Fantasy the arrangement // daan & redwood

[redwood]

Sorcha Whitecross’s window shuddered with every blow of icy wind as the blizzard howled outside, fierce and loud. Normally the large window overlooked the idyllic Icemore River which flowed through the heart of Port Maud, Vraphate’s capital city; today the view was of a white and gray expanse.

White, just like the piece of paper before her. Three sheets of it were carefully stacked amongst the clutter of her fine wooden desk pushed under her large set of windows, and they were mocking her. The longer she looked at the paper, the more it seemed to yell at her, Useless! and Pathetic! and, worst of all, Daughter!

Being a daughter in the Vraphatian elite was, for the most part, a disheartening thing. Daughters were treated like a form of currency, and political marriages were made almost without much of a second thought. But until now, Sorcha had worn the title of daughter as a badge of honor, and had foolishly thought herself above the arcane tradition of arranged marriages. After all, she was the daughter of Duncan Whitecross, head of one of the three ruling families of Vraphate. Many would argue that Duncan Whitecross was the leader of Vraphate - he held the military and the infamous navy in the palm of his hand, and it was him who led many of the conquests into foreign lands. As one of his children, Sorcha was born and raised in war camps, and was raised alongside her brothers with the intention of coming to command her own troops one day.

Even if she hadn’t been raised from birth to carry on her father’s work, she at least assumed what she was would have been enough to save her from her current fate. Magic was rare within Elven society, and most Elven magic was deeply rooted within nature. White mages, though, were the rarest of the rare; they were in-tune with the physical body and were Vraphate’s healers. Due to their long history of healing and saving, white mages were revered within Elven society.

None of it was enough, though. Her father had still sold her off like a piece of meat at his earliest convenience.

Sorcha tore her eyes from her window and the swirling white world beyond the thin glass and focused on the mocking white pages. White, just like her surname which had failed to protect her. White, just like her white hair braided down her back - the only physical mark of a white mage - which had also failed to protect her.

Vraphate had been embroiled in their war with Asmia for as long as she’d been alive. While her country had utilized their navy and conquered most of the neighboring foreign lands, Asmia had held out longer than anyone had expected. Asmia bordered Vraphate, and while Vraphate held the northern coast of Apolis and the northern islands, Asmia held most of the continent. They held most of the fertile soil, fishable coasts, and the mines. As far as Vraphatian intelligence went, Asmia’s mines were still flush with resources. Most of Vraphate’s mines had gone dry years ago, but the three ruling families of Vraphate hadn’t blinked an eye. The oversea territory still had resources, and the assumption was that Asmia would fall eventually; but as Vraphate expanded rapidly, what conquered resources they had were no longer enough to sustain her and her territories. The Blacksaints, Redchurches, and Whitecrosses turned their eyes on Asmia again, but with a new lens. A lens of peace.

A terse conversation began with Asmia, and Asmia wasn’t stupid. As the two countries barreled towards what would clearly be an arranged marriage, the Asmian ruler set his sights on Sorcha in particular. Out of all the heirs in Vraphate, she was the only female white mage, and everyone knew the value of her kind. If the Elves handed her over, it would only be a testament to their dedication of peace with the Humans.

And, like that, all Sorcha had ever known had come barreling to a stop. In a matter of days, her future and her pride were ripped away from her and replaced with an engagement. Now here she was, writing a letter to her fiance, a man she barely knew anything about, besides the fact that he was her sworn enemy only days prior.

With a final huff, Sorcha snatched up one of the pens littering her desk and dipped it into her inkwell and started to write. Like her father and brothers, Sorcha wrote with her left hand; her father had never bothered to make his children switch their handedness. In the warlord’s mind, his children had the upper hand if they were to engage in battle; few were well-equipped to properly fight someone of their handedness. War. For Sorcha, it was all anything ever circled back to.

Her father had told her that her fiancé knew the basics of her - name, age, general appearance, family; the same things she knew of him. But if this letter was to be her formal introduction to him, she wouldn’t hold back her disappointment and disbelief on her impending marriage. For the most part, the letter was dry and docile; there was little for her to say, until she added the letter’s postscript hastily. She didn’t quite understand why she felt the sudden need to add this, but she knew that very few stories told about Vraphate were ever good, and she felt the impulse to defend her home against someone who probably was as against this marriage as she. In her messy handwriting completely unbecoming of a woman of high society, she wrote:

I walk into this marriage solely for my people and family, and I am sure you feel similarly. I will forever be a Vraphatian, and I will never stop looking northward when I am in Asmia, and I find it hard to believe that I will ever agree with your politics, or understand your customs. I do know the stories Asmia tells of Vraphate - that we are coldblooded and ruthless. I also know of the tales your mothers tell to their children about my father. You must understand that we are a people of honor and tradition and dedication; the north has made us this way. I will not apologize for my home’s behavior, attitude or history, but I invite and encourage you to come experience Vraphate yourself so you can understand that we are not nearly as bad as you may think. In our towns you will hear laughter and songs and see homes full of quiet love and adoration. You would understand the plight of my people then.

I understand that you will hesitate coming to Vraphate due to tensions between our people. I suggest that you allow me a visit to Asmia before our wedding so you and your people can see I will treat you with the respect that you are owed. I hope it will pave the way for you to visit Vraphate. In any case, I hope we meet in person prior to our wedding. It would do us good to familiarize ourselves with each other in person. I fear that letters are not nearly enough to acquaint yourself with a person you are to be married to.

Sorcha reread those last two paragraphs over and over. It had been mentioned that a letter correspondence would be upheld within her and her betrothed until their wedding, which wouldn’t even begin to be planned until after Vraphate’s long winter. No one had ever mentioned state sanctioned visits to each other’s home, and Sorcha was surprised she’d even suggested it. She expected him to write back and to tell her no, that there would be no visits until their wedding. And why should there be? They owed each other nothing, and they were to be entering a loveless marriage. She could only assume that they would both have lovers through the course of their union, and would only formally interact when absolutely necessary. After all, why would he ever care about Vraphate after years of war?

Regardless, Sorcha signed the letter and handed it to one of her maids when the time came. And with that, the waiting game began.

@Daan ​

 

[Daan]

The morning was the usual; the help went pulling open curtains, preparing new clothes, drawing up baths, putting away dirty clothes to be hand washed, cooks preparing individual breakfasts. Their routine helped their rulers keep their country of Asmia strong and moving. It was so usual no one noticed the silent messenger moving through the long, opulent corridors; their footsteps lithe and silent. Like a barn mouse scurrying along the ground, passing through the out-of-sight hidden doors. Only one destination in mind, the Crown Prince’s personal chambers.

Outside the sprawling palace, the coming of spring was only around the corner. The snow partially melted away. Some of the royal gardeners even mentioned the infamous blooming of the Catelius sprouting before the snow had melted. It was a most unusual sight considering the Catelius—famously known to be named after the King’s late wife, Cateline—bloomed only twice. Some saw this as a sign of change to come and they weren’t wrong. Only that change was a catalyst of what was to come in the lands of Asmia.

Over the past few months, in secrecy, King Drystan of Asmia was contacted by his long-time rival, Duncan Whitecross. Up north, past their borders was Vraphate. Once enslaved by the Elves, it’d only been a few centuries since they broke free of their shackles. Resentment couldn’t describe the malice humans felt for the Elves of the north. They exchanged letters, concluding of a purely political marriage. Apparently, they had run out of resources on their mainland, and their eyes had turned back to his country once more. The Elven King was foolish to think that his kind would perish so quickly when they didn’t have long, dreaded wintry months.

Still a young country, Asmia was formed during the Uprising of Vraphate—named after their worshipped Goddess—had announced their independence of their former masters. They had built a long, strong wall to physically build the barrier they needed to separate them officially. Although populous with humans from running two kingdoms to having smaller lands in charge by appointed nobles, Asmia was also a refuge for other species forced from their ancestral homelands by the Elves. Unlike Vraphate, who stood in the face of the cold, Asmia had a well-rounded four seasons to help her flourish and feed her hungry, yearning, and poor. The rest of the Giants agreed to defend Asmia in exchange that they get to keep their own personal homes where they were. “The Guardians of Asmia” as they were called, helped defend Asmia from Vraphate’s attempts at encroaching on their lands; keeping back the bulk of the Elves.

Presently, King Drystan agreed to the armistice. Of course he wasn’t stupid, his majesty had conditions. And until their long months of winter were over, they were at a stand-still. Both of their chosen heirs would be forced into an arranged marriage, letters exchanged to get ‘familiar’ with one another, and perhaps visits could be put in order. Only the King hadn’t told his son yet. It was likely he’d send it in a form of a letter. Since he was a newborn, the King rarely saw his appointed heir and even when he did, it was clear the relationship was purely political.

Drystan had his eyes on Cenric. Presuming his son blamed him for his mother’s death. If so, Cenric hadn’t made it known. Unlike his father, Cenric was quite indifferent to everything and everyone, most mistaken it for coldness. King Drystan was beloved throughout all of Asmia. It was quite a surprise that his son wasn’t anything like him. The Crown Prince was logical, calculating, tactful, and quite reserved to where no one dared approach him, unless it was a suitor. Oh yes, Cenric was known for his looks. He had grown into a handsome young man, somewhat resembling his father. The long scar alongside his jawline only added to his attractiveness. Women of the court were all vying for his hand, yet he paid none attention to their calls. Many would mistake making eye contact as an invitation, only to learn that Cenric would recall no such thing happening.

Cenric was heavily uninterested in marrying someone, especially at a young age of only twenty-four. Whilst the heir to the throne, he still had ambitions of his own; ones he made known to no one except his best friend. Who he served time with on the battlements, fighting against kin and foe, side by side, and was the one person he could call family. He was estranged with family, even his fraternal twin. While he was out defending his country in the name of peace and stability, his father had married another woman and fathered more children. Cenric confided in Rolant only things he felt were worth saying to him; his distaste for the throne, complicated feelings of his family, and whether or not his mother was assassinated. When he wasn’t by himself, he was with Rolant.

Prince of Asmia, heir to the throne, and eldest of King Drystan’s children, his chambers lie on the southern wing. He had a full view of the ocean at the backside. The Messenger was just turning around the corner, nearly tumbling into one of the maids, who had a fresh batch of bedding in her arms. Muttering an apology, they didn’t delay further in running down the rest of the straight corridor to heavily decorated ornate doors. Two guards stationed outside the Prince’s chambers, their spears crossed in front of the messenger.

It was a miracle that the small messenger wasn’t out of breath as they skidded to an abrupt halt. Messenger bag nearly slinging off their shoulder, only to be caught in time. “By orders of the King, I am to deliver a message.” They spoke, pulling out an official document handwritten by the King himself. Their spears immediately went back to their normal position by the Guard’s sides. The Guard on the left side pushed the door opened, hearing the large floor-to-ceiling door groan open.

The Messenger went inside; it was pure dark in there. Apparently, the Prince was yet to be awakened. Or perhaps the Prince ordered his maid to leave him be. Either way, the messenger’s eyes adjusted to the darkness quickly. They made their way around the furniture toward the windows, pulling the heavy curtain opened slightly. Then they moved around the furniture again to carefully place the letter on the night table beside the Prince’s four-poster canopy bed. Before the Prince stirred, the messenger noped their way out of his room, shutting the door behind them with a loud thud that was sure to wake the heir.

It did.

In honesty, the Prince was well-awake throughout the night. He only slept three hours before his night terrors pulled him from a deep sleep. Cenric heard the messenger scurry in, to put a letter on his night table then scurry away as if they’d disturb Malum, himself. He was too lazy to pull the curtain back, too engaged in his own head to even look at the letter. It would be a few hours past his waking time that Cenric realised no one had come to help him get ready, nor had his maid even enter to wake him up. He had shot up from the blankets, his obsidian eyes squinting against the light that filtered through the slit of his canopy curtains.

Something was going on. Cenric presumed his father must’ve let him have a day in to himself. His schedule was usually packed from dawn until dusk. Or rather, his father was waiting for something. Moving from the warmth of his bed, Cenric’s feet touched the cool marbled floors, not wincing once. Just like his personality, Cenric was used to the cold reality of the world. He wandered from the bed toward his windows, his silky dark robe flowing behind him as he peered through the curtains. It was late morning now, he could see the bustle of the port just from there. Turning from his window, he returned to the night table to take the letter in his hands.

There were two. One from his father and the other from someone. Cenric ripped opened into his father’s single page letter. Alerting the Prince of a tightly locked marriage and the mention of an armistice from the Elves. His brow had deepened. His father mentioned an Elven female with some so-called rare white magic—Cenric had read and learned of it by mouth, but it was almost a myth—and that she was now his fiancée.

‘What in the name of Asmia…’ He thought, clenching his teeth. Not noticing his grip tighten on the paper, crumpling it. He was angry. The Prince ripped up the paper and let it fall in front of him. He stepped over it to return to his bed. Even with spring coming soon, the winter chill still nestled in the palace. Once under his many layers of blankets, Cenric pulled the second letter from the confines of his bed. Laying back into the many plush pillows, he looked over the writing addressed to him with a wax seal presumably belonging to the knife-ears.

Cenric broke it and opened it, finding several pages with finely written script in the common language. Despite it still being dark in his room, he could still see the writing clearly in the dim light. His thoughts elsewhere as he read through it, finding the distaste of his new betrothed settle on his tongue like soured milk. From what he read on her kind, White Mages were something like rare precious metals—yet even that didn’t shield her from politics. After reading it through a second time, Cenric set it aside to return to sleep. This time he was able to make it through two hours before his maid finally came in to serve him a late breakfast.

His maid, Emroe, an older woman now, had raised him since he was a child. Emroe ordered the other younger maids to clean up his messes and comb through the usual routine she’d done many times before. Emroe yanked the curtains back of his bed while the other maids did the same to his windows, letting the afternoon sun spill into the dark chambers. Even with others thinking the Prince to be above interior decorating, Cenric actually helped with the interior of his own chambers, down to the marble that the maids walked upon. In some ways, Emroe saw his mother in him—Catelin made the palace that much brighter, but with her gone, it was almost the opposite.

For now, the heir of Asmia was pulled from his bed to get ready for the rest of the day. There wasn’t much on his schedule for today, but still had some important things to do before night crawled upon them. Whisked into his attached bathing room, Cenric was left alone to wash himself up after Emroe scrubbed his skin clean of the dirt of yesterday’s training. Then, he was helped into some simple yet refined attire, completed with his usual hairstyle of being parted down the right. Once Emroe was finished, Cenric dismissed them to write a response to his betrothed, having his maid send for a messenger to wait outside his doors.

Cenric’s boots thudded against the floor, moving to the other side of the room where his study was. Once there, he took a seat into the plush leather chair that sank inward once he situated himself comfortably. Newly made hot coffee sat upon his writing desk, letting himself savour a sip before it grew cold. Grabbing his quill, inkwell, and some paper, he started by addressing his soon-to-be wife by her official title and name before getting onto the body;


Regardless of feelings, you will have to get used to the disappointment. Might I suggest you not make such hasty conclusions for I have none of Vraphate. Encased are several books about Asmia and her inhabitants, down to the last hair of every displaced species named with their own history written in it. I highly suggest you get familiar with it via reading, for I have no intention of visiting Vraphate without equal knowledge; mind sending me books as well?

Honestly, I recommend you don’t be quick to visit Asmia so soon. Just last week, an elf was flayed by locals on the border. Tensions are beyond the sky, it is best to get ‘acquainted’ via letters than in person. Once the worst of it has blown over, perhaps arrangements can be made. If you still desire to see Asmia, that is.

Until then, words are your safety.


Though his brain was just catching up to speed, his writing had come out eloquent and sharp. No mistakes in sight. Cenric signed it off like he usually did with his titles, kingdom, country, and finally his signature. Unlike the papers he received, Cenric only used one and folded it neatly into a black and gold-trimmed envelope, sealing it with wax and the stamp of his kingdom’s symbol; a dragon. Opening the door to find the messenger there, he gave it to him and sent the young male on his way to deliver it. Once he finished that, Cenric had left his chambers with his personal guard to go see his father. Apparently, he had other news he wished to share with him.