The Peaceweaver

You will be the peace-weaver, his mother told him, smiling though her dark eyes welled with unshed grief. The one who brings two bitter enemies together and ends the bloodshed and death between us, once and for all.   Reiv stared up at her, fighting the urge to rip away the bridal vestments which so hatefully adorned his stiff body. A woman’s bridal vestments, those that match his form but not his soul. Another poison poured in the wound of what his life would now be. Outside, drums beat a foreboding rhythm more suited for war than marriage. It mirrored Reiv’s heart. Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-da-dum. Reiv wondered if his heart would stop when the drums did, too.   Will I ever see you again? he asked.   If fate wills it, his mother said, and lifted a hand to his face, cupping his sharp jaw and braided hair. She never was one to mince words.   Reiv leaned into her touch for what might very well be the last time. I know this is my duty, he whispered into her palm, but Mother, I am afraid.   Good, she said, voice tight, edged with an anger she could not fully express. Your fear will keep you alive, my son. Follow your instinct – it will serve you well, as mine has.   Reiv stepped away, eyes wide. But I thought I was the peace-weaver, he said.   You are, she told him grimly, but try as we might, men will always crave war. Your husband’s people most of all.   Mother, Reiv said, I do not wish to fear my own husband, nor to be forced to bear his heirs; enemy heirs. Surely there is another way.   Remember your gifts, my son, she said. Remember your power, a power he does not have, and never will. Use that power, if you must.   If he discovers I have that power, he will hurt me, Reiv whispered.   If he hurts you, I will kill him, she promised, slipping a slim dagger into his hands, and let him go.   *   The wedding is swift, and Reiv is numb to most of it. There is song and drink and feasting and fire, roaring in a great hearth before the great table. There are many warriors though, Reiv thinks with some selfish pride, most are not nearly as large and strong as they are in Perdith. Most, that is, save for his husband. Reiv does not dare to lift his eyes to the man’s face. Not during the ceremony, where the man drapes a heavy fur cloak over Reiv’s shoulders and says his vows in a low, rumbling voice as warm as the roaring fire, nor when the man tilts his head up for a chaste, dry kiss. Nor during the feast, when the warriors fill themselves with mead and meat and Reiv sits quietly in the oaken chair, barely touching his food and answering the man’s occasional polite questions with equally polite answers. Nor afterwards, when the man gathers Reiv up into his arms amidst approving roars from his warriors, and carries him out of the mead hall, and up to his quarters. It is only when the man sets Reiv down with more gentleness than anticipated on the edge of the great bed that Reiv looks at him, and at once wishes he had not. His husband, a bloodthirsty and powerful thane of King Torgeniv, ruler of the numerous and warmongering Hendhar tribe, a man who has slain dozens of Reiv’s people and can cleave a man’s head from his shoulders with a single sweep of an axe, is the most beautiful man Reiv has ever seen. His fair face is marred only by the faded s***h of a blade-scar across his brow, but even that brightens the cold sea-gray of his eyes, strengthens the noble set of his dark brow and the sure curve of his mouth. His hair was tied back for the ceremony, but since then has come undone, and falls past his shoulders like a dark lion’s mane. It shines in the candlelight as if daring Reiv to touch. He does not. A shock of silver hair among the long dark locks falls over his forehead, tucked behind one ear. The lightning-touch, the Perdith call it, a sign that he has faced death and walked away changed but breathing. A reminder to his people what he has given for them, and to his enemies what he will give to destroy them. Reiv knows which side of the line he falls on and vows never to forget the formidable force he had unwillingly wed. This was a man whom death could not stop.  Mouth dry, Reiv gazes up at him, still as stone when his husband’s large hands settle on his shoulders to move slowly to the golden clasp at his throat. He unpins the fur cloak and it falls from Reiv like a heavy shadow, thumping onto the bed behind him. “Did you enjoy the feast?” his husband asks, hands falling back to his sides; feigning harmlessness. But Reiv knows what those hands have done; what they could do to him. “Yes,” Reiv says quietly, tearing his gaze away, back down to the dark floorboards. “It was very grand, my lord.” His husband pauses, brow lifting. “You’re meeker than I expected. And quite small, smaller than any Perdith I’ve seen – though, to be fair, I’ve only seen Perdithian warriors.” Reiv’s jaw works. “Small stature is a desirable trait for consorts, is it not?” Or do you doubt I will be strong enough to bring you heirs? he does not say. “If you are asking,” his husband murmurs, “whether or not I find you desirable, then the answer is yes, without a doubt.” “Oh,” Reiv says, though that was not what he was asking at all, and swallows hard. “My lord,” he adds, hastily.  His husband chuckles, and sits down beside him on the edge of the bed. Reiv closes his eyes, breath thinning to a single, fragile thread. The room is large, and empty. Reiv feels the expanse acutely on his skin. “We are wed,” his husband says. “There is no need for titles between us, at least not here. Unless you would prefer them.” Warm fingers seize Reiv’s wrist, tracing violet veins and the lines of his pale palms. “What would you have me call you?” When Reiv is silent, physically unable to speak, his husband releases his hand. “You may call me Colbrun...or Tallen, if you like. May I call you by your given name, also?” Reiv nods, slowly. “If that is what you wish, husband.” “Colbrun,” his husband, Colbrun, corrects. “Though that word does sound good in your lovely mouth, Reiv.” Reiv is wholly unprepared for his name on Colbrun’s lips, spoken under warm lamplight in the intimate space of a lord’s bedroom. His breath catches. “I —” He trails off into dumb silence, heart pounding. “Reiv.” Colbrun’s eyes are kind when he looks at Reiv. But how can he be kind? Reiv has heard the tales of the thane’s bloody deeds sung before many a grim feast-fire; he must not let himself be lured into a false sense of security. They call him Torgeniv’s Champion. The favored of his half-sons, not in line for the throne but the strongest of his soldiers and among the most prosperous of his second-hands. And though King Torgeniv has more gold than any in all the land, and builds the finest keeps and mead halls for his thanes, he is a tyrant devoid of honor and humanity as far as the Perdith are concerned. Any champion of his must be as cruel as he. “Yes, husband?” Reiv murmurs, looking away for his own self-preservation. “My warriors in the mead hall below may expect a consummation from us tonight, but I do not.” Reiv sucks in a startled breath, face growing hot. “You have had a long journey, and I expect you are tired, and perhaps overwhelmed. If you would rather sleep…” Colbrun is giving him an option. A choice. An escape. It is the only choice Reiv has been given, as of late, and yet he finds himself saying, “No.” Colbrun smiles, bemused. “No, what?” “I intend to consummate our marriage,” Reiv says firmly. “As peace-weaver —” Colbrun lifts a hand, expression troubled. “Not as peace-weaver,” he says. “As Reiv. What do you want?” Reiv almost laughs in his face at the awful irony of it all. What he wants is to be home, to be with his mother, for his father to live, for his dead clan members to rise up and bring ruin to the ones who put them in the ground. What he wants is to burn this mead hall and its thane into ashen oblivion. But he is the peace-weaver, and he is in bed with his beautiful husband, and though Tallen Colbrun, Thane of Garris, ruler of the Hendharn outlands in his father’s absence, may be a sworn blood-enemy of the Perdith, Reiv knows he must take the good things in life when they are offered to him, for there are not many, and they can be ripped away from him as quickly as they are given. So Reiv tilts his head up and reaches out, touching his husband for the first time, running slim fingertips over the rough angle of Colbrun’s jaw. “I want you inside me,” Reiv says. He does not mince words, either. Colbrun’s lips quirk, and his hand comes up to rest, firm and purposeful, on the back of Reiv’s neck. Reiv imagines it a collar, as one might give to a disobedient hound, and shivers. “Not so meek, then,” Colbrun muses, and seems pleased by this. Curious. “May I kiss you, Reiv?” It’s quaint that he’s asking. In reply, Reiv lunges for him, capturing his lips in a bruising kiss, and Colbrun catches him easily in his lap, sighing against Reiv’s demanding tongue. Colbrun’s arms wrap around him, bulky muscle and corded veins, and Reiv fumbles to unclasp the purple-red brooch at Colbrun’s throat. When he finally manages, the thick black cloak falls to the floor, and Reiv crouches in Colbrun’s lap, holding the sharp brooch-pin to his throat, the glittering tip nearly resting on vulnerable skin. “This is a fine jewel,” Reiv says, barely breathing. Colbrun’s fingers encircle his wrist, holding him fast. “Yes,” he says. “It was my mother’s. Ruby.” “And the metal?” Colbrun hums, squeezing Reiv’s wrist gently. “Gold, of course.” “Of course,” Reiv echoes, a little mocking, but only a little, because the man holding him could still crush Reiv like a grape if he so chose...and if Reiv didn’t crush him first. Colbrun takes the brooch from him and sets it atop the cloak. Both arms settle around Reiv’s waist, and one feels...colder than the other. Reiv shifts, confused. Eyes never leaving Reiv’s face, Colbrun loosens the ties on his shirt, letting it drop over the brooch and revealing the rippling musculature of his torso...and the dark splintering of his right arm. Reiv flinches back — the skin darkens just below Colbrun’s scarred right shoulder, streaked as if with soot before turning deep charcoal, like burnt meat. As Reiv watches, the shadows move, fluid as water though dry to the touch. The shadows extend along the rest of Colbrun’s right arm and hand, where the nails end in tapered points like black claws, or the terrible talons of a great eagle. Under Reiv’s wondering eye, the nails shorten and dull into something almost human, slowly but surely. “It’s a curse,” Reiv whispers, unable to tear his gaze from it. “Yes, and no,” Colbrun says. “It can also be a gift.” Reiv’s brow creases. “This is Hendharn magic...” Colbrun lifts a dark, sharp finger to Reiv’s face, sliding it along his jaw. “And what does a Perdithian peace-weaver know of such things?” Reiv swallows. “Only from stories...of the Bedtvas. Did they cast this upon you?” Colbrun’s gaze is thoughtful, and he makes a soft sound of what could be assent. “I was young,” Colbrun says. “Younger than you.” He shakes his head. “Cast it out of your mind. It will not harm you; this, I swear.” Reiv shivers. He can feel the magic radiating from the cursed arm; it is powerful, insidious...angry, and bitter. Did Colbrun want this magic? Or was it forced upon him? Reiv’s gut twists around an unseen blade. “And what of you? Are you harmed by it?” Colbrun smiles; the motion is practiced and measured. “A little mead and a pretty face, and one forgets any pain entirely,” he lies. “A pretty face,” Reiv repeats, and kisses him, softer this time, daring to lay his hands upon Colbrun’s bare and heaving chest, squeezing the swell of scarred muscle there, letting his calloused fingers wander. “Sly little creature, aren’t you,” Colbrun chuckles. His husband’s voice is strained, as is the fabric of his breeches, and sure fingers fall upon Reiv’s bridal tunic. Reiv holds perfectly still. Colbrun takes his time, tracing the detailed embroidery in the wine red fabric, the white swans with spread wings at his shoulders, the yellow daffodils around the high collar, the green ivy wreathing his sleeves, interspersed by bright red roses and blue forget-me-nots crowned with gold. Colbrun’s fingers stop at the embroidery at his throat, a silver crescent moon and a perched raven, the Perdithian crest. “I admire your clan,” Colbrun tells him in the dim room on the great bed, under flickering lamplight that shines on his sweating chest. “What you may lack in numbers and territory, you make up for in resolve. I have never seen men fight with such fearless conviction.” “That conviction gets us killed,” Reiv replies, and Colbrun blinks in surprise. “By your men.” Colbrun frowns, and draws upon the laces over Reiv’s chest. “That is why you are here,” he murmurs. “To stop the killing of the Perdith.” Reiv holds his breath, and the fine fabric falls away, baring his chest to the air. His skin seems too soft and pale and unblemished beside Colbrun, who bears countless marks of battle and strength. Reiv bows his head. “This is why I am here,” he says.