Zasha's Capture (manxman)

Chapter 12

The path that lead out of the castle gates was lined with people. As Zasha stood, Cora stepped out in front and to the side of him. She spoke with the authority of the Queen she was, "Zasha, Prince of Faerian, Blessed by Areala, Beloved Brother, I thank you for your sacrifice to your people. Please accept this as evidence of our gratitude."

When she had finished speaking, Cora descended to the bottom of the stairs, where the polished stone met the earth. 

She knelt and removed the robe that announced her as the Ruler of Faer. It shimmered in the sunlight, its appearance never announcing the years it had been passed down in the royal family. For millennia it had graced the shoulders of Kings and Queens, adorning them with its flowing grace and beauty.

She lay it on the ground, spreading it out to protect Zasha's feet from touching the path.

Zasha watched as every person lining the path mimicked Cora, kneeling and laying a piece of clothing on the ground. Zasha felt a break in the fog that encased him as a tear rolled down his cheek. He understood the significance of Cora's actions, and though the garments of the commoners were nowhere near as fine as hers, they touched him just the same. 

He walked with his head held high, his feet never coming into contact with the bare ground all the way to the temple. He walked the path lined with the garments of his people. With each step that his feet were protected from the open ground, he felt the reason for his sacrifice all the more. Unending words of thanks followed him all the way to the steps of the temple.

 He turned and faced the crowd that gathered in his wake, many of them weeping. He placed his hands over his heart and dipped his head to his chest, the sign of utmost respect, before he turned to enter the doors of the temple. Cora was beside him, once more wearing her cloak. Calls of his name followed him until the doors to the temple closed behind them, their magical seal closing out the sounds.

He took a deep breath and moved inwards, past the entrance of the temple to stand in front of the carved statue of Areala. In one hand she held a healing herb, the flower clasped gently between her thumb and forefinger. Her other hand had been enchanted and it had a swirling orb of light that radiated from her outturned palm. One signified the blessing of herb lore and the other the blessing of healing by divine touch. Zasha studied the statue for a long moment, thinking that while it was remarkably accurate, it did no justice to the true Areala.

He reached out to touch the hand that held the enchanted orb, cold stone met his flesh, causing a small shiver to run up his spine. He knelt, bending his head as he prayed for forgiveness, hoping that his goddess would understand his actions of betrayal. He heard no voice in his head. He felt no weight off his shoulders. He had no divine intervention to save him from his impending fate. 

For a moment he allowed a sliver of despair to emerge. With it came a few silent tears. He steeled himself once more, wiping the tears from his eyes as he turned to move into the main part of the temple, where the ceremony would take place.

"Does your future union dismay you so?"

The masculine voice brought his head snapping up. He stood, staring wide eyed at the man who had spoken.

He was enormous. Zasha's head barely reached the bottom of his exposed chest. The first thing Zasha took note of were his eyes, there was no discernible pupil or iris. Instead, the whites of his eyes housed a solid black pool that only left a small portion of the white visible. The impression that he was left with was immense depth, as if he were staring into an unending well.

The skin was no less startling. It was the grayish blue of a storm clouded sky, and covered in whorl upon whorl of tattoos. They snaked up his neck, the stark black of the patterns flowing fluidly up the left side of his face, to curve gently around the edge of his eye and down his cheekbone. The markings were all connected, almost as if they were part of his skin instead of ink underneath it. His hair was pulled to one side, tied with a leather thong, and hung over the front of his shoulder. Both his hair and eyes held the same stark black hue as the swirling markings.