“Right,” Brogan agreed. “That wasn’t the best idea.”

“I don’t know what you’re worried about, anyways,” Tristan sighed from the table with Callam. He was chewing on a bit of sharp cheese off the tray, their beers sat waiting for them on the heavy wooden surface, dark and opaque for the season. Tristan had always been smaller than them, thin and wiry where they were broad, dark hair sharp against his pale skin where theirs was bright.

“She’s coming here,” he continued, “she going to be our queen. You shouldn’t be changing for her. She knows that, it’s part of the arrangement.”

Brogan stared back at himself, blue eyes deep and brilliant against the auburn of his short hair and the freckles scattered over his face. He ran a hand over his beard. He kept it short, close cut, but it still made him feel older, it always had, but that had been a boon before and now it suddenly felt like a disadvantage.

“I want her to feel welcome, feel home,” Brogan said, looking down at his apparel, good leather, knit, and worn from use with flannel underneath. “I can’t imagine. Crossing an ocean? A whole new world, a whole new life?” He turned back to his cousins. “Can you?”

Callam frowned, stabbing some dried venison off the wooden block with his knife. “Can’t say I can.”

Tristan’s eyes stared off into the fire burning opposite them. Deep, dark and thoughtful as always. “Terrifying.”

Winnie nodded quietly from where she sat, taking a heavy sip of her beer. “Ronan did it,” she noted.

“Blauensee is not Marigemma,” Tristan followed.

“Still not home,” Winnie shrugged.

Suddenly, the door behind them burst open and Ruary entered with a roar, swinging his son in after him on one arm and Tristan’s son on another. The boys squealed in excitement, hanging on for dear life.

“Gods, watch it won’t yah!” Callam yelled with concern, but Ruary was already laughing, loud and full, easily lowering the children onto the floor.

Brogan turned to them and Ruary’s lad Duncan ran to him instantly as Tristan’s son, wee Lorcan, climbed into his father’s lap sullen. Brogan scooped Duncan off the floor, lifting him high and kissing one of his glowing cheeks with emphasis. He’d gotten heavy, even at seven. “How’s my favorite beastie?”

The boy grinned, wrapping his arms around his uncle’s neck. “Alright.”

“Just alright?” Brogan pressed.

“Da won’t let me have any beer with breakfast,” the lad frowned.

Brogan eyed his cousin. Ruary shrugged. “What? There was whiskey in mine. I’m not feedin’ him the good stuff at seven!”

Winnie shook her head at her half-brother. “Hopeless. Totally hopeless.”

“Come ‘er lad,” Callam gestured. “You can have a sip of mine, how’s that?”

Little Duncan grinned, wiggling out of Brogan’s arms. He clambered up into Callam’s lap easily enough, getting two hands around the ceramic mug and taking a decent sip.

“If he’s face down in his own vomit tonight, I’m comin’ after you,” Ruary warned.

“If you can still stand, I’ll look out,” Callam grinned back.

“How’s it down there?” Brogan asked, trying to ignore the nerves that were starting to come to life in his stomach.

“All a-bustle,” Ruary answered, collapsing at the table himself and grabbing his own bit of cheese. “Running about like pigs in the spring. Your da is still at the shipping yard, but Kass is down there, keeping everyone together. Helping, trying to manage the food.”

“Where your sisters?” Tristan asked his son, easily adjusting him on his lap. Sometimes it seemed impossible that Tristan had managed to create three children before any of the rest of them had happened on one. But he’d always taken those things a bit more seriously.

“Don’t know,” Lorcan frowned, petulant and sour.

“I don’t know,” Tristan corrected kindly.

“Oh, come off it Trist!” Winnie called.

“I don’t know,” The child repeated. “They wouldn’t let me hide with them.”

“Where they hiding?”

“Under the table, in the kitchen, with the dogs.”

“We used to get up to that,” Callam grinned. “‘Member that Winnie?”

“Stealin’ dough?” She recalled.

“Don’t worry, lad,” Ruary cheered him, “far more fun up here. Beer and cheese’s better than dough any day.”

“What about Ronan?” Brogan asked, turning back to the mirror.

“No sign yet,” Ruary answered.

“Uncle Ronan’s coming?” Duncan perked up in his uncle’s lap. “And Auntie Tara?”

“That’s right lad,” Callam smiled, “whole bloody family.”

“Brogan, stop looking in that damned mirror, it’s not doing any good,” Winnie called out.

Brogan sighed, turning away and crossing his thick arms in front of his chest. She was right. But wasn’t sure what else to do with himself.

“Know what you need?” Callam began, grin spreading across his face. “A wee bit of air.”

“Aye, second that,” Ruary said, running a scarred hand across the shaved dome of his head. “Come on, let’s go kill something, get your mind off it.”

“Right,” Winnie said, standing to her full height with a stretch. “It’s all clamor and noise here. ’S not helpin’. Let’s get into the hills. It’s still early, anyhow. Tristan?”

“Nah,” he sighed. “Someone should look after the bairns. Best make sure the girls aren’t terrorizing the kitchen.”

“What about Ronan?” Brogan frowned. The idea of the forest was tempting; all quiet, the weight of the snow silencing everything, just him and the Blood Swords, the tracks winding through the wood. But he was eager to see his brother. It had been too long.

“He won’t be here for at least a few hours, and your little flower later than that,” Tristan comforted.

“Come on, then,” Ruary smiled. “Let’s get your little lady a stag. They’re always sluggish this time of year. Practically asking for it.”

Brogan grinned, reaching out to ruffle his nephews hair under his worn hand. “Alright. But we can’t stay out long.”

It was cold, but then it never got what anyone else could really call warm up in their lands. It was the kind of cold that stole your breath as soon as you stepped out into it. You could feel it shoot down the throat with keen interest, flooding your lungs and stealing any heat that was lingering there. It was too cold to snow, everything made crisp enough for each step to crunch hard and loud, but they were far enough off the coast here that the wind didn’t cut as sharply as it did down on the docks and through the city streets.

The castle they’d left from, the traditional home of the king, was perched up in a valley overlooking the sea. From where they were, up on a ridge to the west, they had a  more than decent view of it. It was just passing midday now, and the sun was brilliant off the snow surrounding. The castle looked to mountains on one side and to the other to the cold northern oceans on the other.

Sometimes he wondered if it would ever truly feel like his home. He knew the halls now, the shape of the rooms, the way the wind whistled in the walls, and the ancient smell of pine and moss that clung all around it, but even now it still felt like his grandfather’s home. It had been for most of his life after all. Tristan’s father, uncle Rowan, had only sat the throne for six years before he passed, and then it had fallen on them all to fill the seat after him. The trials had selected Brogan.

When they had been little they had all played at the trials. They hadn’t know what they were of course, no one really did, but they’d made up their own: feats of strength, resilience, intelligence. Children’s games.

Ronan had been the youngest, yet he’d won as often as any of them. Brogan suspected they’d all quietly thought that he would be the one in the end to best them all. But the Graces had different plans for Ronan, and when the crown fell it fell on his own head, the elder brother who had never been as good with words, who’d always had to try harder than Ronan ever did to fully grasp what he was told.

Standing on the castle walls he could easily see where they had grown up, in one of the many the towns surrounding the sea-shore. He’d spent his childhood knowing nets better than people, and when he and Ronan were old enough his father had begun teaching them the intricacies of the harbor and the trade that pushed through it daily from steaming steel-clad tankers to tiny fishing boats five generations old.

It wasn’t hard to imagine why their father had put the majority of his focus on Brogan when it came to the shipping. They weren’t the only ones to suspect Ronan was destined for greater things. He was sure his father had been waiting for the day when Ronan would naturally ascend to the seat on the mountain and he’d be left with his eldest to inherit the trade he’d built and cared for from his adolescence. Now he had neither. Brogan couldn’t blame him for his disappointment.

Brogan pulled his gaze from the castle, focusing on the lands surrounding them. The mountains stretched, jagged and eager up towards the stars, snow lying heavy where it wasn’t too steep for it to hold. They weren’t too high up yet, so the trees remained, strong and ancient pines, always the same throughout the seasons. Back in Tristan’s province the priests pulled stories out of the bark. They insisted it was the greatest record of history: the wooden faces that had looked out over the land for generations. They had Tristan do it for them sometimes after a hunt. They would all collapse around a fire between the darkened shapes of the forest, exhausted from a day of tracking and toil, and they would watch Tristan, face focused yet distant, tracing his hand over the lines of a tree and letting stories of the past flow out of him.

Brogan took a deep breath, turning his glance back to the trail. He tried not to think about the day that awaited him, thinking on it only made things worse. In this moment, with the smell of pine and the close silence of his cousins, the hunt could exists alone, the rest of the world giving way to the silence of the wood.

In the end they stayed longer than any of them had intended. They’d spotted the stag just as they’d decided to turn back and Ruary had charged up the hill after it, leaving them no choice but to follow. It had taken another hour to down it, and another again to drag it back through the woods. By the time they got it through the castle doors the sun was just kissing the edge of the horizon across the sea.

Callam and Winnie led the way laughing loud and brash as they dropped the stag onto the stones of the foyer. Brogan was grinning, hands still red from the quick work they’d made of the gutting on the mountain side.

“Bit small,” a voice called from behind them.

Brogan spun, smile instantly flooding his face. He crossed the hall in two steps, wrapping his arms around his brother and pulling him close. Ronan laughed and Brogan squeezed until he was too breathless to do so any more.

He put him down again. “You’re still smaller.” He grinned, reaching a hand out and tussling his brother’s fiery hair.

Winnie was across the room in almost the same moment lifting Ronan off the floor along with the rest of them. Brogan turned to Taraesa who was wrapped in thick wool and smiling in that quiet way of hers that always seemed like someone watching characters in a book she loved rather than her own family.

Brogan smiled at her and she smiled back. He pulled her into a thick embrace. “And how’s our queen?”

“Well.” She hugged him back. “Tired.”

“Long trip?” He asked, letting her go again.

“Too many mountains,” she smiled wryly.

“Nah, just enough.” Brogan grinned back.

She did seem tired, but he knew well enough it wasn’t just the journey here. He had mountains warding off the influx of refugees on their borders, but her land was far more welcoming, and she wasn’t the kind to turn them away. He wondered for a moment how long that would last and how much more tired she would let herself grow.

“What took you so long?” Ronan asked, wriggling free of Ruary’s neck-lock.

“What do you mean? It’s not all that late.”

“Your princess got here half an hour ago.”

Brogan froze. “What?”

“With her sister. We set them up in the solar away from all the bustle.”

“Nothing’s much fun without a little bustle,” a voice called from behind them.

Brogan turned. The two women were standing at the foot of the stairs, side by side, and for a terrifying instant he realized he wasn’t exactly sure which was which. He recognized them from the few newscasts he managed to catch a month, but couldn’t quite put different names to the faces.

One was taller, average for his people but he knew she would be considered tall anywhere else. She smiled with an edge, eyes sharp and evaluating, but playful as well and not the least bit malicious. Her hair was shorter, and she look at him, all of them, without a trace of fear or uncertainty.

The other was smaller, and seemed younger in more ways than one. She had longer hair which spun down in waves and curls , and a quietness to her face that was probably more striking than she realized. The image was only helped by the fact that every strand of her hair was a pale luminous pink, standing strong against the brushed copper of her skin. She also wore a smile, but it was shy, hesitant, and there was a fear there, a nervousness that couldn’t be avoided. Her eyes were lighter, larger, and the plumpness of her cheeks and her lips gave her a radiant and delicate appearance of fruit heavy on a vine or soft pearls pulled from oyster shells.

She was the one. She had to be. Catarina. His wife.

They both wore a single flower behind their ears. The taller girl wore a sprig of heather, a sturdy and brilliant bloom that spread across continents and oceans, brightening cold hillsides come spring in many corners of the world. Her sister wore a simple white rose, delicate, pristine, pure.

He knew their people put a great deal of emphasis on these things, but he wasn’t quite sure he was clever enough to suss out the messages he was meant to uncover.

Ronan nudged him and he realized he hadn’t said anything for longer than was comfortable.

“Sorry,” he muttered, smiling and moving forward quickly. “Welcome, I’m sorry we weren’t here to, well... sorry.”

“Quite alright,” the sister answered. “We were well looked after, and it’s hasn’t even been an hour.” She extended her hand palm down.

He reached up to take it and instantly regretted it. His palm was still caked in blood from the hunt. The girl’s face went momentarily pale.

“Ah, sorry,” he managed, bringing his hand back to his side and attempted to wipe it clean. “I would have cleaned up but I didn’t realize we had been out so long.”

“Perfectly alright,” she recovered beautifully. “We don’t mind, do we Cat?”

Her sister looked up at him, round eyes pretty, wide, and young. Really very young.

He smiled at her shyly. “Caterina?”

She smiled back, dipping slightly into a bow. He wanted to reach out and stop her from sinking lower but his hands were still a mess so he resisted. “I’m glad to meet you,” he managed, “finally. It’s an honor.”

“You as well,” she answered. He voice was soft, musical, but hardly lilting or weak. Pleasant. Really quite pleasant. “I’ve looked forward to meeting you for sometime.”

He wondered briefly how true that was. He knew well enough what they thought of his nation in her home country. He had no illusions on that score. Marigemma civilians were cultured and bred to be so, raised in comfort and eloquence. He on the other hand hadn’t seen a television until he was eleven years old, Tristan still corrected his speech, and what they had for amenities and comforts here would seem like impoverishment compare to how these girls were raised. They had no grand balls, they had no courts, no jewels, no finery, no museums or magazine covers. They had the mountains, they had their own strength, and they had the smell of the sea. It had been enough for him all his life. A worry began to crawl through his chest that it would never be enough for her.

“Oh!” He suddenly remembered. The girl looked up at him with wide, shy confusion. “I forget, I had— sorry, sorry,” he turned, heading out of the hall, “just hold on, I’ve something. For you.”

He hurried and was back in the hall within five minutes. He’d managed to wipe off his hands on his way, what he’d left seeking now lightly cupped between them. Delphine was chatting idly with Ronan when he made his way back into the foyer, but instantly broke off at the sight of him.

“Oh my goodness!” she exclaimed, eyes widening with glee.

Brogan stepped up to them again. In his hands was a tiny, pure white kitten. He held it up the Catarina and her eyes went wide, face instantly softening and opening.

“This is for you,” Brogan smiled, pushing it closer.

She looked up at him. “What? Really?”

“We don’t usually put much stake in rings or jewels,” he tried to explain, “it’s traditional for a man to give the woman he’s to marry a kitten instead, the day before the wedding.”

He still couldn’t quite believe that. One day. Less. Tomorrow, when the sun sat in this same place over the sea, she would be his wife. For the day following, and the next after, and any more to come. It seemed impossible.

She reached out, lightly scooping the delicate fluffy shape from the rough of his hands. Her fingertips grazed his as she did and they seemed impossibly smooth. He imagined the rose she wore might feel almost the same.

She beamed down at the little squirming shape. It was small, pale, eyes still holding blue as they all did when they were that age. It was tired, slumping exhausted and comfortable into the bowl of her smaller hands.

She grinned at her sister and Delphine leaned down, running a finger under it’s stomach with a small codling sound.

Catarina looked back at him. “Thank you, it’s wonderful. Is it… a girl?”

“Yes,” Brogan answered quickly. “But we haven’t named her.”

Catarina smiled down at the small shape. “Iris.”

“Perfect,” Delphine agreed.

Brogan let himself take in the image, the woman he would marry holding the kitten, pressing the softness of it against the round, golden curve of her cheek, full lips spreading into a brilliant smile. She looked at him and the smile didn’t fade.

“Come,” he felt the brightness of her expression fall against his own. “Let me show you my family.”

The next morning dawned brilliant and frozen. He lay longer than he knew he should have in his bed, half the furs draped over the floor, the cold familiar stone above him, sharp white sunlight slanting in through the thin windows along his walls.

He was nervous. There had been a time in his life, years in fact, when he couldn’t remember how it felt to be “nervous”. There had never been much cause for it after all, and if there had been he’d simply shrugged it aside. He’d spent his days out hunting with his cousins or patiently learning the shipping and boating trades that his father sought to teach him. He’d been a prince, one of many, and that had been simple. The throne hadn’t worried him. He was only one option of six to ascend so it hadn’t been much of a concern. He hadn’t worried about marriage. He could have his pick of the girls in the land, and if he found one that interested him enough he would ask her to stay longer than a night. And if he interested her enough back she just might. He hadn’t felt a need for children. He had Tristan’s and Ruary’s to keep him entertained.

But now everything had changed.

He’d taken the throne almost ten years ago and he still felt as helpless as the first day. His grandfather had seemed made for the throne, carved out of the rock of the mountains and as vital to the ruling seat as the stones that constructed it’s walls. And here he was, still hardly at home in the castle that ruled his lands. There was still so much to learn, so much to understand, and Ronan was gone now, he couldn’t help him, and their father was full of bitterness and bile for it. He hated Ronan for leaving the country. He hated Brogan for leaving the sea. Some days he felt that even though his cousins were always close, he’d never felt so alone.

And that was the point of marriage, wasn’t it? That was the cure for the sense of isolation that came with leadership. A partner. A queen. Someone to sit by his side and give the people a figure to truly love. But he felt fear snaking around his stomach and couldn’t push it aside. Could she be happy here? Could she shine and be all he could see she was? Or would she wither and fade, like the rose she had worn yesterday likely already had. Each day growing less and less radiant, the soft beauty withering under loneliness and lack of sun or warmth. He didn’t pretend their homes were similar. He didn’t pretend she wasn’t only being kind when she said she was glad to be here with him. He knew how disappointed her brother had been in the match. For two kings it was hard to imagine he and Armand Milon could be more dissimilar.

But there were other thoughts as well mingling with these fears, thoughts that warmed and caught in his mind with all the rest. He thought of Duncan and Lorcan, and of the girls, he thought of their smiling faces and stretching hands. And he thought of Catarina, that kitten held close, and the warmth that flowed from her. He imagined her form filled out with a child of their own. He imagined pushing her waved pink hair from her face, damp and heavy with the sweat of labor. He imagined lifting his own child, skin copper and hair orange, blue eyes shining brilliant and eager, face round and soft, but body strong and tall. And he wanted that. He wanted that suddenly more than he ever imagined he could.  

He could make her happy. The throne was one thing, the pressures that pushed against him that he could hardly control or understand. Politics felt like a storm on the sea, with unseen rocks and crashing waves you never knew were coming. But a marriage. That he could conquer. Ronan had found happiness there even if none of them had expected it. He had made that land his mountain and climbed it with every ounce of his cunning and strength. And now he stood tall at the precipice. Happy. Truly happy.

And suddenly, Brogan was decided: no matter what else threw itself upon him, he would make her happy. No matter what it took or what storms arose, she was his wife, and he would be her home. He would be her husband. And he would strive, bend, break, for her happiness.

When he finally opened his door, dressed and cleaned for the day, something fell from the handle. He bent down, lifting it up. It was a wealth, woven of leaves with small white flowers turned through. He ran it carefully through his hands, and with a small smile, turned it around and placed it on his head, making his way down the hall to breakfast.

The hall was warm and full. There wasn’t much to the castle in the way of finery. It was old, heavy stone built long ago and hardly designed for the modern life. He’d been to Taraesa’s castle for her and Ronan’s wedding in the fall, and it had been an entirely different experience. It was warm even though the spaces were wider and the windows were larger. There were rugs and libraries and paintings hung on the walls, electric lights in the bedrooms, and a paved road leading back to the capital.

Here they had little electricity. There were several stations, run off of solar mostly that allowed for some basic functionality, but it was far from general, and at night they mostly used gas lamps and fireplaces for light. Heat slunk up through the floors, geothermal, one of the benefits of living on such young and angry mountains. The halls were closer for warmth and stayed that way as they aged, the rooms clad with furs and tapestries rather than carpets and paintings. But the truth was they had never truly been an “indoors” sort of people. Why make rooms wide and ceilings tall when you could simply step outside and have all of that and more? Nothing would ever compare with the spanning stars overhead and no one had ever dared to compete with that firmament.

But, the hall was one room in which some exceptions had been made. It was the largest contained room in the castle. There was a courtyard out on the back of the slope that they would use later that evening. It was a larger structure, a wider perimeter by far, but for roofed structures the hall was the greatest. It was large enough to fit long tables that could hold all the family, if they ever all wished to join,  with fires lit all down the middle so the warmth could flow throughout. The tables were lifted one or two feet off the ground on a platform to make the most of the heat.

When he entered the warmth of family and fire filled the space. Tristan was trying to manage his children as they tried to manage their plates. Winnie was helping on the other side while Callum leaned heavily on the table looking exhausted. He looked for his father, but did not see him. He’d told them this might be the case. The shipping yard was under strain he’d said, might have to simply meet them at the temple.

Brogan’s bride to be and her sister were already seated at the head, talking to Ronan and Taraesa. He headed towards them and when they saw him Ronan burst out with a laugh.

“You found it,” Catarina smiled.

“What?” Brogan asked, and then suddenly remembered the wreath on his head. “Oh, right. I thought maybe I was supposed to.”

“It’s traditional,” Delphine smiled. “Bride’s hang it on the groom’s door the morning of the wedding.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to wear it,” Ronan grinned.

Brogan could feel his cheeks heating under his beard. “Oh.” He reached up to take it off.

“No,” Catarina smiled. “I think it’s good. Handsome.”

He looked at her and she shyly turned her eyes down to her lap.

“Second,” Taraesa said. “It’s a good look on you.” She leaned against her husband. “Let’s find you one.”

“Good luck in this season,” Ronan said, giving Brogan a pitying look.

Brogan pulled out a seat and sat next to his bride. They never had any formal seating arrangements in the hall but everyone seemed to manage. He glanced over and noticed she had the little white kitten in her lap. It was curled into a perfect circle, large head tucked into the fold created by it’s body.

“I’m sorry,” she said, noticing his attention. “I just couldn’t leave her upstairs.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Brogan said. Tentatively he reached out, rubbing a finger across the top of the small head in her lap. The kitten blinked at him with large blue eyes. Sitting this close he could feel the warmth of Catarina. She smelled light and airy, something like lilac in her hair and another smell, almost sandy mingling with it.

“This is all so strange,” she said in a quiet voice.

Brogan nodded. “I know.”

“It feels strange to be here, now, with your family. I feel as if I should be off in a tower, dressing for the wedding.”

“Ah no,” Brogan said, “you don’t want to do that yet. It’s an hour’s hike to the temple for the marriage. And we don’t have any towers anyways.”

She smiled him, clever and calmer than he would have suspected. “Pity.”

“Presents?” Ronan suddenly asked.

Brogan looked up. “What? Oh aye, of course.” He glanced around the hall. There were twenty or so of them close around, all eating the salted meat and fish, eggs, thick loaves of bread. “Where’s Ruary?”

“Here,” called a voice heading in the door. They turned. He was standing in the entrance with  Duncan, hands on both his shoulders. The little boy was holding an axe with both hands. It was small enough that he didn’t have to strain to lift it.

“It’s time, isn’t it?” Ruary asked.

“Of course,” Brogan beamed, and then caught himself. He turned to Catarina. “It’s… they have gifts. For you. If you’d like.”

She smiled back at Ruary, but focused on the little boy. “Very much. I’m honored.”

Duncan beamed at her, hurrying over a little too quickly for a boy with a blade. Ruary caught his shoulder and slowed him as they approached up the center of the space made between the two tables, backs to the fire. The room quieted appropriately, eager to witness the presentation. The little boy tried to push solemnity onto his face, holding out the axe. Catarina held out her soft unworked hands and the boy lay it in them. She seemed surprised by the weight but managed it quick enough, pulling the axe closer with a wary but awed expression.

“It’s steel. And sliver. On the handle,” the boy said with an air of the very well informed.

“Beautiful,” her hands traced over the body of the weapon. It was good work, just enough ornamentation and the right weight and size for someone of her height. Brogan wasn’t sure she could even lift it or that her hands would stand up to even a decent sparring without blistering, but that wasn’t what mattered. She didn’t cringe away. She respected it for exactly what it was even if she didn’t fully understand.

“In our province mountains there’s mines, decent enough, but the craftsmen know their work. We wanted to bring you something of the land.” Ruary said, smile strong and true on his cheeks.

She made an attempt to hold it properly and Delphine laughed, causing her sister’s cheeks to shift to pink.

“Better than a letter opener,” Delphine grinned, leaning over for a better look.

The lad frowned, eyeing her hands critically. “You held an axe before?”

Brogan was about to scold him when Catarina looked the boy full in the eyes and smiled. “No. Not once. Maybe you can show me the proper way?”

Duncan beamed. “Oh aye.”

“Good.” She smiled back.

Brogan suddenly wanted very much to hold her hand. He curled his fingers in on themselves instead. There was time enough for all of that. And he had decided: he would make her happy, and that came before his own inclinations. If she took his hand, he would take hers back. But not before.

“Alright, come along,” Tristan called across the room, pushing back his seat and standing with his children. He had a thin wooden box in his hands, and as they moved around the table he laid it down in front of her. His wife stepped up with them and suddenly Brogan realized he hadn’t noticed her arrive and was sorry for it. She was as lithe as her husband, hair so blonde it was almost silver, cascading down her shoulders, eyes sharp and large, keeping all her children in sight.

Catarina eased the box off the table and opened it, instantly gasping. Carefully she reached inside and lifted out a chained silver necklace, laced with crystals.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmured, letting it flow through her fingers like water.

“The girls found the crystals up in the mountains,” Tristan’s wife smiled, weaving her arms around her children and pulling them close.

“And I picked out the chains,” Lorcan added.

“It’s a holy object in our land,” Tristan clarified. “Our province is the highest in the mountains, closest to the stars, and we are a religious order before all else. These crystals grow in caves, out of the light of the stars. So we bring them into them again, and in the starlight, tilted just right, they create a galaxy of their own in reflections.”

“Thank you,” Catarina said, delicately handling the stones. “I will wear it for the ceremony.”

Tristan’s family nodded with approving smiles, urging the children away again.

Across the room Winnie nudged Callam who jolted into a better state of wakefulness. They crossed the room and laid out their own gift.

It was a small basket, and in the basket were ten or so small cloth bags tied with string.

“They’re seeds.” Winnie said. “Wild flowers from our province. It’s lower, and there’s plenty of fields in the summer. We thought you might like to start a garden. Come spring. We heard, at least, we thought…”

“You’d like flowers,” Callam took over. “That’s what we thought. So we brought you some.”

Catarina stared at the small bags. Brogan saw a winkle form against her forehead and for a moment was worried she wasn’t happy, but then she reached out, wrapped both hands around the seeds and pulled them close, looking up to his cousins.

“Thank you,” she said, voice quiet with emotion. “It’s very thoughtful.”

Winnie smiled awkwardly, and gave Callam a shove, moving back towards their seats.

“Just leaves us then,” Ronan smiled, standing. He reached under the table and pulled out a bundle, leaning over Delphine to hand it to her sister.

Catarina unwrapped it carefully, revealing knitted wool underneath.

“Oh,” she smiled in surprised, looking over at Taraesa. “Is this from your home? Your sheep?”

“His sheep,” Tarasea insisted. “Nothing to do with me.”

Catarina unfolded the thing in her hands, revealing a full long shawl with a spread of earthy colors and a tight intricate knit pattern.

“He knitted it,” Taraesa said proudly.

“You knitted that?” Delphine gaped.

“Someone has to use the wool,” Ronan shrugs. “I like knitting, it’s calming.”

“A little more creepy than calming in council meetings,” Tarasea noted.

“You’ve gotten better,” Brogan observed, eyeing the shawl as Catarina wrapped it around her shoulders all aglow. “Those first few sweaters were a bit rough.”

“Then why do you still wear them?” Ronan asked.

“Warm’s warm,” Brogan answered with a shrug.

“Well,” Tristan said, standing. “You’ll need it. It’s time we got started. It’s a good hike and we need to be sure to arrive before midday or da won’t let us hear the end of it.”

The group began to move and shift. Brogan glanced down at Catarina, watching as her sister ran her hand over the wool and she held it close around her.

“Should I wear the axe?” She asked he suddenly.

“What?”

“For the ceremony?” She continued shyly.

He smiled down at her. “Only if you’d like.”

She nodded, looking down to her lap and letting the kitten catch her fingers, kicking at her hand with it’s back feet. “Yes, I’d like that.”

The hike up the mountain ended up being closer to two hours than the usual one. There had been more snow than they’d expected and his cousins had to shovel it to clear a proper trail all the way for the party to pass. Ultimately the slow pace was likely for the best, Catarina and her sister were winded after the first quarter mile, and so they proceeded carefully. He knew it wasn’t just the lack of physicality to their lifestyles, often times even hardened warriors from other lands got breathless up in the mountains without too much trouble. But Catarina didn’t complain, she knitted an arm around his and he supported her the rest of the way as Tristan’s wife slowed to do the same for Delphine.

Eventually they did reach the end of their journey, the temple emerging, ancient and constant out of the folds of the mountain. It was built into a unique hollow valley, mountains respectfully circling on all sides and nothing but sky spanning above. The sun was approaching its ultimate height, signaling the start of the ceremony so they hurried forward.

Winnie and the other women took Catarina off to one of the antechambers to change, while the rest of them headed for the priests of the temple and began gathering to start the fires all around the circular main room that would hold the ceremony.

The main room of the temple was round and wide, ancient stone walls curling up but remaining open on the top so that the sky could serve as the only roof. The floors were carved with runes and drawings that hardly anyone in the priesthood could understand any longer, knowledge long lost in time. Cradles for the fires circled the room entirely, providing warmth for the ceremony despite the open ceiling. They burned pine and nothing else, dried in the crypts underneath and brought up again only for such sacred occasions.

The priests were gathered in the center of the room, long black robes trailing along the floor. They turned as the wedding party entered opening to reveal two others. Their parents had made it after all.

“Brogan,” his mother beamed, crossing the ancient stones quickly. She threw her arms around his neck and he held her tight, closing his eyes against her shoulder. She was almost as tall as him, and taller than any woman he’d met apart from Winnie.

After a moment he put her down again and Ronan instantly wrapped her in his arms, swinging her around quickly as she laughed.

“Still strong then?” she smiled as he set her down. “You haven’t gone as soft as your father would have me believe.”

“You’re back then? At home?” Ronan asked.

“Hardly,” their father had reached them. He was as tall as any of them, hair a dark thick grey, long and swept back from his face. Chest as broad as Brogan’s, legs as long as Ronan’s, and eyes sharper and darker blue than either of them.  He wrapped an arm around his wife’s waist and she let him pull her close to his side. “It’s the first time I’ve seen her in six months or more. Which is more than I can say for you,” he said to Ronan.

Ronan easily ignored him. “So, where’ve you been?” he asked their mother.

“Oh, where ever calls,” she smiled. “You know I never could stay in one place.”

“How’s the flower princess?” Their father asked, looking around the room. “Still climbing the mountain? Is that what took you so long? You almost missed the sun.”

“She’s here,” Brogan said, trying to keep the tightness from his voice. “And it wasn’t her. It was the snow.”

“Ah, yes,” his father held his stare, “the snow. Of course.”

“I think she’s lovely,” Ronan said.

“Lovely,” his father repeated, voice hardly hiding mockery.

“I’m eager to meet her.” Their mother smiled, moving away from her husband and taking both her sons by an arm. “Now, let’s start these fires. We don’t want her to be cold in her dress.”

They all made quick work on the fires, following Tristan’s instructions and getting a good blaze surrounding the room. The sun was nearing the central point of the ceiling by the time they were done, and Brogan realized he hadn’t even noticed Ronan leaving to fetch the bride. When he turned the ceremony was already arranging itself and suddenly he realized it was all happening, right now, all around him.

Ruary stepped up to his side, pushing his axe into his hands. “Ready?”

Brogan looked down at the familiar leather handle between his fingers, the old worn roughness of his palms, the same old scars, each with a story of their own and half of them the fault of someone in that room.

He let the weight fall back to his side, strapping the blade onto his hip with quick ease. “Yes, I think I am.”

“Good,” Winnie grins. “She’s pretty as a star, and seems more than sharp enough to hone you.”

“Second that,” Callum grinned.

“The time’s approaching,” Tristan called, and his family moved accordingly, forming a line down one side of the space.

Delphine had come back with Taraesa and Tristan showed her where to stand.

Brogan let the priests direct him to the center of the floor and he took in the arrangement laid out before them. It must be strange for Delphine, standing there all alone, the one member of the family present for her sister, facing all of them: his father, his mother, Taraesa, Winnie, Callem, Ruary with Duncan at his side, Tristan and his wife, all three of their children lined up tall and proud. All waiting, all present.

A hush fell over the temple as the sunlight aligned over the center of the floor, and on cue, through the stone archway, Ronan and Catarina came.

She glowed, all brightness and beauty against the grey stones of the temple. Her dress was white, fair, flowing, all shifting layers of thin material that clasped at her limbs, lining the curves of her body with an easy grace. She was wearing the necklace that Tristan had given her and the crystals caught the sunlight, sending the patterns of the night sky across the bare copper of her chest. She wore her hair loose and long, pink curls and folds tumbling over her shoulders. She wore the axe slung around her hips, easily carrying the weight. It gave a rhythm to her steps, adding a power to the delicacy of her beauty that struck him especially. She went barefoot, which surprised him initially, but he remembered hearing something of a tradition in their land and quieted his concerns.

Ronan led her to the line of their family, presenting her to each one in turn. It was the tradition: the most trusted companion of the man presenting the bride to the family, each in turn, to gain their approval.

Taraesa was first. She smiled, small but strong, reaching out and holding her new sister’s hand in hers, leaning forward to kiss her forehead. Next came Tristan. He looked into her eyes, strong and firm. She held his look and he smiled, leaning forward to repeat the gesture. She moved along the line, the children stretching up on their toes to kiss her head one after the other. Ruary kissed her loudly, proudly. Callam was strong but sincere. Winnie was delicate, loving. Catarina reached his mother. She looked her firmly in the face, eyebrows lowering with evaluation. Catarina held her gaze. His mother’s look traveled, resting on the axe on her hips. She took the girl’s hands in hers and leaned forward, laying a gentle kiss on her forehead.

Finally, she stood before his father. He did not smile. His face remained as firm and cold as the stones beneath them. He looked into her eyes and nowhere else, his own dark and blue as the ocean. But she did not flinch, and she did not look away. After several longer than comfortable moments he bent his back slightly, brushing his lips against her forehead.

Ronan led her to the front, but Brogan didn’t have time to meet her because Ronan was already leading him to Delphine. He stood Brogan in front of her and she looked up at him.

Her mouth cocked into a smirk. She narrowed her eyes with sharp mock-evaluation and he realized suddenly that he really did like her very much. She was funny and clever and in that moment he sincerely wanted her approval, he wanted her as a sister to care after, sit beside, and trust as family. She glanced at his height and he suddenly realized what the problem was. Smiling he took a knee, and she placed a hand on his shoulder, kissing his forehead before he stood again.

He joined Catarina back at the front, and Ronan kissed both their heads before stepping back in line with the rest of their family.

Brogan smiled at her, and she smiled back. Here, with the sunlight shedding down over them, she really was impossibly beautiful.

Two priests joined them. “If you’ll bear your hands, we will begin the binding.”

Brogan gave his to one, and Catarina hers to another. Around them the priests sang, ancient hollow sounding songs that felt like one extended word, rising and falling, shifting and ebbing as the noise filled the space and circled around the walls up towards the sky.

They were tattooed, each by their priest with an inked dart, a thin circle of dots around one of their fingers. A circle of stars to hold them close and constant.

He glanced at her, ignoring the pain easily. She remained focused, face set, a peace there despite the pain. When the priests were done they wrapped the fresh marks in strips of deerskin, protecting the wounds and allowing the ink to settle under their skin. Each priest guided a hand and joined the both of them together.

Her fingers slipped around his, so smooth and so small. He felt her thumb settle along the side of his hand, moving up with a shy interest and a strange intimacy he hadn’t expected.

“In the eyes of the stars,” the priest said.

“In the eyes of the stars,” their family echoed.

He let his hand drift, carefully circling her cheek. She tilted her chin upwards, inviting, smiling, and he kissed her.

Her lips were full and soft on his own. She eased against him, all smoothness and warm as sunlight. She stepped closer, her held her tighter. Her mouth slipped open and all he could taste was summer.

The castle was lit from top to bottom by the time they got back, music already flowing through the halls from guitars, drums, and pipes. The feast was laid out in the open courtyard that was sheltered from the wind and the cold of the mountains, fires set blazing all around to ward off the cold. Lords and friends from the towns below and his cousin’s provinces had come along, filling the castle with laughter and energy.

They bustled into the feast all together, finding their table and settling in, starved and thirsty after the long hike back down the mountain side. The feast was always the most honored part of any Vuggian wedding. Each of his cousins presented their boar, one at time, and as the tradition went each shared a tale of some past hunt with Brogan that had not gone as well.

Tristan had remembered a time when they weren’t any older than thirteen and ten, scrambling over the hills after a rabbit. Brogan and dove headfirst into the hole Tristan swore it had vanished into and emerged with a face full of bees, the scars from which Tristan insisted were the reason he wore his beard so thick to this day.

Callum’s story had been of a drunken night and an imagined monster. Winnie’s had been a hunt of a different kind, a girl they’d known since childhood who tempted them to peruse her, and in the end it was Winnie who won the prize. Ruary’s tale took place hardly two years hence, when they’d taken Duncan for the first time and he’d frightened Brogan half to death pretending he’d broken his leg in the chase.

They’d each brought a keg of beer as well, brewed in their lands with their own flavoring, and with each story the beer poured quicker and the crowd laughed harder.

Sometime between the first and the third story Catarina’s fingers found his under the table. She had clever hands, moving exactly as they liked even in a grip as large as his. The beer was already hanging heavily on him, and he was more than content to bask in the warmth of laughter, and watch as she wrapped her fingers around his, learning the scars and worn places with a curious persistence.

Taraesa and Delphine were laughing together, talking quietly back and forth over the ominous presence of a boar’s head between them. Ronan was locked between his cousins, doing his best to drain a flagon before Callum. Across the way his mother smiled back at him, peaceful, still beautiful even now.

After the boar and the Blood Swords came their children, all his nephews and nieces. They each brought a bite of cake, and took their turns feeding Catarina one each. Niamh, Tristan’s eldest was last, and Brogan just caught the mischievous glint to her eye before she smear the cake across Catarina’s cheek. Tristan scolded her firmly across the table but Catarina only laughed, scooping the girl up into her lap and returning the favor as she squealed. Something glowed inside Brogan’s chest as he watched her. Strange, how suddenly he thought the night would be colder without her in it. It was an alien feeling, but it didn’t feel so, it felt comfortable, necessary, like something he’d forgotten and he couldn’t imagine how. The warmth settled, deep and strong. His hand found hers again, tracing over the deerskin around her finger.

And then the dancing began.

Delphine looked on as it started, watching the men circle the fire, moving back and forth rhythmically together while the woman circled, eyeing them carefully.

“What are they doing?” She asked.

Taraesa had to speak louder than usual to be heard over the music. “It’s considered lucky for the couple for their wedding night to be filled with,” she cleared her throat, “well… In Vugge it’s traditional for the men to attract the women. So they dance.”

Delphine laughed, pleasant and open. “I can’t say I don’t like that idea.”

Taraesa watched the fire lighting the bodies moving around it. Ronan swayed between his cousins, hips easing his from side to side. “No, not really a bad idea at all.”

Tristan moved like water, lithe and easy. His wife reached out to him, pulling close so they moved together with the music, her mouth teasing against his, open and slow. Callam was dancing closely with a younger man Brogan didn’t recognize, their eyes drifting down each other’s bodies and over the woman pressed between them, pace steady, rhythmic. The children were gone by now, probably ushered off into the castle with Ruary tucking them under the heavy warmth of furs and letting them collapse with the sleep of a well lived day.

Catarina was leaning against him, their shoulders pressed together, hands knitted, lying lazily over his leg. If he focused, through the haze of good beer and better boar, he could feel her breath against his cheek. She smelled of the feast and something else, something closer to honey that he imagined was just her.

Her thumb traced a line up his own. “When do we go?” she breathed.

He turned to her, vision filling with her large eyes, looking likely as heavy as his own did, only with what exactly he wasn’t sure.

He smiled, reaching out to push a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s tricky.”

“Tricky?” her voice was lower than it had been.

He cleared his throat. “It’s part of the,” he gestured idly to the festivities, “if they see us going, we have to come back. They can’t catch us.”

She looked back at him and then leaned forward and let her lips linger on his cheek. Finally she pulled back again, a shy smile lighting up her face. “Then let’s not get caught.”

The warmth in his chest glowed, embers spilling off from it and lighting another heat lower, a heat more familiar. He lifted their knitted fingers up and kissed them, careful, strong. Her lips had fallen apart just enough to notice.

Taraesa was watching them with a small smile. She leaned closer to Delphine. “I am sorry about this.”

Delphine looked back at her. “Sorry about what?”

“Ronan,” she called out, and suddenly he turned from the dance, fire dying his hair an even brighter red and smile brilliant and bright. Taraesa tilted her head in Delphine’s direction. “The hunt?”

Ronan’s face suddenly lit up. “THE HUNT!”

Delphine froze. “What?”

Callam turned instantly, hand locking on the shoulder of his dancing companion. “THE HUNT!”

And then they were all headed for their table. Delphine squealed in shock as they scooped her out of her chair and lifted her high, carrying her in a celebratory march off into the crowd, chanting as she laughed and stared in shock.

“That’s the only distraction I have,” Taraesa smiled, watching the procession. “You’d better use it.”

Catarina looked back at him, and he was standing half a second later, bending them both low as they rushed out of the courtyard unseen, doing their best to smother their laughter.

They moved through the close halls of the castle, hurried, breathless, rushing even though there was no real cause.  The sounds of laughter and passion pressed from nearly every room they passed, filling the old stones with heat and life.

Brogan didn’t focus properly until he found his own door under his hands. He hadn’t thought at all, he realized, and suddenly a twang of concern tightened in his chest. But Catarina pressed close behind him, urging them both through the door.

He let her walk him back into the space, pink hair aglow against the light of the fire burning bright in the hearth across the room. Her body was close and so warm and his own couldn’t help responding. He stepped back again, wary. He wouldn’t press. He couldn’t push.

“I want you to be happy,” he said it out loud. He wasn’t sure he’d meant to. But it was true. It had never been more true.

She looked up at him, arms finding their way around his neck, lifting to her toes. “So,” she smiled, shyness slinking into something lazy and coy, “make me happy.”

She kissed him. Parted, soft, warm. And he couldn’t help melting against her.

Her hands snaked into his hair as her tongue pressed against his lower lip, tempting him open and he surged, jaw falling wide, hands grasping her hips, raising her easily, her toes just grazing the stone under their feet.  

She tasted sweet, earthy; berries found on a hillside, spring water melted under summer sun.

One of her knees pressed forward, urging itself between his legs, and suddenly he was lifting her with firm need. His wide hands slid far too easily from her hips to under her full figure, all warmth and shape. Her legs found their way around his hips instantly, knitting them together tight and close.

He couldn’t seem to stop kissing her. Part of him wanted to. He wanted to learn the lines of her neck, the turn of her jaw, the edge of her shoulder, but he couldn’t, not yet. Her grip tightened in his hair boldly as her kiss deepened. Her hips urged in his hands, trying to press close to the warmth there and he growled, moving his hips for her and grinding them together with new strength.

She gasped, breathless and open, breaking the kiss, and he took the excuse, turning his attention to the exposed warmth of her neck.

Her hands fluttered against him, shocked by the sudden feeling. He tried to take a step back, but perhaps he was a little more drunk than he’d realized and he almost stumbled.

She laughed light, intimate and close, and he smiled into the curve of her shoulder, turning them and focusing long enough to drop her backwards into the furs spread over the bed. Bouncing she landed, light and eager, hands snatching at him hungrily. He stripped his flanneled shirt and leather layers quickly enough, feeling his bare back warm against the fire. He paused, but she was suddenly watching him intently, leant back on her elbows, breath heavy in her chest. He didn’t take his eyes from her, shedding the rest of his clothing and finally standing bare in front of her, and even then she watched, drinking him in until finally she reached out, hard and fast.

He fell into her, slow and heavy, kissing her deep, feeling nothing but the smoothness of the fur against his legs and her arms around his back.

He could feel his breath quickening. His motions felt heavy, pressing, the heat in his chest moving deep behind his stomach, tight and persistent. One hand traced the line of her breast and she sighed so prettily he couldn’t stop himself from ducking his head and taking it in his mouth, tongue tracing every line he could think of.

She slipped out her dress one fold at time, with considerably less trouble than he would have had. Perhaps she wasn’t as drunk as he was, but the truth was lust was sobering anything else from him, pressing tight and firm against his limbs, urging him forward.

And then she was nothing but impossibly smooth warmth under him. His hand landed against her bare thigh and her legs fell wider instantly. He slid his hand up, letting his tongue explore the edge of her neck, and she gasped, head craning back in open shock. His own arousal throbbed firmly under him, insistent and needy, but he pushed that aside, focusing on the way her breath tightened in her chest with each motion, the way she tightened and loosened as he adjusted his pace, the curve of his hand, the force.

He drank in each sigh, each moan, and with sudden, strange clarity he realized this was what they had carved out of this day: this moment, the promise of it occurring again and again for as long as they might live. And he wanted it with such sudden ferocity it shocked him. He wanted to learn each breath, each movement. He wanted to learn her happiness and let her learn his. A secret, a knowledge that only they truly shared. A promise. In the eyes of the stars.