Foreigner of the Mountain

[Protocol]

Foreigner of the Mountain

Two very different princes are forced into an arranged marriage.

 

[GioTheSquid]

A stillness had settled over the Kingdom of Herr Ulrich in the bitter darkness of winter’s longest hour, and so heavy was the silence it weighed on the shoulders of the hunting party as they trudged on. Each crunching footfall beneath their horses would not carry as they parted the snow in pursuit of wild game, and their voices they kept low under cover of animal calls their fathers had taught them, denoting signs, maneuvers, coordinates and proximity to one another. Leading the party was a man in a thick black cloak made of a black bear’s hide, worn with honour. His clothing, suited for the winter, doubled him up in size so that he too resembled the bear whose skin he’d taken, on horseback. A gloved hand came up and the group nearest stopped, calling and clicking towards the outskirts of their wide fan-out. Ahead of them the trees began to shiver, as though uptaken by billowing winds, but the frost that paled their noses fang-white beneath their thick masks did not renew, and so there was no wind to greet them. Something like a muffled thud, followed by a long, drawling groan and a rhythmic expulsion of husky breaths sounded ahead, and at once the prince of this land began to press on. His beast, a stone-grey horse whom had been his companion since his thirteenth year, snorted boldly, briefly cleaving the tension of the man in two. It was tired from the hunt, fed up with pursuit. Patting his beast with understanding he dismounted, as did his party.


They fanned out on foot, their weapons drawn while the prince strung his arrow on his bow, keeping low to the earth as he headed towards a clearing. Between the two trees that would make his entryway, he saw the figure again…


Baum, the wild boar was weary of his travels, his hot breath coming out in billowing waves of hot smoke from his war-torn hide. He was like no other wild boar, for tonight was like no other night. The veil between this world and the world of the spirits was thin, and on this night, animals of typical size and stupidity grew larger and more clever, able to commune with the world beneath their cloven hooves, heavy paws, and sharp talons. Only days prior, Baum had stood near to the chest of the prince, but now as he looked on at the creatures back, he measured him to be twice that weight.


“I see you, Prince.” the beast huffed, his weariness evident in strain of his voice which was like the drone of a large tree as it was rended from it’s bolster during wood-harvest. “Have you come to kill me?”


Wolfram raised a hand to denote his band stand-down, stepping into the clearing where which the snow had thinned as though some unseen forces had tidied up the ground in preparation of company. He pulled down his mask, revealing his handsome, bearded face and the hard and firmly diplomatic look in his eyes.


“My people need to eat.” he assured the boar. “Your body will be honoured in the ways demanded of the mighty Barr, god of the hunt. It is your duty to be slain tonight.”


“Honour…?”


The animal’s thick fur was black and sloped, like a mountain looming well over the prince’s head. From his hide struck out several arrows, some of which had splintered and pulled with them assorted mosses and weak branches which had tangled themselves up without hope to be rended. It had been a long battle, and despite his otherworldly vigor, mortality stung with a bite colder than the wind and snow around them.


“What do you human men know of honour?”


His hooves, the size of Prince Wolfram’s very torso, began to rake the earth rhythmically, a threat display of such profound gravity the men onlooking could hardly conceive to stay their arrows from intervention.


“Come now, Baum.” he offered in reason, his bow downcast. “You have fought your fate enough. My people are starving and need good meat to survive this winter. No other hide will due to clothe the children spring will yield. No other meat will suit our largest pyre. No other game will due.”


The boar roarer madly, laughter causing his chest to heave and rock as he tossed his wet snout into the air, spraying blood and spittle upon the ground.


He spat in a bitter tone, “Flattery will not bring me willingly to your swordhead, human!”, rocking his body backwards in preparation for his last battle. “Enough of this. I will not die on the day of the spirits, when my mind is full of clarity, of life--”


“Of fear, my lord, Baum?” he inquired, his voice strong, cutting through the wind as it howled through the hollow log of a rotten tree downed perhaps by some beast who’s entire year was spent at Baum’s size. “With clarity is the fear of mortality. Did you fear death when you were a dumb animal, my lord?”


The pig seemed to consider this, his mouth twisting into a grimace around his chipped and splintered tusks.


“Yes. Fear. I know fear on this night, prince of humans. I do not want to die.”


“And yet you must.” the prince replied, conviction in his coal-black eyes.


It was then the boar gave a low and saddened sigh, which melted the thin layer of snow around his trunk-like feet.


“Very well. But if I am to die in your hunt, I will take you to the other side of the veil to hunt in the glen of the spirits, in the forrest that knows no borders.”


He charged them, and in less than a moment’s time, crossed the yards separating animal from animal, hoved gouging deep graves into the earth suitable for a man of Wolfram’s size. At once upon baum a furry of arrows descended in sheets, but through his own might, they could not penetrate him. Wolfram threw himself upon his knee just in time to duck beneath his mighty chin, skirting the musky underbelly of the creature with his knife suddenly drawn. Carved from the fang of a Mountain Lion killed this night the previous year, the blade was true in it’s glorious parting of flesh, dug straight into the chest of the beast where bone met bone. Baum squealed, the wailing cry echoing through the forest, stirring those animals who’s intelligence was still too little to encourage more than a restful winter’s night’s sleep. Blood, hot, steaming, spilling in pints oozed from the wound and around the embedded knife. It was no killing blow, and the boar turned at once to charge again. This time, Wolfram ran away from him towards a tree that was inclined, which he scaled with squirrel-like ease. Baum crashed into the trunk, ripping it from the ground and the prince threw his head back as he again strung his bow, letting his arrow fly. It struck the beast deeply in the eye and penetrated his fearful brain, and for a few moments, he staggard around, blindly, screaming and cursing the hunter with his dying breaths.


When at last he fell silent, it was surrounded by destruction, several trees acting as guards, keeping him in one spot, where he fell.


The party erupted at once in a cry of pure joy which warmed the air between them and renewed their spirits. Tonight was a success, and tonight, they would feast.


Castle Ulrich was a long ways up the mountain, but could still be seen in the distance on the snowcapped structure’s loveliest side. It’s looming towers and high wall waited patiently for the return of the young Prince, sole heir to the hall of King Aard Ulrich, it’s village people's nestled within the safety and security of its stone confines. With ten horses and one attack mule, and short one unfortunate casualty of the hunt, they would have to work together to bring the carcass home to be dressed, salted and smoked. It was a journey that would take the rest of the black, frigid, night.

 

[Protocol]

Lantern light swung across the teak planks of the ship. Mihir watched the light caress over Jahoni’s dark shoulders as she pressed the tip of a henna cone to his ankle. It was with steady hands that she drew fine lines of paste on his skin. The henna was chilly, especially as they traveled farther north. “Stay still,” she said holding his foot still with one hand before she continued her delicate art.


“Sorry,” Mihir whispered. He was sitting on a hard chair, arms outstretched, so as to not smudge the fresh henna. It was hard to stay still on a moving ship. He couldn’t even use his hands for balance. “I’m a little nervous.”


Jahoni looked up through dark lashes at her brother. “It’s your duty-”


“Declared by the gods, I know.” He bit his lip and looked away. He wanted to cover his gooseflesh skin, it was freezing. Jahoni had on several thick layers of cloth, while Mihir sat only in a saree. It left his calves, arms, and feet bare for the henna. At least he wasn’t wearing his wedding saree, that didn’t even cover his midriff. That was only for the actual wedding.


He would have suggested foregoing the henna altogether, but he knew how his parents would react to that. It would dishonor them. Nevermind that these barbaric northerners wouldn’t even understand what the designs meant. The gods would take note and Mihir would bring bad fortunes on the kingdom during a time when his parents were striving for peace.


“It isn’t something to take lightly,” Jahoni scolded. She was drawing a line of butterflies fluttering up the side of his ankle. It was a sign of change, rebirth. “As an even numbered child you have certain duties to the family.”


There was that again. Birth order. It left a bitter taste in Mihir’s mouth. According to tradition the gods sent spirits to families in a certain order. The eldest was to be the family leader for future generations, whether they were male or female. The second was meant to help the family financially. Third was a warrior, fourth homemaker, fifth counselor and teacher, and six peacemaker.


That was Mihir’s duty, to bring peace. That was the point of the marriage after all. Peace. The Samron kingdom had an abundance of wealth in gold and silver, but an army that was too small to patrol their vast lands. It made their land desirable, but weak and Samron was always on the lookout for new allies.


“I know.” His stomach twisted. In less than thirty-six hours he would be married to the northern barbarian prince. A man he’d never met. He shivered. This time, not just because of the cold.


“I told you stay still! You want the henna to sink in. It wouldn’t do for it to wash off only after a day or two.” Jahoni scowled in the shifting light.


Mihir stilled with some effort, his arms shaking in the chilly air.


How long the henna lasted was supposed to be a sign of the depth of his husband’s love. Mihir wouldn’t be all that surprised if it washed off within a day, even before the wedding. He didn’t know anything about the northerners except that they were unbelievers that drank the blood of their enemies and enslaved their neighbors as thralls. He wasn’t sure if they were the type of people he’d want to make an alliance with. Then again he was only a sixth child, an even child, not meant to fill his pretty head with the worries of his betters.


He glanced down at the dark patterns trailing his skin in the thick mud-like paste. His arms were twinned with vines and leaves of devotion. Devotion to his family, his country, but most of all his husband. Scorpions for desire and romance to bring heat, breathlessness, and sparkling eyes. A tortoise for protection.


“Why did you add paisley?” Paisley meant fertility, something completely useless for Mihir, considering he was marrying another man.


“It means luck as well, you know. I thought you might need it.”

 

[GioTheSquid]

It had been three days since the victorious slaying of the Samhain game, and the villagers of the kingdom of Ulrich, Lord of Ghelm and the Northern territories surrounding, were still rejoicing. With vigor. The celebrations had been so many, and the drunkenness had been so steep. Music poured out the the highest windows of the vast meade hall and the fires of the roaring hearth licked at every smiling face and brought into their bones all the promises of another blessed season and the joys of life as it would renew in the springtime.


Yet still, there was something off and abnormal about the degree of joy in their revelry. What was typically just merry acknowledgement of a successful hunt and blessed new year in the wake of the passage of the spirits, had become celebration in excess, and with children born to drunken wombs whom died in barrels, fed and fornicated, the term excess wasn’t lightly used.


From his place at the far end of one of the long, oaken tables, the prince whom had grown tired of drink and suspicious of the happiness of his people, let his eyes wander freely. This joy was not typical..this joy was something he wanted to ignore and bask in the warm glow of, but he could not ignore his instinct that something was afoot. Letting his cup rest he plucked himself up and crossed the hall to the main chair where his father, the king was clothed only in his linen croft, his tartan splayed out about the arms of the solid throne. He was surrounded on all sides by the wenches of the hall, whose bosoms heaved as they sang a happy tune, the song of the king and the victories of his youth. A lutist plucked the strings of his instrument from his place at his feet. He was a handsome boy of about thirteen who dreamed, or so he had confessed to Wolfram one night in the castle, of leaving the mountain-surrounded kingdom to become a famed bard. Wolfram stayed his musical hands and with an expression of firm severity, he interrupted the chorus of fawning ladies.


“Father?”


“Not now, son, they’re singing about my battle with the swamp witch of Slein! One, two, three, and--”


“Father!” he said with more force, the evasion only stoking the fires of his suspicion. He was insistent pulling the paunchy, rosy cheeked face of his father back from the warm breasts of a girl younger than the prince, his black eyes boring into the eyes of his father, piercing the veil of his stupor to strike him with clarity. “What is going on?”


His father sighed and dismissed his entourage away, his bones clacking and squeaking as he hoisted himself up from the folds of his tartan. The women groaned in false despair and were given chuckling orders to take their passions to the groins of men far more deserving of their attention. They took their leave from the meade hall, father leading son as the king wrapped himself up in a grand, glorious pelt from last year’s Samhain game. They ascended the stairs of the tower by torchlight to a keep in which usually the king would adulter in. The bed was drawn down, and the hearth therein had a pitiable fire going which the older man stoked with logs. They clunked together solidly, off tune to the music which drifted up the spiralling stairway and muffled itself against the thick wooden door and it’s irons.


“Son.” he spoke smoothly, his voice even. “There’s something I need to tell you. We are expecting a visitor from the Southern isles.”


~


The door erupted suddenly and struck the stone wall with a thunderous blow which startled a nearby man to clamboring against an armory. The weapons came off their holdings as he struggled to right himself, an ungodly procession of metal scraping and booming distracting several in the hall. Wolfram’s eyes were dark with storm, and he was seeing the world in all shades of red. Taking the room in long, defiant strides, he threw open the doors of the meade hall with a mighty push - a task which usually took two men for their bulk - he stepped out into the bitter night. In an instant, those whom had been celebrating the blessed betrothal of their young and handsome Prince to a foreign diplomat from the southern isles, cast each other knowing looks. Apparently the Prince took the news about as well as could be expected. After all, he was to be married to a man from a land not of the forest, but of the sea.


“Oi.” said one man with a swollen belly.


“Aye?” answered another man with grease saturating his beard.


“You owe me five gold pieces.”


Bets paid up at the Prince’s expense, the young man at once went to the stables, grabbing his cloak from the hook of his horse’s chambers. He fed him, watered him, tried to stay the rage that shook his hands as he patted him, and in mere minutes he was gone, out to take out his frustrations on small game unfortunate enough to cross his path in the snow.


~


Two sunsets had occurred since the Prince was revealed his engagement, and yet not a soul had seen nor heard from him in that time. The king, knowing his son well, knew he would be out in the forest for however long it would take for him to get homesick for his people. There was hunting lodge out there of modest size but ample provisions, and it could be as long as a month before he may have to return. But with a penchant for hunting, even where no game could be found with success, the crowned prince of brooding could extend his stay indefinitely.


The rocky shores of Ghelm stretched on for miles on either side and were considerably void of vegetation and life. Here the winds blew mercilessly, committing grand theft of one’s heat as frost lay itself on the lashes of men who stared unblinking at a horizon indistinguishable between vast open sea and sky. It was here that king Aard waited with his best men and his wife, who appeared for the sake of diplomacy in her fine furs and long dress, for their visiting company. A lookout on the high shores had sent word through pyre-signal that a ship was spotted way off in the distance, but with the impending snowstorm, it was hard to discern. After what seemed like an eternity, a slate gray shadow began to emerge from the endless white of s sunlit morning and the king shivered against the cold and irritation.


“Finally.” he spoke to his head man, who nodded in silent disapproval of the entire welcoming process. They had horses waiting for those who couldn’t arrive on foot, a wagon for provisions onboard the ship meant to accompany the visiting prince, and a mule packed tight with furs and cloaks that southerners would probably not know they had absolute need of. As the boat was brought in along the pebbled shores, his men working hard on horseback to draw them in by their ropes and run them aground, Aard fashioned his best smile and proceeded forward to greet the visitors at the foot of their gangway.


“Welcome, people of the Southern Isles! I am King Aard, lord of Ghelm and keeper of the holy forrest. Please, step upon my lands as honoured guests.”

 

[Protocol]

Mihir was freezing. He was wearing several layers of his warmest clothing, but the icy wind cut through them. The ice cleaved through his bones and seemed to crystallize in his marrow. He wrapped an arm around himself for warmth and clenched his veil tighter to his face.


As an even child, one of the gentler souls, he was more susceptible to dark spirits. He was to keep his face covered. Faces, like names, were the keystones to a person's identity. Knowing a person’s face gave spirits unnatural power. Jahoni, as a fifth child, had no such worries, having a stronger spirit than Mihir, and walked down the gangway barefaced.


Mihir followed in his cloth shoes, completely unsuitable for his new home, but the only footwear that he even owned. He was afraid that his feet were going to fall off. He must have looked absolutely ridiculous to the northerns, wrapped up in several layers of brightly clashing clothes, his headdress and veil flapping in the wind. It was not the type of first impression he had hoped for, when meeting his new countrymen.


Mihir approached the barbarians with Jahoni and several of his waiting men. The men on the shore wore thick colorless furs. Their hair was wild and they were unshaven and dirty. Mihir’s throat clenched and he was glad that his face was partially covered, the veil covering his nose, mouth, and chin, so that the barbarians couldn’t see his scowl. One man, who he assumed was the leader by his posture and finer--if furs could be called fine--attirement came forward to speak.


The language of the north was heavier than Mihir’s birth tongue. There were more consonants crammed together and the words sounded rough to his ears. Mihir wished that he’d had more time to prepare for his marriage. Otherwise he would have studied the northern language in more depth. The decision had happened quickly and Mihir was lucky that he’d already studied the basics of the language. It was still hard to understand if he didn’t listen carefully. He got the gist of what...King Aard, had said. It was some sort of welcoming.


He bowed low, his kohl lined eyes staying on the king. “I am very honoured by your hospitality,” he recited carefully, his words slow and unsure. He stood and motioned to himself with a henna covered hand. “I am Prince Mehir Nejem, sixth child of Nada and Yamal Nejem, the queen and king of Samron. I am Peacemaker.” The word didn’t exactly translate well, but it was traditional in formal introductions so he rushed on. He motioned to Jahoni next to him. “This is my sister, Jahoni Nejem, fifth child of Nada and Yamal Nejem. She is Wise One.”


He snapped his fingers and servants came forward with six delicately carved chests. “We have brought gifts to honor the union between your honorable son and myself.” He shivered, his lashes thick already with ice, his lips numb with cold.


The first chest was filled with expensive spices, the second with salt for curing and preserving meat, the third held gold trinkets, the fourth had bright cloths, the fifth held medicines and herbs from the south, and the final chest held precious oils and fragrances. Mihir couldn’t help, but feel like he was just another gift to the Ghelm kingdom as a bribe for their alliance.


Mihir only hoped in exchange that they’d give him some warmer clothes, even if theirs were plain and lifeless. It was better than freezing to death.

 

[GioTheSquid]

The gifts were indeed fine, and the quality and quantity of them was not wasted upon the king who accepted each chest with a blessing and words of gratitude. His wife alone seemed taken aback by them, having been castle bound the majority of her adult life since being made queen, never having laid her eyes upon anything that had come from beyond her borders.


“So many beautiful things.” she said, smiling with some semblance of sharpness pulling up the corners of her mouth. “One might think them almost persuasive.”


He husband shot her a look that said her commentary was unwelcome, but instead or retracting the implication that these southerner’s gifts were an unwelcome bride for their allegiance, she merely turned her horse away and dismissed them.


“They are indeed very fine.” Aard reiterated, returning his gaze to the faces of Jahoni, and regarding the veiled form of his son’s intended. “And we accept them with appreciation.”


These people strutted like peacocks down the gangway, their finery flapping noisily in the wind while their jewelry rung like wind chimes with each gust. Behind the pair, a handmaiden of poor footing was swept up suddenly and took a plunge into the waters. One of his men at once dismounted his horse and reached out to aid her, but the young woman was proud and would not accept his hands, preferring to walk the length of the beach to wait.


His company was seized with lowly rolling laughter at the girl’s expense, but the King at once raised his hand to silence them.


“My apologies.” he said to the visiting diplomats. “The wind and snow of my land must be a shock to your people. Ord.”


The man who had been denied the chance at chivalry looked up at his king.


“My lord?”


Aard gestured toward the pack mule and at once the man took off a cloak to hand to the maid, the pelt smelling of cedar wood and earth, but of substantial weight and thickness against the wind.


“Allow me to bestow upon you the first of many gifts my kingdom has to offer.”


As the company came together, arranging the foreigners on horses, their gifts and a handful of essential servants boarding the wagon, they began to set off.


Unfortunately, many of their company would have to embark on foot, but several of his men who knew the importance of this affair dismounted their horses and offered them up, piling two to a saddle with some ease, leaving the rest of the crew aboard the ship to properly stay their vessel.


The King rode beside Jahoni and Mehir, who shared the back of a thickly muscled mare. Her body no doubt radiated between their legs and would do them some good as they traveled the long and perilous journey towards the Castled carved in the mountain. He observed that Jahoni had her hands well steadied on the reigns, unafraid of the mare. It brought him some comfort to know they at least had labor beasts in common.


~


When they arrived at last to the village and entered the stone-cared labyrinth that was the castle, it was almost mid day. The sun above their heads blended in with pristinely white clouds, indistinguishable from it’s vastness. Given their own private rooms and free reign of the house, the King spoke to the visitors before parting from them, saying tonight a feast would be held in honour of their arrival.


“My lord, King.” spoke a voice from a man of sturdy proportions whom dismounted his horse with ease. “I am Sala, third prince of my family line.”


A warrior, so the King observed by his posture alone.


“Where is the Prince my brother is intended to? I wish to have counsel with him in the tradition of my people, along with my sister. We’re speaking on behalf of our parents who wont arrive untill the wedding.”


King Aard patted the mane of his own mare as he dismounted, standing nearly chest to chest with the younger, broader, darker man.


“My son is a hunter, and in these months, a hunter’s work is never done. He is out among the forest gathering food for his people, and will not return for some time.”


Sala and Jahoni exchanged a suspicious look.


“Very well. But there can be no wedding before the demands of our rituals are made.”


It was clear the two had no taste for another another. Sala was loyal to his family line and took his role as third child very seriously. Their families had been stalemated for years on the waters, but in his boyhood, he recalled the tales of his father, King Yamal, and the Barbarian king’s vicious battles at sea. In his chest burned a fire for war, fueled always by the suspicion that these northern scum were nothing more than tricksters who called upon the most heinous of the gods to aid them in their victories, yielding always to bloodshed beyond the call of rites for glory.


“Very well.” the king spoke, his smile fierce. “But you’ll just have to wait until that time.”


~


“I don’t like this.” Sala growled, leaning against the stone mantle of his and his sister’s room. “Father can't possibly expect us to just leave Mehir here alone with these...animals. If we do that, they’ll slit his throat, roast him on a spit, and send up his bones by messenger by the seas. They don’t want peace. They aren’t capable of keeping peace, Jahoni.”

 

[Protocol]

“Perhaps,” Jahoni said. “It is extremely strange that their prince was absent. The king’s excuse was flimsy, but I doubt the prince is going to eat Mihir.” She rolled her eyes as she took out the henna set. If the prince didn’t show up soon for the wedding than she would have to redo Mihir’s bridal tattoos. It would be easier now while they were still fresh and she could simply trace over the designs.


“The stories of the northern’s barbaric deeds are exaggerated,” she said sitting down on a stool as she shifted into lecture mode. “You should know this. Half of the stories of the Northern’s gruesome traditions are made up for moral. It is easier to kill an enemy that is considered less human. The northerners are different, but they’ve grown up in a land much different from our and has had to adapt accordingly. We don’t understand them yet and by human nature we fear what we don’t understand.” As the fifth child Jahoni had read spent her life learning and she had some...unorthodox teachers that helped her see things differently from her siblings.


Unfortunately, her perception of the world was not a popular one. The same teaching that gained her respect and admiration within her title, also distanced her from others. The only sibling she was truly close with was Mihir, but even he was distanced from her.


“I’m more worried that Mihir’s new husband will be abusive or neglectful. I don’t want to leave him here either, but Mihir is Peacemaker. If anyone can convince the Northerns to keep peace it would be him. It is his duty from the gods.”


~


Mihir paced his room. He’d been given soft fur boots that felt strange, but were warm. It took him awhile to learn how to walk in them. His feet had never been restrained like this before.


Everything was different. Strange. Threatening.


He didn’t belong.


Snow had sounded magical in Jahoni’s books, but it turned out to be cold and wet and miserable. There was no color in the landscape. Everything was muted white, black, and grey. Even the peoples’ skin seemed washed out, pale and strange. Some of them even had yellow hair like pale demons he’d read about.


Mihir pulled his saree closer. His fiancé was absent. While he was glad that Jahoni and Sala would have to extend their stay, his gut felt frozen. He’d spent the last two weeks worrying about what the Ghelm prince would be like. He’d hoped that by now he’d at least know what his future husband looked like. If he was young or old or crippled. Though Mihir did not have any illusions that a handsome young man might be any less cruel than any other man.


Mihir was still wearing his veil, even though in privacy or among family and close friends he didn’t need to wear it. He hadn’t worn the veil during the entire trip to Ghelm. He’d grown up with everyone on the ship and knew them well enough to know that they weren’t demons in disguise. He wouldn’t be able to say the same of his husband once they were married. Mihir would have to show his face to the prince and the thought made his stomach turn. His whole life, only those he’d known well had be allowed to see his face and now he was expected to show something so intimate to a couple stranger. Without knowing Wolfram personally how was Mihir expected to differentiate him from a demon wearing the same the face.


It was a ridiculous fear, he knew. He’d never believed in birth order and he didn’t believe that he had a weaker soul, more susceptible to temptation or any of it. But…years of tradition and schooling on the importance of birth order, was hard to deny.


Mihir slumped in a chair by the window and stared out at vast mountains, still and immovable under the frozen snow. He wondered if his husband would reflect the eerie stillness of his homeland.