Page 7 of Tristan
“Tristan, mydarling!” Her eyes light up like diamonds when she sees me. I wander into her open arms and squeeze her tightly. She pulls back and cups my face with her smooth hands. She searches my blue eyes for a moment and reads the turmoil in them with practiced precision. “What has your father said now?”
I pull away from her and turn to sift through the open jewelry box on her dressing mirror. I do not wish to speak about him, but Mother won’t allow me to stew in peace. Never has. She nods to her attendant to leave us.
“Oh, Tristan. You know better than to invest in his behaviors. You know the sort of man he is—hard and rough to his core. I don’t know how Eagar stands him.”
My mother and father are not together. It’s common practice in Markaytia for the Warlord to choose a woman to bear him a son to carry on his legacy. Father is in love with Eagar, my papa.
He and Eagar have been lovers since before I was born. Eagar fights alongside my father as his second in command; they’ve been inlove since their first day on the field together. Love was instant for them and there is no one else for my father, but Eagar.
“Papa can stand him because he wouldn’t dare treat Papa as he does me.”
The word gentle could almost be used about the way my father treats the large, pretty man. I say pretty because while Eagar could slice a man in two without thought, his looks suggest he might have been a porcelain doll in a past life. He has narrow cheeks and fine bone structure, with long hair that went white far before the time it should have. Instead of making him look old, his white hair makes him look years younger than his actual age. He’s got intense, emerald, green eyes that always seem to be glossed over with tears because his heart pours out of them. He’s used them to get me out of trouble with Father many times. I can’t blame Father for loving Papa so. He’s a hard man to not love with your whole soul. When I was born, he took time away from his regular duties and cared for me alongside Mother. He and Mother grew close. I went to Papa as often as I would Mother.
“Let’s sick Eagar on him,” she jokes.
I shake my head. “I’ll be fine Mother. Father didn’t help matters, but the truth is, I have bigger worries than him. I’m worried about everyone I’ll leave behind. What about you? What about Lucca?”
“You are a strong man, always wanting to take care of everyone,” she says. “But as for me, you know I can take care of myself. Lucca on the other hand is an impish boy, but he will be fine. Not having you here will give him the opportunity to grow into a man and clean up hisownmesses.”
Mother knows most of my secrets. She knows that half the time I was in trouble with Father, it was because of something Lucca had done. I could never stand to see him in trouble, and despite his protests, I always convinced Uncle and Father that I had been the irresponsible one, getting Lucca out of trouble as often as I could. Mother hated when I took the blame and allowed me to cry to her. Over time, she resented Lucca.
“All boys must grow up my Tristan,” she says. “And though my heart is aching at the mere thought of having you gone, I know I must let my little birdie fly. I know this path is best for you. What you are doing for the kingdom is noble, and you will always be remembered in Markaytia.” Tears stream down her cheeks. They’re the words I wishFatherwould've said to me. For the last time ever she wipes my tears. “I know you’ll make us proud, my son.”
“Ow! For the sake of the Gods Lucca. I thought you said you practiced?”
Lucca laughs as he continues braiding my hair. It’s pure torture.Why do people like this?
“I did. That’s why it hurts. I need to do it tight enough, you know, so it doesn’t come apart when you and Prince Corrik are—oooow!”
I pinch him hard in the stomach and smile as I watch him nurse the sore spot.
“You won’t be smiling long. I have to do that one over now,” he says. Lucca must braid my hair in the intricate pattern, unique to the Elves for the Elven-style ceremony that will be performed tonight. I know how much he practiced and studied for this task—it’s rare to see Lucca apply himself.
Finally, Lucca’s finished. He spins me around in my chair so I can view his work in the mirror. Some of my dark hair has been braided into a Mohawk that runs down my skull. There is still some hair left to hang, and other parts are braided and twined with colored leather bands and jewels. Two braids sit over my right temple. At the ceremony, Prince Corrik will move them to the left. My new Elven crown will be placed over my head, and over my braids, which is an Elven tradition that will signify the marriage is complete. When I see how complicated the braiding patterns are, I’m grateful I have a cousin so devoted to me. I swish my hair from side-to-side and watch as they move and sparkle.
“You’ve done well, Lucca. Thank you.”
“Of course, I have,” he says, arrogant as ever. “Would you expect any less from me?”
“I’d watch what you say. I know more about you than anyone. I can think of several reasons why I might think you would shirk off learning how to braid my hair for the ceremony.”
“Please,” he scoffs. “I have just as much on you.”
“You do. We’re even when it comes to that. You have my promise that I won’t share any of your naughty secrets with your future wife,” I say without thinking. I won’t be here. I’ll most likely never know the person Lucca will marry.
“Wife you say…? How do you know I’ll marry a woman?” I know he’ll have picked up on my slip in talking about a future that will never be, and he veers the topic, so we don’t have to return to discussing what we already have many times over.No need to dwell on it, Tristan. Keep moving forward.
“Maybe you don’t know as much about me as you think you do,” he suggests, and for the first time I wonder if therearethings I have missed about my cousin. “But to clarify, I will marry a man. I do enjoy being with a woman, yes, but you’ll see, there’s nothing like having a hard man underneath you.” After saying a thing like that, he shoves something in my hand. I look down to see a strange looking mass of gleaming silver. It’s heavy, and it resembles—
“A chastity belt, Tristan, a formal one. You are to wear it under your robes. It locks with this,” he informs me holding up a key dangling from a chain looped around his fingers. I forgot about that. Wearing the chastity belt today will be a symbol of the chastity I have kept for him.
“I trust you can comport yourself if I leave you two alone?” His eyes flick to my crotch.
“Give me that,” I say snatching the key from him.
He laughs. “All right then. I’ll stand just outside the door. Call me back when you’re done, and we’ll proceed with the robes.”
He slips out the door, and I’m alone.
