But their joining had little in common with a traditional, conventional marriage. A traditional marriage was an agreement, not a true joining. An agreement that could, and often was, broken. True, there was love, but love itself was not necessarily permanent. She had read stories in Belloc's library about love and relationships ending, with two people going their separate ways. `I give you your freedom,' one character had said. It did not matter that what she was reading was
fiction; it was the idea of separation itself which terrified her, because she realised that Anest still had the luxury of freedom, and she did not.
Another thing that disturbed her greatly was the encounter with the soldiers. There had been violence. Death. The first time she had seen Anest's sword she had admired its beauty and craft, much as she had admired the matching rings she and her . . . husband . . . wore. It wasn't until those soldiers came with their weapons and their woe that she fully realised what a sword was used for: hacking; stabbing; dismembering. The very thought made her go cold and sick inside with
horror and revulsion.
Anest had no idea that these things so disturbed her. This was his world; he took it in its course.
How could she voice her fear of losing him without appearing selfish? What could she say about the business of soldiering, when what those soldiers were doing was nothing more or less than fighting to protect their homes and families? And often dying in the process, she reminded herself.