A Husband for Deva

No Ribbons or Flowers

Tradition demanded that every Ilujavit bride be married from her mother's kitchen door, but there could be no Maidens' Feast for one with a belly swollen beyond hope of disguise. The Queen had promised a small reception instead, something fit for a foreign prince, but the mood was far from festive, with only the family and a few trusted courtiers present - those who could be counted on never to look directly at the princess's lack of waist or make any sort of unseemly reference. Cups of spiced cider and pine-scented candles couldn't make the day into something it wasn't.

Deva tried not to think of the pretty white and gold ribbons and garlands of snow-cherry blossoms that had decorated the great royal kitchens for her elder sister's wedding, or the laughter and whispers of the young ladies who'd gathered to celebrate that day. I'm not the kind of girl who dreams about her special day, she reminded herself, when wistful thoughts intruded. I'm the practical one. Ribbons and blossoms aren't important. My baby needs a father, that's all.

She waited in the lower kitchen, near enough to hear when the knock she must answer would come.

The watch had reported sighting riders under the flag of the Western Isles some hours earlier, and an escort had been sent out to greet the visitors. Even now, they were undoubtedly riding through the outer gate. The escort would have explained that they'd be proceeding with the wedding at once - no time for the bride and groom to court and grow accustomed to one another, none of the usual diplomatic festivities, no public presentation of the betrothed couple. Just the marriage ceremony, right away, out of the cold. Even now, the escort would be leading Brialach and his company around the outer court to the kitchen gardens and the door where generations of bridegrooms had entered.

Worn down by the loneliness and disgrace of her solitary confinement, Deva found herself strangely numb to the small stings at hand - the absence of innocent maidens who mustn't be tainted by the sight of her, the lack of bridal flowers and ribbons, the way her father avoided looking at her stomach and didn't hug her. She knew that Ashlen and Hal stood near her, offering their support and comfort, but she didn't - wouldn't - turn to them.

She found herself stroking her fingers over the sleeves of her scarlet-and-gold wedding blouse, noticing the slight stiffness and texture that the precious metallic threads gave the fabric. It looked particularly fine in contrast with the sumptuous new smock of chocolate velvet, and the deeper brown woolen overskirt with gold embroidery around the hem. Mother didn't skimp on my wedding clothes, at least. The festive garments were her first change from dull mourning grey in many weeks.

Some commotion in the kitchen gardens and a forceful rapping at the door gave notice of the Islanders' arrival. Courtiers and servants alike turned to Deva with expectant eyes, but she froze. The knocking on the door came again, and her brother gave her a gentle push of encouragement, saying, "Go on, Little Owl; you've got to go and let him in."

Crossing the flagstone floor felt more treacherous than spring ice. And then she reached out her hands to the big iron handle and hauled the heavy old door open.

Three men stood in the doorway, flame-haired all and unmistakably Keireidhe sons - Brialach in the middle, pale and drawn, his arms gripped on either side by a grim-faced brother. They wore strange-looking leather tunics and leggings, with gem-studded collars at their necks and gold ornaments knotted in their hair. One of the brothers was slipping a flask back into his tunic, plainly having given Brialach a fortifying slug of something.

"I bid you welcome. Please come in," Deva murmured with awkward courtesy. Releasing Brialach's arms, his brothers gave him a shove across the threshold, and then followed him in, as if to block any retreat.

Catching sight of them, Ashlen nearly flew to the doorway, embracing her brothers without restraint, giving them the warmth of welcome that Deva had not offered. "Connlach! Branlach! Claireidhi deváid, lathe amaróid aidh Cealach taedra envát viya teot! Ys chirét tiyes, Brialach; ceitro lathe biet cynda eimaróid." She turned to Deva, eyes bright. "Deva, may I have the honor of formally presenting your betrothed to you? Brialach Keireidhe, be known to Deva Ilujava. Brialach's companions are two more of our brothers, Connlach and Branlach." The warmth of Ashlen's greeting broke through the icy discomfort that had grown in the room.

He looks... frightened? After one darting glance at Brialach's face, Deva fixed her eyes on his brothers, summoning a smile. "You will wish to be introduced to my parents. May I present you to them?" Her mind spun. What could a man like that fear?

The larger of the two brothers grinned as he bowed. "Ashlen may make the introduction to Their Majesties, I think. You will wish to greet tae caileidhe and have the moment alone, yes?"

No. I'm not ready. But the baby moved in her, a gentle inner shifting, and the time for avoidance had passed.

Brialach wore the face of a condemned man as they faced each other. Unable to bear the leaden look in his eyes, Deva forgot all the polite phrases she'd rehearsed. "You don't have to do this, if the thought of me pains you so. I will find a way to release you, believe me, unless you tell me that you want to go through with it."

He looked down at her, white-faced. "I have ached to see you again, orchadhe - it is your father I dread to face, for the wrong I have done you." And he hesitantly reached out to touch the swelling curve of her belly. Our baby. Ours.

Deva had to swallow hard before she could reply. "My parents don't believe in... what happened," she told him. "In their eyes, this is my shame alone."

"Then I am twice shamed, that you have worn my dishonor for me." The relief written upon him was bleak, as though she had given him back his life but taken the last of his pride for it.

"It doesn't matter anymore, now you're here." Deva laid a comforting hand on his arm. "I'm glad you're here." She grinned up at him. He still looked a bit shaken.

"I thought..." He sighed. "At home, if a man does great harm to a woman, it is accepted for her father or brothers to... emordát liye?" At a loss for the right word, he drew a finger across his throat.

"You thought my father would have you killed, and you still came?"

"Cealach said they would let us wed. I... I hoped to only take punishment with fists."

The fair skin across his cheekbones was sprinkled with brown-sugar freckles - she couldn't imagine it bruised and split. She remembered how his companions had gripped his arms and pushed him through the door. "Did your brothers make you come?"

"They would have. But I chose to come with no fight." He gestured toward the rounded front of her smock with a rueful smile.

"Oh." That, again. "Because of the baby."

A general clearing of throats reminded them that the whole room waited on Brialach's presentation to the King and Queen. Deva looked up to see her parents approaching in stately progress, bringing any hope of further privacy to an end.

"Come, Deva," said the Queen, with a gracious social smile, "do present your betrothed to us."

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♥ He's here! But it's not all love and snow-cherry blossoms. Should she go with the flow and accept that this wedding is going to happen? Or should she insist that he has to choose her, not just the baby and everyone's expectations?

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