Shards of the One Pt. 02

BOOK ONE:AWAKENINGS

CHAPTER II

In which we meet Varamir, and Varamir meets his bride - on their wedding day.

With an almighty gasp, Varamir came. Climax came upon him in a dizzying rush, then faded with the tenderness of a receding wave. For a moment, he was adrift. His senses melded; light, colour, and sound, delivered in fleeting and meaningless bursts. He breathed again.

Suddenly filled with the confusion and disgust that always followed these secretive liaisons, he turned away from Hendric. The younger man's bare backside spasmed and jerked as he too climaxed. Varamir seethed, silent. The sight of Hen heaving with delight, seed spilling down his thighs, simultaneously revolted and aroused him. Thus, always.

He had sated his lust, their dance was at its end. He tossed a cloth at Hendric and gathered his clothes, sullen. He moved toward the window, his mind open to distraction now, and gazed out over Holmburg castle. Its thick, dauntless walls, the rows of outbuildings and stables, the swimming shapes of men, already busy, and even more beyond the keep, specks against the rolling hillside, woodsmoke gently piling above the little hovels as hundreds of breakfasts were cooked and eaten, and doors flung open to face the new day.

From behind him:

"I...ah..."

Varamir waved him away, as one might an insect. When his lust subsided, he found he could not face this part of himself, much less Hendric. By now, however, Hen was used to his directionless rage, his silences, his sudden coldness. He would soften before long, and Hendric would be summoned to his quarters once more. So, the youth took it in stride. Men like him could scarcely afford to be picky, besides. He smiled, laced his breeches, and in a moment he was gone.

Varamir barely noticed him leave. He stood, nude and sweat-soaked, brooding. His eyes traveled the landscape, searching for nothing in particular. They met often like this, since the early days of the war, when some drunken celebration had ended in his tent.

The war. It felt strange that it was over. All these men, who weeks before had been killing each other in droves were supposed to make nice and behave as though nothing had ever happened. Men who had offered their lives for the pride of a few old men, sent back home with nothing to show for their sacrifice. One of those old men was Varamir's father, Dorwynd. He had been the mastermind behind the Peace of 12 Rings.

Varamir sighed. Of course. Today was his wedding day. To cement the tenuous truce between the six warring nations, Varamir's father, supported by members of the alliance, had proposed a series of weddings amongst their respective royal families. There would be a wedding between a prince and princess of Novira and Khyrrine, Khyrinne and Alderon, Alderon and Keretsk, and so on. The idea was that by marrying each of the six nations together, each would be discouraged from warmaking, lest they incur the wrath of the other five. Varamir had his doubts.

Presently, a voice rang out in the hall. He recognized it as Jory, a servant of his father's house.

"Are you decent, sir? I have the garments his Highness selected."

Varamir, still gazing distractedly over the unfamiliar landscape, replied flatly; "You may enter, Jory."

The servant entered, a neatly folded tabard in his arms. The sigil of his house, a crow, had been stitched meticulously onto the green and black cloth. The old man very nearly dropped the entire ensemble as his master turned, his sizeable cock swinging freely, his hairless body slick with perspiration.

"Gods have mercy..." he muttered. It was the first thing to make Varamir smile all day.

*****

The heat was stifling and the altar crowded. The whole thing was a ridiculous idea, thought Varamir for the thousandth time, as he fought the urge to adjust his armour. He struggled with court etiquette and pomp at the best of times, which this was not. Next to him stood his bride, the Khyrrini girl, in a long, lilac dress, the colour of her noble house. In her long brown hair, she wore a silver clasp, fashioned as a dove in flight. Her crest. Love birds, he thought, with bitter irony, remembering his own. Her posture was immaculate, and every outward expression she gave was of utter happiness, which should have pleased her husband-to-be. And yet, like a current beneath a frozen lake, he sensed her nervousness, and deeper still, her anguish. He did not know how he read these things in her, for she had total command of herself; she was the image of the loving bride. In the last few weeks, Varamir had found himself painfully attuned to the attitudes of others. Usually, he couldn't care less for the feelings or thoughts of anyone but himself, but recently it was as if some part of his mind had been opened to them.

Increasingly, he found himself able to read the most carefully constructed expression, anticipate what each advisor or noble would say next, to sense the mood of those around him before they could say a word. He had largely ignored this new sensitivity to the minds of others. Perhaps he was only now noticing it, and it had always been this way. And yet, how had he slipped behind the defenses of this young noble, whom he had met just a few moments ago, to read her thoughts?

Momentarily curious, he tried to probe at the feeling, to glean something more from it, but it was gone. He forced himself to concentrate. This was perhaps the most important day of his life, after all, and it would soon be over. Then it would be the most important night of his life. He tried to suppress the thought and smother the grimace that threatened to break over his face. The entire ceremony thus far had been so bizarre that, had been in a more charitable mood, it would have been amusing. The twelve nuptials, two representing each nation, stood in a long line before the altar, each bride and groom awkwardly negotiating their proximity to one another, everyone decidedly uncomfortable. Varamir had remained totally still, not acknowledging the Khyrrini girl, but not directly ignoring her, affecting what he hoped was a neutral expression. He had tried to hide his distaste for the entire affair, but to his surprise he again felt the girl eyeing him, felt her disappointment, her fear, her crushing sadness. Still she beamed and stared with apparent affection at him, giving what Varamir had to admit was a stunningly convincing performance. Varamir raised his eyes to the row of high seats beyond the altar, where the various heads of state sat. King Dorwynd, his father, sat near the centre, the chair on his left empty. The Queen's. His father looked faintly pleased, and Varamir sensed his relief that his son appeared to be playing the part, conducting himself with grim, dutiful reverence. He perceived the shift of his attention to the girl next to him, and in his mind felt those eyes travel her body from head to toe. The thin fabric of her dress left very little to the imagination, and she wore no underclothes. Her olive skin was tantalizingly smooth, her long, slender legs tapering down from full hips...

Without even knowing how he was doing it, Varamir mentally recoiled from the connection. Still, he could hardly blame the old man. Though he was not himself predisposed toward the female form, she was undeniably an impressive specimen. He touched her consciousness again, felt her churning disquiet. What was the matter with him? Before him, the priest droned on, the words barely making sense now.

He looked sideways across the row of brides and grooms, to his cousin Myrion, holding hands with the daughter of their host, the Keretskin princess Hjelke. He sensed Myrion's excitement, even without reading him. It reminded him of a dog being made to sit before it's juicy bone was presented. Myrion knew as well as anyone here what came next.

The sound of the Khyrrini girl- Gionna - shifting slightly next to him roused Varamir. He felt a strange urge to reassure her, though he knew neither how or why. With what he hoped was delicate slowness he reached for her hand, his gaze firmly on the altar. He took her palm in his, trying desperately to do so naturally, and to avoid crushing her delicate fingers in his swordsman's grip. He tried again to reach her mind with his own, it was like searching for something in a murky riverbottom. As his thick, scarred fingers grazed hers, however, it was as if she caught fire. He felt waves of joy and relief roll over her. In the corner of his eye, she visibly softened and gave an almost imperceptible sigh. He felt the coolness of her palm contract gently around his own, her fingers forming a cage with his own. Despite himself, Varamir smiled for the second time today.

*****

In the great hall of Holmburg castle, the windows seemed to shake with the din of six peoples feasting and cavorting, servants bumbling urgently against the tide of milling merrymakers, jugs of wine and platters of sweetmeats or cheeses held aloft, chandeliers swinging gently above the chaos, soldiers throwing back their heads to roar with laughter as one among them fell from the bench, or slumped into his meal, wine and beer flowing freely and generously decanted onto tables and down the shirts and robes of the men, little explosions of argument going off about the hall, only to be echoed with a secondary pulse as laughter recommenced, knights and ladies sequestered in dark corners, hands disappearing up dresses or under tables, furtive looks cast about the room, the nobles at the head of the table looking on in amusement at the various antics, pleased for the diversion from conversation, newlywed couples desperate to avoid eye contact, attacking their dinner plates with a savagery that under different circumstances would have been highly unbecoming.

Varamir was ahead of that particular curve. He had been fully aware just how uncomfortable the evening would be, and was therefore prepared for the protracted silences, the bumbling attempts at intimacy. It was not as if he was looking forward to the evening's... climax. After careful consideration he had resigned himself to sobriety. Were he to get drunk, he might escape the inevitable temporarily, but the cost would be high. He took another draught of the wine before him. It tasted almost as sour as his mood. Any other man would be ecstatic in this moment: in a matter of hours, he would get to bed his beautiful young wife. She, on the other hand, seemed quietly excited at the prospect, judging by the way she kept glancing at him, unable quite to meet his gaze, flashing that shy, bashful grin.

Suddenly, the nobles opposite Varamir were shunted apart as his red-haired cousin barged in, bearing an enormous tankard in either hand.

"Myrion," Varamir spoke, as neutrally as possible.

"Cousin!" Myrion rejoined, his freckled face red with drinking, "And thy beautiful bride, " giving a theatrical bow. The girl only smiled politely.

"Mmm. And where have you left yours, pray tell?" Varamir replied drily, hinting.

"Sick of me already! Probably. I'm not even that drubk."

"Perhaps you'll join us?" Gionna piped, her voice shockingly sweet. Varamir noted how neatly she had divided her meal, how perfectly straight she sat, even amongst this rabble. In a corner a band had struck up, playing some pastoral jig that made feet across the hall tap involuntarily. He was probably expected to dance. Varamir decided then that his cousin's company was the slightly lesser of two evils. At least that he was used to.

"Well, then," Myrion said, thumping the table with his mug as he sat "I just heard this one. I'm tall when I'm young, and short when I'm old. What am I?

The riddle's answer came to him immediately. It was as if he read Myrion's thoughts. "A candle." he said, flatly.

"You've heard it before. Alright, alright. This time... Her." He pointed, rather rudely. Gionna leant forward, to better hear over the racket. Someone passing bumped into Varamir's back, and he fought the urge to bark at them. Myrion cleared his throat, apparently relishing the horrific noise it made.

"What kind of-"

"A mushroom." Varamir interrupted, correctly.

Myrion spluttered in surprise, a spray of beer very nearly catching Varamir. He felt Gionna smother the urge to recoil in disgust.

"I didn't even finish... " Varamir caught sight of Hendric, grim-faced amongst a pack of cheery men, arms about each other's shoulders, bellowing some ballad, painfully out of tune. The younger man returned the stare and raised his eyebrows. Varamir remained impassive. After a moment, he looked away, and his eyes traveled the room. He looked down the long table at which the newlywed princes and princesses sat. Some faces he recognized, some of the men he had fought alongside, and some he knew only by reputation, or by their silhouette across a battlefield. It was foolish, naive, even, to sit them all at one table. Especially with drink involved. Varamir sighed. His gaze wandered to the elevated table at the hall's far end, at which the various lords and kings sat, talking loudly, the occasional guffaw resounding around the ornate table. He studied his father's face. He was quiet, but relaxed, seemingly engaged in discussion with a man Varamir did not know. He nodded and smiled, but his attention seemed elsewhere.

His eye fell upon the Keretskin autarch, their host, and Myrion's new father-in-law. The man was temporarily adrift in the conversation, his hand to his lips, contemplative. Equal parts curious and suspicious, Varamir tried to read the autarch's expression, to feel his thoughts the way he had Gionna's, or Myrion's. He sensed the man's indecision; he was struggling to collect his thoughts, to summon the correct words. Varamir realised he was about to give a speech.

With a gesture, he hushed Myrion, who was in the midst of some bawdy joke.

"And so he says-what?"

"Myrion." He pointed, with his head, at the lord's table.

"Our host is about to speak."

Myrion coughed, spat under the table, turned.

"You on about?" The autarch was still seated, the deafening chatter and music continued. Varamir did not respond, but kept his eyes on the autarch. Gionna spoke suddenly, cutting Myrion's joke short.

"So, will you be staying in Holmburg after the celebrations?" It was both a polite joke and a genuine question. Tradition held that the new wife would travel to her husband's kingdom, but these were strange times. Myrion rubbed his reddened nose with the back of his hand, his eyes bright as he tried, in vain, to summon a witty reply. Just then, a horn sounded, and the room fell silent. The men had grown highly attuned to such signals, battle-worn as they were. All eyes turned to the source of the sound. A short, middle-aged man wearing a loud purple jerkin stood at a the head of the royal table.

"His Majesty, Autarch Kvotir!"

The autarch, an old man of small stature, ensconced in an enormous fur cloak, stood, and surveyed the room. His accent was strange, and hard on Varamir's ear.

"Lords, ladies, friends. Family." He looked at each group in turn, settling his gaze on the newlyweds on word 'family'. A small cheer went up.

"I thank you for honoring my house with your presence

I would like to raise a toast to enduring peace."

Here, the room roared agreement.

"I hope you have enjoyed yourselves, the best of my food and wine is yours. My home is your home." He coughed, and the entire room pretended not to notice. "Ahem. And with that, please consider the ceremony at an end."

Clapping, and the banging of fists on table, and various other gestures of assent erupted. Varamir knew it was only the beginning of what would be a long night.

*****

They arrived to the chamber already made comfortable, the fireplace crackling, the bed neatly made with fresh linen, flower petals scattered on the floorboards and side tables. The bed itself was an enormous four-poster, crowned with a complicated arrangement of pillows. The windows were closed now, and the wind lapped lightly at the glass. Gionna stepped tentatively across the hearth as Varamir closed the great oak door deliberately. Her skin flared brown and gold in the firelight, her long hair swayed gently against her back with each step.

Consummation. The final assent, the fulfillment of the marriage, and of the treaty. The others would all be navigating this trial now, too. Myrion was probably having the time of his life, if he was still sober enough to stand. Varamir felt a sickening feeling wash over him. Under the doorframe, shadows played, as the celebrants came shyly to witness. It was, of course, a requirement. This was the sealing of a pact, after all.

Gionna said nothing, and stood with her back to him. He pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it aside slightly too aggressively. His eyes were fixed on the nape of her neck, her bare shoulders; moonlit here, firelit there. In his breeches, nothing stirred. He tried to smother the rising fear that clawed at him, knowing it would only make matters worse.

She, too, was nervous. He felt it, without really even trying. She stood stiffly, her hands clasped across her waist, her lips pursed as she cast her gaze over her shoulder, looking back at him, shyly. Both seemed paralysed under the weight of the moment. An eternity seemed to pass, both of them silent and unmoving. Varamir could practically feel the crowd outside, craning their necks to hear, leaning carefully against the door. He hoped his father was not among them. It would be unlike him, certainly. But who knew? He probed, with his mind, unsure exactly what he was doing. He could sense them there, but it was like trying to follow one voice in a crowded room of people talking. Still, he did not sense his father among the 'voices'. A small mercy. The tension became unbearable as neither he nor Gionna made their advance. Finally, she spoke softly.

"My lord..." He feigned as though she had roused him from wandering thoughts.

"Yes." He nodded. "Shall we?" It was an almighty effort to keep the anguish from his voice. She bowed her head, acquiescing. He did not move to undress her. Instead, she folded her arm across her chest, keeping her back to him, and slipped a thumb under her left strap. Tenderly, blushing, she slid the strap over her shoulder, the top of her dress sagging slightly. The lace that held her corset closed looked unbearably tight. He felt it might snap with each of her shallow breaths. She undid the other strap, and then hesitated. Varamir realised he would need to unlace her.

He crossed the room jerkily, stopping stiffly behind her. She felt warm, their bodies almost touching. He fumbled with the lace detachedly, dissembling the knots more by force than dexterity. As the last of them slipped apart, the corset dropped into his arms, it and the dress beneath supported only by his grasp. Her anxiety screamed in his mind. He knew what this moment would mean to her. He released the garment, with what he hoped would be taken as reverence, willing his hands to be steady. It fell to the floor in front of her, the lilac dress tumbling slowly over the curve of her breasts, settling in a coil at her feet.

Her body was exquisite, though it was apparent to him only dimly, as if he were studying a famous painting. He knew what he gazed upon was a masterpiece, but it's virtues were wasted on him. The skin below her shoulders was pale, seldom kissed by the sun. Her body curved delicately, thinning at the waist and again tapering to shapely hips, terminating in a pert, round ass. Over her shoulder he followed the long shadow of her clavicle down to her full breasts, each crowned with a small, brownish nipple that stood upright in the cool air. Her stomach was flat, her skin immaculate. Still he felt nothing.