idea of chaperoning.

It’s perfectly acceptable for a betrothed couple to take a walk alone together, but you’d never been particularly inclined with the original Dale. A slight shiver of nerves—good or bad, you can’t tell—races down your spine at the thought of doing so with this Dale. And you want to know what he’s like on his own, without the others around, because if you are married, you’re going to be seeing a lot of him alone. You want to know if you’re making a mistake, going through with this. You want to find that out sooner rather than later.

“I confess, I had not been aware of how many details and decisions needed to be made for a wedding,” Dale says. He’s turned his face towards the sun, reminding you of a cat, and you notice his skin, which had gotten alarmingly pale during his sickness, appears to be well on its way back to its healthy golden luster. He turns to look down at him and his eyes are the least dilated they’ve ever been allowing the blue in them to almost glow. “It truly is quite a lot.”

You smile shyly up at him, glad this Dale doesn’t mind admitting to not knowing something, even as minor as this. “In truth, neither had I. I’ve only been to a handful, and most of them as a child since my siblings are older. It seemed far more effortless then.” It seemed that, especially when you were younger, everything merely happened to you, around you. Your place as the youngest, as the sickly one, as the extraneous one, meant you had very little control over any part of your life.

You used to think if you were cooperative and obedient, that you would be good enough. That your family would let you find yourself and discover you were your own person. That they might express some semblance of interest in you. You eventually came to realize that wouldn’t be the case, but you had no idea what to do about it at the time. As you grew older and healthier, you managed to carve out small pieces of your own autonomy—snuck time for people you liked or hobbies you enjoyed—but you mostly played your part.

Your betrothal to Lord Dale of Northridge had seemed like the best opportunity to start anew. An opportunity to arrange things as you liked them, to have someone who was forced to look at you. You hadn’t been wrong exactly, and Dale had seen you to some extent, for all he was clearly only mildly satisfied with what he saw. You’d adjusted your plans accordingly though, not given up on them.

So what if your husband was spoiled and heavy-handed? Plenty of noblemen were, it's not as though that was a true surprise. You’d still thought this was the best way forward. He’d probably have played the part of a decent husband and Lord for a bit. As he took over Northridge’s management and married life, you expected him to treat the endeavor like a child with a new toy, likely long enough for the two of you to take the reins of Northridge from his grandparents and for you to get with child, before he grew bored and resumed spending his time in pursuit of his own hobbies.

And that had been fine.

Not ideal, but fine. Grandmother and Grandfather Northridge were quite lovely, managing the Northridge holdings would have given you plenty to do, and you wanted your own family.

Strange how so much and yet so little could change in the matter of a week or so.

“Doesn’t it?” Dale says thoughtfully, breaking through your thoughts. “I barely noticed any of these details,” he waves his free hand vaguely in the air to his left, “and now it's all I can think of. They certainly act as though these small decisions are of the utmost importance. Do you think the choice of flowers has the potential to ruin the rest of our lives?”

The glint in his eyes betrays his opinion and your smile widens. “Of course, my lord. How could it not?”

“Quite.” Dale grins in response, guiding you around a little pond. “Do you have any notion of how much is left to decide today?”

You consider his question. “I believe we settled on the music and therefore what’s left is to decide on what food we’ll be serving,” you say slowly. Grandmother is the one running the show so to speak, but she’s been soliciting both yours and Dale’s opinions. It’s novel to have your opinion requested, instead of being told what to do or to sneak your own choices where it couldn’t be noticed. It’s… really nice, actually. “The clothiers will arrive tomorrow so we do not have to do anything with wedding clothes today.”

“I’m looking forward to that, actually,” Dale says with a cheeky smile. It’s interesting to see where he and the original Dale overlap. You had noticed that he was dressed quite every time he appeared at dinner, but you thought that had more to do with trying to make himself look healthier or more like what the original Dale would have worn. Today, he’s wearing a very richly embroidered dark blue jacket with a matching embossed waistcoat that fits him quite well.

“I’m not sure I am,” you admit. “There’s a bit more tailoring and poking when it comes to women’s layering than men’s.”

Dale’s eyes draw down your form, taking in your dress and lingering on your skirts—layered with stiffer fabric to give them a fuller appearance. “I imagine so.” His gaze returns to your face, but he takes his time doing so in a manner that makes you breathless for reasons you can’t determine. “I’m sure we can find the right style to suit both our figures.”

“Right,” you reply, having lost your train of thought in the face of his attention.

“I hope the other events Grandmother wants to have don’t require a similar number of decision making,” Dale says, his eyes drifting back to the garden as he turns you down the next path. “We’ll still be planning by the time they finish.”

You follow his lead, the reminder of such social events snapping your focus back to the conversation at hand. “I’ve no idea how many she finishes to even have.” Your grip on his arm tightens with your anxiety. Your teeth tighten around your bottom lip. “I hope she doesn’t wish to have more than three or four, like Steward Bilmont said. I—”

A tug on your arm cuts off your words as Dale flails with a small yelp of surprise. Your hand fastens over his own as he falters, ankle turning as a brick from the path dislodges and falls into the small stream.

“Oh!” You pivot, reaching out for his other hand and trying to keep him from ending up in the water. His hand latches on to your arm after a second of wild swings through the air. His hand is strong, fingers like iron as they hold onto you accompanied by small pin pricks of pressure you don’t understand. Paying his strength no mind, you widen your stance to better steady him. In only a few seconds, you’re able to walk you both back a few steps onto the rest of the path.

When he seems able to stand on his own, you let go with one hand to crouch down and pick up his cane. Handing it back to him, you ask, “Are you alright?”

He accepts the cane back almost sheepishly, seemingly more embarrassed by the incident more than anything else. It's the first time you’ve seen his cheeks this dark—neither Dale seemed particularly inclined to shame. Like so many, he has the same inclination when not feeling up to snuff—pretend like you are regardless. No one ever likes to acknowledge their own limits, but you’d been sick enough that you had no choice but to recognize them and act accordingly. Of course, it's possible Dale doesn’t know what his limits are these days.

“Yes, sorry about that,” his voice is purposely light. “Lost my footing there. Obviously I should have been using this,” he brandishes the cane, “with my other hand since I had you to keep me steady on this side. Thank you.”

“You should still sit down,” you say, ignoring the brush off—too aware of how he hasn’t actually let go of your arm, that there’s a fine tremor going through him. You begin ushering him in the direction of the shaded bench you’d likely been heading towards anyways. “You’ve really only been getting up for meals the past few days,” you fuss. “Best not to overexert yourself.”

“I don’t need to sit, I’m not truly injured,” he protests, but he lets you guide him where you please. As you pull him down to the bench with you, his voice is firmer as he assures you, “I’m fine.”

“Even so,” you say, acknowledging his words, but encouraging him to stay seated as you study his ankle. It doesn’t look broken or sprained—his boot is high enough that it should have kept it relatively straight despite the ground shifting beneath it. “You don’t want to set your wonderful progress back, now do you?”

“Of course not.” His indulgent tone brings your eyes back to his face where you can see some amusement in his eyes. “I appreciate your concern, sana.”

“What does that mean?” you find yourself blurting out the words without thinking. When his eyes brows raise, you swallow, committing to the question. “Sana”, I mean.” It sounds almost like an endearment, but that can’t be right and you need to know, need to know if it’s an insult or just means betrothed or whatever else so you can stop thinking about what he keeps calling you, so you can stop thinking it's more than it is.

Dale adjusts himself more comfortably on the bench, leaning his can against the seat and spreading one arm along the back behind you. He hums thoughtfully, “Hm, I’m not sure there is a precise translation.” He rubs his chin, eyes unfocused, as he thinks. Not ‘doctor’, but perhaps more akin to ‘healer’. It’s not strictly referring to a profession, more of an attitude and a facility for healing, beyond the physical or the chemical.”

You blink. “Oh.”

“Your help with my recovery, even though I did ask nor did anyone expect you to do anything, your focus and your teas—the advice given to the cooks for my meals,” he trails off with a shrug. “It just seemed to fit.” His eyes sharpen back on yours and he straightens at whatever expression must be on your face. “Does it offend you? Because I can—”

“No!” you say hastily. You try to order your thoughts, because you’d felt a little flattered before, when you weren’t confused or assuming the worst. He can’t get the wrong impression. “No, I don’t mind.” You tug on the bottom of one sleeve before you stroke it so it lays flat again. “No one’s ever said anything like that about me before, that’s all.” You push some of your curls out of your eyes. “I was the sickly one, not the one who helped others get better.”

“Well, I feel as though you should receive credit for the rapidity of my convalescence,” Dale says firmly.

“I have no formal training,” you protest. “I’m not—”

“You have true experience, self-won,” Dale interrupts with surprising vehemence. “What could be more valuable?”

You flush and look down. Whenever your family spoke of your illnesses and recovery, they spoke as if it were down to luck and your doctor’s expertise that you survived. And you think that’s true, to some extent, but regardless they don’t even seem to think about what it must have been like for you. They act as though you slept through the first half of your life. But you didn’t. You remember quite a lot of the experience and you actively managed your health and conditions as much as you were able to. It's remarkably validating to hear Dale acknowledge that. “I suppose,” you allow.

A finger tilts your face up so that your eyes meet his intent, always so intent, gaze. “So it doesn’t bother you?”

You shake your head slowly. “No, it doesn’t.”

“Good.”

His hand drops away from your face. There’s no tension left in his body as he settles loosely against the back of the bench, tilting his face to the sun, obviously content and delighted in this beautiful afternoon. He doesn’t seem to notice how you watch him, although you think he must be aware of your scrutiny on some level. “It was so dark for so long,” he murmurs. “How I’ve missed the sun.”

It had been cloudy and rainy since your arrival a few weeks ago and then Dale had shut himself in his chambers with no light, but you don’t think that’s what he means. You’d never really thought about it, but the Depths were probably quite dark. You’d thought it must not be to demons and spirits, but maybe it was dark even to them. You lean back against the bench as well, and try not to think about differently this whole day would have gone, if the Dale you first met was here instead.

One part of the conversation from earlier nags at you. “About your friend…”

“Hm?”

“The one from Vaomen,” you say slowly, wondering if this is the best way to broach the subject.

Dale stiffens immediately, so perhaps it was not. His eyes pop open, find your own instantly. “What about him? He is of no consequence now.”

His voice is flat and hard in a way that's unsettling in how different he’s spoken before. You regret bringing this up, but there’s no way out but through. “I know Grandmother is rather… set in her ways. But perhaps there’s another way your friend could come. I could—”

“No,” Dale cuts you off, looking more uncomfortable and wooden than he ever has before.

You nod jerkily. You’d thought this would be a good way to bring up what happened to him, but perhaps it's not. Perhaps it's too soon. You’d not thought too long on how he might react and you regret even broaching the subject.

His countenance softens and he sighs. “No, it's alright. It was foolish of me to even mention him to them. It had…slipped my mind, Grandmother’s attitude.”

You think back to this morning, where he needed a reminder for information he already knew to really click. You wonder if that had also happened when Grandmother reacted as she did when a person who just lived in a country associated with demons came up. “She’s rather… passionate about the subject, but you could invite your friend another way.” You want him to know that you aren’t writing him off just for what he is, but you don’t know how.

When he stares hard at a tree and just shakes his head, you don’t think it’s working. “No, it’s best not to upset her.” He gives you a weak smile. “We already finalized the guest list as it is. I’d hate to have to rehash all that.”

You reluctantly let the topic go. Surely, there will be a better time for this discussion. A time he’s hopefully feeling less defensive. “Of course. My sister and mother argued about the guest list for her wedding until the week before.” There’s gratitude in his eyes for the subject change and you let that warm you. “The last few days I barely left my rooms in case they tried to draw me into their argument—they drafted anyone they came across into the fight.”

Dale opens his mouth to respond when a sharp whistle gets your attention. You both turned to see Grandfather jerk his head back towards the house before heading that way himself.

Dale picks his cane up and pulls himself to his feet, offering his hand once more to you. “I certainly have no wish for these debates and decisions to drag on longer than they have to.”

“Yes, I’m rather relieved it's going as smoothly as it is.” You accept his arm once to head back and a companionable silence envelops you.

“I was remiss in our lessons this morning,” Dales says abruptly. “Does Steward Bilmont have your family history as well?”

You frown in confusion, not understanding why he’s asking. “He does, but it is not as though you knew before, my Lord.”

“An oversight on my part,” he says smoothly, but a frown is drawn across his face. “If we are to be wed and our families joined, of course I should know of your family as well.”

It’s nice, to think he might show more interest in you than Dale ever had beyond what he felt he needed to know and yet you still felt the urge to say, “I suppose. They will not have nearly as much bearing on our lives as your family will. We will live in your family estate, with your grandparents.”

His frown deepens as he looks at you, his gaze searching. Whatever he’s looking for, he doesn’t seem to find it, but he doesn’t argue further. “As you say,” he replies evenly. “Still, I would like to learn about those attending our wedding at the very least. Surely it would be rude if I were to meet one of your sisters and not even know her name because I was ignorant.”

You smile at his consideration. “Of course.” Maybe you’re a fool for trusting a demon, especially so quickly. But you do and you want to. You want to trust Dale. You want to like Dale. You want to build a life with him. “I’d be happy to tell you whatever you wish to know.”

Dale’s posture finally seems to ease once more and he smiles. “Thank you. I shall hold you to that.” His smile turns almost impish with that promise. It suits him.

“I would expect nothing less,” you reply with an answering smile.

[Part Seven]

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