It starts with a letter, a call for aid; the desolation of the land–unexpected, famine, mass starvation, malnutrition, the desperation– She grips the letter, a migraine forming in her head. She bites her tongue, a nasty nervous tick of hers, and sets the letter down with a sigh.

Aside from the booming announcements of deaths, most of the time with names she is unfamiliar with, the journalists were the only ones granted communications between islands. But the papers coming from the other island contain less fluff within their words and the information presented, as the misery and hardship of their island formed the biting tone etched in pen and paper.

She examines the scattered articles they have conglomerated— all laid out under the sturdy oak table. Papers rough and textured, more yellowed and raw than the ones published by their colleagues in Pandora.

Squinting at the text, the capitalized bold font reads; “ICY HOT! ‘DEATH WATER’ ON ISLAND 1” “VOLCANO UPDATE: LAVA NOT RISING” “THE TRUTH OF ISLAND 1: SOLIDARITY, NOT HATRED”.

Grainy printed photos of people in a single file line to receive one piece of bread each that stretches out of frame— several faces of people captured irritated, solemn or a strong mix of both.

One showing eerily desolate landscapes of terracotta sweeping presumably hundreds of miles of land, only freckled with dead stalks of sickly yellow grass that would offer nothing more than a meager collection of sticks.

And another; a crude shot of a person sitting on the dark and coarse surface of the river bank, their face twisted in pain as a burn injury on their leg is barely being covered by another person rolling torn cloth over it.

Nausea bites at her as glances up through the large windows of the castle. Sky aged like a bruise, shading by degrees from crimson to a deep indigo as the hours crept by. She wonders if she can glimpse the powdered tip of the other island’s volcano from here and imagines the sweltering, sulfur-tinged scent of the air.

A voice barks, breaking them out of their stupor. Zinclly, they recall, one of the journalists from Pandora.

“I’m getting word that Island 2 citizens have discovered that making the water more shallow makes it less hot and therefore easier for crops to grow in their river banks”

Gabory makes a face next to her, as if wincing, “Wouldn’t they have to cover all their bodies of water for that? Do their starving citizens even have energy for that kind of intensive labor?”

Jophiel blinks down to colors from the stained glass windows of the Verdant Hall refract in her hand, painting it a deep shining red. The noise of the discussion, muffled in her ears as she glances at the letter again.

She grips her quill and signs the paper without question.

WRITTEN BY BRUHZIL

HOW IT WILL WORK

Nation leaders from Island 1 will fill out a request form for materials they need and in what quantity. Nations from Island 2 will pool donations based on the lists given by Island 1 until the requests are fulfilled. When the barrier drops, all the …[read more]

The crisp morning air brings sound to her with sharp clarity, the rest of the city is still waking up. An hour or so before dawn broke, before the borders were scheduled to drop, the Tricolour ships containing aid left the harbour.

Jophiel stands on the balcony of her castle and watches from the horizon, the distant fog rendering it useless for her to get a clear glimpse of the shape of the other island.

The small speck of flapping sails continue to be blown by the wind, but the ships have been at a standstill for a few hours or so. The city has been bustling for a while in preparation for what is to happen.

All streets are swept clean from fallen leaves, long garlands of flowers are woven by different groups of citizens all scattered around the city. The plaza bursts with newly woven ribbons, all worked on by their local craftsmen, the sound of looms working day and night for the incoming occasion.

Something in the corner of her eye moves and they squint to see the ships start moving further away now. The borders have dropped. She swallows thickly and shuffles back into her room to prepare.

Jophiel sits down in front of her vanity, letters scattered across the surface and a single photo. A portrait of the Emperor. He stood tall next to, presumably, his consuls. She had sent out a portrait of herself, along with nuptial negotiations, in which he had coughed up an underwhelming and clumsily written response about her beauty condensed in a single sentence then proceeded to talk about their trade agreements for the rest of the letter. She isn’t so vain to ask for compliments but she at least wanted to catch a glimpse of personality in the margins of his writing.

A knock at the door startles her, “Come in!”

“My Queen,” A cuff of cold air prised at the door as Lady Seraphim stepped through. Steel links whispered inside her surcoat when she lifted one hand and pressed the door to. The oak thudded shut. For a moment she only looked at Jophiel: her Queen, bathed in the morning light, in her robes and back slumping from exhaustion as if the day had already ended.

“At ease, Seraphim.” She sighs and looks back at herself through the mirror, and starts to part her hair to weave the ribbons into isolated sections of braids at her hair while glancing again at the scattered letters.

“The border has dropped. But you probably already knew that, knowing you.” Seraphim’s voice came again, closer now.

She hums in response as she continues to intertwine her long flowing locks in a seamless manner.

Feet scuffle on the floor and halted three paces off. Puffing out air out her lungs, she asks, “Do you really think this is a good idea?”

Irritation creeps up to her again at the question, “Yes, Seraphim, we are not talking about this again.”

“It's just that– what if they do plan to invade? What if, let's say, they take our aid, slaughter our people and board our ships to return for more, hm?”

“Seraphim, I am not going to go over this agai—”

“And you! Agreeing to marry a man who you don’t even know! You know the rumors around him! I know you can handle yourself but what of Tricolour’s image? That you’d rather bind yourself to him than marry another from our island?”

She grits her teeth, and pauses to tie the end of the braid snappily, patience running thin after explaining herself over and over again, letting out a loud sigh.

“What is this conversation really about? You know you aren’t convincing me out of this. It is far too late for that.” Jophiel says, turning to face her, the final thread of her composure snapping.

Her anger gives Seraphim pause. An enormous helping of guilt pours over her at the hurt she knows her actions are inflicting on Jophiel. Yet, she stands her ground.

“I worry for you. You are my dearest friend and I… I wouldn't want anything bad to happen to you.”

Her eyes softened and gestures for her Lady to sit next to her, Seraphim moved then—one stride, two—until she knelt in front of them, settling her palm onto the hand in their lap. Her Lady’s thumb finds the racing pulse and caresses it gently, their breath hitches.

“Jo…” She murmurs upon her hand, fragile like glass and places a kiss upon it. This is the apple, a low hanging fruit she is presented to taste again.

The sunlight suddenly flares at her lash, making her blink. As if the world itself protrudes its calling. Still, Seraphim continues to bask in her warmth, unperturbed by Jophiel’s hesitance. They bite their lip and move their hand to caress her hair, soothing but affection held back enough not to nip at the bone.

She looks up, anxious eyes at the door, anxious ears perked to attention. Her room is the last of the corridor’s, a small mercy for stolen kisses during long days of biting on quill tips as she pens the vapid little edicts of her imperial life.

They stayed thus until the trumpets outside blared anew, heralding the arrival of their ships at Westhelm. Jophiel tries to pull away and Seraphim releases her with a last squeeze.

“I am summoned below,” they say curtly, standing up and escaping the warmth of their Lady, walking towards the balcony—putting as much distance as possible between them. They look away from Seraphim, unable to bear the hurt they're causing.

“The ceremony begins as soon as they arrive, lest we have no opposing threats to the binding.” They pause, “And I will be kept and bound to him by our laws.”

As will I to his, they don't add, to avoid raising her to prejudiced blather again.

In the corner of their eye, they see her rise and turn toward the door. Sun from the balcony window struck across her brow, crowning half her face in warm gold. She paused there, surcoat tucked beneath her arm.

Voice clogged with unshod tears, Seraphim replies, "Ish’s blessing upon you, my Queen. I hope…I…" Her voice breaks, breathes in and adds; “Glory to Tricolour”— desperate, mechanical, not an ounce of compassion behind it, and disappears into the corridor, shutting the door behind her with a gentle click.

Jophiel stands there, leaning against the railing. Her mouth twists into an ugly frown and she rapidly blinks back her own tears, hoping that the sea breeze washes them away in some form of baptism.

More trumpets blare her out of her stupor and she sighs again for the nth time today and shuffles across the room in front of her vanity, glancing upon the bed where her wedding dress lay.

It is as if Tricolour itself was woven. Their wealth and power, told through the vividness of the cloth. Woven shapes of the nation’s rich vegetation embroidered in golden threads and diamonds into the fabric. Excessive indulgence, a message that she can provide and more. The Emperor is not a stupid man to not pick up on it. Regardless, this will all be a show after all.

The Verdant Hall doors opened with a creak that felt too loud, and there stood Emperor Schpood of Westhelm, framed in the afternoon sun. He is a tall, imposing figure, broad but not overtly, sharp features, strong brow and an aquiline nose. He looks at her and blinks, slightly caught off guard but immediately offers her a nod for the stumble. She offers a polite one back. His pourpoint form-fitting, modest in cut but rich in detail, the gold-threaded sleeves catching the light like thin-struck coin. The tailors had done well.

“Queen of Color, I am honored to meet you.” He flourishes with a shallow bow, clearly not used to the gesture.

”Emperor of Westhelm, likewise” she replies stiffly while bowing her head.

There followed an awkward silence while the bustling around them seemed unaffected by it besides the two men who stood guard behind her betrothed and followed him everywhere, still dressed in Westhelm attire. One with wisps of blonde locks poking out, letting out a quiet sigh and another, one with pink tufts of hair sticking out of their helmet, looking away, biting their lips as if to hold back a laugh.

She tries to think of a topic that he would bite on, unable to bear the terse silence that‘s starting to flourish between them. Not a good start to any relationship

“Did the aid delivered to you people fare well during the trip? I hadn't had time to ask the merchants who volunteered to bring them over.”

“They’re fine. My people and I are very thankful for your help.”

Silence again, talks just like he writes.

He slumps slightly, “I didn't mean to sound ungrateful. Uh… We truly are appreciative for your assistance,” and scratches the back of his head in embarrassment and turns to his consuls for help.

They turn away to feign ignorance at their Emperor’s plight.

Jophiel’s lips tug up and the Emperor seems to notice, his cheeks staining red.

Clearing his throat, “Apologies again. Er… I forgot to introduce you to my Consuls– 5pyder and owo6.”

They turn to her and properly bow in sync.

She bows her head in return. Unable to stave off her curiosity, she asks, “Tell me please, what do you think of our island so far?”

“It’s… green”, 5pyder bluntly replies.

She blinks, not an answer she was expecting.

The Emperor clears his throat and clarifies, “We do not have as much… er… diversity of plants as you. So it's a little jarring, not at all in a bad way.” He pauses and fidgets,

“The volcano soil is rich but…”

She threads carefully, not knowing what line to cross is dangerous but she can't know without testing. “We will include sending over different plants and wildlife for Westhelm to try to cultivate. We have plenty to spare around here.”

The last remark could have been more tactful but she bets the Emperor appreciates her straightforward approach.

It gets a laugh to bubble out of him. She bites back a grin.

“Yes, yes, that would be great. No offense to our agriculture and fishing divisions of course–I'm very grateful for all they've done to stave off the starvation of all Westhelm citizens but I'm sick of eating bread and fish and bread and fish and–EUGH!” His shudders, hands expressively flourish while he talks.

“But we got through it. We celebrate our people’s fastidiousness and patience. Poor conditions breed the strong, the loyal and the mighty, see?” He gestures at his Consuls, the blonde one rolls his eyes under his helmet and Jophiel tries not to laugh.

“You sound like you love your people very much, Emperor Schpood.” she says breezily.

He seems to frown at the title but before she can apologize, General Jamminhead enters the hall and marches up to them.

“It is time.”

She glances at her and to the Emperor who blanches.

Her brows furrow, not knowing how to console his very obvious panic without stepping over any bounds, Jophiel stands to his left and offers the Emperor her arm, and begins leading him outside. This seems to settle him. Footfalls echo through the hardwood floors while his consuls trail behind.

The sun picked up motes of dust drifting in the Hall’s high beams around the plaza, turning them into flecks of gold swirling around the bride and groom. They turned to face the gathered throng. Light from the windows crowned them in color.

Her hands are clammy, trying not to let her nerves show she tries everything but to look at her betrothed out of nervousness. But his hands clutching her arm with quiet desperation call to her nonetheless.

Jophiel’s stomach turned.

She hadn’t expected to feel guilt—sharp, sudden, twisting low in her gut. He looked even less eager to be here than she was. Here he is, in a foreign land, dressed in their foreign clothing, tying himself to a stranger for the good of his people.

He walks forward with the stiff dignity of a man performing for an audience of judges. His chin held high, his gait measured, as if the weight of his people’s livelihood was marching with him down the aisle and up to the dais. The murmuring stilled. Gabory stepped forward and the ceremony began.

It was, mercifully, brief and Jophiel barely heard it.

The words passed through them like smoke, curling and vanishing before they could settle.

They feel the presence of another behind them, eyes boring into their soul but they stand their ground, feet staying rooted to the stone beneath. The weight of duty, of responsibility, of peace held them fast. There was no time for such fastidious relations with all the political turmoil brewing within and outside of Pandora. They thought of an apology and whispered it in their head, foolhardy hoping the other could hear it.

Gabory’s voice rose again. “Deliver this man into Our Majesty’s keeping, O Ish, and bless this union with peace and prosperity for both nations, both islands, for many years to come…”

Jophiel turns and her hand trembles as she levels her hands to his. Gabory is handed three silky ribbons each lined with intricate gold trim by another; one of Verdant, Azure and Scarlett. She swallows, mouth dry as sand. Her tongue stuck to her teeth. Still, she murmured the words when prompted, loud enough for her citizens to hear, but not loud enough for his people on the other side of the ocean.

“May Ish unite us in love and unity, so that we may be one. What has been joined together today, let no man separate.”

Jophiel looks at her groom through her lashes and nods for him to repeat the words. His voice, nasally and not as deep as she expected to be, still carries the commanding power of an Emperor. She glances his ears, flushing a dust of pink, as if embarrassed and bites the inside of her cheek lest she forms a smile that might be taken negatively.

Gabory weaves the ribbons atop each other, Scarlett first, followed by the Azure and Verdant one, then encircles it loosely onto their joint hands in a neat manner and tying it with a flourishing knot.

The fine silk of the ribbons gleam in Pandora’s afternoon sky, when it slips off their hands, it cascades like a waterfall, cleansing and binding them. The warmth of his palm settles in hers even as she pulls away. The knot is held by Gabory and raised his hands with the ribbons in blessing. His voice booms;

“This union is now sealed in colour, blessed by Lord Ish. May our nations prosper, may our islands be at peace, and may our people thrive. Glory to Westhelm and its Emperor! Glory to Tricolour! Long live our Queen Jophiel!

The cheers erupt, and so does the shower of grain, ribbons and petals and rain upon them.

Jophiel bites her tongue again and turns toward him, her hand nervously trembling as it finds his again. Together, they bowed to the guests like actors at the end of a play.

She glances at him from the corner of her eye.

He looked more lost than she felt.

She squeezes his hand slightly and spares a glance. The Emperor does not turn, his gaze far away to the sea, to his home, she acquiesces, but he squeezes back. The warmth of his hand settled around hers like a wool blanket as her people’s loud cheer turned muffled in her ears as miscellaneous offerings and confetti continued to fall around them under the setting sun.

Schpood was not having the best start to the day to say the least. The night before the borders were scheduled to drop, his consuls informed him of several complaints about Senator Lizzie’s harassment and insistence to consume the food she provided—poisonous pufferfishes, or starve. Hot irritation flashes through him, but he knows he cannot have such a prominent and important figure who managed the famines during the breadlines crisis be punished so he had asked his other senators to handle it while they were away.

His mood did not lighten the slightest throughout the day either; having to deal with the Archon of Elysium— Benji Button, to use Elysian ports to receive Tricolour ships harbouring cargoes of aid for Westhelm and the rest of Yggdrasil through the Blue Cross since the waters of the gulf of Westhelm still burned hot to the touch despite all the prayers and sacrifices Yggdrasilians had in them.

There in the dock platforms, he waits with both of his consuls, some senators and citizens to receive said aid. A light flashes through the edges of his vision, and a shape of a ship approaches at the horizon. His palm sweats, inhaling deeply. This is real. This is actually happening.

His voice booms, clearing the air of chatter, “Listen up everyone, I know the hatred for them has stirred at least once in all of us. How could they have so much and the gods lead us starving in this desolate place? Are we not made of the same flesh and bones as them? This hardship has led us to lose a lot of our friends and families too early. But by Jupiter Legatus, we made it and it made us strong.” Scattered hollers and claps erupt.

“I do not ask you to befriend them, I simply ask you to be courteous. They have reached out and volunteered to provide us aid and access to their land and riches. Westhelm does not breed greed nor pride, but camaraderie. We have made it out of the Breadlines without their help, yes, but that does not mean we won’t accept their assistance. I, myself, your Emperor, have consented to this alliance with the advice and approval of all my consuls and senators and accepted their terms of securing it with a union.” He pauses to let them process his words. Whispered confusion wafts through the crowd but he pushes through.

“Queen Jophiel of Tricolour shall be welcomed into Westhelm soon along with her entourage and probably other citizens from the other island to visit us.”

He pauses to add cheekily, “So someone please tell Senator Lizzie not to immediately cuss or punch them when entering our nation. And Wizzy, I swear to Legatus Exul, if I hear Tricolour citizens complain about you hitting on them, I’m demoting you.”

Laughter arises, said individuals being playful slapped or nudged at their emperor’s special acknowledgement by people around them.

“Their ships will arrive soon with supplies for us all. Your senators and captains will handle the distribution as usual so please do not worry about hoarding. If anyone commits any of these crimes, you know the drill; Collect evidence and bring it to a higher up and they shall administer the correct punishment. A crime against one Westhelm citizen is a crime to us all.”

A ship horn blares, loud and demanding but he is louder– he barks, “Alright! Everyone get back to it. Me, Owo and 5pyder will be back soon with a secured alliance and hopefully no more problems. Glory to Westhelm!”

His people parrot it back on instinct, loyalty and honor bleeding into their tones. It surges an immense sense of fulfillment in his chest to be their chosen Emperor. A sharp sting of the ocean breeze slaps him and he squints afar to where the other island’s shape is barely visible in his peripherals and thinks of the woman in the photo— blonde flowing locks, ethereal glow her skin from the sun emanating from the window of a castle, the ostentatiousness of her garbs. He repeats it to himself like a mantra; Anything for Westhelm.

A few hours later and the ghost of silky smooth ribbons, scratchy but intricately embroidered gold thread and the radiating warmth of a softer and smaller palm against his; he has secured the alliance. It wasn’t particularly a shitshow at least. The garish and extravagance of the Kingdom of Tricolour was no feat to scoff at. Yet despite his growing curiosity intertwining with the creeping fatigue, he doesn’t get to explore the lavishness of the nation nor partake in their festivities.

His new wife had one look at him after the ceremony, frazzlement and overstimulation– seemingly obviously painted on his face and instead of bringing him back to her Castle for a reception of sorts, she diverted him and his consuls to the harbour once again. As she had apparently ordered the Tricolour ships they arrived in to be loaded with supplies as soon as they landed, so Westhelm in particular may enjoy the spoils of this arrangement.

A no nonsense woman, she blinks up at him with her steely eyes. Her expression, not cold or closed off, but of concern. His brow furrows in puzzlement.

She turns to 5pyder, “You may go, bring your emperor–” she swallows, “my husband back to his home.”

Schpood’s eyes widened, “Wait what?! No– I'm alright—”

She raises her hands, placatingly to calm him, “It is okay— Your citizens need you. To arrange the distribution of goods, yes?”

He frowns, “The remaining senators in Westhelm can handle it… I don't even— I have to meet your people at least!”

She stops to look at him, her gaze an intense mix of biting but pitiful, “Schpood, I know you are overwhelmed. This is a lot to take in, you have not even gotten used to the sight of green around you, much less the vibrancy of colors of everything else. Now you are married to a stranger, wearing clothes that are not to your liking. We both agree that this was a necessary show of power to our alliance. The main show is over now, I will smooth things over with everyone, lest we have no problem that will arise before I set sail to your nation for the ceremony there. We may continue this in the next few days.”

“But—”

She raises her hand to cut him off, “My people are happy with our ceremony, I assure you they will celebrate regardless. The borders have dropped and I'm sure some of them sailed independently towards your island already and vice versa to sate their curiosities.” She pauses to murmur to herself, “I wish I could too. But now is not the time for that.” Voice leveling back.

Jophiel places a reassuring hand on his shoulder and continues to guide him down the docks, “I will be happy, and so will my people, to accommodate anyone from your island, especially Westhelm citizens. The land is prosperous, our farms and mines are open to them; as agreed upon.”

Schpood tries to process this, unable to come to terms with the compassion of a complete stranger—well, his wife now, technically, stubborn as a weed. He cannot debate her either since she holds the power in this situation and he would not risk his temper and pride to lose a chance for Westhelm to prosper.

He clears his throat, mustering all the politeness and formality he can summon not to immediately fuck this up, “Queen Jophiel, I–er…thank you for your concern. I'm forever indebted for the services you have provided for Westhelm. Your citizens, and this island is lucky to have you as a leader.”

She laughs assuredly, waving her hand, “No more formalities between us, Schpood. We're married, after all.” Then she turns to see them board the ship. The crew that picked them up from Westhelm greets them again as they work to leave the harbour.

Schpood sighs, looking down at the clothing they provided him to wear to the ceremony and scowls, picking his belongings up to change again into his Emperor attire. The anchor has been lifted now, and the ship starts moving.

Curiously, he diverges into the higher deck at the back of the ship to glimpse at Tricolour from a distance again. The castle stands atop the hill, its bright stained glass windows gleaming from the approaching dusk. Scattered houses and presumably business establishments light up the area, tall trees that weave between the buildings and wildlife roam free on the verdant soil.

Yet his eyes wander to the harbour where the ship just left and spots her—his wife, still standing in the docks, arms wrapped around herself, presumably cold from the chill of the ocean breeze. She waves as she spots him. The gems in her dress gleam in the sunset light.

In her wedding dress. He left her all alone in her wedding dress during their wedding day.

The realization of what he’s done sets in. He lets out a loud groan, “Oh Ish, I’m such a fuckin’ idiot.”

The first thing she observes is the biting cold air that whistles through the ocean as they approach the other island. Distant fog finally gives in to proximity, the shape of the island’s land mass becoming clearer and clearer and the infamous volcano looms overhead and dominates the view from where she stood. Muted colors of jagged and unfriendly igneous rocks litter the coastline, the water does not turn brighter at shore and stays as dark and gloomy as the depths they sail in. There is no sand, but silts of dark mud and structures built atop the shores. Movement— people are presently populating it.

The ship docks, slow and steady since the waves crash and slam into the bow. When she steps foot at the land. She feels a strange sense of relief. There, Benji Button of Elysium, comes to greet her with a friendly shake of his hand. Thanking her profusely for the aid she had volunteered to send over.

Consul 5pyder and other Westhelm guards also come to meet her, greeting her and General Jamminhead with a polite bow of which they respectfully mirror, then start to guide them though the path to Westhelm.

The scant farms contrast to the sprawling city, tall buildings of marble grey pillars; Elysium is a beautiful and prosperous nation, but she takes note of the fact that none of the citizens don any luxurious cloths or jewelry on their person. Iron and stone tools in their calloused grasps. Compared to everyone at Pandora, they really were just modest and happy in their own existences.

Fluixon must be insane to even think about attacking these people.

They pass by more impressive structures by other nations— The beautiful city in the docks and large ships decorating the shores of Alquarasina, the walled city of Nevermore, and the distant view of the infamous Valley of Wheat. There, in the same horizonline, she sees it, craning her neck for a better view— the erect walls of the imposing colosseum and the sprawling city that surrounds it.

Jophiel’s eyes widened in astonishment and awe and felt Consul 5pyder peering at her expression, a proud grin etched across his face.

“My lady, welcome to Westhelm”

Westhelm is a noisy city, brimming with life. A conversation is had at every corner, none ever seem to feel the need to keep their voices down. Laden carts of goods continue to rattle along the streets, their drivers hollering curses at anyone or anything which gets in their way with thick accents. Leather soles slap the cobblestone pavement erratically. One of the pair in an alleyway starts to slur out a line of a song, but is cut off abruptly by a yelled ‘boo!!’ of a passerby. The sounds of chipping of stone and grunts of workers of unfinished structures echo throughout the place.

Consul 5pyder gestures for her to follow suit, the voices around them blending into the wind as they reach the end of the road and turn west towards the slope that leads up towards a large domed building, fortified with tall stone walls. The spring sun slanted into the roofs of the rotunda, shining off the open cupola and illuminating the edifice. It was sparsely decorated: foliage dotted around dull green grass beds, a statue of a figure unknown to her greeted her left and a small patio made up of granite and calcite to her right.

Before she realizes it, her husband stands before her.

She is surprised to see him dressed so simply—for he did not look like the decorated emperor she had expected. The only indication of his status was the deep burgundy cape clasped over his shoulders, and his shining gold chestpiece, gauntlets and laurel crown atop his head. A few scars littered about his face that she had never noticed before, the permanent furrows of a scowl above his curved nose.

Schpood gave an approval in the form of a slight nod to his Consul–nothing more than a partial lift of his chin. She glances up, finding his expression unreadable. “Welcome to Westhelm, Qu—Jophiel. I trust the way here was not too taxing,” he said, his voice a smooth baritone despite the stumble.

She offers a small bow, ever courteous, “Thank you for the warm welcome and hospitality, Schpood. I am sincerely glad to see you again, safe and unharmed.”

He blinks, his jaw untensing, as if recalling the moment, “I must say the same to you. Come, let us retire to the triclinium above. I have refreshments waiting since we have much to discuss.”

There were more extensive preparations to Westhelm wedding customs than Tricolour’s.

On the day of their wedding, it starts early. Westhelm has always believed in omens— Fortunately, all the timings were correct; from the recovery and stability after the collective and swift action of the nation during the Breadlines crisis, Tricolour’s proposal, the borders dropping and the season, it seemed extremely favorable to wed in the conditions.

During that morning, the local fishermen, to their absolute surprise, managed to lure in a large fish as their first catch and as for their second; a fortune three enchanted book. In the mines, the workers had a fruitful start; for an iron vein that spanned nearly to the lava layer was found and extracted. Needless to say, it proclaims the omens favourable, citizens' cry of ‘Good fortune!’ is loud enough to shake the plaster from the ceiling of the Citadel.

His wife—Jophiel, he corrects himself, greets him that morning dressed unlike anything he’s ever seen in Westhelm.

She dons a beautiful red stola made of fabric that seemed to shine in the morning glow, as if the sun begins reaching her loving fingers through the folds. It is held up by a gold fibula in the shape of Westhelm’s sun, encased in diamond encrusted laurel leaves. Her palla— a deep blue color matching her eyes. Her ears are decorated with a cluster of gold, emerald and red glass beads shaped like year drops. Bangles of bracelets surround her wrists, and a golden intricately carved snake is held firm on her forearm.

She offers him a polite greeting, a sly smirk tugging at the corner of her pink lips, seemingly knowing the effect of her showing-off has done. Truly wise as the serpent, harmless as a dove.

“There were Westhelm citizens who came along after our ceremony at Tricolour that I spoke to. They were very happy to offer their insights about your culture to me since, forgive me, I did not know and did not want to presume anything of your customs without asking.” She explains curtly.

“Right.” He wheezes out, picking his jaw up off the floor. The light bouncing off of her jewelry still distracts him but he forces himself to move on.

Clearing his throat, “The omens are very favorable. The sun shines over us, Jupiter Legatus blessed be. My nation is happy. Tricolour's aid has elevated the people's favour of you and so have some of the individual citizens who journeyed and brought back riches and animals and crops back here from your island.”

She hums in affirmation, a satisfied note. Her piercing eyes measuring, assessing.

“My lady, you have genuinely surprised me,” he admits breathlessly.

He pulls something from the folds of his tunic, the gold catching the light of the morning sun as he brings her left hand toward him. She realizes what it is in an instant.

“I wanted to see before I gave this to you, just to be sure,” he murmurs, his dark eyes focused on her hand as he threaded the ring onto the third finger on her left hand.

“Fits perfectly.” Schpood swallows through the thickness once again. In an attempt to bring about some levity, he teases, “Heh, you think you're the only one with tricks up your sleeve?”

She rolls her eyes, still grinning as she looks down at the ring. It sits snug on her finger. It was simple, a design of the Westhelm sun carved in the center of the band. His nation is not exactly as prosperous as hers, encrusting a gem that was not from their mines would not be the same after all, and she wisely does not remark on it.

“It is beautiful,” she breathed, a bit mystified.

“It suits you,” he mumbled, dark eyes partially-lidded as he looked over her face.

Then she leaned toward him with such fervor that she would fall forward if he stepped back. His eyes widened at her forwardness. The air between them was warm, smelling of beer and freshly-baked bread.

The first brush of her nose against his was tentative, so cautious. It seemed like she was just testing, treating him like glass.

She shifts closer but before she could continue, footsteps resound on the corridor and a polite knock at the door comes.

Schpood steps back from her and takes a seat, aiming for casual and missing by a mile, and barks, “It’s open!”

5pyder comes in, face impassive, already used to his emperor’s brashness. “The senate requests your presence—” He pauses, hesitant, gaze bouncing between them and wondering what he just walked into.

Jophiel is left awkwardly standing, subtly moving to lean at the table to seem more natural.

To take his consul's attention away from her, Schpood frowns at him, “Whatever you have to say, you may say it in front of our soon-to-be-Empress, 5pyder.”

“Ah, right, apologies, Empress Jophiel.” he bows apologetically and continues, turning his full attention to his emperor.

“The senate has requested your presence immediately to clarify some details about the… ceremony.”

He starts to rub at his face before his consul even finishes his sentence, headache already forming at his senators’ stubbornness. He sinks deeper into his chair and looks zany.

Sighing, he asks. “What is it about this time?”

“Who’s going to carry the torches later. They are… arguing over it.”

A hot flash of irritation flares up quicker this time. He glances at Jophiel, posture relaxing, and holding back a smile—more amused by the whole situation, her eyes flit to him and the annoyance bubbling within him immediately simmers off and gives way to the potential embarrassment to her reaction to one of his tantrums. He sighs and stands up.

Turning to face her, he bows, "Sorry about this. I’ll meet you at the bridge of the Yggdrasil tree when the sun is at its highest point. We will commence the ceremony there. Cassberry will come with you for any questions or assistance.”

Jophiel smiles, the pair dangling from her ear as she nods imperative, a strand of her golden hair falls elegantly at her brow. He tries not to stare at it.

“You must give them my stern word as well, Schpood. Perhaps they would fall in line.” She jests, smiling, a tad wicked.

Beams of honey-gold, warm and soft poured through the branches and leaves of the Yggdrasil tree painting her skin in shining dots of amber where they fell. The lilting songs of a warbler carried to them—its melody a gentle accompaniment to soft breeze.

Jophiel sits on a rock by the silt banks. Schpood kneels before her, head bowed in supplication as if he is bestowed a blessing. Her ring twinkles under the sun. The saffron veil that hides her face billows in the wind. Looking up, he brushes his hands upon her feet, his hands resting out and palms upward, awaiting permission.

Her breath hitches, and sits up straighter and sticks her leg out for her betrothed. He takes it like an offering; gently sliding her shoes down and off her person. He places them at the base of the rock she sits on and slides in a bucket of water, steam still slightly raising off the edges of it.

He guides her feet in one by one, as reverent as a holy man in prayer, and caresses her soles. Braving every crack and callous that existed, like memorizing the patterns painted on a canvas.

Not bothering to turn to the gathered crowd of citizens he continues his work while he speaks, loud enough for all to hear.

“Here, before us, a bride is cleansed by the waters from the depths of Yggdrasil, and the snow from the mountain top of Dante. Legatus Exul, I ask you forever more to give her, in our union, the warmth’s gentle rays and long, fruitful days of peace and prosperity. For she is one under the sun with us, under the water and fire, and one with me.”

When he is finished, he nods to himself, satisfied and gathers the leftover water off to drip down and uses his own cape to wipe it dry. Reserved, Schpood makes his hands as mild as the ivory that holds up Jophiel’s hair before him, and slips back her the leather sandals she wears and stands, helping her up as well with a shyness that is unlike his usual demeanor.

Jophiel is silent next to him, he cannot fully tell what face she is making but the embarrassment lingers from the ritual is known through her hesitance. Her other hand clenches into a fist and Schpood watches the well-kept nails threaten to bleed the soft skin of her palm.

He does not seek to sully the tenderness with which she is in and offers her his arm for her to loop around, a mirror to their first wedding. This time, she grips him in anxiety. He places his other hand over hers for assurance, hoping the warmth of his hand would ground her. An exhale. The grip eases, he guides her on.

The gathered crowd follows suit and they place themselves at the base of the tree. Five torches held by his highest ranking officials move to their respective places. Firelight glinting, harshly illuminating their faces in the shadows of the large roots protruding from the ground. A song commences, light and hopeful.

Consul Owo comes forward and joins their right hands, inviting them in his soft, clear voice to exchange the ritual words,

“Where I am Gaius,—”

“I am Gaia.”

"Wherever I am Emperor and King,—”

“There, I am Empress and Queen."

He does not see her expression under her veil. But he does not miss the slight catch in her voice. So he presses her palm against his lips, causing Owo, ever the romantic, to sigh appreciatively.

Together, they turn to face their applauding guests. 5pyder, beams, pleased. His senators’ lips are thin lines, and they don't meet his eyes. His cohorts do a little better, managing a cryptic quirk of their lips.

They lead the applause as the song ends and walk back to Westhelm, down the main street, passing by the colosseum; recently finished and shining tall in the late afternoon sun.

Two final acts remain to be carried out inside the Citadel once their many witnesses have crowded in; One of the senators steps up, a look of relief on his face that the fire in the torch he holds didn’t die on the way in his grasp.

A potted sapling rests on a tripod next to the centre spot of the plant beds. Schpood reaches out with both hands, to scoop it out of the pot, Jophiel kneels down the small hole prepared and dug to mark its placement.

She places her hand under his, fingers clenching beneath Schpood’s gentle hold, guiding the sapling to its spot until they wiggle to plant it. Bits of dry loan soil stuck on their palms which they pat off easily.

He gestures to one of his senators who holds the torch and holds his hands out again, one to hold Jophiel’s, joint above the sapling, and the other to skim the fire, close enough to feel its breath, but not to burn.

Schpood starts once again, "Where I am Gaius…”

“I am Gaia.” Jophiel answers firmly for a second time, completing the ritual.

The heat of the day lingering on his skin, he lifts aside the stifling saffron veil with deliberate care and draws her into a kiss, brief but sincere, her lips are pillowy soft and it is the only thing he can focus on, turning deaf to the swelling cheers of their audience for their new empress.

When they eventually separate, he studies her expression; though there is a pinkish hue to her cheeks, she doesn’t look at all perturbed or disgusted, as he might have assumed, but simply thoroughly content.

At the sight of her satisfaction, he breathes once more.

They stand up hand in hand. He looks at Jophiel, trying to reconcile that she would be his wife. It had not felt real until he acknowledged the match. Part of him had assumed that she would change her mind upon meeting him once again.

But she would have him as her groom. Her husband.

“Hungry?” he asks to break the silence, taking a step back to enter the Citadel. He knew she would be pleased by his offer, sitting with Senators and dignitaries had always been stifling, regardless of how familiar they are with each other. She eyes the dining couches and tables already being laid with dishes.

“Oh yes,” she replied for his ears only. It is so terribly quiet it is when their gazes meet once again, “Let’s get this feast over with.”

Jophiel stays for a few days more to get to know her husband's nation. The title of empress is not one she takes for granted nor enjoys just as a flourishing addition. She knows she needs this alliance secured.

Her husband is a fairly easy going man, well, to her at least. She has witnessed him bark orders and chatter on and on and on to his poor guards after meetings—something she has learned he severely dislikes unless he's the one doing most of the speaking. He does not yell nor enact unjust violence upon them at his citizens though. But to think he is a dangerous tyrant isn't completely out of left field. She has witnessed enough people to succumb to the temptation of power, she just needs to be a factor for him to steer clear of it.

Schpood lets her be for the most part, as she insisted on learning about Westhelm's culture though her own terms. He always seems to concur to her wishes anyways since he is frequently preoccupied with meetings now that the borders have dropped (She murmurs well wishes to Gabory at Tricolour under her breath). Sending out diplomatic missions, trade agreements with other nations within their island, dealing with refugees, emigrants, and unsurprisingly, assassination plots.

She first finds out about the mythical tale of his first escape through Cassberry, for she witnessed it herself; He was in conversation with Jontop, one of his personal guards, and out of nowhere the assassin had just started swinging his axe onto his back. His meager iron chestplate barely tanked the first blow but adrenaline kicked in and he ran before the man could get another hit on him.

“Thankfully, Commander Skipolo was nearby and with a mighty swing of his sword, beheaded the guy right there and then!” Cassberry's tone was of fascination still, as if the details of the violence did not perturb her at all.

“He was in the middle of starving, you know, begging Remy for some bread because he used to give away his rations to his people. Then, yeah…”

Jophiel stays silent, unable to come into terms with that image. How incompatible to the striking vision of him now, bright and power full like the sun.

“After that we built up a small stage where we would gather for community meetings and events, the like. And well,” she glances at Jophiel as if to check if she’d start turning green. “He took his head and displayed it for all of us to see.” She pauses again, Jophiel nods for her to continue.

“It was actually pretty motivating in a strange way. Our emperor is good and I think death is the only option for that kind of traitor.” She stated firmly.

“Anyways, besides that, Unusederas, our bard, had made up a song about him. On the spot just like that and performed it for all of us to hear. It was a great time. We were struggling but the sight of the poison being cut out from a wound as clean and effortless as possible, like that— it was invigorating to say the least. Our emperor had survived and so did we all thanks to Westhelm efficiency.”

She files this information away. Since she knows there were more assassination plots that even Cassberry never new of.

Ironically, a few hours later, Schpood comes to her about a conspiracy he has found out against him—he is seething, clouds of steam coming from his ears that make him deaf to reason. His guards are stationed outside the doors as her husband unknowingly enters her room— too preoccupied with his anger to even notice. They hesitantly await his command but she silently gestures for them to close the door as he continues rambling on.

Apparently, one of the Senators of Construction, Knight_Arcturus, was planning to overthrow and murder him after disagreements with the handling of the construction of the aqueducts.

She pulls aside the book she is reading and sits close to him, still prattling on and on about how it wasn't his fault the gods don't want them to have water that isn't boiling hot. She hums and nods disparagingly, ever the sympathetic soul. His chatter calms down eventually and takes his surroundings into consideration, suddenly realizing how they are positioned.

She had navigated him to sit on her lap and was patting his hair to calm him. He sits up so suddenly that she worries for whiplash, face beet red and blurs out apologies, “Fuck, sorry I get so lost when I get angry I– didn't mean—.”

She smiles, shifting in her seat to lean at the chair’s arm, “It's alright, Schpood. I do appreciate it when you talk to me about your nation's politics.”

“Wait, really?”

She nods, flipping the strands of hair that falls loosely off her face towards her back, he stares. “Yes, of course. What kind of empress would I be if I stuck my head in the ground?”

He stays silent, and shrugs, “Well, alright. Don't say I didn't warn you though.”

“Thank you.”

“But you must talk to me about Tricolour matters as well. It is only fair. Even if the thought of listening to Pandora politics would have me jumping in the boiling water sea, I’d still like to be in the know.”

She grins.

The colosseum was a buzz as they took their seats, her breath stolen by the enormity of the structure, somehow appearing larger on the inside.

She had never seen so many people in one place, besides their wedding, the stands were roaring. The emperor sits on an isolated box, protected by the heat of the day. His consuls are both present, and so are his guards, filling in the space around her.

It had already taken her far too long to weave the palla she was wearing her crisp ivory tunic–a band of yellow following the hemline of the rich crimson fabric. General Jamminhead had insisted she wear the jewelry of Tricolour regardless, gold bracelets adorning both wrists and a matching choker clasped at her throat, but she still felt slightly overdressed.

“Are you alright?” Schpood asked, pulling her from her thoughts as she blinked at him for a moment. She could feel her cheeks warming, sheepish that she was caught in her reverie.

“Yes, Schpood,” she breathed, a self-conscious smile twisting the corners of her lips. She did not want him to worry about petty comforts. “I was simply gathering my surroundings–this is my first time inside the colosseum, I hope you do not take offense to my naivety.”

His surprise was palpable, dark eyebrows lifting toward his hairline and eyes rounding. Then his expression melted into a smirk, his head bending toward hers. “Well, I will find great enjoyment explaining later to you if you are willing to listen,” he said, just loud enough for her to hear him.

He was close enough that it felt like a secret between the two of them, a chill running up her spine despite the warm spring sun. She found herself enjoying it.

“Of course, if it is not too much trouble.”

Seemingly pleased with the answer, he faces the arena fully. “You do know what, at least, is about to happen today?"

She considers presuming what it is, lying for his satisfaction. She's heard the rumors. Biting the inside of her cheek for a moment as she folds her hands in her lap and twists the fabric of her palla over her fingers. Perhaps she was thinking about it too hard–too worried about misstepping and causing trouble for herself. So she shakes her head in response, it's an easier answer.

“A talent show, of course!”

She blinks, incredulous, tilting her head in utter confusion. He laughs at her reaction.

“I knew you'd assume something. Haha! Nah, we're just having a talent show today to prelude the Labourer's festival.” He waves his hand and grins cheekily at her.

Still baffled by this, she asks, “Who's performing?” glancing at Schpood before peering down at the arena again.

He grins, eyes seemingly lighting up at her question. “We have several citizens who volunteered including my senators and some soldiers.” he said, resting his elbows on his knees "It is not a competition but rather just a celebration of the arts of Westhelm.”

Consul Owo steps in, pulling Schpood's attention from her, asking questions about Ish knows what. It was hard to hear his reply, their voices getting lost in the din of the colosseum.

She glances at the arena once more, people coming in to set up a make-shift stage, they do not don armour nor bear arms.

Schpood really wasn't lying. A talent show. Ish save her why did—she shouldn't have assumed.

She figures this won't be the only time her husband surprises her.

The first person steps in, dressed in standard Westhelm attire, save for the guitar strapped to his back. A resounding roar of the crowd sweeps through,

Schpood leans into her ear, “Unusederas, our most famous bard.” Pride seeping into his tone.

The man starts to strum, and the crowd falls silent, all completely drawn by him.

The melody carries out and his voice perfectly intertwines with it. She looks around, everyone is sitting or standing as if in a trance. Gazes locked in the arena. Her husband, his consuls nor his guards were immune to it. Fascinating.

When the last note wrings out, magnanimous shrieks erupt for him, near deafening. Her husband sits up in his chair to give his cheers and she follows suit out of politeness.

There were several people who followed through; Senator Lizzie, who billowed out a haunting tune. A mining captain, Bacca, several other citizens, and to her surprise, Consul 5pyder, steps down to perform. Her eyes shooting up her forehead at his smooth baritone ringing across the place.

When Jontop enters the stage and starts singing "Sticking Out Your Gyatt for the Emperor" a resounding loud ‘BOO!’ echoes throughout the amphitheater and Schpood hides his face in his hands—more embarrassed to have his personal guard be so publicly shameless and vulgar than angry.

A small crowd chases him out of the area and the sight of it sends Jophiel into a laughing fit. Unable to keep it down after hearing Jontop desperately plead for his life.

When Wizzy whips out his love poem to Commander Skipolo, there is just a mix of laughter and heckles. Schpood leans in to whisper to her in an exasperated tone, “Wizzy is just like that. I let him stay because he's just pretty cracked at fighting.”

Before she can ask what that means, a resounding familiar sound booms,

sidefall was killed by Rising Lava.

Schpood's eyes widen, gasps of surprise echoing through the area. Several people start cheering, some offering their quiet condolences, most are confused. Wizzy is still at the arena asking in a yell if he can continue reading his poem.

Jophiel's eyes flit to Schpood. His brow is furrowed but his gaze is far away. “Schpood?” He doesn't respond so she touches his shoulder to get his attention. He startles, making her jump as well.

“Warden alert.” He whispers to her, terror bleeding into his tone, she gives him a confused and worried look.

He leans down the balcony of the box, “WARDEN ALERT!” he repeats louder and more firmly. His people pause to look at him. Commander Skipolo barks at his citizens, repeating his words. “Everyone evacuate now! A warden is on the loose!”

They all scramble out of the arena, Schpood guides her out himself, his hand firm at her waist, warmth radiating off his palms, “We should go. It'll probably not be safe here.”

Guards surround both of them but she is still in the dark, what the hell is a warden?

When they are escorted out to safety, she gets a glance from a distance at a dark moving mass, glowing cyan in places, its roar deafening and yet the Westhelm army was fighting with ease, fear absent from their stances.

Later, with the news of it being slain and no one being hurt, she steps out to see its head on a pike, lined along with traitors’ and enemies’ of the nation. There are distant sounds of music and celebration of their victory.

It is a brutal display, but Westhelm's idea of justified violence seemed to really bring the nation together, but she really can't ask for anything else beside that.

A few more peaceful days pass, more and more Pandorans visit the island, most specifically, Westhelm.

They always seem wary at first, the fearmongering of the other Pandoran leaders of their neighboring islands not helping with their perception. But one glance at the architectural and artistic prowess of Westhelm always leaves them in awe.

When they see her, they light up when they see a familiar face. But for the most part, she didn't need to do any placating since Yggdrasilians were all hospitable people and willing to share what they have regardless of how much they have, a value carved within themselves after the collective struggles they went through.

She walks around, seeing both Islanders in conversations with each other and her heart swells. This is all she ever wanted.

Cassberry is hot on her tail and so is her General. She wanders around Westhelm, determined to get to know people more since her stay is nearly coming to an end.

She pauses at an auspicious building, hot steam coming off in droves. She asks her friend what it was.

She perks up, turns to see what she is referring to and her face blotches red, “Oh, it's the Thermae—a bathhouse. There are plenty around Westhelm. The water is regulated here for comfort.”

Curious, she steps inside and hears Cassberry plead not to enter this one which makes her even more determined to peep.

When she steps inside her eyes are immediately drawn a crude illustration picture of, what she presumed is, the emperor, based on the gold laurel crown that decorated his head—her husband, as thin as paper sheet, exaggerated feminine features, hips cocked to the side and leaning on to, on what she presumed, is a spear.

Cassberry seems to take notice of what she is staring at, her fevered explanation cut off by Jophiel, knees buckling due to how hard she had burst into loud shrieking laughter.

“Schpood.”

He hums,

“I found the bathhouses.”

Silence, a pause. “Oh.”

“Yeah, 'oh'. You have some explaining to do."

He splutters, “I-I didn’t— they drew me like that! What can I do? Storm inside and demand to change it? They'll cry how it's an attack to their artistic prowess! They said it attracts more customers too! I can't get kicked out of that place. They got the best bath in town!”

Jophiel starts cackling midway through, unable to stop, voice shrill as rhinestones. She snorts in between to catch her breath and it's a sound unlike her that Schpood wants to earn it forever.

On the final day of her stay, she tries to meet and get to know as many higher ups as possible. Senator Ardy tours her around during the festivities on Labourers’ day and Cassberry takes her once again to the base of the tree, to teach her a Yggdrasil and a Westhelm prayer.

As the sky bruises its familiar indigo, she steps home on her final day, her husband greeting her with a sweet kiss to her hand, refusing to let it go, as if to bleed and mark the warmth of her flesh in him. His tired eyes roaming over her as if she would already disappear in front of him.

His sorrow emanating loudly at the thought of her departure, she caresses his jaw and pulls him to lean down for her to place a kiss at his forehead.

“I will miss you too.” she whispers to his brow, and it's somehow terrifyingly sincere.

He tucks himself in her shoulder to breathe in her scent, unable to reconcile what is to come, he pleads, “Write to me, please.”

And so when they return to Tricolour to run their nation. Their husband longs for them through the gaps of his diplomacy letters.

My Emperor,

Tis Lord Gabory’s name day in a week, you must come and visit for the festivities–

Midsummer has arrived and Tricolour citizens have moved from their homes and shops into the nearby clearing in the middle of the forests and the southern coast to gather for the festivities of the day. Long garlands of flowers being weaved similar to ones at their wedding. People carried firewood strewn out into several piles on the forest ground. The nation is bustling with chatter and excitement.

There, Schpood spots his wife sitting in a patch of shade. The summer sun shines so brightly that the colors of the trees seem muted, pale in comparison to the light in the air. Light that catches on the hair of the people and their handfuls of flowers.

He scoots up next to her, the white cotton shirt embroidered with red thread in the image of laurel leaves that he was given to wear for the celebration breezy against his skin.

Jophiel smiles, her hair is pulled back by several ribbons cascading down her golden hair. She notices him looking at the several wreaths scattered about, and explains in a hushed voice, “It’s for them to throw in the water later–for good luck and a long life.”

“For your marriage, as well!” The person closest to Jophiel pipes up. Their fingers push a marigold into the woven garland, tying the stem neatly into a knot on the other side. Jophiel’s apple cheeks tint a rosy shade at the interjection and bows her head sheepishly.

“Yes, that as well. If it floats, you have a long and happy marriage, if it sinks then—” She shrugs, earlier bashfulness now leaving her.

He hums in understanding, something important then if she's so embarrassed to talk about it.

“What's with the fire, then?”

She blinks up to him, “Ah yes, later before the sun sets, we will all take a dip in the ocean then come back here to cleanse ourselves by dancing and jumping over the fire together.”

He blanches and Jophiel laughs at his expression.

“It is mandatory for married couples, I’m afraid. You would want to leave me so early do you?” She pouts.

“No, of course not! Also, I'm not scared about some fire, don't be silly.” He hurriedly assures.

Her brows furrow and realizes his discomfort; the water!

With a newfound sense of determination, Jophiel stands up, pulling his arm up to follow suit, “Don't worry. I won’t let you go and I guarantee that we’ll be fine.”

They pass by people gathering wood and herbs. People pounding wheat and barely, The scent of beer and wine and porridge and various roasted meats drifts through the afternoon air.

Guiding him to the edges of the southern shore, light sand crunches underneath their heels. Not like the rough gravel rocks or the silky mud banks of Yggdrasil shores—unfamiliar but not entirely unpleasant so far.

The roar of the ocean staggers him, and Jophiel holds his hand steadily. He blinks, and mutters an apology for being startled. She pauses to look at him and continues to walk towards the spot where the water met land.

Soft foam of the water washes on and off rhythmicly, crystal aquamarine glimmering under the sun as she dips her feet without hesitation, the edges of her long dress bleeding with the sea water’s intrusion, climbing up slowly soaking.

A tug at his arm, he turns to look at her– eyes glinting, reflecting the water’s blue, and reflexively starts walking towards her. He looks down at the water rushing around his legs and pauses, his brain catching up to remember there is no pain to be found here; in the shores of Tricolour, in the arms of his wife.

He barks out a laugh, “The water isn't boiling! He exclaims, astonished.

Soon, the proper festivities start, dancing and singing around the fire. She pushes him in the gathered circle and mimics their movements in endearing confusion and hums to the repetitive tunes of their songs.

When couples gather to jump up the fires, the people goad them into doing it first as their figureheads. Jophiel grips his hand tight and instructs him to gather momentum for the leap together. At their success, cheers erupt and Jophiel's merry face–stretched wide at the sight of her people thriving, flaxen color of her hair and the silky ribbons catching the fire like a flame herself, harsh shadows diffusing in the plains of her face, sends flutters in his stomach.

Before midnight, she leads him to a patch of plains with patches of long tufts of grass, surrounded by dense trees with a hidden brook. She bites her lip, endearing and sweet way that tugs at Schpood’s mouth until he’s smiling too, trying to hold back a laugh at the sight of his perplexed look,

“Come and help me make my wreath”

And so instructs him to collect proper herbs—hyssop, ferns, meadowsweet, dandelions, yarrow, rosemary, and periwinkle.

Schpood watches, his wife seated in a small flat patch of grass amongst the tall stalks that keep them hidden for the most part, mesmerized at the speed at which she weaves the herbs and flowers he’s collected for her.

“You have watched me braid my hair in record time.” Her lithe fingers twirling and twisting in a repetitive pattern.

“Yes, but I didn't know it would be the same!”, he says laying down next to her.

She scoots over for him and hums, “There are plenty of types of weaving. My nation runs off wool and mutton as our biggest export. It is imperative as their ruler to have to know it, or at least, be familiar with all of them.”

“I’m not my nation’s best fighter so I wouldn't fucking know.”

She smirks, “I think it was obvious after the first assasination attempt.”

He squawks at her, incredulous—”Excuse me?”

“What? I speak nothing but truth. Thank Skip and of course, Sheep and Jontop for putting up with you.” Gesturing in a vague area where they probably stood by at a distance for their privacy.

“W’s wrong with me? They should be honored to be around me, their emperor!”

She flicks his nose with the tail end of the flower stem she’s currently weaving.

“Ow—Alright, alright! Maybe I’m lucky that people put up with me– especially those two anyways. Ish save them, I yap endlessly about things I’m annoyed about. And I get annoyed about fuckin’—everything!”

“Yes, I would know.” She nods ruefully.

He huffs, “Yeah, you would.”

They settle in a comfortable silence. Birdsong echoes and the faint sounds of music from the forest where people were still celebrating wafts through with the wind. She pauses to touch him, her fingers lightly grazing themselves in the stiff hair on the back of his head, as if petting a faithful dog. Everything around them is lit by the full moon above the clearing and the fireflies flickering about in groups in the evening shadows. Jophiel hums a familiar tune to herself as she finishes the last knots of her wreath and ceremoniously puts it on top of her head with a flourish.

She stands in a huff, peering at her husband still lying on the grass patch with a mischievous glint in her eyes and a blush on her cheeks, “You know…Tonight is the shortest night of the year. Anything can happen— like, magical creatures could appear!”

He squints at her, “What? What are you on about? What kind of magical creatures?”

“I don't know, anything! I was told as a child that if you were pure of heart, you would see the forest maidens lost in their dance and if you weren't, they would come to eat you!” She cackles, hand on her hip and swaying.

“Well, I bloody jumped over a fire today and danced silly with my wife—Does it make me pure of heart enough for the day?”

She pauses, still swaying, “Hm. I’ll consider it.”

“What do you mean you—”

“Yes, me! I am the ruler of this land, aren't I? So it is on my judgement what I say is pure or not.” Jutting her chin in mock authority.

“Hm…” He rolls over the grass, peers at the spillage of twinkling stars then absentmindedly runs his hand over his face and closes his eyes, something has been pounding in his temple for a long time now— adrenaline coming down from the earlier festivities, probably.

“Can’t argue with that.” He grumbles.

A light kick to his arm startles him, “What the f—!”

His wife peers down at him, the moonlight framing her in an even more ethereal glow than she normally looks, blonde hair near platinum in the evening hues.

“AS THE RULER OF THIS LAND I HEREBY DECREE THAT YOU ARE NOT PURE OF HEART!”

“What?! Why? Is it because I a—”

“No, you idiot! It’s because you haven't found the golden fern flower yet!” She whispers conspiratorially.

“Fern— Augh! Ish, wha–what does it look like?” He groaned as he stood up, patting himself down off any grass stuck to his person.

They giggle, “It’s not… Well, no one really knows what it looks like… It’s magical and very rare!” they explain, already walking away from him.

Schpood makes a face, “Then what am I even looking for? Just… Ferns? They’re fu—everywhere.”

Jophiel purses her lips in contemplation, slowing down and turning around.

“Well, it'll be golden. The whole fern… Or the flower. Golden and fair and very magical. You’ll be able to tell right away.”

Schpood pouts, but ultimately starts looking around; unable to deny his wife anything as always.

“Go and find it while I’ll make you your wreath!” Jophiel laughs distantly, it sounds like the ringing of the tintinnabula from his childhood home.

She shuffles away from him and crouches down to pick herbs, her hair blowing in the wind. Golden and fair and magical, Schpood thinks.

He pathetically gives up in a few minutes' time, of course, and shamefully walks back to where his wife sits in their previous spot of the clearing.

She turns to grin at him, “So?”

He sits and lays his head down her lap, muffledly groaning into her dress, “Didn’t find it.”

“Hm. Shame, you will soon be eaten by evil maidens then.”

Schpood turns to look at them, “You are in a very silly mood today,” he says earnestly.

They grin and place the wreath upon his head. He sits up and adjusts it.

“You know what would be silly?” She leans into him, a languid look, covered by eyelashes, a half-smile that you also want to keep, “If you kissed me now.”

He meets her in the middle and places a peck, smack dab on her lips. She hits him in mock outrage and wrestles him into the grass, both of their laughters echoing. The wreaths fall off their heads without them noticing.

“A proper one, you dolt!” He laughs and cups her face in his hands and kisses her, sweet and true.

She sighs into the kiss, and grips his shoulder, her lips hot and greedy, she does not let go, and he does not dare push her away. Her hands are clasped behind his head like a trap. Their breaths mingle. His hand slides down to lift her dress.

“Is this… Is this alright?” Schpood asks, even though he can hardly catch his breath.

“Yes, always,” Jophiel smiles against his lips, panting. She grabs his hair again, more demandingly, pulling him to her heaving chest. A vein trembles under his lips, her heart beats very quickly, like a captured bird. It’ll be just a moment, just a short while—and the ferns will muffle the moans, soft and honest, and her husband will kiss her neck, stroking the last of her pleasure out.

Perhaps the golden ferns bloomed somewhere, right next to them. But it didn’t matter. It all felt like a dream.

A few meters away, a pair of guards turn their backs around, feigning ignorance to the noises in the fields of tall grass. One tightens her fist at the grip of her sword.

Jophiel,

Island One has another concert for Consul Owo’s birthday, please, if you have the time to come–

His hands cover her eyes, she blindly grasps on whatever is in front of her as she’s led by Schpood to who knows where.

He snickers behind her, her brows furrow under his hands.

“Where in Ish’s name are you taking me now?”

He laughs now, a bright and mischievous ring bleeding into it. “You'll see!” And stops to release her.

She blinks open, eyes adjusting to what she's seeing and– widen in shock,

“You–!” She turns to Schpood, who's leaning at the doorway, smirk tugging at his lips.

Bastard, she barely bites back, swearing and looks around in wonder.

There, they stand under a greenhouse filled with Pandora Cherry Blossom trees, cornflowers, tulips of all colors and daisies in a row of beds, hanging vines of glow berries providing the meager amount of light in the place. Bees nests and small campfires underneath them, lush verdant mossy carpets of grass under the dirt, bushes of scarlet red roses and lilies decorate the sides– the smell, the clarity, the noise. It is Tricolour. He has built Tricolour for her in his nation.

She glances at her husband, still leaning, arms crossed, watching her intently.

“Yes, yes, you win. I like it very much!” Voice high as a bird song, or perhaps a spring cricket serenade.

“‘Like’? Oh my–I can't believe my efforts can only be met with a ‘like’. My wife is truly so spoiled!” He sniffs in mock outrage, pouting his lip. A charming thing that pulls tight against the shape of endearment in Jophiel’s chest.

Jophiel tugs at his belt and he trips into her arms and laughs at his befuddlement. She steals a kiss to his cheek, just below his eye. It’s terribly impertinent and completely unbecoming of a lady of her standing. Schpood’s eyes widen, blush trailing down his neck.

“I love it.”

Schpood,

Are those stubborn flowers I sent blooming in your soil? My gardeners have a fertilizer mixture that might help–

He steps on her foot again, she winces and he winces back.

“Schpood! Focus!”

“I'm trying alright!”

“Let's–let's just start again, okay? Just don't think about it too much.”

She tugs at him, his arm supporting hers as they begin again. There is no tune that they follow. They are both barefoot in a random grassfield hidden away from most people’s sights. Jophiel tugged on his arm to show him places like these around her nation. Private nooks that only she has discovered and kept under cover.

They spin near endlessly. The ribbons in Jophiel’s hair flowing in the wind. Her dress glides gracefully, mesmerized by the patterns that seem to move with the flow. They bump shoulders, and she chides him for his mistake by pinching the meat of his shoulder before continuing to twirl around him using seamlessly intricate footwork while he is bent on one knee, clapping to the beat of the unsung rhythm.

He stands and shuffles after her, arms around her armpits. He feels her heart beat faster when her back flushes with his chest, his cheeks redden but he continues to tug her to another set of steps that he previously messed up.

The grass crunches under her steps, helping him with the timings of his.

She twirls again and again and again– until he catches her by the waist.

And they stop, face to face to each other, noses near touching.

There are no cheers, no audience to watch, no one to perform for. Cicadas sing around them, but the only thing he only feels is her warmth next to him. Schpood doesn't know when they have drawn so impossibly close to one another, their bodies laced with one another where they might be mistaken as one, both still breathing heavily from exertion.

There is a trail of sweat down her brow, the wreath in his head starts to itch but he cannot see past the apples of her cheeks, flushed so deep they become red, and her azure eyes, twinkling, proud and joyful—looking at only him.

My Dear Dandelion,

The gods of this land have come down to make my life as miserable as possible once again. Brepfest appeared at the colosseum with a lyre in their hand and started to play a terrible tune but, much to my displeasure, it made several of my citizens stop working and the citizens of Nevermore have come to celebrate as well causing a h—

When Schpood leaves again for Westhelm, they stand at the harbour, hand in hand. As a farewell, they turn to put their hand on his chest and uses the momentum to pull themselves up on their toes, kissing him briefly on the mouth. The prickle of his day-old stubble chafing at their delicate skin, which they have learned to enjoy the sensation of. The broad stretch of his hands cradles their jaw, their hand fisted in his tunic, pulling him toward with some urgency. He let out a muffled grunt, a hand finding the curve of their hip.

He pulls away, breath hot as he puffs against his wife’s face, his cheeks flushed and his lips parted as he takes in air. His chest moving beneath their hand with each heavy exhale. A smile curved his lips, the endearing crinkles forming around his eyes.

“I will see you soon,” he murmured, pressing another chaste kiss to Jophiel’s lips before untangling himself from their grasp. “But I believe if I keep you any longer, your guards will be suspicious.”

They let go of his tunic, smoothing it out as they lean back and nod. He cups their cheek in his hand, thumb running over their cheekbone before he bid them farewell, stamping another kiss upon their brow before leaving, boarding the ship once again. He turns to wave once more, unable to keep his eyes off their shape.

They bite back a giggle, a hand covering their mouth as they look down at the ring on their finger that twinkles in the setting sun.

Their face burns and their heart aches at the sight of his vessel disappearing into the horizon.

My Sunshine,

I apologize for not starting with good news, there has been an attempt to kill one of the leaders of the Commonwealth today. Please do not grin, I acknowledge your dislike for them but this is a serious concern for—

A migraine is forming, he can feel it.

The Blue Cross has called him to another meeting– it is imperative that he must attend. Nonsense babbling about negotiations and petty feuds of nations he doesn't care about.

Another argument forms between some group he doesn't particularly know the name of; both from Pandora. Before he can complain, a low noise already bubbling in his throat—a lithe hand settles on his knee.

Jophiel doesn't look at him, continuing to focus on the argument that is progressively muffled in his ears.

He glances at the hand on his knee, and to her again.

He doesn't hear the exasperated sigh 5pyder lets out next to him.

My Dear,

Yggdrasil blooms, so does my longing. Its flowers fall into the grounds of the island and into the boiling waters of the moat. They remind me of your hair—

She tugs at his hair, a muffled moan reverberates under her skirts.

It is unbecoming of a man of his standing to be in this position. And yet—

She bites her lip and hikes her leg higher to rest on his shoulder.

My husband,

Please know your talents lie elsewhere than prose. Pandora meetings have been so terse lately, I shall arrive tomorrow when dawn breaks.

Months pass, more and more infrastructure rises in both of their nations. Her people and his form bonds forged in steel. Trade routes are established. A tunnel between their nations–between the islands is nearly complete. There is peace—the earlier fearmongering that was perpetrated by weariness of the other completely dissipating.

She covets her alliances with Luminara for their bridge efforts and Aperion with their proximity. The Coalition and the Commonwealth remain neutral to Tricolour’s activities, tension still hangs in the air after Jophiel’s quick decision to ally herself with a nation outside their island first and not bother to inform any of them about it beforehand.

Her ring glinting in the sun with Westhelm’s emblem in the center perturbs them, she knows. But she cannot give it any mind when her people are prospering and she is happy; her husband is a good man despite the front he puts up, which admittedly, kickstarted the rumors scattered about along the vines of each island.

As dawn blooms over the forest is the Verdant Hall, the air somewhere far away is cut by the sharp whetting of a sword. The Lady of Colour straps it to her side as usual as she knocks and opens the door to greet her Majesty.

There, her Queen sits in front of her mirror, her long blonde hair is parted to the side and she slides her lithe fingers on the fresh red spots– hickeys blooming across her pale skin. She spots her Lady through the mirror and turns around, wide-eyed and beet red at Seraphim and tries to move her hair to cover the marks in her neck.

“Please, come in. Apologies for the…” she clears her throat and gestures to her to sit at the chair by the window.

Seraphim bites the inside of her cheek and tries to calm the tremor of the nerves as the gravity of what she is about to do looms over her, clenching the hilt of her sword as she obeys her queen one final time.

At Westhelm, Schpood looks at the dawning sun in the horizon. Longing to hear the heartbeat of his wife's warm breast, the flutter of her light lashes against his cheek, the soft floral notes of her scent above him and it all feels and sounds like a dream.

The volcano rumbles, papers shuffle on a table, a room smelling of dirt, old stone, gunpowder and the salt of ocean water, the pitter-patter of footsteps in the cobblestone pathways, a pair of wreaths float on the shores of Tricolour and a small herb bundle is found tucked into the seams of the Queen’s dress by a servant. She squints and twirls it in the sunlight–yarrow, periwinkle, and rosemary tied with a single simple fern.