ARIELLE
The scent of lavender and beeswax is almost suffocating as Mother embraces me, her fingers digging into my back as if she fears letting go. It's absurd, of course. I am not a child, and she is not some sentimental fool prone to weeping over partings. Still, I hold her back, inhaling deeply. It is the scent of Khavena, of safety, of everything I have ever known.
"Mother," I murmur, because what else is there to say? "I shall miss you." A vast understatement, but words and speech fail me at the moment.
She pulls back, her eyes, the very image of my own, filled with that infuriating, knowing gaze. "Be strong, my heart," she whispers, cupping my face between her calloused hands. As if strength is a garment one can simply don and discard as the mood strikes.
I manage a wry smile, but it feels brittle. "Strong and wedded," I mutter, my gaze flicking to Caith, who stands by the doorway looking as if he'd rather face a dragon than my mother's scrutiny. "It is a new sort of strength, I suspect."
Mother's lips twitch, but she gives my hand a squeeze. "You will not be alone on your journey."
"Oh?" I raise a skeptical brow. "Are Azriel and Arianna planning to stow away in my baggage? Because I vow, I would be grateful for the company."
Azriel, ever the pragmatist, gives a long-suffering sigh. "Someone has to rule Khavena, sister. We cannot all traipse off to the wilds of… wherever Caith claims to hail from."
Arianna, predictably, is teary-eyed. "Write to us, Arielle! Tell us of this… man's land!"
"Tell you of it?" I repeat, my voice laced with a familiar dryness. "Shall I sketch anatomies in the margins of my letters? Recount the intricacies of… these creatures? Because frankly, I still struggle to comprehend the necessity of such a cumbersome arrangement."
That earns me a sharp look from Mother, and Azriel hisses, "Arielle! You forget yourself."
I shrug, though a flicker of heat rises in my cheeks. "Well, someone must needs ask the difficult questions. Yesterday, I believed myself complete, whole. Today, I am bound to a creature I barely understand, for reasons I cannot fathom. It is a considerable adjustment, is it not?"
I sigh then, the levity dissipating like morning mist. The truth is, beneath the quips and the arched brows, I am terrified. "I shall strive to be strong, Mother," I say, my voice softer now. "But I have no notion of what awaits me beyond the borders of Khavena. Only this... man."
Mother squeezes my hand one last time, her gaze lingering on my face as if trying to etch every detail into her memory. I know the feeling. I do the same. Then, with a gentle push a silent urging, she turns me toward Caith.
He stands a few paces away, looking as ill at ease as a babe in swaddling clothes. I lift my chin, summoning a shard of that newly-forged strength. No matter what lies ahead, I will face it with my head held high. Even if that head is about to be thoroughly drenched in saltwater.
He offers a hesitant smile – a rather pathetic thing, really, but I suppose I should be grateful for the effort. "Ready to go?" he asks, his voice a little too loud, a little too bright.
"As I'll ever be," I reply, allowing him to lead me toward the… contraption that awaits. It's not a cart, nor a litter, nor anything I've ever seen before. It is, apparently, a ship. I've read about them in books.
And a rather precarious-looking one at that.
Caith leads me down to a platform, where the ship is bobbing gently against the shore. Sailors are hurrying back and forth, their faces weathered and lined. None of them meet my gaze. Good.
"Here, let me help you," Caith says, reaching for my hand.
I hesitate for a moment. This is it, then. The point of no return. I take a deep breath, trying to ignore the sudden, disconcerting sway of the vessel beneath my feet. Yesterday I would walk these shores a free woman, today the sea and an unknown destination are my future. I place my hand in his, my fingers brushing against his surprisingly rough skin. He offers a reassuring squeeze before guiding me onto the ship.
My feet hit the deck, and the world tilts. Just a little, but enough to send a jolt of pure panic through me. I grab Caith's arm, my knuckles white as I try to find my balance.
"Easy," he murmurs, his voice closer now, warmer. "Just find your sea legs."
Sea legs? What in the seven hells are sea legs? More importantly, how does one find them? Are they hidden somewhere in my trousseau?
I take another shaky step, gripping Caith's arm as if it were a lifeline. The ship lurches again, and a wave of nausea rolls over me. I swallow hard, determined not to disgrace myself before we even leave the harbor.
"I... I don't believe I am going to like this," I manage to say, my voice tight.
Caith chuckles, a surprisingly pleasant sound. "You'll get used to it," he says. "Everyone does."
I narrow my eyes at him. "Are you certain of that? Because at this moment, I am envisioning a scenario in which I develop a sudden and debilitating illness that prevents me from ever setting foot on this… this floating deathtrap again."
He laughs outright then, a genuine, hearty sound that echoes across the deck. And for a fleeting moment, I almost – almost – forget the uncertainty, the fear, the sheer unfamiliarity of everything. Almost.
Then the ship gives a mighty shudder, the sails catch the wind, and the shores of Khavena begin to recede. And I know, with a chilling certainty, that there is no turning back now.
I force myself to release my death grip on Caith's arm and turn toward the receding shoreline. Mother, Azriel, and Arianna are still there, tiny figures waving against the darkening sky. A lump forms in my throat, and I raise my hand in a feeble wave. Beside them, I see the mass of my people, their faces blurring into a sea of familiar yet suddenly distant expressions.
A horn, loud and mournful, blares from the ship, cutting through the salty air. It is a sound of finality, of severance. My breath hitches, and I can feel the sting of tears pricking at my eyes. Damn this ship, damn this man, damn everything that has led me to this moment!
I blink furiously, determined not to succumb to maudlin sentimentality. After all, I am Arielle of Khavena, and I am not prone to weeping in public. Even if said public consists of a few weathered sailors and the man who has just turned my world upside down.
But as the island shrinks to a mere smudge on the horizon, a tear escapes and traces a path down my cheek. I quickly brush it away, hoping no one noticed. Especially not him.
Caith, however, has clearly noticed. He clears his throat, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. "It's getting late," he says. "Do you want to see your… your cabin? It's not much, but it's out of the wind."
My cabin. My home for the foreseeable future. The thought fills me with a peculiar mixture of dread and morbid curiosity. "I suppose," I reply, my voice a little rough. "May as well familiarize myself with the… accommodations before nightfall."
He leads me toward the rear of the ship, past more sailors hauling ropes and shouting orders. I try to keep my balance as we navigate the swaying deck, my senses overwhelmed by the smell of salt, tar, and something vaguely fishy.
We reach a narrow staircase, and Caith gestures for me to ascend. I do so cautiously, my hand gripping the railing for dear life. At the top, he stops before a low, wooden door.
"Here we are," he announces, his voice lacking its previous cheer. He pushes the door open, revealing a small, cramped room. Light spills out from a single flickering lantern, illuminating bare wooden walls and a narrow bunk.
"Charming," I say, my tone dry. "A veritable palace on the sea."
Caith flinches slightly, as if stung by my words. "It's not the Ritz," he mumbles, stepping aside to allow me entrance. "But it will do."
I step inside, my gaze sweeping over the tiny space. A bunk, a small chest, a single porthole. Not exactly the luxurious chambers I am accustomed to in Khavena. But then, I suppose this entire marriage is not exactly what I am accustomed to.
I turn back to Caith, my expression unreadable. "Well then," I say, my voice deceptively light. "Shall we discuss the… sleeping arrangements?"
Caith's face flushes a shade of red that rivals the setting sun. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, avoiding my gaze.
"Sleeping arrangements?" he repeats, his voice a little too high-pitched. "Well, there's the bunk, obviously. And… blankets. Quite warm ones, I assure you." He gestures vaguely around the tiny space, as if attempting to distract me with the sheer overwhelming splendor of a bare wooden room. "I suppose you can have the bunk and I will sleep on the floor. There is a spare blanket, if you are worried."
I raise an eyebrow, my lips twitching. "Fascinating," I murmur, feigning rapt attention. "A chivalrous act, to be sure. But how will you sleep when it is so small in here?" I am not entirely certain if he knows that he is teasing me as his expression is so innocent.
He stares at me blankly for a moment, clearly oblivious to the teasing undertones. "Uh…I am okay. The floor isn't so bad. If you want, we can switch every day!" he offers. "That is...if you want to try the floor." He looks terrified by the thought.
I suppress a snort of laughter. This man is a marvel.
With a decisive click, he shuts the door, plunging the room into a more intimate, if somewhat claustrophobic, darkness. The lantern casts long, dancing shadows across the walls, making the already cramped space feel even smaller.
I turn to face him, my arms crossed. "Now then," I say, my tone more serious. "Since we are to be… man and wife… for the duration of this journey, perhaps it is time I availed myself of a little information."
Caith visibly swallows. "Information?"
"Yes, information," I say, as if speaking to a particularly dense child. "I find myself in a rather unique situation, wouldn't you agree? Having never encountered your… kind… before, I must confess to a certain lack of understanding regarding the intricacies of your… social customs."
He nods slowly, looking wary. "Right. Ask away, I guess."
"Very well," I say. "First question: What, precisely, is marriage? I understand the political implications, of course. The alliance between Khavena and… wherever it is you come from. But beyond that… what does it entail?" I finish, my voice a delicate balance between genuine curiosity and sardonic detachment.
Caith's eyebrows shoot up. "What is marriage?" he repeats, as if I've just asked him to explain the intricacies of rocket science. He scratches his head, his expression bewildered. "Well, it's… it's when two people… like each other. A lot. And decide to, uh… stay together. Forever."
I stare at him. "That's it?"
He shrugs. "There's usually a feast. And a priest. And… vows. But yeah, pretty much."
I consider this for a moment. "And what, pray tell, is a wife supposed to do in this… forever-together arrangement? Am I expected to darn your socks and fetch your slippers? Because I must confess, my skills in domestic arts are… somewhat limited."
Caith snorts, a genuine laugh bubbling up from his chest. "Darn socks? Slippers? Where did you get that idea? No, Arielle, you don't have to do that. It's a… partnership. You support each other. You… share things."
"Share what things?" I press, my curiosity piqued. "And what constitutes support? Emotional, financial, physical…? Oh, wait, don't tell me," I add, my voice laced with mock horror. "Is there some sort of… sock-darning quota involved?"
He rolls his eyes. "You're impossible. It's about caring for each other. Being there for each other. And… other things." He trails off, his cheeks flushing again.
"Other things?" I repeat, my voice dangerously soft. "Pray elaborate."
He sighs, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. "Look, Arielle, it's complicated, okay? It's about companionship. About… intimacy. About…" He pauses, searching for the right words. "It's about… having children."
Ah, yes. Children. Azriel had emphasized that particular aspect of marriage with a fervor that bordered on alarming. "Ah, yes," I say, my tone carefully neutral. "The production of offspring. A noble pursuit, I'm sure. But where do these children originate? I've never seen a babe born."
Caith stammers, his face now a vibrant shade of crimson. "Well, they… they come from…" He gestures vaguely toward my midsection. "From… inside you."
I frown. "Inside me? But how does one… acquire them? Do they simply materialize? Are they delivered by some sort of stork-like creature?"
He groans, burying his face in his hands. "This is too much," he mumbles. "I can't do this."
"Can't do what?" I demand, my patience wearing thin. "Answer a few simple questions about your barbaric mating rituals? What is so difficult about this?"
He lifts his head, his eyes filled with a mixture of exasperation and something akin to amusement. "It's not barbaric!" he protests. "It's… natural. It just… happens."
"Happens how?" I persist, my voice sharp. "And why are you being so evasive? Azriel spoke of children as if they were the primary purpose of this entire… arrangement. Am I somehow deficient in this regard? Is there something… lacking within me?"
The amusement vanishes from Caith's face, replaced by a look of alarm. He steps back, putting more space between us in the already cramped cabin.
"No!" he exclaims, his voice a little too loud. "There's nothing lacking! You're… you're perfect! Just… don't worry about the child thing right now, okay? We can… talk about it later. Much later. Like, years from now."
I narrow my eyes, my suspicions fully engaged. "Why not now? What is so terrible about discussing the mechanics of procreation? Am I to believe that the process is so horrifying that it cannot even be mentioned in polite company?"
He winces. "It's not horrifying! It's… intimate. Personal. And frankly, I don't think I'm the right person to be explaining it to you."
"And who, pray tell, is the right person?" I demand, my voice rising. "Should I consult with one of your… female companions? Oh, wait," I add, my voice dripping with sarcasm, "that's right. I don't have any female companions. Because I'm trapped on a boat with you, heading to a land I know nothing about, to fulfill a marital contract that I barely understand!"
He sighs, rubbing his temples wearily. "Look, Arielle," he says, his voice softer now. "I know this is a lot to take in. I know you're probably scared and confused. But I promise, I'll explain everything eventually. Just… not tonight, okay? Tonight, let's just focus on getting some sleep."
"Sleep?" I repeat, my tone incredulous. "Sleep? How am I supposed to sleep when I am filled with a million unanswered questions? When I have no idea what awaits me on the other side of this journey? When I am sharing a tiny cabin with a man who refuses to tell me how babies are made?"
He manages a weak smile. "Try counting sheep?" he suggests.
I glare at him. "Sheep? I am more likely to count the various ways in which I could murder you in your sleep."
He chuckles, a nervous sound. "Maybe just try closing your eyes then?"
I huff, turning away from him and toward the narrow bunk. "Fine," I say, my voice tight. "But don't think this conversation is over. We will revisit this topic. And you, Caith, will answer my questions. Eventually. Or I may just decide to throw you overboard and swim back to Khavena."
I climb into the bunk, turning my back to him and pulling the brown wool blanket up to my chin. The wool is scratchy and smells faintly of lanolin. It is, in short, utterly unpleasant.
I close my eyes, but sleep is a long way off. My mind is racing, filled with questions, anxieties, and a growing sense of unease.
What is marriage? What is a wife supposed to do? And why is Caith so reluctant to discuss the matter of children? Is there something he's not telling me?
Perhaps I should have stowed away in my own luggage.