Page 2 of Boundless
Her parents were the first to begin dabbing the ceremonial oils into her skin, the scents of rosemary and sage the first to weave together and make her heart swell in her chest. As they spread the oils over her skin, they took turns telling her their favorite stories about her and her life thus far, handing the bottles to her sisters when it was each of their turns. Then it was time for the potent floral oil: rose for love, chrysanthemum for optimism, cosmos for harmony, iris for wisdom, and rare oblyos blooms from the Kellaides mountains to the north of their camps for longevity. This was the part of the ceremony that tested Daega’s control the most; story after story of her parents’ love washed over her, trying to unleash the tears she held back. She’d heard them all before, or had been there to witness them herself, but it was a harsh reminder of what she was giving up to do her duty.
True love wouldn’t be in the cards for her, anymore. But by doing this, she prayed that she would at least allow others to find that kind of love. The treaty and the peace it brought would be the loam that allowed the spirits of countless others to bloom and flourish, and even if it meant a dimmer life for herself, it was well worth it to be able to do that for her people—allof her people, including the elves, soon.
She took a deep breath, closing her eyes and letting the soft voices of her kin and the riot of scented oils sink into her, bolstering her heart and giving her strength and courage. Not just to go through with the ceremony and the marriage, but to do it with lightness, with optimism and warmth enough to make a friend of her husband. All she needed was a chance from the elf prince, just a bare moment of kindness, and she’d fight for that friendship with every breath in her body.
Her father and sisters draped her in glittering elvish trinkets while her mother sang a prayer to Delenaa, goddess of love and rebirth, and in a blink it was done.
It was time.
CHAPTER TWO
Wedding Day Jitters
LEN
LENLETHAEL HADjust finished emptying his guts into the toilet for the fourth time that morning. His father’s valet, Jespirr, who’d been sent to Len’s rooms when the king had insisted that Len’s usual assistant would be insufficient, was clearly using every drop of his professional training to stifle a look of disgust. But Len could feel it anyway.
"H-hopefully that'll be the last of it, e-eh, Jespirr?" he said weakly, doing his best to sound lighthearted.Never let them see weakness, he reminded himself.
"Certainly it must be, Highness." Jespirr helped Len to the sink, where the elvish prince washed his face and cleaned out his mouth. Luckily, in all his mad dashes to the toilet he'd avoided getting any sick on his clothes; Father would surely murder him if he embarrassed their family by ruining his elaborate wedding outfit.
Once he was clean he returned to his sitting area and sagged into the chair he'd knocked over in his most recent sprint into the bathroom. Sevren, his usual personal assistant and oldest friend, had righted it for him and stood by holding the velvet cushion on which the crown and silk caplet that had turned his stomach in the first place sat.
"You alright there, Len?" Sevren asked quietly enough that Jespirr, still in the bathroom, wouldn’t hear. Such familiarity was deeply frowned upon by the royal household.
"Yeah, thanks, Sev. B-but if I puke anymore I'll h-h-hurl myself inside out, I think." Sev smiled, shaking his head at Len’s dramatics. It was a miracle that Len had managed to convince his father to let him bring Sev with him instead of Jespirr when he left for the horde camps in a month’s time, but he was endlessly glad for it. When he left the familiarity of the castle for his bride's homeland he'd need the care and support of his best friend more than anything else. His father didn’t think so, but Len reckoned that he was a good diplomat and would be able to handle what the Istarii Drakan threw at him. But whether he’d be able to do it without fainting or wasting away to nothing depended entirely on Sevren being with him.
He still couldn't quite believe it, that he was marrying a monster that day. It was for peace, for the good of the kingdom, but no one was under the delusion that it would be good forhim. The Istarii Drakan likely wouldn'tkillhim, since they seemed just as ready for peace as the elvish kingdom, but everyone had heard the stories of what the Istarii horde got up to. They were rough and tumble brutes, always fighting and fucking and not giving a whit who saw any of it. And now he wasmarryingone of them.
He shuddered, his stomach giving a painful twist and a gurgle, but everything stayed blessedly inside him this time. Sev risked a quick half-hug before Jespirr was joining them with the makeup he’d been preparing to commence the final preparations. As Jespirr used brushes to add a complexion smoother and crushed mica to Len's face, he steeled his courage and asked the question he was most nervous about the answer to: "I-is F-Father going to c-come here before th-the ceremony?"
Jespirr's hand paused for a fraction of a second, telling Len everything he needed to know. "I'm sorry, my prince," he said, more gently than he usually did. "His Grace will be meeting us in the grand reception hall."
"Ah. R-right. Thank you, Jespirr." He did his best to keep his voice bright and even. At least he'd see his father at the ceremony.
Jespirr finished preparing the crown prince and sole heir to the Felthenethor line in silence. Len wasn't much for conversation even at the best of times, so he was glad for the quiet, even if it did leave more room for his anxious thoughts to roam.
Jespirr was just fastening the silk caplet around his neck when there was a soft knock at the door, and another servant entered. "The princess's family has notified us that she's ready and waiting outside the hall."
Jespirr nodded, straightening the clasp and stepping away. "He's ready," he announced, stepping away from Len. "You look...regal, Your Highness," he said with a bow before taking his leave.
Once the older elf was gone Sevren snorted. "What a pompous ass," he muttered. "You look great, Len. Your great big bride won't be able to keep her hands off you."
Len managed a weak laugh, elbowing his friend in the side. "Stop, I-I know what I l-look like." He looked like a disappointment, like a flimsy waif of an heir that wasn't good for much except auctioning off. And he had to admit, eventhatmight have been dubious. He was intelligent and well-learned, but with his stammer most people never realized. He was handsome enough, but because he was so thin and anxious he wasn’t strikingly so. And then there was his heart condition, which made his health unreliable and left him prone to fainting spells. All he had going for him really was his bloodline.
Sev stopped him with a hand on his arm, his pale freckled brow furrowed. "Hey, Len. I mean it. She'll be happy to have you. So what if you're shit at swordplay and archery? She's Istarii Drakan—she'll handle all that and thank you for letting her do it."
He tried for a genuine smile for his friend.Bless him for thinking that’s all I’m insecure about,he thought. "Thanks, S-Sev. I-I appreciate that." But really, he just wanted to get it over with. It had been months of fear and dread while the treaty had been drafted and the wedding prepared for, and now that the end was in sight he just wanted to cross over to the other side. He was sick of all the anxious waiting. She’d either be terrible or not, and he had chosen to throw all his hopes into the “not”.
He’d developed a powerful daydream in which he met his bride in the great hall and managed to win her over as a friend. He truly believed that the peace treaty was the salvation of both their peoples, and if he could convince her of the same then it wasn’t much more of a leap beyond that to convince her to be friendly. He hoped.
Most of his people would think he was mad for wanting to be friends with his Istarii Drakan bride, but he thought that if he entered into their union with the hatred his people harbored for hers foremost in his heart that there was no chance that it would work. He understood where their hate came from, and there was a part of himself that felt the loss of thousands of elf lives over the course of the war keenly. But he’d read up on the conflict, consuming every book and scroll in the royal library in a feverish desire to finallyunderstand, and by the end of his self-appointed examination he’d realized that the facts of the matter were far less clear than his father and tutors had led him to believe. Even in the elvish texts there was no obscuring that the start of it all had been elvish pride and greed, and Len thought that it was rather unfair to see the Istarii Drakan as monsters in that context.
Sevren nodded, holding Len’s eyes for a moment, then opened the door for him and led the way to the grand reception hall. The castle was the only home he’d ever known, but it didn’t feel comfortable to him. The halls were so dim and echoing, made of the same cold pale stone as every other important building in Llyvelli, but without any of the homey decorations or other lived-in qualities he’d seen in the nobles’ houses or the various guildhalls in the city proper. It felt too much like walking through a corpse, and was why Len spent so much time locked up in his rooms or the library.
The great hall was at least more decorated than the rest, with enormous stained glass windows depicting the feats of the old gods in colorful abstraction and gleaming pillars holding up the high arching ceiling. Paintings and frescoes graced that ceiling, though the lighting wasn’t quite bright enough to get the finer details from all the way on the ground, and warm oakwood pews stood in regimented lines and columns to seat up to 450 elves. Every seat was packed today, with the exception of two pews right at the front that were being held for the bridal party and his father, the king. Len hoped the wood would be strong enough to hold the handful of Istarii Drakan guests; they were absolutely enormous, and these seats had been crafted for delicate elven frames.
The heads that whipped around to see who had entered slid quickly away, bored, once he was announced and made his way inside the hall. It was the Istarii Drakan princess that was new and exciting, that everyone both feared and couldn't wait to gawk at. He had to admit it made him feel bad for his bride; it was cruel, how everyone saw her as a spectacle, and even if he was afraid of her and her people he still knew that that was wrong. He was forcing himself to remember that at the end of the day, she was still a person, just like him, and it wasn’t right to treat a person like that.
