A muffled hiss escapes my lips as the cold water touches my bare skin. Goosebumps rise along my legs in strange contrast to my sun-warmed back, which is probably burning despite the layers of fabric between me and the light. I bite the inside of my cheek and plunge one leg, then the other, beneath the swirling surface of the river, ignoring the sharp pins-and-needles pain that radiates upwards into my thighs and lower back as I wade beyond the shallows. Mud and silt squish between my toes as I walk, and tiny fish the same shocking silver as my dress dart through its floating, jellyfish-like skirts.  

         I train my gaze on his face. I would rather look anywhere else, but I won't let him think I'm shivering because of anything but the icy water. I won't crown his victory with my cowering and quivering. My tears have long since dried on my cheeks, and no new ones fall. I hold my head high, my chin lifted slightly in an unspoken challenge. I want us both to remember that this is my choice. A horrible choice, one forced on me by threats and extortion, but still mine. I'm here because of love. Not for the sick bastard in the river with me, but for a true prince. Amshira. That's one name, at least, that still means something.

         As I approach Sholu, I expect a great surge of feeling to overtake me. But the flood of anger and the rush of fear come in on a low tide. I've exhausted my capacity for feeling, and the dregs of emotion his face stir within me are mere aftershocks of an earlier quake. There's an echo of words spit in a rage, of hot blood burning brightly within me, but that's all. What's left behind is a blessed emptiness I can easily gild with years of manners and niceties handed down from my female relatives. The Amarin mask comes easily for the first time, and as he appraises me, I appraise him back.

         The tails of his poppy-red kata writhe and twist in the current like sea-snakes; the delicate golden vines embroidered along its neckline and sleeves glint brightly in the afternoon light. The buttons are rubies, or garnets, and reflect glittering red shadows on the water. He's silhouetted by the sun at his back, and shards of light shine through his golden hair like a coronet. His face is serene, lit from within by some immortal incandescence I don't quite understand. The water whorls around him, yet it doesn't seem to touch him.

         He looks like a prince, and I hate him for it.

         We're the only people in the river, and for a moment I consider lunging at him and trying to drown us both. But the water's too low. The best I could do would be to crack our heads open on the rocks rising above the current. I know I'm no match for him as I am now, in a tight, wet dress, unarmed, shivering but fighting not to show it.

         "You look strange," he says to me when we stand face to face. He takes my hands and I struggle not to shudder and pull away.

         "That's a charming thing to say to a woman," I mutter.

         "Strange, for you," he clarifies. "Strange, because I'm so used to seeing you scowling and snarling and gnashing your teeth like a wild animal. Your eyes wide, pupils dilated. Hands balled into fists, or crossed over your body protectively. So, yes, you look strange," he laughs. "You look like a bride, O'otani. You look... very well."

         "You look like a fool in the garb of a king."

         "I look like a new beginning," he says, somewhat softly. "That's what I look like. To them, maybe to you, too, though you'll never admit it." He leans forward and kisses me suddenly, and I reel back. I have to fight my every instinct to keep from striking him. That first drunken kiss was hard and fast as a blow to the gut. This is too tender, and far too real. Like we aren't enemies. Like this isn't all a lie.

         "You look pretty," he clarifies with an easy smile. "That's what I should have said. You look like a fucking queen."

         "And I feel like a petty whore," I snap back. "And if it weren't for Shira, I'd go to my grave before I let you touch me." I lean towards him, as if to exchange a few private words before the ceremony. "Do I look like a new beginning to you, Sholu Verlaina?" I make sure to keep smiling so the crowd is fooled, but my voice comes out like wrought iron. "Because looks can be deceiving. Truth is, I'm your ending. You just don't know it yet."

         "Such strange vows," he chuckles. "But nothing I didn't expect. If cursing me makes this easier for you, then, by all means, curse me. Damn me to every hell you can imagine, tear me apart in your mind." He smiles magnanimously and I want to scream. Now I can't even threaten him. In one sentence, he's managed to make every sharp word his gift to me. If insult is an allowance, I'd rather be silent.       

         He's drunk on this, I realize. The attention, the light, the control. He's drunk on the narrative he's spent so much time and energy constructing. The problem is, I'm stuck inside of it now, too, and I'm stone cold sober. I'm shivering. My numb feet are beginning to burn. This is my life, not a game, not a spectacle, not a story. He's a murderer, not a bard. I'm his judge, not his bride. The lines are too blurred here, nearly washed away by the green-tinged water.

         Those silvery fish nip at my skin beneath the surface as words spill clumsily from my lips. They're not the ones I've rehearsed and can pronounce without the hint of a stammer. They're older, stranger, and I feel like an anachronism as I speak them. He, of course, recites them like poetry. Each syllable rolls off his tongue like music, while their errant consonants and long vowels catch in my throat. I focus on the sounds of the words to avoid their meaning, but understanding still seeps in from time to time. You are mine and I am yours, from ash til ash return... by old and sacred water... dark is the night of the single soul, bright the light of union... the goddess smiles on the offering of a heart, not in sacrifice but in sanctity...

         The feeling of cold metal pressed against my bare skin startles me from my stupor. I stiffen as Sholu lazily traces a path down my neck and across my collarbone with the tip of the ceremonial knife. He pushes deeper and I inhale quickly as my white-blue bloodbinding scar is replaced by a fresh wound. Blood as red as Sholu's buttons drips slowly from the cut. It hesitates for a moment, balanced precariously on the curve of my collarbone, before gravity takes over and it falls into the crease between my breasts.

         Sholu reaches out a deft finger and catches it the moment before it stains my bodice, letting his hand linger on my skin for a second too long. His finger traces the path of the drop upwards, from chest to shoulder, until his thumb rests beneath my chin. He lifts it sharply. The sun's in my eyes as he leans forward, his lips brushing the hollow at the base of my throat. I shudder and he smirks, bringing his bloodied fingers to his lips to taste them. He looks so natural with gore on his muzzle, smiles so easily with red-tinted lips. His eyes are dancing as he lets my chin drop and takes my hand. He presses the dagger's hilt into my palm and closes my fingers over it, then takes my whole fist in his own to control the pressure and direction of the cut. When the first drop of red meets metal, he smiles triumphantly.

         He opens my fist and lets the knife drop into the river, then presses my open palm over his bleeding chest. He mirrors the action and we stand there for a full minute, listening to the frantic beating of each other's hearts. He takes my hand in his again and raises it over our heads, playing to the crowd. The solemn moment is broken by their raucous cheers. Slender wrists shake mavva fruit at us from the banks. Some children throw handfuls of petals into the murky water to be carried quickly downstream.

         With that, it's over. I have an errant thought and laugh darkly, garnering his attention.

"What's so funny, koi disza? He asks, using my new title for the first time. It sounds wrong.

         "I thought we were lying here today, putting on a pageant for political reasons. But somehow, we've managed to tell the truth without ever speaking." I look down at my rust-colored palm. "Now, all of Arzsa knows we both have blood on our hands. Literally."

         "We," he repeats, completely ignoring the substance of my comment for the pronouns. "Our hands," he continues, as if tasting the words. "You've never said we or our before, you know? I quite like the sound."

         "I'll only ever use the plural to refer to sin, Mesviraste. That's all we have in common, okay?"

         "That, and a name," he corrects. "O'otani Verlaina. It's beautiful, don't you think? Melodic. Like a song."

         "I had a cousin who sang, Sholu," I say quietly as we wade back to shore. "And another who played the asenah better than anyone in all of Shikkah. Their names were Damaros and Rivashi." I stare at him boldly, ignoring the hand he holds out to help me from the water. "I have heard no music since you laid them in their graves," I mutter. "None at all. I only wish you'd had the mercy to lay me there beside them. I wish, karu deme," I sneer, "that more honest scavengers had chanced upon my body. To be torn apart by vultures and foxes would be preferable to what you've accomplished here today."

         He has the gall to look injured, and we ride back to Arzsa in silence.