Fantasy Intertwining Kingdoms (Closed)

[Axty]

The golden rays of the rising sun crept gently through the narrow slits left by the slightly parted curtains, casting soft, shifting patterns of light across the room. They tiptoed across the polished floor and climbed the edge of the bed, finally reaching the closed eyes of the young man still tangled in the remnants of slumber. Slowly, almost reluctantly, his eyelids fluttered open, his consciousness stirring as his body began to reawaken from its restful state.


He lay still for a moment, becoming aware of the sensation of the silken sheets beneath him—the kind of luxurious fabric that only the wealthiest of nobles could afford, woven by the finest artisans in all of Kaeloria. The sheets embraced his bare torso and back with a comforting warmth, a stark contrast to the cool air that lingered in the room.


With a soft groan and a deep, steadying breath, he pushed himself up, moving with the heavy grace of someone not yet ready to face the day. His body rose into a seated position at the edge of the bed, feet lowering to meet the polished stone floor with a quiet thud.


This was Archibald Valentine, the warrior prince of Kaeloria—heir to a vast kingdom, commander of legions, a name spoken with awe and reverence across the realm. And yet, in that quiet moment, with the dawn light spilling gently over his skin, he didn’t feel like a prince. Not in the way he was meant to. The weight of the crown felt distant, unreal—like an ill-fitting mask he had been forced to wear, rather than a title he had truly earned.

He rose to his feet with a fluid but weary motion, and as he did, the black robe that had clung to his shoulders during the night slipped from his upper body. It slid down his frame and fell silently to the floor in a heap, forgotten, like a shadow he had shed. The morning air kissed his skin, cool against the warmth of sleep still lingering in his muscles.


He padded across the room and entered the adjoining marble-walled bathroom, where a large mirror loomed above a basin carved from obsidian stone. As he looked up, his gaze met his own reflection—and for a moment, he simply stared.


The face that stared back at him was both familiar and foreign. His midnight-black hair hung in tangled waves around his sharp features, still mussed from sleep, refusing to obey the regal composure expected of him. His piercing blue eyes, once filled with fire and ambition, now seemed dulled at the edges, the skin beneath them darkened by fatigue. Faint bags had begun to form—subtle, but telling.


He exhaled slowly, the breath fogging the glass slightly. Between the relentless swordplay of his knight training, the countless hours in war rooms studying strategy and diplomacy, and the suffocating etiquette lessons designed to mold him into the image of a "perfect" husband, Archibald had found little time—if any—for himself. Sleep had become a luxury. Solitude, a fading memory. And peace? That was a concept reserved for others—commoners perhaps, or storybook heroes, not for the heir of Kaeloria.

Still gazing into the mirror, Archibald’s eyes seemed to lose focus, not on the reflection itself, but on the thoughts creeping in just beneath the surface. His mind drifted, unwillingly but inevitably, to the matter that had plagued him most these past weeks—the arranged marriage.


He was to wed the daughter of Aranthia, Kaeloria’s longtime rival, a nation he could hardly bear to speak of without tasting bitterness on his tongue. No matter how many noble words were spoken about peace and unity, the name Aranthia conjured only memories of fire and blood.


How could he forget the years of hatred that had festered like an open wound between their kingdoms? How could he pretend to forgive when he had buried friends who had died fighting Aranthian blades—brothers-in-arms who would never see another sunrise? Every skirmish, every scar etched into his skin, every desperate cry on the battlefield echoed back at him now, tangled in the image of a woman he’d never met, a stranger meant to be his bride.


The alliance was meant to end the conflict once and for all, a marriage that would unite two fractured nations and bring forth an era of peace. On parchment, it was a noble idea. In speeches, it sounded like hope.


But in reality?


This? He clenched his jaw, his hands bracing the cold edge of the obsidian sink. Was this truly the way?


To call it sacrifice felt too kind. It was surrender—of his heart, his voice, his very identity. Peace born of performance. Unity forged from compromise. And he, Archibald Valentine, was the bargaining chip. A symbol to be paraded, bound not by love but by politics.


He closed his eyes for a moment, willing the thoughts to quiet themselves. But they didn’t. They never did.

 

[freakie]

The same speckled sunlight hit through the castle windows on the other side of the border. Hitting her in small glimpses helping her skin warm up hinting it was time to face today. Blonde waves rolled down her shoulders as she sat up and huffed tiredly. The night before trailed over her mind as hints of pine filled the air and her dark green eyes blinked the memories away. To call it restless was an understatment.

Most of her life leading up to this had been raising a lamb to slaughter. The younger sister of the fallen prince. A wet nurse, nanny and then matron. A womans life in this world was to prepare for the future. And although it was hell for her it was the expected path. Florence had reached the age of womanhood and it only meant one thing. She was to marry.

Walking towards he bathroom in her long flowing night dress she started the tub so she could soak. To think a year ago she was naive, innocent and a blooming flower. It had all changed when Nero fell. The two were not always so close, but he was the first born and beloved prince of Aranthia. And in the great war he had died a hero, in reality he had left a harden hole in her heart. And she used his teachings to fire into this new world.

A title she didn't want, but she had to step up to that duty to honor him. All the memories whirled around her head again as the lukewarm water warped around her shoulders gently. She had all the education, the teachings. But to be thrown into court, she had to turn it to her stage. But deep down she longed for one more moment in the woods hunting beside Nero as he told her of what he knew. Taught her to defend herself. Because the world she once knew was gone, and she had to figure it out now for herself.

Even though she had a rebelious spirit Florence was constantly reminded that she had no choice over her future or plans. It did not matter what her thoughts were. She was to marry a man from the very place her brother had died, and it was pure agony to think of. To make it worse it was him a prince who had led the very men that slaughted him in the great war.

Of course this must be for some great cause...for my people...

She tried to remind herself of her place as a silverish tear threatened to fall down her cheek. Knock Knock

"Princess Florence! It is time to get ready!"The familiar call of her ladies sang through the door helping her out of her own throughts for now as she slipped out the tub and grabbed her robe. "Is today of the blessed wedding!"She opened the door and the crowd of them swarmed her. This was to be watched by thousands. She needed to play her part perfectly and look perfect..for that brute

 

[Axty]

The voice of the maid, soft and respectful, broke the stillness of the room. "It's time, Prince Archibald. Do you need help getting dressed?"


Her words lingered for a moment, polite but unrelenting, as if she expected an answer.


"I'm fine," Archibald retorted sharply, his voice colder than he'd intended. There was no softness in it—not today, not ever when it came to the castle’s staff. He had learned long ago not to trust maids, or any of the other employees scurrying through the halls with their practiced smiles and empty pleasantries.


Not after the incident.


A dark shiver ran through him at the thought. It was an event so vile, so unspoken, that it was buried beneath layers of silence—a secret that no one would ever dare to acknowledge, and certainly not the ones who had been complicit. Archibald had never told a soul. No one knew what had truly happened. No one but him. And that burden was one he carried alone, locked away deep in the recesses of his mind.


He refused to let anyone else in—no matter how kindly they spoke.


With a sharp exhale, he stood, shaking off the tension in his shoulders. He needed to clear his mind, if only for a moment. He walked toward the adjoining chamber where a bath had been drawn for him. The water, darkened by the oils that had been added, shimmered softly in the dim light of the room.


He sank into the tub with a groan, the warmth of the water immediately enveloping his body, soothing the tight muscles that had been wound far too tightly for far too long. For a brief moment, the world outside seemed to fade away—the weight of his duties, the endless expectations, the never-ending cycle of politics and war—all of it felt distant. The water was a cocoon, one that held him in quiet comfort, like the fleeting moments of peace he so rarely encountered.

The warm water released him with a reluctant whisper as he gently lifted himself from the bath, the soft ripple of the liquid breaking the quiet stillness of the room. As he stood, the fragrant scent of rose petals lingered in the air, drifting around him with a subtle sweetness that seemed to cling to his skin. It was a scent that had always been present in his life—a fragrance that reminded him of his late father, of the days when the world felt simpler, before the weight of the crown had ever been a thought.


His father had worn that scent, not as a luxury but as a reminder of the love he had carried for the people of Kaeloria. It was a lingering presence, one that never truly left the air, even after his passing.


Archibald paused for a moment, standing silently as the memory of his father washed over him like the warmth of the bath. There had been love between them, a bond that transcended the politics, the duties, and the endless parade of expectations. But that love was now only a ghost, a haunting reminder of what he had lost—and of the crown that still sat heavy on his brow, though it had not yet touched him in the same way.


With a soft sigh, he turned and walked out of the bathroom, pulling his thoughts back to the present. His eyes drifted to the ornate outfit waiting for him on the bed. The black suit, tailored to perfection, was a striking piece of craftsmanship. Embroidered with intricate patterns of gold thread that caught the light, it shimmered softly in the dim glow of the room. The suit felt like a second skin—sharp, refined, but also suffocating in its formality.


He slipped into the garment with practiced ease, fastening each piece with a quiet determination. The final touch was the white shoulder cape, finely knitted with golden thread that glistened as it fell over his shoulders. The cape seemed to carry the weight of expectation, draped like a shroud of responsibility.


As he stood before the mirror once more, now fully dressed, Archibald could hardly recognize the man who looked back at him. The warrior prince of Kaeloria, the heir to a kingdom, the leader of soldiers—this was the man he was expected to be. But beneath the regal attire, beneath the gold and embroidered perfection, he felt more like a puppet than a prince. His father's absence echoed in the silence of the room, a reminder that no matter how well the threads were woven, some things—some bonds—could never be replaced.

 

[freakie]

Florence coughed gently as the makeup was being delicately put on her features. It was hard to keep track of who was doing what but she was used to being dressed up like a doll day to day. One was brushing her hair and styling it up to withstand the journey. Another hung the dress and placed the jewellery out for her. She rolled her eyes softly but didn’t speak. She knew that they were trying their best. All to her father’s wish. Her mother not having much of a say either.

Memories of childhood hit her as the new milestone approached. The many days out and evenings of being close. Her green eyes closed as she heard her old laughter mixed with his. “All done” the maid smiled and moved her many pots away to allow her to see herself in the mirror. Flo slowly opened them and nodded “very nice thank you” she spoke softly. She was feeling delicate and withdrawn this morning and knew that her heart was twisting in vines as the day echoed closer.

“You will make a fine bride..”they all ushered her to stand as they got her gown and corset and began to move to dress her. As she was being pulled and pushed she thought of how her parents would act today. Her mother Lyanna was still wearing black in mourning much to Harold’s dismay. The empty space was such a hard burden that the many family portraits were left collecting dust. Her family shattered and now they were losing another child.

Once every button had been woven through they added her sapphire and white gold jewellery for her wedding. They were some long forgotten family members once and now they were hers. Not much would be hers anymore. A new surname. A new title and home. A new husband. She had always looked forward to being a wife and having honour in that duty. But she was betraying herself if she felt nothing but fear on the idea of Archibald. She had heard the whispers of him from the many lady’s whose husbands went to war. But never knew of a good word said.

The sound of hoofs hitting the gravel snapped her from her mind once more. “Hurry”she huffed as they fastened the veil and grabbed her fur to keep her warm for the journey. “Princess! Your family have journeyed ahead. It is time for our departure!” A guard called through the oak door. The woman looked around her room. Her fingers trailing the grain of the wooden four poster bed as she breathed in sharply “if I just..”she shook her head. There was no escaping this. “Forgive me. Brother..”she whispered before being escorted to the carriage.

It was a task to get her in and strap her bags to the back before they left. “What do you know of Kaeloria?” The guard asked her and she shook her head softly. “They have been better off than us. Their harvest fields are not yet burnt. You will be looked after there..”he tried to keep on his attempt of reassurance. She quickly snapped her head up to glare at him “Sir Luke you may not realise it but I require silence on my journey”came out more blunt than she wished. But her mask had slipped due to the waves of emotions. She would never revive what her parents had. Love. Florence was nervous of him seeing her and not only for her looks to seduce him but for her country. Would he be violent to her for who she was? Or ignore her and she would be barren till they were in the grave. Her mind never ceased worrying as they got closer to their destination.

 

[Axty]

The carriage ride to the church felt less like a journey to a celebration and more like a prisoner’s final march toward the guillotine. The creaking of the wheels over cobblestone, the rhythmic clatter of hooves on the ground—it all seemed to echo the grim beat of a funeral dirge. The air inside the carriage was thick with silence, pressing in around him like a closing tomb.


This was supposed to be a momentous day, a cornerstone in a young royal’s life. Tradition said the ride to one’s wedding was meant to be full of life—echoing with the squeals of an overjoyed mother, fussing over last-minute details, smoothing invisible creases, weeping softly with pride. There would be the warm, grounding voice of a father, offering half-joking, half-wise advice—something about love, duty, and not tripping down the aisle.


But Archibald had neither.


No comforting hand to squeeze his own. No voice from the past to steady the storm in his chest. Instead, he sat alone in a lavish carriage that felt more like a coffin than a chariot, wearing clothes he hadn't chosen, heading toward a future he hadn't asked for.


He was not a groom today. He was a vessel—one meant to represent the Queen, a woman he barely knew beyond her title and occasional commands issued through sealed letters. Her absence at his side only added to the hollowness, making it clear just how disposable even a prince could be when politics demanded sacrifice.


He looked out the narrow window, watching the buildings pass by like ghosts. The people of the capital lined the streets, cheering and waving as the procession moved forward. They saw a fairytale. A royal union. A promise of peace.


But inside, Archibald felt like a lamb being paraded before the slaughter.

 

[freakie]

The landscapes blended together as the silence continued for them. She tucked a piece of blonde hair behind her ear until it was interrupted. The cheers. She frowned and pulled the white lace down over her blanket face. “Miss!” The guard tried to halt her but she pulled the curtain to see them. “Why are they cheering? They hate me. They hate my people. But they cheer that their prince is to wed an enemy?”she rambled. She hadn’t meant to speak so freely but she felt like the consequence would be lighter than the burden she’d have to carry.

“They see hope. Light. You two are responsible for the war ending. A new dawn. You must respect that Princess. The small folk are powerful and you must use them to be onside. Otherwise you’re open to attacks on your future”he advised before he too reasoned with himself. Florence wasn’t minding that he spoke to her like that as she sat down again and let the darkness return inside. “Perhaps..”was all she replied. It felt torturous how long this journey was taking. Eventually the loud yells of the driver were heard.

As the carriage stopped it was secluded slightly by the trees just to the side of the church. It was magnificent and rich in its bricks to its mortar the stained glass shimmered magical colors onto its cut and paved stones inside. It was already full of nobles sat waiting the bride and groom. “We must wait till they knock” the guard replied.

Harold was standing inside the church as Lyanna sat. The pair wearing their house Color's instead of black for this occasion. It felt itchy on his skin as he grew uncomfortable. He was listening to his advisors for he was a well versed king and had seen horrors before. “Please don’t draw attention to yourself” the soft mutter of his wife sounded. Today they all had to be perfect. For the enemy on the other side was one moment away from killing them. “Hush Lyanna. It does not concern you” he mumbled sharply. The love they once shared so faint and light it was barely noticeable anymore.

“Please find your places!” The guards requested.

As she waited in the box. Her heart pounding against her skin she stared at the guard. He sighed and soon heard the knock he stepped out and her ladies and the small children were all there. No expense was spared despite both their people starving in the streets. What a shred of hope they were supposed to take from this she wouldn’t understand. “Princess” he offered his hand for her to take so he could help her out. The coast was clear they had taken a while to be here. “You look wonderful..”one of them whispered before she was handed a bouquet of white Lillie’s. She had at least requested them as they often grew near her favourite place to escape to. She breathed them in gently “I am ready..”she replied. Her veil covering her so that only once the bands were read shall Archibald lift it to reveal her beauty. Not that it mattered to them today.

Large organ sounds soon erupted from the church to signal for them to stand. Harold moved out to take his daughter’s arm with his “remember what I’ve taught you. Chin up. “He whispered and she faltered somewhat. “But father…are you sure..?”she was hoping there was still some way out of this. She was being sent to her prison. Her end. To be submissive to the enemy and held under someone’s heel and every command.

“Don’t cry..you’re perfect Florence”he reassured already sending her mood through the lace. They let the flower girls go first. Then her ladies all with respective dresses. And finally. Right together. Left together she breathed in and followed the much rehearsed plan. Not daring to look from the alter to her now future husband.

 

[Axty]

The great oak doors creaked open with a solemn groan as Archibald stepped into the cathedral, the muffled hum of anticipation from the gathered crowd falling into a respectful hush. Sunlight spilled through the stained glass windows, casting fragmented rays of crimson and gold across the white marble aisle. The air inside was thick with incense and expectation.


Archibald took a steadying breath, his jaw tightening as he began his slow walk forward. Each step felt rehearsed and yet somehow foreign, like he was playing a role in a script he hadn’t read past the first act. His boots clicked against the polished floor in time with the ceremonial music that echoed through the vaulted chamber, but it all sounded distant—muted by the storm of questions in his head.


He didn’t know what to expect.


How was he supposed to act around his bride—his wife, by day's end—when he didn’t even know the sound of her voice? Was he meant to be doting and affectionate? Offer her flowers each morning and poems each night, pretend that centuries of bloodshed and bitter memory could be washed away with charm and gentle words? Or perhaps she would prefer distance—silence—a mutual agreement to coexist under the same roof without pretense or false affection.


After all, they likely shared the same sentiment. Hatred for each other’s nations was practically bred into them from birth. It was the kind of loathing passed down like a family heirloom, polished and reinforced by tutors and generals and the scars of war.


Archibald’s hands remained at his sides, steady but cold. The cathedral was lined with nobles and foreign emissaries, their eyes watching him closely, studying every gesture for meaning. He was not a man in love. He was not even a man in control. He was a symbol—walking, breathing, but bound.


And at the end of the aisle, she waited.


He could see her now—draped in elegance, still as a statue, her face unreadable from this distance. He felt his heart thud once, hard, against his ribs. Not from love. Not from nerves. But from the sheer, crushing weight of not knowing who she truly was—or what this union might become.

 

[freakie]

Florence waited her turn as she breathed in. Almost not stepping out at all if it wasn’t for her father’s arm guiding her forward. They walked together a mixture of fear and bitterness. He had to give up his only ch old for this? When she would have been better off marrying one of their own. He narrowed his eyes a moment at the Prince. This man would do well to look after her. But he soon knew to soften his face again as to not be outed by any doubters.

The walk felt like it was quick and yet took forever all in one. Her veil still hiding her as it was their countries tradition to keep her pure until the final words. Florence had been prepared for what to expect. She was to lay with him and they were royals so they had to be witnessed to some extent. But even then she wondered if all the traditions would apply to them. They were trailblazing for peace. Surely they weren’t expected to follow through with such. She breathed shakily as she finally made it to the end of her journey. Her last moments as Princess of Aranthia laid heavy on her shoulders.

“Who gives this woman willingly to her husband under gods eye?”the archbishop read as he stood still and blank at the alter. Harold tensed before he glanced at the Prince then to her “I, King Harold”he replied as he kissed her hand briefly and offered it to the man who was taking her from them. Florence could only freeze as she was mere moments from touching him. She was studying his face as her father took his seat. The tiredness of his eyes as she realised he was possibly under the same routines she’d been. She stood and let the man take her hand if he wished. She had to show signs of acceptance or they could all be killed for betrayal.

Glancing at her mother she noticed the sadness on her older features but she knew they all felt the same. She was an adult now and she had more duties than she could count. Preserving her home was one of them. She breathed out as the sounds around them kept her on edge no matter how muffled.

“Do you…Prince Archibald. Take Florence Larker yo be your wife? In sickness and in health. To love and cherish until death do you part?” He had done this many times. His voice old and monotone but still loud for the whole crowd gathered in its stone walls to hear.

Florence was shaking slightly but still held herself high as she waited to hear his voice. The anticipation twisting around her stomach as her heart almost echoed in her ears.

 

[Axty]

“I do,” he said, his voice steady, yet edged with something raw. It came out deep and deliberate, shaped by years of discipline—trained on the shouting fields of battle and sharpened within the echoing halls of the academy. There was no tremor, no hesitation, only the quiet power of a man who had spoken with authority his entire life—even when his heart had no say in the matter.


The words hung in the air like a blade suspended mid-swing.


Sunlight from the tall cathedral windows caught his eyes just right, lighting them up in a way that made a few in the crowd shift forward for a better glimpse. His eyes were oceanic—blue as a storm-tossed sea, deep and unreadable. Calm on the surface, yes, but with an undeniable ferocity lingering beneath, like tides pulled by a rising moon. They had seen war, seen loss, and yet in that moment, they held a flicker of something else too—something gentler, unspoken.


He turned to her now, standing beside him at the altar. And though he had tried to prepare himself—tried to remind himself this was all just for show, for treaty and throne—he couldn’t quite keep the surprise from creeping into his chest.


She was beautiful.


Not in the fleeting, ornamented way so many royal portraits tried to mimic, but in something more timeless. Her long blonde hair framed her face like sunlight captured in silk, cascading down her back in soft, deliberate waves. And her eyes—emerald green—met his with a steady composure that he hadn’t expected. They weren’t the eyes of a fragile noblewoman being passed like property between kingdoms. No, there was strength in them. Quiet. Watchful. A fire that mirrored his own, perhaps shaped by loss or duty—or both.


He would be lying if he said he found her repulsive. In truth, she looked like the kind of woman poets might dream into existence—graceful, sharp, utterly unyielding.


And yet, he had no idea who she truly was.


He waited, tense beneath the weight of it all, for her answer. For her voice. For the other half of the vow that would bind them both.


Because no matter how flawless the scene might seem—no matter how perfect she looked standing beside him—this was still a union forged not from love, but from the ashes of war.

 

[freakie]

Despite knowing why they were both here and their purpose she found herself almost holding her breath for the words that could make or break today. As they landed she had time to really hear them. It seemed that it wasn’t some brute grunting them out for the purpose of getting this over with and it started to toy with the image she had already built up. She breathed out gently as she watched him through the thin fabric and finally focused on his features.

“And do you..Florence. Take Prince Archibald Valentine to be your beloved husband. In sickness and in health. To love and obey till death do you part?”he spoke without missing a beat. As if this wasn’t one of the most important weddings of the year nor centaur y. It unnerved her somewhat as she knew it was her turn and she didn’t wish to be a mouse. She had to make sure he knew she wasn’t a pushover.

“I do.”Florence managed to say it firmly yet still in a soft way that settled nicely. Her eyes catching the light as the archbishop lifted her veil as tradition was now set in stone. And she was finally able to focus on controlling her face. Her features soft yet her eyes screaming out for his. As they turned to face each other for their moment she could only seem to glance over his cheekbones to his lips. Nervous of the next words she knew had to be said.

“By the power bestowed by god through me I pronounce thee man and wife!”he said with a hint of happiness as if he had just allowed some flicker of happiness to shine through. The cheers erupted from both sides now that it was sealed “you may kiss the bride”

You may kiss the bride

A stranger to her still and yet they had to still act towards each other as if they had known each other longer. She breathed in before letting it settle determined to still put on a good show. He was rather pretty to her eyes but she couldn’t deny that her mind still trailed to Nero. He should have been here and maybe if he was. She wouldn’t have to stand here and do what was right for her people.

Glancing back to him she looked up and seemed calm. Eagerly awaiting for this to be over and to even perhaps get all these eyes off her.

 

[Axty]

As the final words of the ceremony hung in the incense-thick air, the priest turned toward them, lifting his hands in blessing.


“Preferably Archduke,” Archibald said, his voice low but cutting smoothly through the silence like a blade wrapped in velvet.


The priest paused, blinking in surprise. All eyes shifted subtly toward the groom, the crowd unsure if they had heard correctly. But Archibald didn’t flinch. His gaze remained steady, calm, as though he had simply made a polite correction to an address.


He leaned forward just slightly, enough for only those nearest the altar to hear. “Neither I nor my wife know each other that well,” he said, voice barely above a whisper now, reserved and private. “I’d prefer if we saved the kiss for later.”


His tone wasn’t cold, nor embarrassed—it was measured. Thoughtful. A quiet offering of autonomy in a moment that was often expected to follow a script. A small act of rebellion, perhaps. Or perhaps, something more meaningful: a space for consent, for choice, for dignity.


He glanced sideways, just enough to meet Florence’s eyes.


There. In that instant, unspoken understanding flickered between them like the tip of a match catching flame. He was giving her an out. An opportunity. A moment to say, Not now, without the world ever knowing.


She could reject it—lean in and follow tradition—or she could accept the pause, the distance, the acknowledgment that neither of them had asked for this.


The priest hesitated, then slowly lowered his hands with a silent nod, murmuring the final blessing instead. The crowd, unaware of the exchange’s depth, clapped politely, some even smiling at what they assumed was simply a shy or respectful gesture.


Archibald straightened, jaw set, eyes forward. But beneath the armor of his posture, something shifted—softened.


Whether Florence took his hand next or left it hanging would speak volumes. But for now, the first wall had been gently, carefully laid between them—and not in the name of war.


In the name of patience.

 

[freakie]

Florence waited patiently and as he spoke it quietly his bitterness seemed to return to him. To her image of him. She couldn’t help but feel the disappointment at his correction and saw it as a glimpse of what she had to put up with. The tight honing of the corset reminded her of her posture as she kept still and awaited the reply.

To obey and that was the key difference in their vows. She had to follow his lead and play the perfect wife. She nodded slightly when he spoke on the kiss. She was a little surprised he had spoken up and now that they were tethered together. Could they now have some choices? They were imprisoned for another certainly but were they free of their judgement. She doubted it as she gently took his hand. Perhaps it wasn’t the idea of privacy more the act upon itself when he did not know her or not even find her to his likening. It all spun around her thread of doubt.

But he had glanced at her as he offered that little escape. So somewhere he had considered she was in the same position. And his stance showed respect that she hoped he’d continue till they met their end.

Despite being strangers her pale hand soft and warm grasped his gently. She wanted to be grounded that this had all happened and wasn’t some nightmare. She had to keep up appearances and keep up her sanity in times of these. Focusing more on their environment than what had occurred as she glanced to the crowd and her father still stayed stoic. Standing as if he had watched a children’s play. Lyanna however was crying for what was to happen to her daughter and what had happened already.

As they walked down the tiles she didn’t utter a word simply kept forward towards the carriage. Her guard opening it up as he let them inside and shut the door as they readied to head to her new home. Florence sat opposite him and placed her hands on her lap now unsure of what even to say. They had eternity to speak and yet she didn’t know if she could speak at all. Feeling somewhat small now they were alone in this.

 

[Axty]

He stepped into the carriage with deliberate slowness, careful not to crowd her. His hand hovered for a moment above the seat across from her before settling beside the window instead. As he sat, Archibald shifted his posture—back straight, arms crossed loosely over his chest, his gaze fixed firmly on the passing streets outside. Anything to avoid looking directly at her. Anything to give her space.


The door closed with a quiet click, and the carriage began to roll forward, the clatter of wheels and hooves filling the thick silence that settled between them. It was a heavy quiet, awkward in its restraint, charged with the weight of all the things neither of them knew how to say—or if they should say them at all.


Archibald’s jaw tightened.


He didn’t know what he was supposed to say to her. Should he say anything? He glanced at her reflection in the glass for a fleeting moment before turning his eyes back to the streets. Her hands rested gently in her lap, fingers entwined in a manner too controlled to be casual. Her gaze was lowered, thoughtful… or perhaps withdrawn. It was hard to tell.


His thoughts churned like storm clouds.


Aranthia.


The name itself tasted bitter on his tongue, even in silence. That land—her land—had bled Kaelorian soil red more times than he could count. Its soldiers had burned villages, leveled homes, slaughtered innocents. People he’d grown up with. People he’d trained beside. People who now existed only in memory and gravestones.


And yet, the woman sitting across from him—the princess, the symbol of that cursed nation—did not seem like the monster his anger had always imagined. She sat with such stillness, her golden hair catching the late afternoon light, her emerald eyes focused on some distant thought. She looked… delicate, almost.


Like a flower blooming in winter.


But flowers could be dangerous, he reminded himself. Pretty things sometimes grew from poisonous roots.


Still, he couldn’t deny the strange dissonance tugging at him. How could something so fragile-looking be tied to so much bloodshed? Was it a trick of appearances? A mask worn for political convenience? Or was she simply a prisoner in this war too—draped in silk instead of chainmail?


His lips parted, then closed again.


The words were there, caught somewhere in his throat: I don’t hate you. I just hate what you represent. But it sounded too cruel. Too harsh. And maybe not entirely true.


Instead, he remained quiet, his fingers twitching once where they rested against his sleeve.


He didn’t move closer. He didn’t ask her anything. But as the carriage rolled steadily toward their new life, he let the silence stretch just a little longer—waiting to see if she would be the one to speak first.


Waiting to see if she’d break the glass between them.

 

[freakie]

The wheels working against gravel sounded the rhythm of her thoughts as she glanced towards the man who sat down. My husband Archibald She was never going to get used to this ideal. To this life. Yet she somehow had to flourish or her peoples hope would diminish and their kingdoms at war again was more than she could take. Blinking slowly as for a split second it was not her reflection from the glass but his. Nero still followed her as if to keep an eye, and this man before her was one to be studied.

The woman tried to do so discreetly her eyes following his attire to his face as she did dare look. There was no point playing coy, they were not courting they were married and had other expectations and she had to face them head on. Her anger at the situation fuelled her strength. In a distant echo she remembered ladies of her court all speaking I wish for my husband to have a mane of golden hair! I wish for mine to be as tan as the dessert! She had no choice in what she wanted but she could not complain.

This brute in front of her was not as harsh and sharp as she had imagined, he had some softness in there and some Intelligence as he did manage to navigate them away from kissing for the show.Her head tilted slightly as she traced his eyes and realised he was stealing glances at her and she knew they were doing the same thing. Like wild animals trying to yield to an enclosure without rage.

Florence looked away as she realised that she had to say something. There had to be a way to break through to this man and see what he thought as surely he was the same deep down as her. Or was he just some animalistic grunt deep down who didn’t care who his wife was and was just happy to have children to carry on his own image.

I do not blame you for his death….I only blame you for carrying on after such was that not enough? That you tore us apart? “Thank you,for speaking with him to avoid us any embarrassment“ She was speaking truly with her her own voice. It was soft, not unsure of itself but it was light with some warmth deep down.It cut through their silence like she had hoped but she only wished he did not reject it and leave her there.

They had a while to go, she knew that they would have to sit at a banquet table and thank their guests, eat yet she had no appetite for suckling pig right now and then dance. Her hands rested either side of her now since she had been open enough by offering conversation. They must act well to fool them all. Or else it at be their heads on the spikes.

And to add insult to injury, after such an event they had to be alone for a week at most. The moment she had turned 15 she had been warned of the act. Taught the bare minimum to make sure she would be a good wife to obey and then they swiftly moved onto needle work and book binding. It would be a lonely week if he did not wish to speak to his enemy at all.

 

[Axty]

Embarrassment?


That didn’t even begin to cover it. This entire charade—this politically curated performance of unity—was a mockery. Archibald shifted in his seat, the fabric of his ceremonial jacket suddenly feeling too tight across his shoulders. He could still hear the cheers of the crowd echoing in his skull like some cruel joke, every clap another reminder of what he’d been forced into.


The more he thought about it, the harder it became to stay still. His leg bounced once, restlessly. His fingers tapped against his bicep in rhythm with the beating in his ears.


Her country. Her people. The words came like venom. They weren’t just an abstract enemy to him. They were the face of the nightmares that had plagued his boyhood. The reason for the funerals. The screams. The smoke-blackened skies. The friends who’d never come back from the fields beyond the ridge. The children who never had a chance to grow up.


And there she sat. Silent. Serene. Like none of it had ever touched her.


“I hate you and your people,” he said.


The words slipped past his lips like a knife unsheathed in the dark.


He hadn’t meant to say it. Not out loud. Not like that. But once spoken, they hung in the air between them, heavy and irretrievable. The rhythmic sound of the carriage wheels against the cobbled road was the only reply for a long moment—steady, distant, unbothered by the chaos now twisting in his gut.


Archie didn’t dare look at her.


He felt her stillness shift beside him—just slightly, just enough for him to sense it. Whether it was in shock or pain or rage, he didn’t know. And he couldn’t bear to find out.


The carriage rolled to a stop.


Before the driver could even reach for the handle, Archibald had already opened the door himself, the hinges creaking like a gasp in the silence.


He stepped one foot onto the stone path, the chill of the evening air biting at his skin as he turned back briefly. His expression faltered—cracked, softened.


“Sorry,” he muttered, not quite meeting her eyes. “I didn’t mean that. I just… I need to be alone.”


And with that, he stepped down from the carriage, his boots hitting the ground hard, like punctuation.


He didn’t look back.

 

[freakie]

Florence noticed how just those words alone caused such a stir for him. His whole body seemingly restless as she awaited his reply. She was trying to keep things nice between them for now. To at least coast them through the journey till they could sleep in seperated rooms for the rest of their years of marriage.

I hate you and your people.

Her head hung down as if she had spoken out of place and was receiving punishment. He had been blunt and it had forced her to reconsider. Had she seen the good in him too soon? Was he truly going to fight her on this when they were one and the same? She blinked to avoid any sadness to creep through her mask and she simply sighed. She would have to keep on and face this alone it seemed. Once again learning that no one would be in her corner or have her best interests at heart.

Kaeloria men are bastards who take what they want and kill for their own greed. Nothing but a grain of salt in their heads and rock for hearts

Her brothers old warning in her mind was a sharp reminder not to be as kind to her husband again. She would obey. And then she would escape somehow. Even if it took years she could not sit and watch herself go through this when deep down. She had wanted to marry for love.

Once it slowed to a stop her guard was waiting. She had permission for him to continue his employment despite moving to a new kingdom. He had known her all her life. And her brother. He was the only source of familiarity and comfort. As Archibald seemed eager to escape her she stepped out with the help of Sir Luke and smoother her dressed down. Not daring to look as he walked off like some child.

“My lady..” Luke enquired and she didn’t say anything in return. She simply shook her head “let us continue. Give him space” she replied with grace as they walked up to the castle doors. I did not mean it but she knew he was trying to cover up for his lie. She felt his hatred in that moment. Like a blade against her throat. A constant reminder she could not trust her safety just yet. And she could not trust herself to be true to herself around him.

“Is there a room for me to refresh after the journey?”she asked as the guard skillfully lead her inside away from the busy hall “yes my lady your parents requested it” he took her up and as she closed the door her simply turned his back to the door and had his hand on his sword handle.

 

[Axty]

Archibald’s boots echoed softly against the polished stone as he wandered the unfamiliar halls, the cool stillness of the palace wrapping around him like a second skin. He wasn’t even sure where he was going—just that he needed to move, to breathe, to get away from the weight of what he’d said.


Eventually, he found a room.


Spare, unused, quiet. Probably meant for visiting nobility or the occasional court guest. Right now, it might as well have been a sanctuary. He stepped inside, gently closed the door behind him, and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.


He sat down on the edge of the bed, the mattress sinking slightly under his weight. Then, slowly, heavily, he dropped his head into his hands.


Idiot.


The word rang through his mind, clear and cutting. His fingers dug into his hair as the moment replayed again and again—the silence, her face, the bitter heat in his voice.


He hadn’t meant it.


Not really. Not at her.


He didn’t even know Florence. He had no right to say something so cruel, to aim his pain like an arrow at someone who hadn’t drawn the bow.


Sure, she wore the colors of Aranthia. Sure, she bore the title of princess. But she hadn’t started the war. She hadn’t led the soldiers that tore through the fields of Kaeloria. She hadn’t stood behind the man who had—


His stomach twisted.


She didn’t kill your father.
And even if she had known, even if someone had whispered that truth into her ear before the ceremony, how could she ever know what it meant to see it? To watch the light leave his father’s eyes beneath a sky painted in ash and flame?


He wiped a hand down his face and sat back, staring at the ceiling. The weight of it all pressed down on his chest like a lead plate.


One thing, though—one truth he could hold onto in the mess of it—was that he did need space.


Not forever. Just for now.


He needed to sort through the screaming storm inside his own head before he tried to talk to Florence again. Because if he didn’t, he’d only say more things he didn’t mean. And that wasn’t fair to her. Not to someone who had been thrown into this mess just as unwillingly as he had.

 

[freakie]

Knowing her absence wouldn’t be missed for a while Florence breathed sharply and finally let herself tear up. Her fingers wiping her face as she walked to the separate chamber and splashed water on her face. She did not intend to anger him but she was facing the reality that their very existence to one another would be a constant painful reminder. She was smart enough to know he would not say that without some deep cutting loss and she could not expect Nero to be the only sacrifice that got them here.

With shaky hands she undid her veil and unpinned her hair and sniffled some “What a fool to believe we could of perhaps managed such a prison“She muttered to herself as she avoided looking in the mirror. She simply knocked on the door “My lady?“He asked and she breathed out “Fetch my lady in waiting, I wish to change and to bathe before the feast“She called. Hearing his boots walk away she sighed heavily.

The room seemed quaint but not interesting, lacked character so it must of been a spare. But she slowly opened the balcony to breathed in the cooler air. “Chin up…”She remembered her father’s words ”Don’t cry…” It helped calm her in this time of need. She wouldn’t be able to see her family as often anymore and could tell by her mothers tears that they would miss her and count her as a sacrifice too.

Once the bathe was prepared and her lady came in she was undressed “I will wait outside Princess. Do you desire any certain dress?“She asked and Florence wanted to keep wearing the colours of her house, her country. But She also knew that this was like any court and she had to play her part right to please the right people. “Kaeloria‘s colours. The red…with the gold..“She said quietly trying to hide her feelings.

Once again the water engulfed her and eased the stress of today as she looked at the ring on her hand. Rose gold band, simple but it did the job when neither place had amazing wealth due to the war. When you are older and wiser…dear sister which do you chose? To hunt and be strategic or to be a homemaker and mother? I wish to hunt of course, the feel the cold metal on my skin as I ride and perhaps I will have an understanding husband who will set me free. If only. Keep up that dream sweet sibling, I will teach you quietly so not even mama and papa may know…

The aroma of rose and cherry filled the air as it soaked into her skin. She moved out and once again got dressed ‘I wish to wear the rubies…and the band he got me..“She told Eldora. The woman nodding as she gently took out the gold arm band that Nero gifted her just before she became of age and helped her put it on. Clasping the necklace and earrings onto her gently as she helped style her hair up once more. To Florence, her jewellery and dress would have to be her armour for tonight. She was no stranger to court and she forced a smile as she looked at herself finally.

“Princess Florence Valentine, you are requested to make your entrance at the grand hall“

She held her head up as she walked out with her guard “Stay close, we are still in danger here.“She whispered her orders and Luke nodded. The music played loudly through the big double doors that lead to the hall. Florence stood and breathed deep “He may already be in there or be late“ He advised and Florence sighed “I shall make my entrance..” She knew she would turn heads looking like this.

Deep down she hated these colours, remembering the banners that carried to their lands and her cries when she was younger. But she breathed deep and nodded to the servants to open the doors. Walking in as the court seemingly ushered into silence. She had never looked so strong in her enemies colours.

 

[Axty]

For several long, uncomfortable minutes, the space meant for Prince Archibald Valentine remained conspicuously empty. The grand hall, dressed in silks and soft harp music, buzzed with polite whispers—some coated in concern, others laced with judgment. Nobles from Kaeloria shifted in their seats, casting sidelong glances at one another, mouthing questions they didn’t dare ask aloud.


But to anyone who knew the prince, this wasn’t exactly new.


Archie had a reputation—not for arrogance, nor for rebellion—but for vanishing. Not out of disrespect, but from some deep, buried sense of dissonance. When he didn’t show up, it wasn’t because he didn’t care—it was because he cared too much about the wrong things. Things others didn’t always understand. People assumed he was late because he was careless.


But this time, Florence might’ve known better.


The doors opened with a quiet groan, and all heads turned.


Archibald entered—not with grandeur, not with the proud poise expected of a crown prince, but with the quiet weight of a man who looked like he'd aged years in the span of a few hours. He wore a deep blue suit embroidered with soft white thread, the colors starkly opposite Florence’s own attire—yet somehow, they didn’t clash. They mirrored. A contrast, yet complimentary. Like night and day sharing the same sky.


His steps were measured. Calm, but tired. Beneath his eyes were the telltale signs of a man who’d wrestled with more than just politics—puffy, dark, and slightly red. Not enough to draw comment, but enough for the attentive to wonder.


He reached Florence’s side and tapped her shoulder gently. When she turned, he leaned down, voice so soft it barely reached her ears.


“Can we head to the balcony when the ceremony begins?” he asked, his words thick with unspoken weight. “I want to talk.”


There was no demand in his tone, no royal expectation. Just a quiet request, wrapped in vulnerability.


All that remained now was her answer.

 

[freakie]

When she found her seat that’s when they sat down with her as a normal sign of respect. The court quiet and tense that she was unaccompanied but the woman knew why. The heat of their last encounter not yet leaving her as she stared at the room to get an idea of who was here. Her father had attended but her mother had retired for the night and she knew not to ask why.

Luke stood behind her, against the wall like he was used to. He knew not to be too weary but he was also concerned for the Princess and her wellbeing in such a harsh environment. Yet she felt restless with the empty chair beside her, sipping the wine to hopefully calm her nerves. Would He even show? Or would she be cast aside or worse killed for hurting their Prince.

As the doors opened she watched attentively, it was easy to see he was still wrapped in the stress of today and his own thoughts and feelings. He seemed to carry them wherever he walked and she wondered how he would cope with this whole ordeal. But she noticed the hint or red, it was similar to hers from when she shed a few tears. Her deepest belief to let a few slip to avoid the floods.

As he neared she looked away, trying to enjoy the moment before she felt his touch and she tensed and looked over quickly. Only for him to reach her level and speak. She frowned for a second when he asked her of such, could they sneak away for a moment when all eyes were on them? She decided to allow his request only to use it to give some words of her own.

”We can“ It was short but still in her normal tone to make sure she didn’t let her emotions follow it.

As the event began…the speeches and the entertainment…the meal. It was all meaningless to her as she awaited there talk.

Finally before the dancing she felt like it was the right time for them to sneak off. She glanced over at his chair “Lead the way”She offered some as she gave him the chance to take her hand. It was not for them, but for the many eyes on them still. She knew of spies and of evil men so she knew to keep up the act to avoid the threats.

 

[Axty]

Archibald’s fingers brushed against hers—just barely, at first. Then slowly, deliberately, he took her hand in his own. It was rough, calloused from years of combat training and gripping steel, yet the way he held her was impossibly soft. Gentle. As though he were afraid she might shatter beneath his touch.


The contrast said everything he couldn’t.


Without a word, he led her through the great doors and out onto a wide balcony, where the air was crisp and cool, and the world felt… quieter. The stone beneath their feet was pale in the moonlight, and the stars blinked gently overhead, watching the moment unfold from above.


As soon as they stepped into the open night, he let go of her hand—carefully, not abruptly—allowing space. Allowing choice.


For a long second, he said nothing. Just stood there with the moonlight casting shadows beneath his eyes, his breath faintly visible in the cold.


Then he spoke.


“I’m sorry,” he said.


It was quiet. Real.


His gaze dropped to the floor, unable to meet hers just yet. “About what I said in the carriage—I didn’t mean it.” His voice didn’t tremble, but it carried the weight of someone trying to keep it steady. “I was just… frustrated. With the marriage. With the war. With myself. Everything, really.”


He swallowed hard, as if the words themselves tasted bitter.


“You’re my wife now,” he said, finally lifting his eyes to meet hers, “and you don’t deserve me at my worst.”


The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was tentative. Fragile. Like glass catching the light.


The moon hung between them like a witness, casting a pale silver glow across the balcony.

 

[freakie]

Florence felt the grooves in his skin, the rougher parts and the softer all mixing as she followed him out the hall. He seemed to always treat her as if she was fragile but she had to reach him without slipping her mask off for now.

The cool air hit her and she finally let her shoulders relax as he let go and she leaned onto the stone wall to support herself up. As if she had been keeping all that weighed above her up until now. And that’s when he apologised and she honestly did not expect it. The woman looked over at him and studied him a moment.

If he were to apologise she had expected a short abrupt version but he was speaking truly to her and she looked back at her hands. My wife now she glanced at her ring as she breathed out and looked up at him only to meet eyes and she seemingly yearned to see every speckle and shade around his pupils.

“I will always…try my best to get us through this. It is not long till we can stop pretending and be apart if we wish. It is not long till we can make significant choices…“She spoke softly hoping he would understand that if they had to be in this, she wanted an allegiance.

“Another thing you must come to learn…is that hate is a fine line and I share it. For what has happened…for this…responsability to my people to end the bloodshed. I am hardened…”She wished to say more but she glanced at her hands again. She didn’t want to speak so freely and be hurt again by a retort.

He is my husband. And my stranger. Yet we share something…a normal arranged marriage we would not have o many unspoken words between us

“Only a few more hours till we are away from the eyes. We can see it through..“

 

[Axty]

Archie leaned forward, bracing his forearms against the cool stone of the balcony railing. The night air tugged at his dark hair, and the moon, full and pale, reflected in his eyes like a second world. Down below, the gardens lay still in shadow, and the only sounds were the quiet chirps of crickets and the faint rustle of distant trees.

It was peaceful. But inside him, there was no peace.

He exhaled slowly, almost as if the breath had been waiting in his chest all day. “Just say what you want,” he said, his voice carrying just enough to be heard over the gentle sounds of the night.

Then, after a pause, he added—realizing how sharp it had sounded—“I know that’s vague. I didn’t mean it to be.”

He turned his head just slightly toward her, not quite looking her in the eyes, but close.

“I just… I know you’ve got thoughts. Feelings. Maybe even things you wanted to scream during the ceremony but didn’t. Things about me. About this.”

His fingers tightened slightly around the stone railing.

“I don’t want you to have to carry resentment in silence. Don’t want you to look at me one day and think about all the things you never got to say. I’m tired of pretending we’re okay just because the room expects it.”

Another breath.

“Say whatever you want, Florence. About me. About today. About this marriage. I can take it. I’d rather face the truth now than rot in fake comfort.”

He finally turned to face her fully, eyes tired but open. Not guarded. Not defensive.

For the first time since the wedding, he didn’t look like a prince.

 

[freakie]

Florence noticed he looked away and she followed his gaze to the gardens and admired them some. Remembering her ones at home that used to provide such joy and safety. She was torn up inside on who she had to be and who she was, but she could tell it was etched onto him as well.

When he spoke the words took a while to break through to her and she let them linger as she pondered on what to say. She looked down at the cut topiary and shook her head softly as he continued. Did he honestly wish to know? His wife had feelings and thoughts and seemingly he was aware. Why did he have to show such empathy when she just wished he was cold so she could continue her act.

But he addressed her by name without title and it reached her somewhere deep inside, it had been a long time since she was just called Florence.

“Archibald I..”She took a moment her voice almost faltering in such a deeply intimate honest moment between them, she looked To the moon again almost for guidance. “I had wanted to marry for love…”She admitted somewhat to him “The marriage…It is not ideal for either of us. I wish to keep this image of who I thought you’d be. But every second you prove it false and it’s hard…to dislike you. Despite it all.“She was truly honest here.

”I have been prepared my entire life…raised for this moment. And yet it is not as simple. We are destined to hate each other and now we are tethered to try and stop such tragic loss. We loose ourselves to that process..”

She paused as she turned to him once more. “I want to make it work. I am trained and educated. But if you wish to know me deeper I can bare it. I can let myself be free just in front of you. If you vow to do the same. I may be a lady but I am stronger than you believe. I can take strong words too and your thoughts and feelings matter to me…even if you do tend to say the wrong thing in the heat of a moment“She tried to make light of what he said in that carriage. To show she understood why it happened.

 

[Axty]

Archie nodded, the corners of his lips twitching ever so slightly—not quite a smile, but something close. A flicker of warmth that hadn’t been there before.

Then, slowly, he held out his hand—not with authority or expectation, but with a softness that didn’t quite match his sharp, battle-worn frame.

Specifically, he extended his pinky.

It was awkward. A little absurd. And yet… somehow, it made perfect sense.

“I know,” he murmured, his gaze flicking to hers for just a moment. “It’s childish. Stupid, maybe. But I never learned how to do this properly. This marriage thing. This… ‘being good to someone’ thing.”

The pinky stayed outstretched, waiting.

“So—alright then. Let’s promise each other this.”

His voice steadied now, low but certain.

“We’ll show each other who we really are behind closed doors—no lies, no masks. And in public, we’ll work together. As a team. A couple. Whatever that means.”

He paused, a breath catching in his throat, then added with surprising conviction:

“You’re my wife now. And I promise you—I’ll do everything I can to make you the happiest woman in the world.”

He looked at her then—not as a soldier. Not as a prince.

But as someone hoping to be something better.

And the pinky still waited.