Page 3 of Boundless
After a few moments of standing before the altar, music began to play, and the far doors opened, his bride's retinue sweeping into the hall. Like all Istarii Drakan, they were huge and hulking and gray: none were shorter than six feet, their raven-black hair done up in braids or else cut close to the scalp. All-black eyes glittered as they scanned the room, slate-colored lips parting in sharp smiles that were perhaps meant to be warm. Their heavy hooves thunked against the gleaming marble, the oiled leather of their "dress armor", as they'd called it, creaking as their long, well-muscled bodies swayed closer. The nearly seven-foot-tall male in the center was the warlord Kevothaen, their version of a general, flanked on either side by his wife, Gayeh, the clan’s queen, and their three younger daughters: Tesse, Sercha, and Vrinn. He didn’t know which sister owned which name, but he had wanted to at least learn the names beforehand to put faces to later.
The imposing party reached where their seats were being held, every greedy eye in the room trained on them. They took their seats beside his father, who’d slipped in while everyone was distracted. Their bulk made the solid wood pews groan ominously, as Len had feared, but the ancient wood held. His father sniffed delicately, then greeted the Istarii Drakan rulers, ignoring Len completely. But the prince didn’t have long to dwell on it; the music shifted, and his bride made her grand entrance.
Every elf in attendance was of the highest breeding, steeped in decorum from birth like a strong tea, and so the sight of her only elicited a soft gasp, a collective intake of breath that could barely be heard over the music.
His bride was almost as tall as her father, her black hair twisted and braided in an intricate weave that almost felt like it was trying to tell a story. Her eyes were lined dramatically, making those already dark orbs even heavier and sharper. She had a kind of sharp and wild beauty to her, like a night cat or a well-honed blade. But it was her dress that had everyone holding back shouts and laughter.
The dress itself, while lovely, was fairly standard for elvish royalty. But Princess Daega had neglected to don the opaque slip that would ordinarily go under it, and everyone could seeeverything. Len's eyes felt like they were going to bug out of his skull. He was determined to keep his gaze from lingering on the sordid flesh the transparent dress revealed, but the dark flush of her nipples and the still darker thatch of curls at the apex of her thighs drew his attention again and again, until he was so flustered he felt ill.
His eyes swung over to her family, certain he'd find the horror he felt mirrored on their faces, but they simply beamed at the princess, her father dabbing at his eyes with a ratty scrap of cloth. Perhaps...perhaps this was simply another part of their traditions? Itmustbe intentional, if the family was this calm and supportive.
"Y-y-you l-look lovel-ly my b-bride." Len was feeling faint, a situation not helped by Daega's sharp smile and coy wink. And was it his imagination, or was she thrusting out her chest at him now?
"My thanks, husband," she rumbled, towering over him by at least a foot even without the arching horns. "I appreciate that this is a compliment in your culture."
"But n-not in y-yours?"
She shrugged, the breast on that side jiggling with the movement. "It's not aninsult, but better by far to appreciate my strength and spirit, to tell you the truth."
All he could do was nod, noting how the filament of the dress hugged the defined planes of her muscles. It wasn’t lewd, but it was still making him heat up still more. "Well, y-you are c-certainly th-the strongest womanI'veever seen," he murmured, offering a shaky smile. He was surprised when she smiled back, warm and genuine, her arm linking with his as they took their places in front of the extremely red and sweaty high priest, who had married Len's parents and would now marry Len, too.
…To a barbarian who thought one didn't need to bother with undergarments or modesty in a sacred space. But at least she seemed...nice. Straightforward, and there was precious little ofthatin the elvish courts. He had to admit he was interested to see what it was like to just betoldthings instead of having them hinted at obliquely. Certainly, it would save a lot of time.
High Priest Nolan began then, reading the blend of elven and Istariin wedding vows in tremulous Common. Len was pouring sweat, his shirt sticking to his back and his hands embarrassingly cold and slick. By the time the priest had gotten to the point where they were meant to recite things his knees had gotten unsteady, his head swimming threateningly.Oh please, let this not be a fainting spell. Please, in the name of the four winds, let me not faint and embarrass my father now.He tried to deepen his breaths, to ease his heart rate lower, but the reality of what he was doing was insisting itself, forbidding him from backing away from the precipice. He might as well have never studied healing magic in his life, for all the good it was doing him now.
He sagged briefly as he hit a new level of overwhelm, tugging on Daega's strong arm, and she turned to look down at him, her horned brow furrowing. He swallowed, worried that he was disappointing her, that he was disappointing everyone, so he was surprised when she smiled down at him...and slipped her arm free from his to rub his back, shuffling closer so she could take his sopping wet hand in her much larger and drier one to finish up the ceremony. She didn't flinch or gag at the state of him, didn't tease him or look at him with disgust. She was justthere, tall and strong beside him, her hand large and warm and so soothing on his back.
No one had done something like this for him since his mother had passed when he was just a boy. It made him want to cry. But it was bad enough that his soon-to-be father-in-law was a blubbering mess, so he steeled himself and lifted his chin to smile at her in thanks. He should have moved away from her, should have shifted to get her arm off of him...but he didn't. He took her comfort greedily, using the strength of this bold stranger to find his own. In that moment elvish propriety was the furthest thing from his mind.
They said their vows, Daega's hand never stopping its soothing circles, and then High Priest Nolan was instructing them to kiss. His bride turned to him, her hands cupping his face as she bent to press her lips to his.
He wasn't sure what he had been expecting—to feel those sharp teeth, certainly, perhaps to smell sulfur and copper on her breath like the legends said, but he was surprised to find itpleasant. Her lips were soft and warm, like her hand had been, her touch on his face shocking in its tenderness. He found himself wanting the kiss to linger, to keep her gentle touch on him, but then it was over, and they were married.
She took his hand again, holding it up as they turned and faced the assembled guests. "I present to you," High Priest Nolan called from behind them, "Prince Lenlethael Felthenethor, and his lady-wife Princess Daega d'Gayeh-Felthenethor." Polite applause from the elves was quickly drowned out by the thundering shouts and ululations from the Istarii Drakan guests. Then the handful of Istariin guests surged to their hooves and Daega and Len were both were swept up, wrapped in stifling embraces and passed around from huge stranger to huge stranger—though Len supposed that really, they were his new family, so they weren'twhollystrangers—as deep, heavily-accented voices heaped praise and congratulations on them both.
It was overwhelming, and it was alarming, but when Len forced himself to take a step back emotionally, to try his best to be objective, it wasn'tcompletelyawful. There was joy there, real excitement for them both, for this thing they had done, that none of the elves involved had shown so far.
Daega caught him around the waist, dragging him closer. "Are you well, husband?" she asked, leaning in to murmur in his ear. Goosebumps broke out all over his flesh. "You look pale. At least, I think so?"
He nodded, managing a weak smile. "Yes, I'm alright. I-it's been a long day, is all." His head swam again, and though he tried to shake it off Daega must have sensed something, her head cocking as she considered him. "M-maybe some...water?" he asked, his voice sounding far-off, drowned out by a ringing in his ears.
He slid sideways, his vision going dark, but he didn't hit the floor. Strong arms grabbed him, holding him up, wrapping him close while his wife called his name.
CHAPTER THREE
A Delicate Thing
DAEGA
"IS HEdying? Have you wed me to a corpse?" she demanded, her delicate elfish husband cradled in her arms. He was so pale, sweat beading on his forehead and his odd green eyes rolling in their sockets beneath the thin, bruised-looking skin of his eyelids.
She wasn't sure what she had been expecting from her betrothed, but certainly, it had not been this pretty wisp of a thing, so thin and twitchy she was concerned he was a prisoner they’d trussed up as their prince rather than the man himself. But when she looked between the delicate thing in her arms and his father, the resemblance was clear: Haedelon was sharper and colder than Lenlethael, more filled out and ruddy, but there was an obvious relation. But if it wasn’t a trick, then what was wrong with the poor wee thing?
Her father crowded in close on her left, his massive gray hand gently laying against her new husband's forehead. "He doesn't feel feverish," Kevothaen mused. He pulled his hand back and licked his finger, wetting it thoroughly, then held the wet digit in front of Prince Lenlethael's nose. "Breathing fine, too." He turned to Haedelon, skewering him with his dark gaze. "Does he faint like this often?"
The elf king had the good grace to look embarrassed. "It is not...unheard of. But the affliction isn't fatal, I swear to you, Lord Kevothaen. I would not risk the treaty."
Daega left the bickering to the men, hefting her new husband higher in her arms and flapping her wings in reverse to fan his pale face. He really was quite stunning, for being such a little thing, his features soft and delicate but still somehow regal. She wished she had a free hand to comb through those sweet golden curls, to see if they were as soft and springy as they looked. He’d been painted, she realized, something softly sparkling on the high planes of his face and making him look like a glittering little pixie. But far more important than his fine looks was that his strange three-colored eyes had been kind when they’d met hers. Nervous and overwhelmed, too, but kind underneath it. Seeing that had loosened a knot in her stomach.
