She dreamed she was a medieval princess—young, virginal—betrothed to a young prince. It was a political alliance of crucial importance to the families involved, and all parties required her to conceive and produce an heir as soon as possible. An air of great urgency enveloped her. What she remembered the most clearly was a scene in which she was standing in a large stone room in a palace, waiting to meet her groom. The galleries around the top of the room were filled with dozens of interested parties—family, political allies, and so forth. The consummation was to be public. As she waited, an innocent sacrifice, she trembled in anticipation of the union to come. She fully realized the seriousness of her role, and she longed to fulfill it properly. She knew she would be deflowered, she knew she must conceive a child. And she wanted it so. Truly longed for it—so much that her belly was literally aching to be filled. Splinters of sharp pain, like shards of glass piercing the sides of her womb, caused her to tremble in her terrible anxiety to do what she had to do.
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