Chapter Text
"Prrrrrrrrr" made the arrow, its shaft vibrating from the impact.
John adjusted the fabric of his blue and green tartan kilt on his shoulder and leant down to take another arrow from the ground. He drew his bow, aimed and shot. The arrow hit the target a few centimeters from its sister. He had less luck with the third one and he lost the sight of it as it flew between the trees.
He cursed, put his bow in the grass and walked to the other side of the heap of hay where the target was, to search for his missing arrow. Usually, a little session of archery was all it took to soothe the young man's nerves, but right now, even shooting a hundred arrows wouldn't be enough.
It was three weeks now that the Great Lord of the clans' federation was dead. James Mitchell had been a powerful war lord and he had ruled over the nine clans for thirty years of prosperity. The news of his death had spread everywhere in the North hills. A gathering had been called. The chiefs of the nine clans would come to Brastàl Castle to pledge allegiance to John Mitchell, James' only son. He would become the new Great Lord of the federation… at least if nobody tried to defeat him.
The young man found his arrow planted in a tree trunk but instead of taking it, he just let himself fall at the foot of the tree and he closed his eyes. He listened to the wind whistling in the leaves above his head to steady his tense breathing, trying to match the wind’s slow rhythm.
Curiously, it wasn't the prospect of meeting the clans' chiefs that was making him nervous. In fact yes, it was quite scary, even for a grown 25 year old man. But at the same time, he was an accomplished warrior who had proven his skills more than once. His father had been a good model and everybody could see that John was a born leader. In fact, what was really giving him the jitters was the prospect of meeting his fiancé.
He couldn't avoid this arranged marriage. John had sworn to his father on his death bed that he would keep the promise James had made to Johan Johnson long ago, and take his second oldest son Anders as his husband.
Mitchell had been promised in marriage to Anders for as long as he could remember. He didn't have much to say in the matter. The Johnsons of Aklànd were the richest clan of the nine and probably the only one that had the potential to overthrow the Mitchells'. It never happened because James Mitchell and Johan Johnson had been close friends in their youth and the Johnsons had always been loyal. It's even as a tribute to his friend's patronym that the Great Lord had named his son John.
Not long after John's birth, the nine clans had entered in a war with some of the nomad tribes from the plains that were venturing in the hills, burning villages and plundering temples. During a battle, James Mitchell had got injured and he would have been killed if Johan hadn't defended him, sacrificing one of his eyes in the fight. Out of gratitude, James had promised that he would give his son in marriage to one of Johan's children, so, that way; the two families would be joined in a durable alliance. Lord Johnson was happy to oblige; having one of his children engaged to the future ruler gave him an interesting position among the nine clans. He had already had three sons from three different mothers: Mikkel, Anders and Tyrone. At that time, Mikkel was ten years old, Anders was six and Tyrone was still a baby. Johan wanted to keep his eldest son as his official heir who would take his place at the head of the Johnson's clan. That's why he had chosen his second son to be the spouse of the future Great Lord. The fact Anders was six years older than his fiancé hadn't been considered as an obstacle to the success of the union.
John and Anders had met only on one occasion : during an autumn feast. James' heir was seven and his fiancé was a teenager. Anders was already old enough to be allowed to wear the red and black kilt of his clan.
That night, John had observed the other boy from behind his mother's skirt. Lady Ann had told her son to stop hiding, to go and talk to his fiancé but John was too intimidated. First of all, everybody in the Mitchell family and almost everybody from the nine clans had dark hair and dark eyes, just like him. Most people in the north hills had brown or black eyes, some had dark grey or dark green eyes. It was the first time John had seen someone with hair the color of dried grass and eyes pale like a summer morning sky. The two boys had stared at each other, the teenager with obvious disdain in his eyes, probably already regretting that the fate had assigned him to spend his marital life with a shy skinny wee boy. Later that night, during the banquet, their fathers had forced them to stand in front of everybody and hold hands as the Great Lord was repeating for everybody to hear the engagement that was binding the two clans together by that future marriage. As soon as the speech was over, Anders had let go of John's hand, wiped his own on his kilt and left to join his older brother at the other side of the room without a word or a single look in the younger boy’s direction.
John Mitchell had never seen his fiancé again after that. On the other side, he had met Mikkel on multiple occasions, mainly after Johan had disappeared during a fishing trip and was presumably dead. Mikkel was now the head of the Johnson clan and John got to see him at least four times a year during the war councils and the seasonal feasts. As the diplomacy required, the curly haired man took these opportunities to ask news of his fiancé. Every time, Lord Johnson would reply something like "Anders is well. He reiterates his attachment to you and looks forward to being the joy of your days and the comfort of your nights." The last part was most probably a lie but John was too well-mannered to point it out. Instead, he replied with the same kind of polite formula learnt by heart:" tell your brother I send him my deepest affection and assure him that half of my heart and half of my bed belong to him."
Since she had exchanged letters with John's father before they got married, Lady Ann had encouraged her son to write to his future beloved, so, maybe, they could get to know each other by correspondence. John Mitchell was much more a warrior than a poet, but he had tried anyway, writing long letters in which he described his life in Brastàl and asked a few questions about Anders. All these letters stayed unanswered. The young man continued to send them for the sake of politeness, thinking that he would seem rude if he just gave up and stopped writing.
He had also sent to Aklànd a few gifts for Anders over the years. Once, he had asked Mikkel which one of the fifty spirits Anders was praying to. Mikkel had answered that his brother was not praying much but that he was born under Braìg, the spirit of speech. John had hastened to go to the temple and he had browsed the carved wooden panels around the main room to find Braìg. For its part, the heir of the Great Lord was born under Väm, the spirit of blood. Everybody had seen it as a good omen –blood gave life and was a symbol of stability. It also announced that the child would become a mighty warrior, which, in John's case, had been proven to be true.
Braìg's symbol was a mouth with parted lips. John took a piece of paper and drew the symbol on it. Then, he went to see the city's best blacksmith and asked him to make a metal pendant with the spirit of speech's symbol. The blacksmith created a real work of art, adorned with knot works. The young heir had tied it to a lace of the finest leather and, in the middle of the summer, when Mikkel had come to Brastàl, he had intrusted him the gift for his fiancé. He never had any news about it…no real news at least. At the war council at the beginning of winter, Lord Johnson had told him that Anders had been really happy about the gift and was thanking him, but once again, John doubted that this expression of gratitude was really coming from his fiancé himself.
It had taken him by surprise when, about one year ago, Mikkel had come to the castle to visit his liege, carrying an envelope with John's name on it. When he was alone, the young man couldn't contain his curiosity and opened it. There was a piece of paper folded in it. The message was saying: "I remember from our last meeting that you were staring. Here is a bit of it so you can get used to the color." He didn't understand until he looked in the envelope again and noticed the strand of pale hair kept together by a black wire. John took it in his hand. It was soft and it looked like a candlelight: golden with reddish highlights. His mother had told him once that this hair color was called "blond". Her great grandmother had told her a story of a little girl she had met who had hair like wheat and called it that way. With his unique golden hair, John's fiancé was really one of a kind... The heir surprised himself by having frequent daydreams in the following weeks. He was imagining how it would feel to bury his fingers in Anders' blond mane. One thing he couldn't quite figure out was the tone of Anders short letter. Was it smug, cheeky, teasing or plainly defying? He had read it at least twenty times and still couldn't get his head around it.
The only mental image the warrior had of Anders was the one of a haughty prepubescent boy. His fiancé was thirty one years old now. He was surely very different from what John remembered. He had asked for a portrait in his numerous letters but since none of them were answered, all he could do was try to imagine what the Johnson's family second son looked like. Imagination wasn't exactly John's strongest suit. Apart from the paleness of the hair, the rest of Anders' image in his mind was blurry and indistinct, like a reflection on troubled water.
A few days ago, John had begun to prepare the castle for the arrival of his future husband. Lady Ann had moved from the masters' room to a single room on the first floor, leaving the bigger one to her son. John had got rid of some old furniture, had asked for a new mattress, new fur covers and linen blankets for the large bed. He had placed a game table and chairs in a corner of the room, wondering if Anders liked to play cards, dice, chess or checkers. In another corner, he asked the servants to install armchairs and a bookshelf near the widest window, in case his future husband was fond of reading.
John had had a slight breakdown when he had called one of his servants to ask him to remove the old heavy fabric tapestry that was covering one of the room's walls.
"I would like to have a new tapestry to replace that one," John had instructed him.
"You're right, this one is quite old-fashioned," the servant commented, studying the image of boats on a raging sea.
"Yes, but my mother is quite fond of it. Maybe you could transfer it to her new room."
"Of course, my Lord."
John lost himself in the contemplation of the tapestry for a moment. Interior decoration was definitely not his forte but he was making an effort to make the room cozy so Anders could feel at home. He would probably not succeed in making his husband love him or even like him, but maybe he could make him tolerate him, or, at least, not hate him too much.
The man servant coughed discreetly to attract his attention. "I beg your pardon, my lord, but you haven't told me yet what kind of tapestry you want to replace the old one."
"Oh, yes, I'm sorry," John muttered. In fact he had no idea what kind of patterns or design he wanted.
Confronted with his master's indecisive silence, the servant spoke again. "Maybe my lord would like a war scene, or sacred symbols… or maybe something a little more intimate, since it's for the marital bedroom."
The young lord blushed just slightly at the suggestion. Clans men liked to decorate their bedrooms with erotic scenes. John thought that it was definitely not the best idea in this circumstance. He didn't want to look too forward in Anders' eyes. He didn't even know if his husband would let him touch him. Of course he would have to, on their wedding night at least. Maybe the blond man would refuse any physical contacts once the conjugal duty would have been performed. After all, it would only take one time for the marriage to be official.
"What do you think Master Anders would like?" the other man asked him, trying to be helpful but just putting him in misery even more.
John sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the floor rubbing his forehead. "I really don't know…" he sighed. He had absolutely no idea what were his fiancé's tastes. He didn't even know what he looked like, for the spirits' sake!
"If I may, my lord, since Aklànd is known for its forests and wildfowl, maybe a hunt scene would be an interesting option."
"Yes… a hunt scene… that's perfect," John replied absentmindedly.
He’d realized then more than ever that a complete stranger was about to become an important part of his life. That had been more terrifying than any raid of bloodthirsty nomads. War was simple. You drew your sword, you stabbed, you killed, or you were killed. It was reassuringly predictable. On the field of sentiments, John felt like he was losing his grip.
***
Still seated at the foot of the tree, John was dragged out of his musings by a voice calling his name.
"I'm here, George!" he shouted back, standing up and brushing off the dried leaves from his kilt.
"What are you doing here, by the death spirit?!" his friend scolded him as he joined the heir, carrying the bow and the spare arrows John had left in front of the target. "Everybody is searching for you. Lady Ann is starting to panic - she thinks you ran away."
"I didn't, as you can see," John snorted, taking his arrow out of the tree trunk.
"You better hurry up," George said, "the Johnsons' boat just landed on the river bank a few minutes ago."
The heir peeked down at his dirty kilt and shirt with a stern look. "I guess I better get changed."
"Indeed, come on," the other man agreed, taking him by the shoulders and dragging him toward the castle. "Are you nervous, lover boy?" George teased his best friend.
"Pfff, no," John huffed, "why would I be?"
To be continued….