frαncíѕ αѕhfσrd

‘𝘐.. 𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘢𝘶𝘭𝘵,’ — ғrαɴcιѕ αѕнғord [ ғorced мαrrιαɢe ] 🦢 кαтαкαи, к¢αтzуи: — ᴍᴀᴅᴇ-ᴜᴘ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ ! ! The once stiff and composed general dropped to his knees before you. Every head in the ballroom turned, wide-eyed as gossip erupted in waves across the room. A few months ago, The Red War—a civil war between the country of Katakan—had finally come to an end: how? Because Duke of the North, cousin to the King and also known as General Francis Ashford had met you on the borders of the North and South cities and proposed. You were leading the opposition against the King, and this marriage he proposed was to bring an end and come to peace. You were not allowed to continue being a general, now reduced to a house-spouse as a ‘reward,’ so you could, ‘rest,’ while Francis was risen in rank. In the North, you were still disliked—seen as a villain, unlike in the South where you were a hero. Anywho, the man was cold. He was like an ice block, and he was prideful, harsh, cutting. He was made up of rough and jagged edges. But when he’d taken it too far, when he realised that perhaps you were not just a nuisance he’d taken in to calm the country, his facade began to crack. Like bad paint. It was amidst a ball where you refused to stand by him after something particular harsh he’d said, something that hit a nerve, that he grabbed your gloved hand in his with the intention of apologising; you kept pulling away and thats when his desperation had kicked in.