Page 10 of Tristan
Father pulls Papa away from me and turns him so he can look into his green eyes. He stares into them in a way that would make me quake, but Papa only smiles. It’s an exchange I’m used to seeing. I’ve never had the meaning explained to me, but it does mean something. When Father is satisfied, he let’s go with a smack to his bottom. “I’ll deal with you later.”
“Of course, Arcade,” Papa says, putting his head down.
“You,” he says, turning his black eyes on me. “It’s time to go.”
I nod. I don’t want to test my voice under his fierce scrutiny. Father’s long, chestnut hair, feathers over his strong shoulders. He’s wearing his obsidian battle armor as usual. I can’t remember many occasions where I’ve seen him without it. Today he’s added the additional burgundy cloak over top, and the extra pieces of gleaming armor over his shoulders.
“Come then son, your destiny awaits.”
The foreign Elvish music plays as my fathers escort me down the aisle. My heart speeds up as my limbs take me tohim. I avoid looking athimand focus on the faces in the crowd. My family and court sit on one side, their forlorn faces resolved with admiration for my sacrifice. The prince’s family sit on the other side, all of them beaming with happiness. I’m stunned. It’s never occurred to me that they might be joyful over our union. I continue down the aisle and when I pass her, the beautiful Elven queen smiles at me. Her eyes are genuine, and she looks like she’s restraining herself. She’s a hugger, isn’t she? Sitting beside her is the grand Elven king. He’s an older looking version of Prince Corrik. Streaks of silver hair flow through his otherwise blond locks and he wears them with pride. His presence is massive, leaking off him, oozing command. There’s no doubt as to why he is king of the Mortougian Elves. He looks strong too, like he could spear a man easily, but wise enough to know when to use words to do the piercing.
The Elven king gives me an approving smile as I approach the dais where Prince Corrik waits for me. Father releases my arm and makes to walk away, while Papa can’t help himself, reaching up to fix a braid that probably doesn’t really need fixing. Father has to take his arm and guide him away from me. I step up to the dais alone with my head bowed until the last moment. I finally allow myself to look up. The prince stands in front of me, tall and imposing. He’s draped in cloaks of silver and blue. Unlike mine, his cloak does not join in the middle, instead, his entire chest and navel are exposed, revealing his well-toned chest and abdominal muscles.
His top cloak is adorned with sharp, silver and gold shoulder armor. Strips of fabric hang from them, enhancing his magnificence, and the hilt of a large, wide-bladed sword rises from his back. It’s a gorgeous weapon and I imagine the finest Elven blacksmiths have crafted it.I would love to get my hands on a sword like that and perhaps if I’m clever enough, one day I will.
His hair isn’t the way I remember. It’s blond enough to look likeit’s been spun from gold, with violet highlights to match his eyes. It’s mostly loose with half of it pulled off his face and the front cut short into bangs that are long over his forehead, resting on a slant toward his right ear. Hisears—they were covered by his hair when I first saw him, but now they’re free, unencumbered by the golden mien, poking out far above his temple and then turn in a graceful swoop back downward. They move when they see me as if to say he’s happy.
A stunning crown shaped like a winged creature sits around his head. As I come closer to him, I see that the winged creature is not a winged creature at all, but some sort of insignia. His ears are adorned with the same design that looks like it’s been tattooed on in ultra-violet light, swooping up over each ear, and down his cheekbones. I smile, but Prince Corrik is expressionless. His lips are in a hard line, and I catch his feral violet eyes before they dart down to my left hand to look athisring on my finger.
An Elf that resembles both Prince Corrik and his father stands before us, ready to perform our ceremony. “Hello Tristan. I am Corrik’s Uncle Fera. It is good to finally meet you. Allow me to be the first to welcome you to our family.” Fera smiles at me, and I’m grateful to see someone else smiling on the dais with me. “Let us begin by getting you two to join hands,” he instructs.
Our hands join for the first time since he put his ring on my finger; they are warm, smooth, and too soft for a warrior’s hands, but I know better. Prince Corrik is a great warrior. He smoothens his thumb over my knuckles and deliberately over my ring finger, feeling for his ring—his marking.
“You are all here to bear witness to the union between Tristan and Corrik, and I am pleased to induct him into our family, and our Elvish way of life. You have been granted permission, and you will become an Elf.” Fera directs his gaze at me with a serious grin. “From this point forward, you are no longer Junior Warlord, Tristan Arcade Kanes. You will be Prince Kathir Tahsen Cyredanthem,” he pronounces in his strong Elvish accent. I want to tear my hands away from the Prince’s. Anger builds in my gut, and I try to calm down. Ilook to Father. He appears too calm as he nods for me to return my attention to Corrik and carry on. He knew. Father knew I would have to change my name.
And he kept it from me.
My name means everything to me. I expected that I would no longer be a Kanes, that I would likely take Corrik’s last name, but to change my full name to an Elvish one and keep nothing of my Markaytian name? I suppose the prince wants my bodyandmy entire identity with it.
I can’t help but wonder what an Elvish name like that means? Maybe it’s the name befitting a pet in Mortouge. How am I to know? I don’t know a word of Elvish. I can’t even pronounce the name I’ve been given, and I’ve already forgotten what it is.
Father glares at me, afraid I might say or do something about it in front of everyone. He warns me with his eyes not to act in usual, Tristan style.‘Just keep your mouth shut,’they say. I will, but I can’t hide how I feel—I’m like Papa that way.
Contrary to his prickly aura, the prince is gentle when he picks up the tight braids on my right and moves them to rest on the left of me. I feel precious when he places a crown, the twin to his, around my head and fixes it to make sure it sits just so—which can’t be right. He’s a cold heartless bastard. He lifts my chin with his forefinger and thumb until my eyesshouldlook at him, but I can’t face those cold purple rocks. I keep my head where he’s moved it and look anywhere else. I hear the Elven monster promise to always honor and protect me—please, as if I need protection. This would be a good time to remind him, and everyone present that I’m the son of a warlord, but my thoughts are cut short as I’m asked to repeat after Fera and promise to honor and obey.
Obey.I never thought it would be me on this end of the wedding bargain, but here I am. This time my angry eyes blaze on my face, my lips curl as I snarl agreement—this ceremony is just a formality anyway, do I really have to say all of this?
Papa knows I’m upset. Father restrains Papa from storming thedais. That’s what calms me down. I know Papa will risk trouble with Father to come up here. I can’t let him do that. I spread a fake smile on, take a breath, and say the words. I also catch a glint of sunlight off the prince’s neck and realize the sun’s light is catching on a chain, which holds a key,thekey to my virginity.
“You may kiss him Corrik, he is your life mate now.”
He may kiss me? We don’t kiss each other?
That only spins me for a minute as I realize, no matter how it’s been phrased, I have to kiss him and in front of all these people. I’ve never held hands with anyone but Lucca in front of people and now I’m to kiss someone? I would rather face an angry, two-headed dragon with only my sword than to have to endure this embarrassment. My breathing isn’t right, but I don’t notice that I’m at the edge of hyperventilation until I hear the sleek, hard voice.
“I won’t bite.”
I feel a hand against my cheek, it grounds me, his words cause a tiny smile to give way as I study the white floor of the dais—he’s made a joke.Unless Elves really do bite.I focus on the warmth in his hand. It surprises me. The man looks like he could freeze lava, yet there’s something warm underneath the brambles. With his other hand, he interlocks his ring with mine: they’re a perfect fit. Each move brings us closer to the moment, my mind strains to grab onto something else that must happen so that the kiss doesn’t happen, yet—but there’s nothing else, and it’s going to happen.
“Focus on me, sweet Prince.Please.Look at me.” The tenderness in his voice is careful, and it doesn’t escape me—he’s begging. Does it bother him that I can’t look him in the eyes?
C’mon, Tristan. You’ve conquered greater mountains than this one.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” he says, and that’s what finally does it.
Afraid? I’ll show him afraid. No one insinuates Tristan Kanes is a coward. I am a dragon.
I turn wild eyes on him and strike, meeting his lips like swordsmeet in battle. He’s surprised, but only for a tiny second—I’ve caught him off guard—but once he’s figured out what’s going on, he dominates our kiss, grabs me around the waist, and pulls me into him. I can’t back down now and have him coo at me again so I get closer, pressing against his bare chest, fighting for dominance. That’s when his tongue slides into my mouth like a dare—he’s onto me. If he thinks he’s going to win this battle, that I’ll just roll over andobeyhim, then he’s married the wrong Kanes. I may be leashed to him through duty, but what he’ll find is that leash is attached to a dragon warrior.
