#rumrollinsweek2020

That this ceremony is taking place on land—in the very seat of their kingdom no less—is, Brock knows, nothing more than a way to add heinous insult to grievous injury and twist the knife of their defeat even more cruelly.

A gesture of goodwill, made in good faith, the Sea Folk’s envoy had said, a mocking smile twisting its lips, and it had taken all of Brock’s self-control not to draw his sword and gut the creature right where it stood.

Because this is nothing more than humiliation.

---

Every noble and notable family in the kingdom had been compelled to attend, with exemptions permitted only on the basis of ill-health, and by the time the sun sets, there must be close to a thousand bodies crammed into a space not made to hold anywhere close to that number, and even with all the windows open, the stale air hangs thick and heavy around them.

The last rays of the setting sun paint the room with a deep gold, glinting off the women’s jewellery and the gold thread in the tapestries before fading away as twilight sets in, and for the longest time, there is no sign of them.

Until, suddenly, there is.

---

“All kneel for the King of Land and Sea,” the same envoy announces coldly from the door, and Brock bites the inside of his cheek as he lowers himself to his knees.

But he doesn’t look down or look away as the group approaches. They are a conquered nation, but their spirit has not been broken. This humiliation was expected and it will be endured—as will all the others.

So he stares straight ahead as ten of the creatures approach the dais. The one that has styled himself ‘King’ is in front, and Brock doesn’t need to know anything about mer physiology to know that he is older than the very stones of their keep. He is gaunt and his face is heavily lined, but there is nothing frail-looking about him, and he moves with the easy confidence of a tried and tested ruler.

---

Beside him, the Queen gasps softly. 

Her eyes are no doubt also fixed on the incongruous shards of red, silver and blue that adorn the King’s armour, and that her heart must be breaking all over again to see the remnants of her husband’s shield degraded in such a way.

The mer stops at the edge of the dais, and looks them over with pale, keen eyes before turning to the Queen.

“My lady,” it rasps, the words gentler than Brock had thought they would be.

It holds out a hand expectantly and she takes it in hers and raises it to her lips with practised ease, as though this isn’t just the latest in the long series of humiliations.

“My King graces us with his presence and his mercy,” she replies, her voice carrying through the room.

---

In the end, of the act of swearing fealty to the Sea Folk is easy enough.

They are just words, after all. Words Brock has heard spoken hundreds of times—has watched being spoken hundreds of times—only now he is the one on his knees swearing himself to a new master.

“I promise on my faith,” he recites dully, “that I will in the future be faithful to my lord, never cause him harm and will observe my homage to him completely against all persons in good faith and without deceit.”

Even if they taste like ash on his tongue, they are just words.

The old mer smiles, showing off razor-sharp fangs.

---

The feast is a subdued affair.

Brock is sat next to the King, with the Queen on the mer’s other side. Almost all of the King’s retinue are standing guard, but one is sitting opposite them. He’s a tall, powerfully-built warrior, and he proudly displays the tally of his kills inked in intricate swirls across his torso.

In a way, he reminds Brock of the late Lord Rogers, although he is clean-shaven, and his hair is dark and kept long. There’s a nasty scar that stretches from the corner of his mouth down onto his jaw, and Brock finds a vicious sense of satisfaction in imagining that it was one of his soldiers who managed to tear the fucker’s face open before they died.

---

“What is this?”

Brock looks up from his plate to find Scarface pointing at one of the dishes that has been brought out, and sighs.

The mer is endlessly curious about everything on the table, and seemingly completely disinterested in asking anyone other than Brock, despite his half-sisters’ presence on either side.

Scarface points at the dish again, once he knows he has Brock’s attention. “What is its name?” His voice is softer than that of the King’s, almost musical, and completely at odds with the rest of his demeanour.

“Rabbit,” Brock bites out, and the mer repeats the word softly to itself, although Brock has no idea if it even knows what a rabbit is.

“It’s very nice,” Maria pipes up from beside the warrior. She gulps when his attention turns to her, cringing in on herself under his gaze.

Scarface watches her for a moment and then turns back to Brock. “Is it nice?” he asks.

“Sure.” Brock shrugs. “Tastes like chicken.”

---

He knows the argument must be carrying beyond these four walls, but he cannot bring himself to care who hears them.

“You cannot do this!” he shouts. “I am your heir, for Christ’s sake! This is my kingdom, and you cannot—”

The Queen cuts him off with a sharp look. “He chose you,” is all she says. She has always played her cards close to her chest, but over the years Brock has learnt how to read her, and there’s something in her eyes that looks close to relief.

He shakes his head. “I am your heir,” he repeats numbly. “You cannot ask me to do this.”

“No,” she agrees. “I am not asking. The peace will be sealed by marriage, as was always the intention.”

“But not to me!” Brock seethes. “Not to the Crown Prince! To Natasha or Maria, or even Sharon once she is old—"

And that’s enough to snap the Queen’s iron-clad control. “They are my daughters!” she thunders, and Brock reels backwards as sudden, terrible understanding dawns.

“They are your daughters,” he whispers slowly, “and I am not your son.”