My Love for a Kingdom -- Chapter 12

[artemisms]

The ceremony was long. This was pretty much the only conclusion Emerson had as far as the entire wedding itself was concerned; a great deal of babbling about devotion, hard work, honor, and what not from the priest, a very long song by a priestess in a language no one even knew anymore, and lots of ceremonial lighting of candles, singing of more songs, and stating of vows that everyone knew meant absolutely nothing. They then both turned and addressed the witnesses, formally thanking their families and pledging aloud to the gods their promise to uphold their sacred union.

It was a joke, and everyone knew it. This wasn’t the first aristocratic wedding Emerson had ever been to, so he wasn’t sure why it was affecting him so strongly. Certainly not because it was his own-he always knew there was at least a 50/50 chance that he would have to marry as his parents saw fit. After all, he had their own union as a shining example of what a loveless, politically-motivated wedding would look like in twenty years. It was a simple fact of life for himself, his friends, and most young people of his station.

But still. It depressed him.

The dinner and ball afterward at least were more enjoyable. Ironically, once the guests were formally received by himself and Rohan and their guardians, they were all free to mingle with one another, rank and title notwithstanding. Because this was technically his and Rohan’s wedding, they were permitted, even expected, to set out the rules and social guidelines. No one was likely surprised by the looseness of the celebrations, as he was marrying a commoner, and it would have been a little indecent for any respect to rank to be made tonight, other than what was natural and considered part of every day living, of course. Rohan, for example, pulled his hair free as soon as the ceremony was over, the symbolic gesture of having it tied back, however low, for his wedding to a young lord no longer needed. Emerson supposed he was lucky Rohan was more aware of such societal niceties than he was. Then again, he could be committing some kind of social faux pas all evening, and no one but his parents would be obligated to inform him of it.

After dinner, he danced the first few obligatory dances with Rohan, then with both his friends, then the three of them sat out the next few dances to look and see what had become of Kara and Miranda. Marta spotted them first, dressed in their finest, their hair and faces marvelously done up ... and both standing alone, together, their arms linked, rotten expressions on their faces. Not a soul (save the occasional servant) would walk within ten feet of either one, and it was more than obvious from their expressions that they knew something was going on. It was everything Emerson and his friends could do to keep from bursting out into peels of undignified laughter.

He danced with Rohan again, then, his new husband in alarmingly good spirits, his green eyes sparkling with more than the usual level of merriment. It was as if a sort of hunger had crept into his gaze, his cheeks already beginning to flush with wine, to the point where Emerson was actually relieved when Rohan’s aunt graciously stole him away from her nephew for the next waltz.

She was a good dancer, and a pleasant conversationalist, but he wasn’t permitted to enjoy her company for long. Again and again, his hand was requested, mostly by women, as it would now be considered gravely disrespectful for another man to ask to dance with him at his wedding banquet. However, there were a few men who did brave social tradition, and as these were all young, merry, and dressed as well-to-do townspeople, he could only assume they were Rohan’s friends from boyhood or school. They were all of them spirited, if a bit sloppy, dancers. One tried to kiss his hand, but before he’d had the chance, Rohan had appeared out of nowhere to grab that same hand and drag him into the next dance.

“Well that was a little melodramatic,” he’s said, scowling at his husband as Rohan led the way across the dance floor.

But Rohan had only shrugged and didn’t seem to care to respond.

Afterward, Marta snatched him aside for another dance, and rattled off to him the whole time what had become of Kara and Miranda. They’d left the celebrations early to retire to their rooms. Arthur, she said, had danced with several girls from their school who gossiped nonstop about what had happened to the Academy’s soon-to-be former Queen Bee and her most loyal clone. She was so excited he had to ask her to repeat herself more than once, and after the dance, he urged her to drink a little more water than wine and perhaps enjoy a little something to eat, but she laughed and told him to stop being silly and to enjoy himself on his wedding night.

His wedding night. Emerson sighed to himself as he finally made his way tiredly from the main hall, a servant leading him to the marriage suite. It was stupid, but tradition dictated that he and Rohan spend their first night as a newly wedded couple in the marriage suite, a small but elaborately-decorated group of rooms set off somewhat from the rest of the manor. The servant who led him there was beyond deferential and polite, to the point where he almost missed Mack’s Muller, who no doubt would have left him with a bit of cheeky advice before closing the double doors on him.

The room was empty, save for the myriad flickering candles and the deliciously roaring fires on both ends of the suite. He wasn’t surprised that Rohan was still at the banquet; he must have been the only one tonight who hadn’t felt the need to drink his entire weight in wine.

All of their things were neatly packed and waiting off to the side, in preparation for the wedding journey. They were to visit some ancient castle followed by a week long visit to a high-class resort up near the Mardith Mountains.

It was a traditional route for aristocratic couples married in this part of the country. Emerson wondered how he was going to bear it, being alone with Rohan for so long, officially married to him, and yet...

He removed his wedding clothes first, unpinning his hair and unceremoniously kicking aside the heavy garments. He donned a simple sleep shirt and sleep pants, yawning as he ran his fingers through his hair. His eyes trailed over towards the single, oversized bed in the center of the huge room, and he thought he may as well be a gentleman and let Rohan share it with him. Since that made his cheeks suddenly flush, his skin warming painfully, he turned away from the bed and wandered over towards the bookshelf near where their things were packed instead.

However, this was the wedding suite, and the titles stocked here made him blush even more. Ridiculous!

Still, curious, he reached for a book entitled simply Making Love, an artistic rendering of a couple entwined on the cover beneath the flowery letters. He thumbed through it for a few seconds, his eyes widening at several of the images, his mouth actually falling open slightly. He closed it and slipped it quickly back on the shelf.

He crouched down near their personal belongings next, trying to remember if he’d packed a book himself or even a pack of cards. He hadn’t.

He hesitated only a moment before moving towards Rohan’s single bag. Hell, they were married now, right? “What’s mine is yours,” he muttered to himself. And vice versa. He smirked.

He did find a book, the cover a blank brown leather, no title whatsoever. He straightened, flipping the front page open, presuming that it would probably be some dull treatise on wine production or an engineering manual. He was surprised to find no printed words whatsoever, however, only a short but not inelegant script, beginning with a date from several months ago.

I met him today, said the words immediately following the date.

He’s beautiful-I wasn’t expecting that. Young though, but I suppose that was to be expected. He’s still a student. I wonder what they’re teaching him at that school of his? He met my eyes, twice, and I could have sworn I saw him blush. I’ve never seen another man blush before. I suppose it’s rather cute. But it makes me feel bad, in a way. Is he afraid of me somehow? I couldn’t believe his parents hadn’t even told him about it. Perhaps it was the shock then. He has nice eyes and very light blue hair. I like it.

Emerson’s eyes were huge-he could feel them bulging in his head.

He was reading Rohan’s journal.

He snapped his head up, his hands in turn snapping the book closed, his heart racing a mile a minute.

Really-what grown man keeps a journal anyway?!

He looked about the room, his eyes lighting on the bed. He glanced back at the door for a second-then hurried towards the bed, hopping onto it and lying down on his stomach, flipping the book back open. “What’s yours is mine,” he murmured again, but he felt guilty this time, his stomach turning somersaults, his face flushing.

But he had a RIGHT to read this, didn’t he?

He skipped the next few pages, as Rohan had a tendency to go on about just about everything: his horse, the weather, what he had for dinner. He flipped over towards the date when they’d first met in the outer courtyard, when he’d found Rohan waiting for him, almost nervous seeming, those sea green eyes of his hopeful.

Well, he’s certainly feisty.

Emerson blushed and made a face at the book in his hands. “I’ll show you feisty,” he muttered.

I tried to be polite at first. He rejected my every attempt. I really think he believes I’m some sort of perverted character from a book, waiting to ravish him on our wedding night. Well, it’s not an unappealing thought, but he honestly has no reason to think that. I begin to wonder if he has any experience around men at all.

Well, that settled it. He was SERIOUSLY going to have to slap the man, the next chance he got.

“I KNEW your mind was downright filthy,” he said to the book, glaring at it, the warmth in his cheeks flaring up yet again.

I still think him beautiful. Even when he snubbed me, I could feel my heart beating fast, and I couldn’t really thinki of anything to say in response. Like an idiot, I admitted to him that I preferred men to women. Again, he blushed like a woman, and I really began to feel like the lascivious predator he seemed to think I was. Am I really such an ogre?

Emerson frowned but rolled his eyes. You’re not an ogre, he thought while turning the page again, flipping through the next few food- and weather-oriented entries. Idiot, yes. Ogre, no.

Then, the date of the picnic.

I’ve never met anyone more spoiled and conceited in my life.

Emerson’s jaw dropped.

What sort of princess in boy’s clothing turns a friendly countryside outing into a bloody political debate?

“Princess?!?!” Emerson roared, his fingers gripping the sides of the book, making his knuckles turn white.

I try to compliment him, and he accuses me of comparing him to the horse! I don’t know what hell I’ve gotten myself into with him. I can scarcely back out of the contract now. But what I honestly find most annoying about the whole thing is that I don’t think I want to back out of it. He’s a living terror. But yet he smells so good! Marsis help me! I’m done in, aren’t I?

The sound of the double doors jolting open snapped Emerson out of his shocked stake, his hands slapping the journal closed automatically. When he looked up, he saw his fiancé-no, his husband-standing in the doorway, smiling, his cheeks flushed, his green eyes twinkling merrily.

“There you are,” he said, his voice a bit husky, playful.

Emerson sat up quickly, his shaking hands shoving the book under one of the many pillows.

Rohan shut the doors behind him and started walking towards him, his fingers tugging at the top buttons of his shirt, loosening his collar and cravat.

“Where did you think I was?” Emerson asked, hoping he didn’t sound as guilty as he knew he must look.

Rohan arched an eyebrow at him, pausing to toss his jacket aside in one fluid motion before joining him on the bed, seating himself beside him.

He then slipped his hand around the back of Emerson’s head and pulled him close, kissing him.

Emerson was too shocked at first to respond. His body, however, was the first to recover-he didn’t quite kiss back, unsure how to even answer what was being done to him, the older man’s lips parting his own, his tongue sliding in, making his own coil quickly backwards. A heat flared up deep within him, making him shudder, the heat then pooling between his legs, his fingers shaking again, though not from guilt.

But Rohan’s own hand was lowering, gliding over his side as he kissed his mouth before slipping under his sleep shirt.

Shocked, Emerson abruptly pushed him back, his own body sliding quickly backwards.

“You’re drunk!” he accused, panting for breath-how does one breathe through a kiss anyway?!

Rohan paused, as if to consider the accusation. “A bit,” he said with a smile, his eyes twinkling again. But they more than twinkled, Emerson realized. There was that strange warmth there again, the same he’d seen on the dance floor, after his new husband had had a bit to drink and spent a few minutes laughing with his friends.

Emerson backed away again, even as Rohan began to move forward again, a bigger smile curling onto the older man’s face.

“What are you doing?!” he asked.

Rohan chuckled. “What’s it look like?”

Emerson blinked, his mind whirling. He couldn’t think; he could still taste Rohan’s tongue in his mouth.

“I don’t want to,” he blurted out.

“Yes you do,” Rohan said, and finally caught up with him, his body settling over Emerson’s, his fingers gently but firmly curling around Emerson’s wrists as he pressed their mouths together again.

Emerson struggled. His eyes widened, feeling the heat of his husband’s body pressed against his own, his bare toes curling slightly in response. But he couldn’t breathe again, Rohan’s mouth completely covering his own, and he was freaking out as it was, his heart racing, his mind going blank, panicked.

“Stop!” he finally managed, wrenching his mouth away.

Finally, Rohan seemed to become a little irked.

“Why?” he asked, moving to kiss him again. His hand slipped down yet again, this time trailing past Emerson’s belly to cup the front of his pants, squeezing gently.

Emerson shuddered, his mouth falling open-he could hardly help it. But still, he wanted Rohan to stop, to pause, take a breath. He wasn't ready for this!!

“Would you just stop it already?” He squirmed, a part of him realizing that he should at least be nearly a physical match for Rohan, but it was like his brain and body were stultified, weak, poisoned with stiffness. He was, he realized in that brief moment, terrified.

“What are you,” Rohan had the gall to ask, frowning, “A woman?”

“No,” Emerson shot back, snarling, “A virgin, you asshole!!!”

Rohan sat up, a surprised look on his face. But Emerson, his mind whirling, thinking of the journal he’d just read, couldn’t help feeling angry, angry and betrayed.

“Don’t act like you didn’t know!” he said.

Rohan frowned. “I didn’t,” he said.

“You’re lying,” Emerson shot back. He was! He knew he was.

His husband just shrugged, that irritated look on his face again. “I don’t see why that matters. We’re married now. And,” he added after a moment, pointedly, “The contract basically says you belong to me now. You signed it yourself.”

Emerson didn’t know what to say. At first, he was too shocked to even put together any sort of coherent response. But then that sense of betrayal returned, something inside him seeming to rise up, deep within.

“You’re an asshole,” he said, his voice low in his throat.

This seemed to hurt Rohan, even in his inebriated state. “Come on,” he said, a little contritely, “I didn’t mean that. I really didn’t.”

Emerson scowled and turned away, towards the other end of the bed. “I’m leaving,” he said.

But Rohan reached for his wrist again, holding him back. “Don’t.”

Emerson pulled his arm. “Let go.”

“Remy...”

“DON’T CALL ME THAT!” he shouted, and when Rohan again tried to pull him close, his attempts clumsier this time, his eyes blinking tiredly, Emerson did the unthinkable.

He slapped him.

Rohan sat back, his green eyes wide, one hand coming up to rest on his red cheek.

Emerson stared back at him, his heart racing-then quickly turned and slid off the rest of the way, his bare feet touching the floor as he stood up and hurried away immediately, making for the door.

“Emerson,” Rohan called out, “I’m sorry.”

But he ignored him. He grabbed a greatcoat hanging in the small (for this room, anyway) closet near the door before flinging one of the double doors open and speeding from the room.

He walked at first, his shaking hands squeezing into fists at his sides, after shrugging into the greatcoat.

Then he ran, his bare feet freezing cold, slapping against the hard stone floor.

After a moment, fearful of being spotted by servants are wandering guests, he slipped outside, hugging the coat even more tightly against his frame.

He walked for some time, shivering, miserable, along the outer edges of the manor, startling guards as he made his way listlessly through stone courtyards and inner gardens, his loose hair hanging about his shoulders. He kept his head down, embarrassed, humiliated, hoping no one would recognize him. But his hair color, even for a member of the aristocracy, was fairly uncommon, and he gathered from the shocked looks on the faces of the servants or guards he passed that it was stupid to think he wouldn’t be easily identified.

Cold and tired, he paused to sit down on the bottom of a staircase leading from one of the kitchens, tucking his knees in so he could push the bottoms of his pajama pants under his feet, the greatcoat hanging over his ankles. He folded his arms over his knees then and rested his forehead on them.

He had never been so miserable in all his life.

“Master Emerson...?”

He looked up quickly, up at the guard who approached him-the manor was patrolled at all times, and some of the guests had even brought personal bodyguards. This was a Ratliff family guard though, an older woman in her fifties, and judging from her informal manner of address, someone who had worked here since he was a child.

“Are you all right?” she asked, approaching cautiously.

“I’m fine,” he said, but he knew she didn’t need to see past the shadow that hid his face to know that it was a lie. His stupidly trembling voice alone gave him away.

He was such an idiot.

“With all due respect, chi-hata,” she said, taking a seat gingerly on the stair near him, though not exactly beside him. “You neither look nor sound well.”

When he said nothing, she narrowed her eyes slightly, her fingers tapping lightly, absently, against the sword at her side.

“Did he hurt you?” she asked, her voice low but suddenly rough.

Emerson looked at her, shocked. “No!” he blurted out, appalled by even that slight accusation. Again, he felt awash in humiliation, supposing to himself that technically speaking, he was the one who hurt Rohan, slapping him the way he did.

Not like a woman, though. He’d rather sort of backhanded him, his knuckles stinging from the impact for a good long while.

His husband might actually wake up tomorrow with a slight bruise on his face.

The guard, he realized, had gone silent again, her eyes lingering thoughtfully on his face. When she saw him looking, she arched an eyebrow before respectfully looking away, her hand tapping on her knee this time.

“He was drunk,” Emerson offered, unsure of why he was even continuing the conversation.

The guard seemed surprised, but then actually smiled a little, the expression wry. “Ah. I see.”

Emerson hugged his knees tighter, staring down at the shape of his toes poking through his pajama bottoms.

“Please forgive me for asking, chi-hata,” the guard said after awhile, her voice very careful, polite, but very careful. “But is this the first night you and he have ever...?”

“Yes,” Emerson said quickly. He squeezed his eyes shut. This was none of her business. So why was he even talking to her about this??

He heard her shift against the steps, her sheathed sword scraping against the stone. “I see.”

Emerson scowled. “You already said that,” he accused, not lifting his head.

Nevertheless, from the corner of his eye, just beneath the crook of his elbow, he could see her smiling, ever so slightly.

“That I did, chi-hata. But,” she continued, in that same careful, guarded tone, “I would like to offer you a bit of advice, if you may allow me to do so. From all that I have heard of him, he is a good man. He has behaved himself throughout your engagement, though I have gathered that you’ve met together many times.”

Gods, it was humiliating how much other people knew about his personal life sometimes.

“So?” he shot back.

“I mean that perhaps he might be forgiven, based on his past behavior. And if the look in his eyes these past two weeks are anything to judge by, he has shown great restraint towards you.”

This ... was humiliating.

Emerson finally lifted his head.

He looked at her. “That still doesn’t prove anything.” He made a face. “He was probably just afraid the contract would be broken or something if he’d made a move before the deal was officially sealed.”

The guard smiled. “Believe me, chi-hata. A bad man does not concern himself with such things. It isn’t in his nature.”

He couldn’t believe it. Well, not what she was trying to tell him, but what he was doing, right here, right now. Having a conversation with a stranger about his marriage-about his love life, for gods’ sakes-and on the night of his wedding, no less, mere minutes after he’d physically assaulted his own husband.

“You are married now,” the guard said, more gently now. “You may both have what he wanted tonight by rights.”

“I know,” Emerson said, his face heating up. He’d always known that. So why did he balk tonight?

“Political or night, your marriage was sanctioned by the gods.” She sighed. “I’ll never understand this aristocratic way of doing things. How can you pledge yourself to one you don’t love? It seems a great sin to me, I confess, chi-hata.”

Emerson felt cold inside, though, thinking of what Marta had told him just before his wedding.

”You have to know that Rohan is in love with you. You have to admit that you’ve fallen in love with him yourself.”

I don’t have to admit anything, he thought petulantly. But he was being an ass again, and he knew it.

And he didn’t even have the excuse of being drunk.

“I can’t go back there,” he said aloud. “Not tonight.”

“If you sleep anywhere else, it would be quite the scandal,” she pointed out.

Emerson’s shoulders slumped.

“If it’s any consolation,” she added after a moment, “If he is as drunk as you seem to be suggesting, he will likely be asleep. He’ll wake in the morning with an aching head, a sour stomach, and a mouthful of regrets.”

“And probably a bruise on the face,” Emerson said morosely.

The guard looked startled for a second. Then she burst out laughing.

“Is that so?” she managed. “The chi-hata was never fond of sword play. Perhaps you would like to reconsider? You could train with the new recruits.”

“Ha, ha,” he said, giving her a withering look. “Very funny.” He sighed and got to his feet.

But he just stood there, his toes still tucked under his pajamas, arms crossed over his chest.

“May I escort you back to your rooms, chi-hata?” the guard prodded lightly.

He got the hint.

“No,” he said, heaving another great sigh. “I’m fine on my own.”

He paused for a second, the chilly autumn wind blowing his hair back for a second.

“Thanks,” he said.

“It was an honor to assist the chi-hata,” she said politely. “And I’ll tell no one of our conversation, either. Not a soul.”

He nodded, and the gesture would have to be thanks enough. Because then he started walking, albeit slowly, making his way back to the wedding suite, his shoulders still drooping slightly, his heart thudding in his chest.

He hoped to every god that she was right, and that Rohan would be asleep.