There once was a man who married for breasts of a woman he hated.
During the day, he regreted this, for he worked hard for his citizens and to see them suffer beneath the tyranical whims and impossible desires of his desire was almost more than he could take. But at night he realised he could never leave, and she could never go, as they made love in the castle bedrooms, he vowed he could never again go back to the woman he had married for love.
For he had – once – married for love. For the desires and dreams of a young baron overruled the politics of the court, and he married his childhood sweetheart in a lavish ceremony, which had tales of the food, of the wine, and of the extravagance spread over the kingdom for many years. But no tales were told of the beauty of the bride, for the baron’s love was for a plain girl.
And so, in time, she bore him a son and a daughter. Twins. Alike as two new pins, and just as sharp. And the twins loved each other, and the family was happy, and the baron’s land was at peace.
But all did not remain well, for the son caught a disease in his seventh year, and his mother did dote upon him, and stay with him night and day.
But alas did the son die, three days before his eighth birthday, and the kingdom morned the loss of it’s heir, and if the mother looked pale, then it was only to be expected.
When the mother died, a month or two later, the baron was devestated. For an entire week he locked himself within his chambers, and the land floundered without a leader, but eventually he came once again into public life, although thereafter wore black.
Seasons turned, Time moved on, and the kingdom was still without a male heir to the throne. The king announced his intention to re-wed, and from around the country – and indeed the world – single women of an appropriate age flowed into the Great Hall, and – just as quickly – back out into the world until Alinda walked, swayed, glided into the throne room with every man’s eyes on her. Alinda shone with the deep, enticing kind of beauty carefully calculated – from the deep red lipstick to the carefully arranged – and expansive – cleavage seeping from the tight black corset – to make her target disolve into a puddle of drool.
So Baron Hardup married Alinda, who brought with her the two daughters his own would hate so very much, and began to live upto his surname, for Alinda was expensive. Alinda hated the fact that Cinderella would get half the fortune if he died, and so spent it before he had a chance.
Strange things are done for love, and even stranger things for hate.
And that’s where the story began.