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The edge of the cliff – sharp, abrupt – fell away into the abyss of a grey wasteland stretching endlessly into the distance, merging with an equally grey and endless sky. Cold pierced straight to the bone despite the warm furs thrown over the ceremonial armor; the metal had long since frozen through and now burned against his back and ribcage with ice. It was the armor he had once dreamed of wearing, though he had never admitted it aloud to anyone. Now it sat on him like a burden, heavy and dragging him downward, toward the frozen, lifeless earth. Now it was destined to become an accomplice in the moment when its owner’s son bound his life to Death itself. Neither out of love, nor out of respect, but in a desperate attempt to give the damned world one more chance to escape destruction and bring justice upon the ones who doomed it in trying to become a God.
It had been Aranessa’s idea. Of course it had – she had always been brilliant at politics, though she had never liked that about herself. Julien, on the other hand, always knew and fully accepted that what he did best was to be a weapon, an instrument in capable hands. So when his Lady, nearly absentmindedly, exhausted, let the thought slip one evening by the roadside fire that they needed an alliance between the Golden Orchard, the last remaining barricade against the patriarch of House Tachonis, and its only loyal scion, Julien did not object.
He did not even question it, nor paid attention to the discussions of their companions that followed. The only thing he felt was a flicker of sympathy when he heard Occtis’s weary remark, which was:
“Perhaps, if anything divine still remains, it decided to use me for this moment rather than to help my family.”
Aranessa’s intent was simple. Politically, it would show the other Houses the true balance of power, the dissension within House Tachonis itself. It would reveal the possibility of resistance and unity to those nobles who were still pure of heart, yet afraid to stand against the force of Lord Primus.
Strategically, it was a gamble – an all-in move.
Julien, gaining the support and protection of the very power that Primus and his offsprings wielded against them, and Occtis, gaining the protection and support of the Fae rather than remaining bound by the vulnerability of his connection to the Underworld, might’ve become pieces on the board that Primus would find difficult to counter.
Or, if they had underestimated him, he could easily use his son’s newly gained position and swallow the Golden Orchard entirely, in one smooth move.
Yet there was no longer any room to act cautiously. There was nowhere left to run from death – it walked behind them, and they walked behind it, with it, merging into a serpent chasing its own tail. Something had to break that circle, so that this could finally end.
And so – there they were.
Julien waited for his betrothed, a sharp, carved bone dagger in his hand that he fiddled with, tracing his thumb along the ornaments. The vile rituals of the Tachonises and the laws that allowed less powerful Houses to bring only the mandatory parts of their own wedding rites be damned. Julien had never expected nor wished to marry anyone from either the Tachonis or any of their vassals, so their traditions had never interested him. For now, all he could do was hope that Occtis had spoken of every rite in advance, and that there would be no sacrifice suddenly demanded that had not already been named.
Julien nudged a small stone at the cliff’s edge with the toe of his armored boot, sending it into a long fall toward the ground below, then turned back. A few paces away stood Aranessa – grim, anxious, chilled to the bone too despite the furs draped over her fragile shoulders clad in light green dress threaded with gold. She nervously turned, and turned, and turned a small golden box containing two enchanted fae-forged rings in her hands.
Behind her stood Thaisha and Vaelus, silent and shivering just the same. If illness were to claim them all after such a celebration, the blame would lie with the rituals of the Tachonis once again, with their stubborn refusal to let go of the past – the wedding must’ve taken place in an open place, on high ground, so that the gods might witness the whole cursed spectacle, apparently.
Julien pulled the furs tighter around himself, biting into what warmth remained in them – soon enough he would have to take them off – and listened to his own thoughts. To his surprise, he discovered that aside from the cold and the ugliness of the view, nothing truly irritated him.
His gaze caught on two dark heads appearing to the left – Occtis and Gaya climbing the stony path toward the cliff.
A few moments later, they stepped out from behind the boulder that blocked the narrow path onto the cliff itself.
One had to give credit to Occtis’s ancestors for one thing only – at this moment he looked darkly mesmerizing. Julien’s breath caught in his chest.
Occtis’s unruly, pitch-black hair lay beneath a veil of thinnest silver chains adorned with small red stones, like tiny droplets of blood. His slender figure was wrapped in a black high-collared tunic with long, flowing sleeves that emphasized the delicacy of his arms, paired with high-waisted trousers. Over it all hung a loose black cloak and layers of chains matching the veil ones over his shoulders.
There were no furs on him, of course – and now that no longer surprised Julien in the slightest.
Occtis tried not to look in Julien’s direction and seemed deeply anxious, whispering something to Gaya while she answered him with a restrained smile. At one point Occtis drew in a deep breath – such a foolish and oddly endearing habit for someone who no longer needed to breathe.
At last, he lifted his gaze to his betrothed.
The garments sat on him with unfamiliar tightness – impractical, uncomfortable. The veil of silver chains, stirred by the relentless wind, kept threatening to fall across his eyes and block his vision, the large ceremonial cloak was dragged sideways by the gusts, and the layers of chains weighed heavily, making his shoulder hurt. Never in his life, it seemed to him, had he desperately needed so much control over everything happening around him as he did now – and yet he possessed indecently little of it.
Even though his body was no longer capable of responding to the anxiety rising in his mind, and in the past weeks that had often been enough to steady him, now it did nothing to help. The unease in his thoughts was too strong to ignore. One wrong step, one wrong word, one careless movement of the hand – and their entire plan could collapse.
So. The dagger – Julien had it. The thimble rings – he carried those himself. The wedding rings – Aranessa had them. He would give his name. Speak the words in Obridai. The ritual in blood. The speech, the goblet and the ribbon – Gaya’s part. Everything would be fine. As fine as such a thing could ever be.
Just don’t stumble now.
Before them stretched the narrow path leading upward, to the very edge of the cliff. All so that the gods – on whose mercy his not-so-distant ancestors had still relied – might be satisfied. Beneath the open sky, closer to them.
The land around was dead, dried to grey ash. Fine dust drifted low across the ground, and small stones kept sliding beneath their feet along the sloping path, making the climb uncertain. Occtis caught Gaya’s hand so he would not fall and so that he could catch her if she stumbled, too. The young woman answered with a soft smile and held his hand more firmly.
Occtis was glad she was still with them. During their journey she had become a steady friend to him, though he still felt awkward about the fact that Gaya would not abandon the formality between them, no matter how often he had asked. A few more steps – and they were nearly at the top, beside the boulder that blocked the view of the cliff’s edge. The last moment before this whole thing lost the chance to dissolve into nothing more than a bad dream.
“Gaya,” Occtis addressed her softly, seeking her eyes, “do you think this is all not in vain?”
“My Lord,” the young woman answered quietly, smiling at him, “in the situation we have all found ourselves in, nothing can be known in advance. Try not to worry now – so that you do not forget anything from nervousness.”
Occtis only nodded. She was right. Gaya was far calmer and much more confident than he was, and he trusted her judgment.
One step – and the whole of their doomed little company came into view. Cold, silent, waiting in quiet resignation. Only Julien, standing at the cliff’s edge, noticed his arrival. For some reason Occtis could not bring himself to meet his gaze and lowered his eyes to the ground.
“Gaya,” Occtis said again, simply to steal a few more seconds, “Gaya, the thimbles – do you have them?”
“My Lord?” she asked, surprised. “I thought you placed them in the pockets of your cloak.”
He knew. Gods, of course he knew.
“Yes, of course. Thank you, Gaya.”
The young woman smiled again, gently, in quiet support. She knew as well that it had only been a way for him to recover his sense of what was real. Occtis drew in a deep breath – how fortunate it was that the habit still soothed him – and at last forced himself to lift his eyes to his betrothed.
By all the dead Gods, Julien was handsome. If nothing came of this entire reckless venture and they were destined to die, at least in his final moments Occtis would be able to take comfort in the fact that he had managed to acquire such a striking man as a husband. As for that man’s temperament… Occtis would not be thinking about that before death.
Julien carefully removed the furs and put them on the ground, remaining in his wedding attire.
At the edge of the cliff now stood a knight in armor lovingly crafted by the fae folk, his black curls tossed by the merciless wind. A golden breastplate curved across his chest, flowing into two plates on the back shaped like the wings of a dragonfly. Beneath it was a dark green doublet, black trousers peeking a little above the golden armored boots, plates layered beautifully, and a belt fastened with a sheath that, of course, held his favored rapier.
The place of the familiar silver clawed gauntlet was taken by a simpler golden one – Occtis wondered for a moment whether it had once belonged to Julien’s father as well. In his other hand Julien held a carved bone dagger, obtained, like the rest of Occtis’s attire, by Gaya at nearly the cost of her life.
Occtis had never once imagined that he would someday be married. He had never pictured himself in his House's ceremonial wedding garments, never imagined his hands holding a ritual dagger or his fingers bound in silver thimbles. To be living through it now felt profoundly unrealistic. Still, he thought, there was something in this rite he would try to keep as a pleasant memory.
Occtis felt his phantom heartbeat break into a frantic rhythm.
He fumbled through the pockets of his cloak until he found the small velvet box holding the silver thimbles – so they would be within reach when the moment came.
Noticing that Julien was clearly looking at someone, the others turned in his direction as well. To Occtis’s quiet relief, he found neither pity, nor sympathy, nor sorrow on their faces. Only the exhaustion that had settled beneath their eyes and a silent support. Lady Aranessa offered him a gentle smile and a nod in greeting. He did the same in return.
Inhale, exhale, once more.
One step forward.
Within a few paces Occtis stood before Julien, who had already stepped away from the cliff’s edge and taken his place a short distance in front of Aranessa. Beside her now stood Gaya – today they were the keepers of the traditions shared with those who were about to bind their lives together and guides to them.
“Hi,” Occtis whispered, breathy, meeting Julien’s gaze.
“Hello,” Julien answered. His voice seemed almost gentle to Occtis – calming, enveloping. “You look pretty. Stop worrying so much,” he added.
Occtis’s brows shot upward, and he blinked rapidly in embarrassment. Even the absence of a blush would never have saved him in that moment.
“Thank you… I guess?” Occtis managed at last.
Julien only gave a quiet, good-natured smirk.
“All right, all right,” Occtis heard Aranessa’s nervous voice to their left. “Are you ready, boys?”
Occtis cast a quick glance in her direction and returned it to Julien, only to notice that the man had not looked away from him once. His brows lifted in a silent question. Gods, how did he manage to remain so composed? Occtis nodded – small, quick movements of his head.
“Yes, my Lady. We may begin,” Julien answered for the both of them, taking Occtis’s hands into his own. They were reddened from the cold, so chilled that the difference between the temperatures of their bodies was almost imperceptible.
Aranessa drew in a deep breath before she began.
“By the right of House Royce and the gift to House Davinos,” her soft voice carried steadily over the edge of the cliff, “I grant you to make an unbreakable covenant, entrusting to one another the very foundation of your souls. A true name is the only gift that cannot be demanded back, cannot be taken by force, can only be entrusted. Today you will share it with the one who will walk with you to the end, who will share your final path and remain with you in the peace of the golden gardens beyond life.”
Julien took it upon himself to go first, and for the first time Occtis heard him speak in Sylvan – a language Occtis had heard before, more than once, though had never understood it. In Sylvan, Julien’s voice sounded softer, more relaxed, almost younger. Perhaps the way one speaks lingers from the time when a language was used most often by them.
Occtis had only been a child when his family had still been a welcome guest in the Golden Orchard, so he remembered little – fragments of bright greenery, lush flowers, golden fae dust, and somewhere among it were glimpses of Lady Aranessa, and even less of glimpses of Julien, still a young boy. Yet in that moment it came so easy to Occtis to imagine the man there, at home. Safe. Surrounded by what and who he loved – his family, friends, the quiet life in that place.
Of all the words Occtis could catch he only truly recognized Julien’s name, spoken with a Sylvan accent. It sounded far more beautiful that way than it ever did in the Common tongue. Occtis rolled it across his mind and on his tongue, breaking it carefully into syllables and tones, setting it aside in his memory so he might try to repeat it later.
When Julien finished speaking, warmth suddenly spread through their joined hands – so sudden and so deep that it felt like liquid gold spilling somewhere beneath Occtis’s ribs, settling there and remaining.
His turn. Alright, alright. He knew Obridai. He had rehearsed the words in his mind more than once. Everything would be fine.
Occtis closed his eyes so that Julien’s steady gaze would not distract him and began to speak in the language that had once been his own, though now it felt so distant that using it in this ritual was something unnatural. Yet his father had given him his name in this tongue. He could not rewrite his own fate.
How fortunate it was that Julien did not know Obridai. It offered him at least a tiny bit of protection from the vulnerability of the moment.
“I, son of House Tachonis, entrust the name given to me by my father and my mother – bound to my fate and to my soul – to my husband.” he began, “I entrust him with my name, Occtis, as I entrust him with power over me and over my destiny, and I bind it to his destiny from this moment and forever. I, Occtis, give my name to my husband and receive his in return, swearing to guard it with care.”
The words about the soul still unsettled Occtis, for he could not predict how such a thing could possibly work in his particular case. Yet the universe, still shaped by forces no one fully understood now, seemed to have its own intentions. To guess them, let alone comprehend them, was nearly impossible. All that remained was to trust and to hope, and to do what you had to do.
When Occtis opened his eyes, he met Julien’s gaze again. It was warm, attentive, deeply thoughtful. Julien gave him a small nod, as if to say he had done everything right. Occtis answered with a faint smile. The anxiety slowly began to recede, making room for that strange warmth beneath his ribs, the one that kept growing.
Aranessa stepped toward them, holding out the small golden box with the enchanted rings – simple, slender bands of gold. Julien took one of them, lifted Occtis’s right hand with care, and gently slid the ring onto his finger. It fit perfectly.
Occtis repeated the gesture, intertwining their fates together forever.
Half of the ritual had now been completed. There was no turning back.
As Julien finishes his vow, he notices how intently Occtis is studying him. His gaze drifts slowly across Julien’s face, yet the attention seems directed somewhere much deeper – past the layers of skin, muscle and bone. That look burns along Julien’s cheeks, his lips, his jawline. A hesitant, gentle smile rests on the young man’s lips. Julien steals a moment to quietly take Occtis in as well.
The world slips into soft focus.
Occtis closes his eyes – Julien allows himself a faint smirk, understanding why – and begins to speak.
Obridai is a growling and hissing, harsh language, strange and unfamiliar. Ill-suited, it would seem, for the wedding vows. Yet with Occtis’s voice, with his natural softness, it becomes far less unbearable than it might otherwise have been. He speaks slowly and evenly – so unlike him – treating the ritual with evident seriousness and care.
When he finishes, he opens his eyes again. There is a trace of uncertainty in his gaze, a silent question, asking whether he has done everything right. Julien nods to him in reassurance and receives a modest smile in return.
Julien slips the ring onto Occtis’s finger, and Occtis slips one upon his. And as simple as that – their lives become forever entwined by an unbreakable bond.
Occtis is now Julien’s responsibility, and Julien is Occtis’s. Strangely, the thought brings no resistance or irritation, no fear or sense of doom. It settles instead like a light feather somewhere near his heart. Weeks of surviving side by side, weeks of sharing routine, shelter, food – weeks spent learning how to trust one another with their lives – have shown that it was possible. They have laid a firm foundation for whatever was beginning now.
Well, then – the pleasant parts of the ritual have come to an end.
Julien draws the bone dagger from the sheath fastened to his belt, where he had placed it earlier. Occtis opens the black velvet box he had been holding in his hand. Julien had been intensely curious and a little uneasy about what it contained. And now he finally sees it clearly: five silver thimbles, shaped like the bones of finger phalanges, each tipped with a small, sharp blade.
They remind him of his gauntlet, and the resemblance amuses him. Perhaps he and Occtis have far more in common than he once believed.
Occtis fumbles slightly, struggling to hold the box and put the thimbles on at the same time. Julien steps in to help – lifting the first one from the velvet lining, taking Occtis’s hand again, and carefully sliding the curious item onto his finger. Repeats it four times more.
“Thank you,” Occtis exhales with visible relief.
“Anything for you, love,” Julien replies, a lilt of a smirk in his voice.
Occtis slips the box back into the pocket of his cloak.
“Well… are you ready? I can go first,” Occtis says, lifting his hand and placing it against Julien’s cheek. The small blades tickle his skin.
Julien nods in answer.
Without taking his hand off Julien’s cheek, Occtis slowly traces the pad of his thumb along Julien’s lower lip, his eyes following the movement of his own touch. Julien parts his lips to make it easier for him. The finger pauses at the center of his lip, brushing over it once, twice – almost tenderly, as if soothing it in advance – and then Julien finally feels the thin blade of the thimble open a narrow cut down the center of his lip. Warm blood runs down his chin, trailing along his neck and lower, some of it slipping inside his mouth, settling on his tongue with the taste of iron.
Occtis raises his other hand, the one without thimbles, and gathers as much of the flowing blood as he can onto his thumb.
“Close your eyes,” he whispers.
Julien obeys, trusting him.
He feels Occtis draw a line of blood across his left eyelid, over the bridge of his nose, and to the right. Feels Occtis’s cold lips kiss each of his eyelids and move away. Julien opens his eyes again.
Occtis looks worried, still holding Julien’s face in his hands – carefully, almost apologetically, as though trying to make amends for the pain with what little gentleness he can offer. Julien covers one of those hands with his own and turns his head to press a kiss to the palm.
“It’s all right. We can continue,” Julien tells the boy.
Occtis releases his face and tilts his chin up slightly, offering himself.
Julien brings the ritual knife to his lip, and mirroring the gesture, rests his own hand against the boy’s cheek. His thumb strokes the sharp line of Occtis’s cheekbone in quiet reassurance. Pain feels different for him now – Julien knows that – but he has seen Occtis behave too often like someone still painfully, stubbornly human. The habit of being alive is stronger than the body itself, and if Julien can offer him a little care, he will.
Occtis parts his lips and does not look away from him. Julien presses the dagger’s point to the pale lip and draws the blade slightly downward, cutting the skin. Thick, dark blood spills from the wound, viscous as sweet syrup. Julien presses lightly on the lip so a little more blood will flow. The sight is frighteningly mesmerizing, and something inside Julien flares to life.
He gathers the blood onto his thumb and moves his hand upward without lifting it from Occtis’s cheek. Their eyes meet – those impossibly bright green eyes, wide and entranced. Occtis closes them quickly and leans into Julien’s palm. Julien repeats the motion, drawing a straight line of blood across his eyelids, placing a kiss on each of them.
Julien feels like a madman. A fierce desire burns through him, a desire to seize Occtis in a hungry kiss, to taste his blood– But there is still another part of the ritual left. And rituals, as they have learned from the experience of House Tachonis itself, are best followed exactly as they are meant to be.
“Alright. Give me your hand,” Julien rasps.
Occtis obediently places his hand in Julien’s, palm up. Julien draws the dagger diagonally across it. Then he repeats the gesture with his own palm, so deep in some kind of a trance that he barely feels the pain. They press their bleeding hands together.
Gaya Seremai approaches them, binding their hands with a crimson ribbon and holding beneath the stream of their mingling blood a goblet carved from a black stone. Julien rests his forehead against Occtis’s.
“Let the blood carried by two hearts be made one, let two souls be bound by it. One blood, one flesh, one destiny. Let them walk together in the light of life, and let them find one another in the darkness beyond death – forever bound. Let them find peace in each other in joy and in sorrow, in pleasure and in pain, in this life and another.”
Gaya Seremai's voice is velvety, somehow soothing, even though it sounds awkward and she recites the words rather flatly, like a memorized text – unlike Aranessa earlier. Which isn't surprising – she's a soldier, and both ceremony and theatrics are foreign to her. But that's also precisely why she's perfect for this: she's a soldier, and she executes what she's given with precision no matter what.
Just as she says the words, Gaya removes the ribbon, now soaked through with blood, and raises the goblet filled with it. Julien reluctantly draws back from Occtis and takes a swallow. If one tries hard enough, it could almost pass for wine by the look of it. The taste, however, leaves no room for illusion – salt and iron, unmistakably blood.
The desire burns through him again. Is this the foul magic of the Tachonises, driving him slowly mad?
Gaya lifts the cup to Occtis’s lips. He drinks and wrinkles his nose at the taste, drawing an involuntary chuckle from Julien.
The final rite remains.
As soon as Gaya takes the cup from Occtis’s lips, Julien descends on him like a starving man. He crushes Occtis’s lips under his own, greedy, licking them, tasting him, mingling their blood together this way now and savoring the flavor. His hands close around Occtis’s face, guiding the tilt of his head so he can kiss him at the angle he wants.
Occtis is clearly startled by the suddenness of it, his lips part in surprise, and Julien immediately takes advantage of it, slipping his tongue inside and sharing with him the blood he has just harvested. Occtis’s shock and his lack of response pull Julien back to himself a little. He breaks the kiss, looking at Occtis through a haze.
Occtis is a breathtaking sight. His lips are scarlet and swollen, a thin dark trail of blood running down from them. One cheek is smeared with blood from Julien’s palm. His eyes are wide – impossibly bright green, almost fluorescent – with wild curiosity.
He looks like a young wild creature that has just made its first kill. Adorable.
“I’m sorry,” Julien murmurs. “Was that your first?”
Occtis blinks far too tellingly.
“I’m sorry,” Julien whispers again, softer this time, almost purring as he leans closer once more.
Occtis looks at him, watching, waiting. Julien changes his approach.
He steps closer, nearly chest to chest, and lays his bloodied hand around the boy’s waist, drawing him in. Occtis’s hands instinctively settle on his shoulders, one palm smearing blood across golden armor that had never known it before.
With his free hand Julien gently strokes the side of Occtis’s head, brushing the chains and loose strands of dark hair away from his face with careful affection. Occtis leans into the touch, starved for it.
Julien’s hand slides beneath his chin, lifting Occtis’s head slightly, and he kisses him again – softly this time, just a brush of lips at first.
Then the kiss deepens, slow and languid. Occtis tries to kiss him back – awkward, inexperienced, but earnest. He presses forward, clumsy but eager, even licking the blood still lingering on their lips with his tongue and pushing it inside Julien’s mouth, mimicking what the man was doing to him moments ago.
Gods. It feels almost dizzying.
Occtis lets out a small desperate sound, and Julien grins into the kiss before finally pulling away, pressing a last quick peck to his lips. He had to break it before it turned completely inappropriate. Occtis looks exactly like a virgin after their first kiss – sweet, dazed, and terribly tempting.
A polite cough sounds from their side.
“The ritual is complete,” Gaya announces, deliberately looking away. “I declare you husband and husband.”
Julien does not dare look at the others. Instead, he keeps his gaze fixed on Occtis, still holding his face as if to keep him from dying of embarrassment on the spot. A moment later, applause breaks out – gleeful shouts and laughter, the women of their company graciously rescuing the moment from becoming unbearably awkward.
It’s time to return to their camp, to warm themselves by the fire and prepare a hot stew so none of them collapse with fever somewhere in the middle of nowhere over the next few days.
Julien takes a few steps forward first and gallantly offers his hand to his newly made husband to help him down from the rocky cliff. This earns a surprised – but genuinely amused – laugh from Occtis. He slips his hand into Julien’s.
“So… that’s it?” Occtis asks as they begin to descend, addressing everyone. “Will it work?”
“Well – only if your traditions don’t require us to consummate the marriage out here in the open as well,” Julien replies before anyone else can speak, clearly intending to embarrass the boy.
Occtis freezes mid-step.
Damn it.
“I was joking.”
“No – I didn’t… I just thought about it. Because I honestly don’t know anything about the consummation part.”
Julien now finds himself unexpectedly surprised. Thought about it? Did he genuinely… Or was it of a scientific interest to him?
Ahead of them, Thaisha lets out a tired sigh and rubs her face, already done with this bullshit.
“We’ll just have to hope it works the way we expect,” she says, not stopping in her tracks. “There are no guarantees about how any of this will unfold. But once we reach a village, Nessa will at least send letters to the heads of the Houses – that alone should cause enough mess.”
She glances back at them, smirking.
“In the meantime, boys… enjoy yourselves.”