Chapter Text
The bridge leading up to the gates of Meridian seemed impossibly long. And very, very high. Surrounded by a herd of Carja soldiers and the Sun Priest’s palanquin inching along ahead of her, Soraya felt her jaw clench with each step. Weeks on a march from the clanlands after the brutal attack at the Barren Light embassy, and all Soraya wanted was to be free of the cloud of males and their body odor and their incessant complaining. Now, with her destination within sight, blissful freedom was attainable at last.
Well, not freedom exactly. She was still being sold off like cattle in the name of bringing peace between the Tenakth and Carja, but dwelling on that would do no one any favors.
“You’re scowling again.”
Marshal Fashav grinned at her as she directed her scowl towards him. He had been her only companion on this journey, a blessing and a curse bestowed upon her by her parents before she left the Grove. Objectively, she knew she should be grateful for his presence and all that he’d done for her. He protected her from Regalla’s rebels when they ambushed the embassy—when so many of the fierce marshals she’d grown up around at the Grove fell in defense of their Chief’s dream.
But, Soraya wasn’t very good at objectivity.
“Remind me again, marshal, why are you here?” She wore her petulance as armor today. Her only defense against the reality she refused to truly accept. “Did Father send you to bully me into submission to my Carja captors?”
Fashav only snorted, the unpainted half of his face still split with a smile. “Hardly. Chief Hekarro knows better than anyone that you submit to no one: captor, parent, or otherwise. If anything, I’m here to help my poor cousin deal with you.”
Ah, yes. Marshal Fashav’s cousin and her future husband—the word alone made her stomach roil. The Carja didn’t have partners, not like the Tenakth. No, where the Tenakth emphasized the equal match and shared burden of survival, the Carja saw only the subjugation of a woman to a man who could bring her family more power and honor among their peers. She vividly remembered the stories her mother told her about life within the Sundom, particularly the bits where she told Soraya just how cruel and backwards the culture was, especially towards women.
The marshal’s gaze landed on her fully as the passed under the gateway leading into the city she’d only heard stories about. Her muscles instantly tensed as their surroundings turned from open vistas to buildings tightly packed together. She felt caged in, cornered. Amusement faded into concern, his hand resting gently on her shoulder.
“Be at ease, Raya,” Fashav said softly.
“Deep breaths, Raya.” Her mother’s calm voice echoed in her head as she inhaled slowly through her nose. Blood of the Ten, she missed her mother. Her exhale shook as she squared her shoulders and kept her chin high as she followed their escort through the city, like an animal on display. She heard the murmuring whispers from the Carja as she passed, their pointing and jeering impossible to miss from her periphery.
If they thought that alone would break her, they knew nothing of how many of the Tenakth treated her and her family for years before the unification of the clans.
As they neared the entrance to the Sun Palace, their escort dispersed and the Sun Priest’s palanquin crept down a separate path, leaving but a few guards to lead her and Fashav towards the palace’s gates. Immediately, the air smelled fresher and a smug smile split her face.
“Raya?”
Her head snapped to the two figures ahead of them, standing side by side as they approached. Ten years since he left, but she recognized her brother, Zahir, instantly. Decorum be damned, she broke free of formation and sprinted into his open arms with a delighted laugh.
“You’re so tall!”
“And you smell like a boar’s ass.” Zahir set her down, holding her away to look her over with a matching shit-eating grin. “But it’s good to see you, sister. So good.”
A pointed cough drew the siblings’ attention. The older man standing next to Fashav wore a dangerously neutral expression as he bowed slightly in greeting. She had never met the man, but Raya knew him to be her Uncle Marad.
“I am glad to see you made it safely to Meridian, Soraya,” the man said politely. “The latest report from Barren Light informed the Sun-King of the ambush on the embassy. He will be relieved to see you here, unharmed.”
A feather dropping to the ground would be deafening in the silence that stretched after his statement. Zahir’s hand squeezed hers, as if in warning, and Marshal Fashav all but told her to keep her mouth shut with his expression, but none of that really registered as Raya stared at her uncle with her own practiced mask of neutrality.
“Mother was right,” she said, finally. Uncle Marad’s brow arched with curiosity, and Raya answered the silent question with a saccharine smile: “You really do have the emotional range of an acorn.”
Between Fashav’s choked laugh-turned-hacking-fit and Zahir’s muttered string of curses, she would have felt satisfied with her wit. But it was the ghost of a smile that tugged at her uncle’s mouth that cemented the moment in her memory as she let her brother steer her into the palace for “a much-needed bath.”
The suite of rooms assigned to her felt obscene in their extravagance. Separate rooms for sleeping, bathing, and existing from day-to-day and all decorated with rich furnishings and artworks—while the novelty of it piqued her curiosity, it also made her yearn for the welcoming sense of community that she had back in the Grove. Yes, she shared a private residence with her parents as a perk of being the Chief’s daughter, but the rest of her life was spent amongst those within the tribe from dawn to dusk.
“Ah, there she is!” Zahir flitted over to the bathing room door, drawing out an older woman by her hand. “Raya, this is Jurana. She served Mother while we were at Barren Light, and Uncle Marad helped her escape my father when we fled to the Lowlands. She’ll be your personal attendant while you’re here.”
The woman bowed deep at the waist. “It is an honor meeting you at last, Your Highness. I have already drawn you a bath and requested food be brought for you to eat while we prepare you to greet His Radiance.”
Soraya, flustered at the deference, righted the woman quickly. “Please, I’m not a princess, so no honorifics. Soraya or Raya will do just fine.”
Jurana regarded her with a tiny frown, but it smoothed out into a warm smile. “You have much of your mother in you, I see. Sadly, her humility and grace seems to have skipped over your brother entirely.”
Oh, she liked Jurana.
Zahir made a noise of mock-affront. “Excuse you, I am the pinnacle of humility and grace.”
“Says the man who nearly toppled into the Arena mid-Kulrut after sneezing,” Soraya pointed out as Jurana gently guided her into the bathing room.
Whatever retort Zahir had fell on deaf ears as Soraya struggled to comprehend what she was seeing. In all the stories about Carja society and home life, Mother failed to mention the glory that was a Carja bathing room. At best, Soraya expected a large soaking basin and some fancy oils and soaps. At the Grove, she made use of the public bathhouses like all the other Tenakth, so the concept of a private bath was mind-blowing enough.
But this?
The first thing she noticed was the raised pool that occupied the center of the room. Colorful tiles decorated the floor and sides of the pool while a soft breeze tickled her skin through intricately cut window panels for privacy. The fanciest latrine she’d ever seen was tucked behind an ornate screen in a corner, and the plainest thing in the entire room was a simple white wash basin beneath an elegant water spigot of some kind.
“Come, let’s get you washed up and dressed for dinner.” Jurana’s kind tone shook her from her dumbstruck awe. She opened her mouth to protest against the older woman undressing her, but promptly snapped it shut due to Jurana’s stern look of warning. “I understand that all of this… formality must be strange and cumbersome, but as the future Queen of the Sundom, this will be your new normal.”
Deft fingers unplaited her braid as she sank into the steaming bath with a delighted sigh. “I don’t think I’ll ever really believe that,” Soraya replied, her head tilted back to admire the painted ceiling above her.
Jurana made a soft noise of understanding. “Your mother was the same way, you know. It took quite some time for her grow into her position as lady of the house.”
Soraya snorted. “An entire kingdom is a bit bigger than a house.”
“It might be bigger, but the concept is still the same,” Jurana chided with a sharp tug to Soraya’s hair. “Its prosperity and happiness will depend on you.”
“If that’s meant to make me feel less pressure, it’s doing the exact opposite.”
“Sometimes the truth is better than soft words,” the woman replied before rising to collect some of the decorative bottles of fragrant oil and soap. Mulling over her words, Soraya dipped beneath the surface of the water, letting the blissful warmth coccoon around her for a few moments before returning her head and hair to Jurana’s expert hands.
“Truly great leaders never declare themselves to be such,” her father had told her during one of their many bedtime-avoidance conversations. “Greatness cannot be predicted, only acknowledged by the ones around you. One day, little star, you will know the weight of guiding your people and will be remembered only for how you chose to bear that burden.”
The rest of her preparations for dinner passed by in a haze, her mind mostly occupied with memories of her parents to ease the frayed ends of her nerves. She allowed Jurana to dress her in the rich Carja silks gifted to her “by the king, himself”–a notion she doubted immediately given that the fabrics had been dyed in the vibrant yellow and blues of her Father’s armor. And she was beyond grateful that no one attempted to wrangle her into some of the absurd headdresses she had seen during their parade into the palace.
Her only adornment made the journey east with her: a small black pearl that sat in the hollow of her throat. Her father presented the necklace to her the night before she left the clanlands, and needless to say, it reduced her to blubbering tears. Based on what she could hear over her own sobs, he had found the pearl the day of her birth and kept it with him, beneath his armor, until the time was right.
She toyed with the pearl absently as she followed Zahir to the king’s private wing of the palace. Her brother filled the silence with inane stories of his first weeks at the palace: getting lost and winding up in the Queen Dowager’s rooms, the night he spent in a random guest room because he couldn’t remember his way back to his rooms, and the time he tripped up the staircase leading to the king’s dais when, in fact, he had been on his way to the training grounds.
“It’s comforting to know that you haven’t lost your miserable sense of direction,” she remarked with a forced grin. The knot of anxiety tightening in her stomach was agonizing as they paused outside the grand doors leading her to her fate. How anyone expected her to consume food in this state was beyond her understanding.
Zahir watched her for a moment, his amber eyes a mirror of their mother’s. Five years her senior, he rarely acted as a stern older brother during their childhood. Perhaps due to growing up as outlanders among the Tenakth, the pair developed an irrefutably close bond–so close that the day Zahir left for Meridian to join their uncle left Soraya incosolable for weeks.
“He’s a good man, Raya,” he finally said, all teasing gone from his expression. She looked up at him, brow furrowed. “I know, I know, it sounds like something anyone would tell their little sister before she meets her betrothed, but we aren’t your average Carja brother and sister, are we?”
“Technically speaking, we’re only one and a half Carja.” Her eyes flicked back to the door before them. “I don’t really belong to either tribe, not really.”
Zahir clicked his tongue, drawing her attention back to him. “Maybe that’s what makes you better than the rest of us. You can’t put a star in a box, remember? They’re meant to–”
“–shine in the endless night sky,” she finished, the corners of her mouth lifting in a small smile at the familiar adage her mother practically beat into her memory as a child.
Capitalizing on her good humor, Zahir pushed open the doors and escorted her into the Sun-King’s private chambers. If Soraya thought that her rooms were extravagant, she was woefully unprepared for the sight before her.
A rectangular table occupied the center of the room, ornate chairs dotting the edges and a veritable feast spread across the surface. Glowing lanterns hung from the absurdly high ceilings, casting everything in a warm, comforting light despite everything being completely foreign to her at every turn.
She guessed that the golden doors on the far well led further into the king’s private rooms, but what truly caught her eye were the floor to ceiling murals painted on either side of the pair of doors.
To the left, a golden sun rose above all, it’s rays stretching down to the people kneeling below as if to embrace them lovingly. Trees of rich greens rose up around this depiction of the Sundom and for a moment, Soraya saw the lush forests of the Lowlands in her mind. Though it lacked the vibrancy of color that she was used to seeing within Tenakth art, she appreciated the clean lines and clear depictions.
However, despite the warmth and sense of welcome she felt looking upon this mural, the mystery and intrigue she felt from its companion won her heart fully.
In this mural, brilliant white moon rose above the last glimmer of the golden sun, casting the forest and the people in a beautiful mix of gold and silver light. Where the sun’s mural was bold and striking, this depiction of the moon felt ethereal and soft, but no less striking. Small golden stars glimmered in the sky around the moon, and instinctively, she wanted to reach up and touch them.
“Apologies for my tardiness. The Brightmarket nobles seem to think that the world stops for them when they deign to appear at court.”
Sun-King Avad swept into the room with Marshal Fashav and Uncle Marad trailing behind at a respectful distance, the brilliance of his white raiment and pants a stark contrast to the golden warmth of his skin. He appeared younger than she expected, the sharp line of his jaw bearing only the faintest shadow of a beard. To see a man of power without Tenakth warpaint hiding his skin was as jarring as it was refreshing.
Remembering herself, Soraya dipped low at the waist, her eyes trained on the floor. “I greet Sun-King Avad,14th Luminance of the Radiant Line.”
She could have sworn she heard him sigh.
“Please, rise.” As Jurana instructed hastily before she left her rooms, Soraya kept her gaze down. “It is I who should be greeting you, Princess Soraya, daughter of Chief Hekarro and Gentle Yesena.”
And with that, royal etiquette flew straight out the window.
“I am not a princess,” she insisted for the second time today, meeting the king’s warm brown eyes with a slight frown. “There are no such titles among the Tenakth. If I must be known by a title, it would simply be as a healer, as that is what I served as within the tribe.”
The king blinked in surprise at her reaction. It occurred to her, in that moment, that the man likely wasn’t used to someone—especially a woman—correcting him. Rationally, she knew she ought to have kept her mouth shut; that’s what Carja women do, that’s what he’d expect.
But, much like her objectivity, Soraya wasn’t known for her rationality.
Zahir cleared his throat. “Or, maybe we can compromise and settle for Lady Soraya? We can’t really go around announcing you as ‘Healer Soraya’ as the king’s betrothed.”
The pointed look she felt coming from her uncle and the tiny shake of Fashav’s head made her jaw clench as she agreed with a terse, “Fine.”
Barely two minutes in, and things were already awkward.
The Sun-King, to his credit, appeared apologetic as he gesture towards the table. “Please, let us sit and eat. I’m sure you must be hungry after such an arduous journey.”
She made her way to one of the chairs farthest from the king, but Zahir nudged her sharply towards the seat directly to his radiant left hand. Her teeth ground together as she did as she was silently bid, inelegantly plopping into the chair with a vicious glare at her brother, who seated himself next to her.
Fashav, smirking, eased into the place opposite her. His face was clean of his white and blue paint, and a part of her heart broke at its absence. One more mark of home, gone.
“I hope you find your rooms to your liking, my lady,” the marshal said, breaking the awkward silence. “I, for one, am very much looking forward to a good night’s rest in a soft bed.”
Soraya watched Zahir spoon a little bit of everything within reach onto her plate as he replied, “Better warn the servants to rouse Raya well after sunrise. I doubt anything will lure her out of bed once she sinks into that downy cloud.”
“Oh, I made sure to spread the word that our lady doesn’t rise before noon on a good day.”
Ten save her, she might slit both their throats before her first bite of food.
“Word to the wise, cousin,” Fashav continued, his eyes twinkling with amusement as he held her gaze, “make sure you bring an offering of food with you when waking your future bride. Otherwise, Itamen might be rising to the throne faster than anyone anticipated.”
The Sun-King glanced between Soraya and Fashav before narrowing his eyes slightly at his cousin. “If I recall correctly, Kadaman had to regularly douse you in cold water to get you to training on time. I’m not sure you have much right to be teasing Lady Soraya so, Fashav.”
“In my defense, training began before even the sun rose from bed.”
“Not the point, cousin.” The normalcy of the exchange, despite years apart, reminded her of Zahir. The Sun-King turned back to her with a gentle smile. “Moving on, should you need anything to make your quarters more comfortable, please just ask.”
Holding his gaze as she chewed thoughtfully on the bite of roasted duck, she studied him from this closer distance. His expression appeared earnest and genuine, the smile reaching his brown eyes as he held still for her assessment.
Admittedly, he was handsome, for a Carja. Kind eyes and equally kind smile, unlike her uncle, who seemed devoid of any real emotion. What she could see of his figure beneath the stole he wore appeared toned, even if a bit more slender than the Tenakth men she was accustomed to. She found his crown a bit cumbersome, as it appeared to be the same size as his actual head and covered all of his hair beneath. She wondered at its weight, and while lost in her own musings, her tongue ran away with her thoughts.
“Will I have to wear something so large on my head?”
Fashav and Zahir snorted with laughter, the former tipping his head back with a boisterous cackle and the latter nearly choking on his wine beside her. Heat flushed her cheeks. She didn’t mean to say that out loud, but it was too late to backtrack now. Her eyes darted to her uncle, who watched the scene with a calm expression, but she thought she saw a glimmer of something in his eyes.
“I wouldn’t wish this agony on any other person,” the Sun-King replied honestly, his lips quirked in a grin. “I imagine you would rather wear something that feels less like a punishment as this thing does. Perhaps something more Tenakth?”
She imagined her father’s wide headdress–compared to that, the Sun-King’s crown looked tiny. As if reading her mind, Fashav chuckled and shook his head.
“The Chief’s headdress is practically a Broadhead compared to yours, dear cousin.” He looked at Soraya thoughtfully, head cocked slightly. “But not a bad idea, honoring Lady Soraya’s heritage in such a way. The people shouldn’t forget just how powerful her lineage is.”
“On that note, perhaps it would be prudent to discuss the marriage rites?” Uncle Marad suggested. One glance was all it took for Soraya to realize that was the point of such an intimate meeting with her betrothed; it provided a better arena to instruct her on how she was expected to behave from now on.
The Sun-King made a face, the break in his decorum surprising. “Surely this is something that can wait until tomorrow?”
“You would only be delaying the inevitable, Your Radiance,” the older man replied calmly.
Fashav snorted. “Comforting, Marad, very comforting.”
Soraya took a sip of her wine–not bad, surprisingly sweet–before interjecting, “It shouldn’t surprise you that Mother already educated me on the royal marriage customs of your tribe. First, I must be presented formally to the Sun-King and his court with my dowry, which in this case, is the return of Unyielding Fashav. After that, we will begin the engagement period, where we will spend time together in public and in private to show a unified front, as well as get to know each other.”
She didn’t bother to look and see if her uncle appeared surprised. Instead, she glanced at the Sun-King, who watched her with a blend of amusement and surprise.
“The length of the engagement varies, from what I understand,” she continued. “But at some point, I will be taken to the Temple of the Sun to seek the Sun’s blessing and then the High Priest will commune with the Sun to determine the most auspicious day for our ceremony. From there, it’s mostly planning the parade to the Temple of the Sun, the reception, and the festival events for the people during that week after the marriage ceremony.”
All four men stared at her with a mix of respect and surprise.
“That’s why we have to meet with the High Priest?” asked the Sun-King, brows raised in honest curiosity. “To pick a date?”
This time, it was Soraya’s turn to look surprised. “I… think so?”
“The one Chosen by the Sun to lead its people ought to marry on a day blessed by the Sun,” Marad reminded his king. “I distinctly remember going over this with you, Your Majesty.”
“Forgive me, my friend, but it should come as little surprise that I go into a daze whenever you bring up marriage.” The dry delivery of the Sun-King’s response made her smile, though she hid it behind her goblet. “Tell me, what are Tenakth marriages like?”
She assumed the question was directed to Fashav, but a sharp kick to her ankle from her left told her otherwise. Once again glaring at her brother, Soraya looked up from her half-eaten food.
“They’re referred to as bonding ceremonies,” she answered, thinking back to the several she witnessed growing up. “Typically, they’re very simple. The couple present themselves to their clan’s chaplain to receive the Blessing of the Ten and then perform the bonding rite.”
“Bonding rite?” The king’s brows furrowed at the unfamiliar concept. Soraya stared longingly at her rapidly-cooling roast duck, but by the grace of the Ten, Fashav took pity on her.
“Each person cuts their palm and then join hands to swear their lives to their bond,” the marshal explained. “After that, it’s a clan-wide celebration of drinking, sparring, and debauchery.”
Soraya didn’t bring up the part where Mother demanded that the ceremonial blade used to cut the palms be sanitized thoroughly before each bonding to prevent disease and the uproar that caused. Regardless of tribe, it was uncouth to bring up blood-borne diseases at dinner.
“Then, after that, they are man and wife?”
Automatically, Soraya corrected, “Partners.” Her quick response earned a raised brow from the king. “The Tenakth use the term ‘partner’ instead of ‘husband’ or ‘wife’. For them, men and women are perceived as equals in all aspects of life.”
Understanding her meaning, the Sun-King lowered his gaze to his plate. It didn’t need to be voiced aloud; all in the room that the Carja did not share the same sentiment.
“When I agreed to take my father’s place,” the king said after a moment, “I swore to raise the Carja above the cruel and antiquated pit my father and his predecessors placed us in. For most who backed me, that promise was seen as the idealistic dream of a naive prince, but I haven’t given up on making it a reality. Perhaps, together, we can find a way to create a better, more tolerant Carja, Lady Soraya.”
She didn’t dare lift her gaze from her plate as she weighed his words. How was she supposed to respond to something like that? Did he not realize the path that lay before her was already laden with traps built from rumors, prejudice, and distrust? She walked into a den of angry Glinthawks, as far as she was concerned, and she had no real idea of how to survive it, let alone master it.
“For what it’s worth, Your Majesty,” Zahir said, interrupting her thoughts, “I can think of no better person to help you achieve that goal than Raya.”
She stared, wide-eyed, at her brother. Not that compliments were rare from him, but this?
Marshal Fashav nodded in agreement, distracting her from the protest on the tip of her tongue. “The is no one more stubborn or truly fearless, to be sure.”
“Moreso than Aloy of the Nora?” Uncle Marad asked, a contemplative look gracing his expression as he looked at his niece. “The Savior of Meridian is the peoples’ favorite for queen.”
What the fuck? It had started as compliments and now her own blood chooses to tear down her worth?
“If that’s the case, why drag me all the way here?” Soraya asked, a hint of acid lacing her tone. “Why not marry a woman your people already admire?”
The king gave her a sad smile. “Because Aloy does not wish to be queen and–”
The aching wound in her heart she nursed the entire march from the clanlands ripped open. She came here willingly and this is what they choose to greet her with?
“And I do? I don’t recall ever being asked what I wanted before being sent on my way. Must I save your city from certain destruction to earn the right to choose my own path?”
Her body shook with the emotions she had suppressed the moment she stepped out of the Grove. No one warned her. No one so much as hinted that she was being married off to a foreign king—king of the very people responsible for so much unresolved pain amongst the Tenakth.
She was sad.
She was afraid.
She was fucking furious.
The Sun-King dared to reach out to her. “My lady, I didn’t—”
She stood so suddenly, the chair fell backwards behind her. Tears blurred her vision, but she refused to let them fall.
“My name is Soraya!” she snapped, her fingers curling into fists at her side. “I am the daughter of Chief Hekarro of the Tenakth and Gentle Yesena of the Carja. My parents gave me my name, and I have lived my life bearing it proudly. No one, not even the Sun-King can take it away from me or hide it behind a title that means nothing to me! Is it not enough to take me away from the people who only just began to welcome me as their own? Is it not enough to dress me in clothes that aren’t mine, but items chosen for me to avoid embarrassment?”
Soraya gulped down a shuddering breath. “But no, instead of comfort and understanding, I am greeted with an uncle devoid of warmth, a stranger I know is my brother but cannot recognize, and a role—a responsibility I never wanted. And to top it all off, I am the second choice? Thank you for reminding me that I am no one and belong to no tribe. For a moment, I had forgotten.”
Without a backward glance, she stormed from the room, unafraid of losing her way back to her chambers. She had memorized the path quickly following Zahir.
The tears she struggled to keep at bay fell down her cheeks as her feet carried her swiftly down the halls. She felt foolish. And angry. So inexplicably angry. She knew—she knew there had been no malice behind the comment. But she spent weeks ignoring her true feelings while trekking from the Grove to Barren Light, and then was forced to watch so many good Tenakth cut down by a rebellion rooted in hate for her mother’s people—her people. By the time they reached the edge of the Sundom, Soraya made peace with the fact that the Ten were guiding her to resolve the conflict between the two halves of her whole being.
She put on a brave face only to be slapped with a comment that seemed to shred at her barely-healing heart.
Bursting into her rooms, she ignored the concerned call from Jurana, who followed her into her bedroom. Instead, she flung herself bodily onto the deliciously soft bed and buried her face in one of the pillows as she let her sobs loose. She didn’t fight Jurana as she pulled the pins out of her hair gently, carefully. She hiccuped her way through the removal of the outer layers of her dress, doing the bare minimum to shift her body to allow Jurana access to the sashes around her waist.
And as she felt fingers brush through her hair while Jurana murmured soothing words in the same way Mother had done countless times, Soraya could only cry harder until exhaustion won out and dreamless oblivion greeted her.