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Telling Zeliah is the hardest thing Kadou has ever done in his life. He’s done hard things before. He’s never told his sister, his sultan, that he married his bodyguard in a dark and forbidding wine cellar in order to save his life— and then kept it, because nothing else has ever meant so much to Kadou as having Evemer pressed against him, breathing his air, believing in him, belonging to him, and knowing that he will never ever loose Evemer unless the entire world ends. Losing Evemer would be the end of the world.
He tells Zeliah this, in one long breath, nerves wracking him in every way, his guts tangled in on themselves and his heart a painful lump in his throat, and adds that no, actually, he doesn’t want to meet any foreign princes. He’s taken. He’s— married. And happy.
Zeliah’s eyebrows are in her hairline and threatening to take off for the ceiling by the time Kadou is done. It doesn’t take as long as he’d thought it would. He rehearsed, several times— to Tadek’s mingled amusement and exasperation as Kadou fretted over word choices and convincing arguments about how this— actually this won’t ruin the country, he promises, and Evemer is a worthy kahya and the best of men, and Kadou loves him more than— gods, more than he even knew he was capable of— Tadek had started gagging visibly around here, but Zeliah just. Sits. And stares at him with big, astonished eyes.
“Did you—” She pauses, blinking rapidly, and collects herself to start again. “Did you say you’re already married?”
Kadou takes a deep breath, gulping around the knot of his heart. “Y-yes.” He says, deflating slightly. “I am married to Evemer.”
Zeliah’s eyebrows are starting the descent, and they don’t look like they’ll stop any time soon. They furrow, dark and damning over her piercing eyes. She waves the letter, the confirmation that the Duc de Resti is on his way and will arrive in two weeks. Perfectly timed, she’d thought, for Kadou’s return from Şirya, and now—
“How are we supposed to plan a royal wedding in two weeks?!” Zeliah asks, brandishing the letter like a weapon.
What.
“What?”
Zeliah stands like a rising storm cloud, and doesn’t spare him a glance as she starts to pace, talking out loud— and not particularly at him, Kadou feels. “Well, of course you’re married, this makes perfect sense, and that boy is obviously the one now that I think about it, but honestly where am I supposed to start? We don’t have clothes, we don’t have food, we don’t have wedding cloaks— The duke is going to arrive and I’m going to have to throw my little brother the most paltry, pathetic wedding in the history of Araşt— I’ll go down as the cheapest sultan ever, can’t even throw my little brother a sagai ceremony if he’s already married, I don’t even know how that’s going to look—”
“Zeliah?”
She whirls around in a spiral of damask cloth and silver thread, her robes snapping with the force of her turn. “Where are we going to get guests, Kadou? Where are we going to get guests in two weeks? Either we snub the entire continent and invite nobody, or Phillippe Marcelet du Vigier is going to be the only guest and that’ll be absurd, you can’t just have Vintish representatives at your wedding, Kadou, that’s unreasonable, that’s favoritism and we already have good relations with Vint—”
“Zeliah—”
“Your husband is a weaver’s son, right?” Zeliah swirls again, pressing her fingers to her lips and frowning.
Kadou winces. A merchant’s son is not exactly appropriate for the prince of Araşt, it’s true—
“Maybe she has connections, maybe she can get the cloth we need to cut the wedding cloaks, we have tailors on retainer, they can do the work— I mean, I know they can do the work, I just don’t know if they can do it in two weeks, that seems unreasonable. Have you ever thought about how long it takes to make a sherwani suit? I’ve never thought of it before, but we’ll need two, I suppose it’s better that neither of you needs a dress, unless that’s what you were hoping for— were you hoping for a dress, Kadou, because we can make that happen if that’s what your heart is set on, but I just don’t see how it’s a reasonable expectation of the tailors—”
“Zeliah.” Kadou stops her pacing all at once with his hands on her shoulders, speaking loudly and directly into her face. She stops, eyebrows raised and mouth still open.
“What?” She asks, incredulous.
“What do you mean, what?” Kadou asks right back, resisting the urge to shake her. “What are you talking about?”
Zeliah still has the Vintish duke’s letter in her hand. She brandishes it between them, nearly hitting Kadou in the face. “The Duc de Resti is coming in two weeks,” she says again, as if that’s the part he might be confused about. “Do you know how long it takes to plan a royal wedding? Longer than two weeks, Kadou.”
“You—” His hands slip off her shoulders, sliding down her arms to hold onto her sleeves like a child again. “You aren’t angry?”
“Kadou—” she pauses, finally seeming to see him through the whirlwind of activity in her mind. The letter falls, and Zeliah’s arms come up to hold his elbows in return, both of them clinging to each other equally. “Are you happy?”
Kadou blinks, a sudden burning in his eyes that he doesn’t understand. His vision blurs as he nods, swallowing the lump of his heart. “Yes, Zeliah, I’m— happier than I ever knew I could be.”
She squeezes his elbows. “Then I’m not angry,” she says, her eyes intense and fixed on his. That Araşti blue, a perfect mirror of his own. Kadou blinks, trying to see her clearly. “I’m a little confused— I didn’t think you’d go to Şirya and get married without me, but I—”
“It wasn’t in Şirya,” Kadou interrupts. He bows his head at her incredulous look, and speaks to the embroidered frogs on her kaftan. “It was during the investigation— the night we got kidnapped.”
He goes with her as Zeliah drags him down, his already watery knees collapsing under him without a single thought put to it, and they sit together on the floor pillows, as close as they had ever been as children.
“Tell me,” Zeliah says, still holding him. “Tell me everything.”
When he’s done, and Zeliah has wiped the tears from his cheeks and dabbed at her own kohl-smeared eyelashes, they sit in silence for a moment, just the two of them. Together.
Zeliah takes a deep breath. “Okay,” she says, “but you do see how that is not exactly an acceptable royal wedding for the prince of Araşt, right? I mean, a wine cellar? You didn’t even have a cake.”
“What?” Kadou asks, lost all over again. “Are you angry or not?”
Zeliah lets go of him long enough to flick his eyebrow, which hurts. “I’m not angry, Kadou, I’m planning your wedding. And I have two weeks to do it before our guest arrives.”
Kadou blinks, and begins to shake his head in rising dread. “Oh. Oh, no.”
Zeliah nods firmly, a manic look in her dark eyes. “Oh, yes.”
What follows is a nightmare.
Somehow, Kadou blinks and he is standing in a secluded alcove with his kahyalar, Tadek at his shoulder, and it is his wedding day.
“I’m already married,” Kadou says, a little dazedly. He feels like he’s said that a lot recently, a sense of unreality making the world feel very very far away. There are so many people in the crowd just behind the drape of sheer gold curtains, so much noise barely outside of the dim, deadened circle of his hearing. He feels like he’s underwater.
“Yes,” Tadek says, “we all know. You literally could not be more married. But only in the blowjob sense.”
Kadou sways slightly as he turns to stare incredulously at his armsman.
“What? It counts, I’m not denying that, but it’s not exactly information for polite company,” Tadek says with a shrug. Kadou’s other kahyalar aren’t far enough away not to have heard him, but they are miraculously stone faced given the circumstances.
“What does that make you?” Kadou asks.
“Impolite company,” Tadek answers matter of factly. “Uncivil company, ill-mannered company— lascivious company if I get to pick, I like that— cheeky, if you ask Eozena— but don't, because she'll think I’m up to something.”
The ringing in Kadou’s ears fades a fraction as he snorts, closing his eyes against the golden light surrounding them, the oppressive sounds of mingling people and the lingering scents of turmeric and sandalwood on his skin. Thank the gods for Tadek, honestly.
“This is just the wedding,” Tadek says, stepping around him and straightening the collar of Kadou’s sherwani, fiddling with the frog closures so they align perfectly with the cut of the jacket. “You’re already married, yes, but a wine cellar and a kidnapping just don’t make for good publicity. This is just the final party.” Tadek adjusts the drape of the sash over Kadou’s shoulder, and the strings of pearls and lapis that click and rattle against Kadou’s chest as Tadek fusses with them.
They’re perfect. They’ve been perfect. Tadek wouldn’t have let him leave his rooms if they weren’t perfect and he’s checked on them twice already. It soothes Kadou a little anyway to have that centering little attention paid. When he focuses, he can feel his sherwani singing against his skin, true Araşti cloth-of-gold heavy and chiming like the bright ringing of little bells. The iron bracelet around his wrist— the true token of his marriage— simmers against his skin, breathless and brilliant as well, the smell of wine and dust, the heat of Evemer’s kiss. He flushes, thinking of it. He’s almost used to it, but he’ll never be used to it. He hopes he never gets used to it, the way he will never get used to how his heart goes quick and light, squeezing in his chest with all the aching joy he never knew he wanted every time he looks at Evemer. Three months in now, and he’s still surprised by it. He has the rest of his life to be surprised by how very much he loves Evemer.
And now—
“Almost ready,” Melek calls from outside their secluded little hideaway. “The duke’s party has arrived and are settling in.” That was the most recent wave of noise.
With this—
Zeliah had managed a miracle and got several other heads of state— or their representatives, at least, from Imakami, Map Sut, Aswijan, Kaskinen— even Oissos, despite everything— to expedite a visit in the two weeks of preparation, and the crowd has been filled out nicely, Kadou has been reliably informed. He stopped listening after that, that’s too many people, and he doesn’t want— he does not want— to know how many people are out there.
So many people.
And Kadou can love Evemer in public.
Kadou feels his head go light again, his breathing tick up a notch. He wants Evemer by his side now, not later when the groom’s procession will bring him through the open courtyard in the Gold Court, between the packed rows of tables and seating and tents and people, gods, all those people.
Evemer is his. Kadou wants him now.
“Now?” Kadou hears as if from very far away. “Now,” someone else says, “here we go.” His kahyalar straighten, forming ranks around him, an impressive turnout of all his core guard, as befits a prince of Araşt on his blasted wedding day.
Kadou is fine.
He steps out into the sunlight, surrounded by his most loyal men— almost his most loyal, his very most loyal is somewhere just out of reach but will be coming soon, stop thinking about that, Kadou— and lets the noise of the crowd crash over him like a tidal wave. Up, into Wing’s saddle to start the procession. She’s as decked out as he is, in gold regalia draped over her flank, shining blue and white gems and beads braided into her mane and tail, a feathered headdress bobbing slightly in the wind.
They go. The noise ratchets up another notch. Kadou keeps his eyes on the dais under the mandap at the head of the courtyard, where Zeliah waits for him and doesn’t know what to do with his face. Should he be smiling? Probably. He should look like he’s excited to marry his husband, probably. He waves, and then reconsiders. Maybe he should look regal and beautiful and untouchable, the way Zeliah looks when she holds court.
Maybe he just looks sick. That would be the worst.
There is music, playing over the sounds of the crowd, and it rises to a crescendo as Kadou dismounts, the slow and interminable ride passing like a blink, because time means nothing and has meant nothing for two whole weeks of whirlwind. And now it’s all— gods, it’s all happening so much.
Zeliah reaches for him, both her hands clasping his, decked out in a beautiful sari of midnight blue and gold embroidery like stars that spin out across the hem of her skirts and her veil. She is every inch the sultan, and every inch Kadou’s beloved sister, and she holds his hands in an iron grip as she pulls him to her and kisses his forehead.
“I can’t believe you pulled it off,” Kadou says, genuinely in awe. “Who knew?”
“I knew,” Zeliah says, lying through her teeth. He has not seen much of her in the last two weeks, with how much she had thrown herself and her staff into the wedding preparations. But he had heard she’d been pulling out her hair and making enraged noises at some cock-up with the guest accommodations that had nearly started an international incident. “Only the best for my little brother.” She kisses his cheeks, one after another, squeezing his hands in her own, their rings clinking against each other. She can feel they’re shaking. He can feel the hum and sing of the gold on her hands. The henna on his fingertips feels like nothing, but stands out like a beacon when he looks down at their clasped hands.
“Thank you,” is all he can say, croaking it out like he’s going to cry. Oh no, he might cry. Oh no.
“Tadek did your make up with oil-based paints today,” Zeliah says nonsensically. “I made sure of it. You’re allowed to cry.”
“Oh,” says Kadou, and just the sentiment nearly tips him over the edge into horrible, wracking sobs that don’t make any sense because he might be the happiest he’s ever been in his entire life. No, that was when Evemer first said yes. First said that he would be Kadou’s forever. This is just dressing for that moment, and yet Kadou is utterly overwhelmed by the sheer spectacle of it, by the joy alighting in him, and by the pride he can see in his sister’s eyes. She kisses him on the forehead again, and then on his darkened eyelids, so lightly that she won’t smudge or pick up the paint on her own lips, and Kadou feels a tear sting at the corner of his eye.
He holds his breath, willing it away, and blinks the blur violently from his vision when the music changes.
They turn. Evemer is on his way.
His procession is different from Kadou’s. Because Evemer is joining the household, becoming a Mahisti in truth and not just loyalty, he brings with him the entirety of his holdings, his family, his own set of kahyalar, selected not only from Kadou’s personal best but from the upcoming ranks, and his— well, his dowry, in a sense. But Evemer is the son of a weaver, not the son of a foreign duke, so his party is led by Madam Hoşkadem, incongruously perched on a camel, draped in fine fabrics she wove herself, encrusted with her own personal jewellery, nothing borrowed from Zeliah, and as regal as any true born queen.
There are dancers, intermingled with the procession, throwing bright scarves and twirling ribbons, making the sky flash with colors and casting shimmering shadows across the marching lines of kahyalar, the horses laden down with gifts and offerings— what gifts and offerings would Madam Hoşkadem even be able to afford? Kadou wonders, and realises that is where Zeliah’s gifts had been diverted to. Madam Hoşkadem brings the royal treasury back their groomprice, either as a show put on by them both, or as a genuine measure to say— my son is worth the world to me, no price could ever be worthy of him. He is here on his own merits, and the gifts from the sultan are for him, not for her.
What would Madam Hoşkadem even do with that much fine porcelain and delicate silverwork? Tripods and mirrors and gold jewellery. In her little house, so comfortable and well-lived in, that welcomed them all in such dark times and kept them safe without asking anything in return?
Perhaps he’s assigning too much meaning to the gesture. Perhaps they’re just full of cloth.
A worthy gift indeed, if so. Zeliah knows quality work when she sees it, and she has seen Madam Hoşkadem’s work.
He’s rambling. Inside his own mind he is rambling, because he is trying his absolute damndest not to crane his neck and find Evemer in the center of the procession, no doubt decked out on his own overly-dressed steed.
And— there—
Kadou's heart stops in his chest.
He has opinions— correct, well thought out opinions— about how Evemer looks in his colors. The dark, velvet blue of the Mahisti line is luminescent on Evemer's skin, and Kadou had been convinced that that was the only color that Evemer should ever wear again. It makes his eyes shine, his hair gleam with a warm umber tone, his skin looks like burnished copper against the cool tones. But in his wedding suit—
"You're drooling," Tadek whispers in his ear, and Kadou comes back to himself with a start. He puts a hand to his mouth automatically, and finds that his lower lip is bruised from how hard he's bitten it.
Evemer bows his head, having dismounted and approached the dais in this time, and carefully accepts the garland of flowers around his neck from Zeliah, who is grinning wildly, not even trying to maintain a semblance of decorum. She does it delicately so as not to disrupt the safa wrapped around his head. He looks— gods, positively princely.
When he turns back to Kadou, his eyes are beaming, radiant, impossibly dark.
White suits him too, is all Kadou can think. His pale ivory sherwani is nearly opalescent against the warm brown of his skin, like the inside of a seashell and shot through with golden thread that gleams and shimmers as he moves, stepping up next to Kadou and staring down at him.
"Are you alright, my lord?" Evemer asks under his breath, as the sounds of music and cheering grow deafening around them.
"You're beautiful," Kadou says, but what he means is you're mine.
Evemer blushes. Kadou had hoped he would hear that claim in his voice.
"So are you," Evemer mutters, eyelids flickering, like he wants to look away and— simply can't make himself. Good. Kadou wants his eyes on him all the time, he wants to never ever be anywhere but the absolute center of Evemer's attention for the rest of time.
“Gods,” Kadou whispers, equally unable to draw his eyes from Evemer’s handsome, well-sculpted face, framed by shining white fabric instead of his usual dark hair— oh, he’ll have to grow it out, won’t he. Now that’s he’s proper royalty. Oh, he will be stunning— what was he thinking about? “Gods, I can’t believe we’re doing this.”
“We’ve done it before,” Evemer says, low and sweet, leaning in with a tiny, private smile on his lips. “In scarier circumstances than these, even.”
The henna on their palms aligns as they grasp hands, turning away from the crowd to take the steps together up the dais where Zeliah stands, lording over the ceremony with a certain amount of big-sister energy that Kadou has never seen before. She is not actually officiating, but she hovers, jealously possessive over the ceremony.
“Face each other,” the temple aunt says, “and repeat after me, Your Highness.”
“By the sea…” Standing across the sacred fire from Evemer, the words come easily, “and in the eyes of the Mother and the Lord of Judgment, I declare myself to you.” He’s never been so sure of anything in his life, not after everything they’ve been through together. “I come to you without distinctions and without glory, without the trifling and meaningless trappings of mortal honors. I come to you as nothing and no one but myself. Take my hands,” they step in, reaching for each other, “and see that they are empty—I offer you no wealth but that of my heart, and ask for none but that of yours. Hear my words and know that they are true —I swear myself to you and none other.”
Seven steps around the fire, holding their hands high as music and voices cascade over them. This is not actually a popular tradition in the capital, but it’s held on to its prominence in the Northern Marches, and Evemer had requested it, for his mother.
Kadou would do just about anything for Madam Hoşkadem, to keep her happy.
Returning to their places, it’s Evemer’s turn. He doesn’t stumble, doesn’t falter. “By the sea, and in the eyes of the Mother and the Lord of Judgment, I declare myself to you—”
They actually have wedding cloaks this time. It would be a wild shame if they did all this and forgot the one thing they had actually wanted that night, in some strange and abstract way. Kadou swings the Mahisti-blue silken cloak around Evemer’s shoulders, bringing back that burnished copper quality to his skin that makes Kadou want to eat him alive. It’s perfect. Mahisti colors all the way down. Kadou wants— it’s so lovely on him, but it would be so lovely on the floor so that Kadou could see all of that skin in stark contrast to his wedding cloak.
Oh, when they’re done here, he’ll have Evemer atop his wedding cloak, that’s what he’ll do, spread him out across his claimant color and have every single thing that Evemer will give him— that is to say, everything.
Evemer’s cloak for Kadou is just as lovely. It has an incredible texture, a fine, fine weave, and done in shimmering dark forest greens that reflect the colors of Şirya manor, Kadou’s own holdings and Tadek’s armsman uniform. Around Kadou’s shoulders, the green makes the gold of his sherwani gleam, brought to life as if he is covered in little shining sparks of flame itself.
“Oh,” Kadou can’t help but breathe. He touches it with reverence, feeling it slip like cool, floating water through his fingers. Made by Madam Hoşkadem too, undoubtedly.
“Damat Evemer Hoşkadem Mahisti-eş Bey Effendi. Prince of Araşt, Duke-Consort of Altinbaşi-ili, Lord-Consort of Şirya and Nadirintepe, and Warden-Consort of the Northern Marches. You may now kiss your husband.”
They step, almost cautiously. This is as public as it can possibly be, and they have spent so long in hiding. So long alone, in Şirya with only Tadek trailing after them complaining loudly about their antics.
Kadou tips his head up, expectant, and sighs into the kiss. Evemer’s lips against his are sweet and soft and made for Kadou’s mouth. Kadou clasps Evemer’s hand and feels the hum of their bracelets as they clink together, wine and dust, the press of a wall against his back, the heat of Evemer at his front. That kiss, always lurking at the edges of his awareness, echoes the heat of Evemer’s mouth against his own, turning the kiss into something that— gods, that reaches across time and buoys him effortlessly, so that every single moment of every single day for the rest of his life, Kadou knows without a shadow of a doubt that he has married his most perfect mate.
The cheering is deafening as they step away, grinning like mad fools. Kadou bows his head in a daze for Madam Hoşkadem to reach up and smear the bright vermillion between his eyebrows, and— that’s it.
They're married.
Again.
Then there are the feasts.
They go on for a while.
“Usmim save me, I couldn’t eat another bite,” Kadou says, knowing that the smell of turmeric and saffron will be haunting his dreams for days to come. Zeilah had pulled out all the stops, somehow, miraculously, scrounging up a decadent feast from the gods only knew where. Roast ox and roasted peacock, cured meats folded into elegant shapes, curried vegetables and rich red sauces, a thousand different foods for a thousand people attending, in some matter or form, all laid out across the tables on beds of jasmine flowers and hyacinth, mingling sweet perfumes with savory spices.
Only on festival days has Kadou seen so much food, and even that was spread out through the entire city, not piled up in front of him and his— his husband. They have not stopped touching all day. As soon as Kadou had Evemer in arms reach he’d taken hold, his fingers alight on Evemer’s wrist, where the iron bangle could thrill him at every slight bump and jostle.
He notices right away then, when Evemer pushes out his chair and stands.
“Wait, where are you going?” Kadou asks, grasping at his wrist.
Evemer makes a noise low in his throat, almost like a laugh. He turns his hand and tangles their fingers together, warm and sturdy, only a little sticky from the feast. His fingertips, inked dark, trace over Kadou’s palm. “Come with me.”
Kadou follows, of course he does. “Where are we going?” He lets Evemer lead him around the tables, and there is a sudden burst of cheering and calling, whooping in the distance as the music strikes up, the flute and double-headed drums signaling the beginning of a traditional dance.
“Oh no. Oh no,” Kadou says as Evemer laces their fingers together. He steps up behind Kadou, his farm warmth pressed against his back, and holds his hands on either side, with Kadou’s arms crossed in front of him. “Are we dancing? Zeliah didn’t mention dancing.” The wine of the day has caught up to him maybe, or the heat of his layers and the possessive, hungry flush that rises in him every time he looks at Evemer, so very gorgeous and so very much Kadou’s.
He’s never going to get over it.
Wait, what was he thinking about? Oh no.
The only good thing is that Kadou is well-versed in Araşti traditional dances. Part of the training of being a prince, of course, and part and parcel with growing up in court. He had no idea though, that Evemer knew a single dance move, or would be willing to get up in front of thousands of people and perform.
They begin. Evemer spins him out, uncrossing Kadou’s arms, and then back in, and they both lean instinctually, relying on the other to hold them up.
“Why are you so good at this?” Kadou asks, a dizzy, bubbling feeling spilling out inside him. A step and release, he lifts his leg and crosses his ankle with Evemer’s, and steps back as the music rises. They turn, stepping around each other, arms outstretched, and turn again to come together, Evemer’s hand wrapping around Kadou’s back in a far more intimate embrace than Kadou’s dancing masters ever showed him.
“It’s just like any sword drill,” Evemer says, low and sedate. “Each step is prescribed.” His dark eyes watch Kadou’s mouth as he grins, helplessly. It doesn’t even feel like he’s in front of such a crowd, when he is the center of Evemer’s attention— he’s not even minding the patter of his feet, stepping through intricate dance moves, his entire focus on Kadou.
“Yes,” Kadou says blushing merrily, and turns, stepping away and then back in, flourishing his hands and clapping with the music, “but this is not exactly a sword form you can just pick up—” he lets Evemer spin him, and feels the snap of his jacket around his knees, the tail of his hair flying free from where it is pinned up, “without having done it before.” He’s gasping and flushed when they start again. Each cycle of music moves a little faster, the sitar and the drums ramping up in energy as they go, and the crowds around them begin to chant with the beat.
Evemer is maybe not the most expressive dancer— Kadou flourishes with his arms again, snapping his wrists, and feels a burst of joy at the look on Evemer’s face as they spin back in, meeting palms and crossing ankles to step again to the side.
“Is this what you were doing? Whenever I couldn’t find you?”
Evemer blushes. He’s held relatively stoic so far, but Kadou had missed him in those hours or minutes or whatever it was that he couldn’t find him across the two weeks of wedding preparations, and had shown his displeasure— or rather, his joy at seeing Evemer again— quite thoroughly. And repeatedly. And vigorously.
Another spin, and embrace close, Kadou wrapped up in Evemer’s arms for a dip at the waist, and Evemer leans down to murmur in his ear, “Tadek helped.”
Kadou drops his foot— ready to step into the next move— and turns abruptly, grabbing Evemer by the jaw and dragging him down for a kiss. His hand traces beneath the brim of the safa to find the soft crisp cut of Evemer’s hair and pull him in deeper.
He doesn’t care about the crowd. He doesn’t care about the guests.
He certainly doesn’t care about finishing the dance.
Evemer makes that noise into Kadou’s mouth, so small it’s a wonder Kadou can hear it in the rest of the noise, the rushing in his ears. His tongue curls around Evemer’s, Evemer’s hands tighten on his hips, the sheer strength of him barely curtailed— and Kadou has never been less afraid of the future in his life.