Page 13 of Tristan
Since my hand is stuck going wherever his goes, it's in his hair too. I take over control of our hands for the first time tonight of my own volition and grab his. I’ve gotten used to holding his hand; it’s familiar now. Our joined hands move as one thought back down to the table and the gesture calms him some.
I haven't been able to look at him with the enduring stare I do now. He really is perfect, and had we the opportunity, I think I might have liked to date him. Maybe in an alternate universe, one where we'd get to know each other before we wed.
Maybe ‘alternate universe us’ knows how to deal with this situation.
I start when he reaches his hand up to my face and rubs his thumb over my bottom lip. I think he might kiss me again. My heart picks up its pace; I get ready to kiss him. I'm relieved when he pulls his hand back, picks up his wine goblet, and nods toward mine. I grasp my goblet with my free hand.
“Las, nah! Lucca will put the key back. All is well.”
I notice more Elvish slipping into his sentences. I'm probably going to have to learn that Gods forsaken language. We clink our glasses together, and I am thankful for the wine to calm my nerves. He resumes his austere composure after that and it's easy to figure out his toast to clear the air has cost him in some way. We don't say another word to each other, nor does he look my way—yet I know he's cognizant of me. He doesn't offer my hand back to me anymore, securing his grip on it; I'm certain I won't get it back at this point even if I ask.
The music and dancing begin, and the prince and I are expected to start the evening off. Without a word, he pushes out from the table, and with a hard tug to my hand I'm up too. All eyes are on us; my breathing quickens. I don’t know why this is nerve racking. I've performed in front of people before; Lucca and I are complete hams. I suppose it’s got something to do with what I am now. I am not Tristan the great son of our admirable Markaytian warlord, but cowed Elven husband and concubine. I don't want to be judged like that. I'd run for it if I weren't chained to a massive war Elf. We are in the center of the floor now, and the prince pulls me around to face him in a wild swoop. I gaze into his stony eyes—predatory eyes. By the Gods, is he still angry over the whole Lucca thing? I swallow. Quite possibly, but the look in his eyes isn't about Lucca, not exactly. Lucca's actions stirred whatever emotion is charging through him, but he's not thinking of Lucca.
He wasn't kidding when he told Lucca his actions may not be seen as a prank—but he wasn't talking about his father, he was talkingabout his own feelings. Lucca challenged his hold on me and won, that’s what angered him more than anything else. He fights to control the rage within him like he’s been doing since he discovered Lucca under the table, but it’s not going well. We take frame, and the prince automatically assumes the dominant position; the hard lines of his unyielding body only know how to dance lead.
The orchestra begins soft, but our dance is a rigid, dour thing. I decide to get through this horrid moment by submitting to the Prince’s hard turns and abrupt footwork. He still manages grace, but I fumble unable to keep up with his changes. I catch sight of Father, he looks disappointed, yet when doesn't he? I remember his words at breakfast, it's like they were a prophecy for now. If the prince would just slow down a half step,I ama good dancer. I’m considered as agile as Father; fumbling is not something I’m used to.
"I'm sorry," I say.
Nothing.
"Corrik, I didn't mean to choose him over you—I’m just used to defending him."
He spins me, it's fast enough to centrifuge the food I've just eaten, but my words have effect.
"Then it's good you shall be apart if you can’t control this habit—it's a bad habit. How do you expect your cousin to grow if he's not left to suffer the consequences of his actions?"
I... I haven't thought about it quite like that.
"I'm not sorry, you know. I'll never be sorry for taking you away from here—you belong with me Tristan. You’re mine." His directness is startling. I don't like his words, but I appreciate his honesty. I still hate him for it.
Wait.Tristan.He used my Markaytian name.
He’s trying to calm himself. His fingers dig into my shoulder a little harder; it hurts. I need to do something before he loses the careful control he’s constructed around his anger.
"Corrik, you have me." He spins me away then back to him dipping me severely, my nose is inches away from his.
‘You're damn right I do,'he says without words. That didn’t go how I thought it would. I need to think of something better. We continue to dance. He continues his graceful, yet rigid float across the dance floor, while I'm dragged along like a rag doll. During another death spin, I catch sight of Papa, he looks concerned—he knows I'm a formidable dancer, and that something’s wrong. He and Father look good together. Much as Arcade Kanes is a cold-hearted bastard, he loves Papa. Their relationship is a flawless fairytale. When I was a little boy, I often asked Papa to tell me the story of their wedding—I may be a fierce, sword-fighting Markaytian, but I'm also a bit of a romantic.
Wait a minute—their wedding—I know what to do. I know how to demonstrate to the prince,to Corrik, that I'm willing to be his. My alliance will be with him from now on.
The song ends, and thankfully so does this Godsforsaken dance. If we have children, I certainly won’t be recounting for them our first dance as a married couple—as any couple at all. I stop him from dragging me back to our seats by the stupid handcuffs chaining us together—the only time they’ve come in handy all night.
We've had plenty of Elvish traditions tonight, time for a Markaytian one.
"Corrik."
Slow and deliberate, I get down on my knees in the same way Papa did on his wedding and recite the same words he did. "I honor you. I trust you. I am yours." I try to give him the eyes Papa described giving to Father, it's harder than I thought it would be—my parents were in love, it was easy for Papa to look at Father like he was his whole world because he was:he is.
Corrik is the man taking my whole world.
I realize my eyes are closed when I have to open them. When I do, I see that the large war Elf has the most amazing expression on his face. I've surprised him. This isn't quite like Papa's story. After he pledged himself to Father, he buried his face into Father's thigh. Papa's a large man, but Father is larger and stronger, and was able topick him up. Papa wrapped his legs around Father's waist, and according to Papa, they kissed the kiss of a thousand kisses. I’ve never had any clue as to what that means, but Papa always says that part with such a wistful gleam, I never questioned him. Some things are better left to wonder.
In my story, I have an Elven prince shocked to hell, looming above me. This is stupid. I shouldn't have done it.You're a foolish man, Tristan Kanes!
I want him to know I'm serious about this, about us. I’ll work hard at our marriage because as much as this union was decided without my say so, it is now up to me to maintain the union honorably. He can never doubt my loyalties—Markaytia’s loyalties.
"Tristan," he says my Markaytian name, his free hand slides through my braided hair to my cheek. "This is a gift I hold in high regard."
