Chapter Text
Six years of hard campaigning in the Northern Territories left Clive feeling awkward and stiff in his formal black and red leathers.
Alone in his chambers at Rosalith Castle, Clive adjusted his tunic once more and checked his reflection over in the polished silver mirror. It didn’t ease his anxieties one whit. He’d always felt out of place in these garments, and the long absence from court only served to intensify that discomfort. They were perfectly tailored, Clive knew that. Crafted with the utmost care by the finest artisans the duchy’s wealth could afford. But Clive had lived and slept in his armour for so long, endured brutal northern frosts that took more of his men’s lives than enemy swords ever did, it was difficult to feel comfortable wearing anything else.
Eventually Clive surrendered and decided he’d done the best he could. Even if he had managed to appear the picturesque example of Rosarian nobility, his mother’s hawk-eyed vision would doubtless find an infinitesimal flaw, a single hair or thread out of place, and twist it into a mallet to brutally chastise Clive for it. Harsh words thinly veiled in the guise of helpful advice. Assuming she’d bother hiding her perceived displeasures with a veil, of course.
A minor irritation was how the collar chafed uncomfortably against the recently acquired scar on the left side of his throat which stretched up his cheek. Clive traced a slow finger down the raised splash of rough reddish-pink flesh, still unaccustomed to seeing it in his reflection. The physickers did magnificent work and the scar would eventually fade but it would never disappear. Not completely. A token from one of the last engagements of the war.
Clive’s detachment had been sent to a location the Northfolk called the Iceflats. A frostbitten mesa in the northern-west reaches, dotted by Fallen ruins. It was said to conceal one of the Northern Territory’s most sacred sites, inhabited by a coven of the north’s infamous Ice Witches. Warrior women who commanded powerful magics, who common convention would describe as Bearers.
Clive had learned during the war that the Northfolk did not call them Bearers. They were Blessed by Winter, and they were not marked with a Bearer’s brand. At least, not in the way the Sanbrequios would mark theirs. An act in deliberate defiance of the Greagorian faith and other divinities worshiped by the rest of the twins - and most likely intended with no small amount of insult, too.
For that alone, Clive would almost admire their tolerance. Though he suspected that had more to do with practicality. Having spent much of his adult life in those hostile frosts, Clive like as not would’ve met his own end on numerous occasions were it not for the Blessing of the Phoenix. Faced with such unforgiving environments, he imagined the Northfolk couldn’t afford the luxury of such discrimination if they expected to survive.
Rosarian intelligencers believed the Dominant of Shiva was sequestered in the Iceflats under the coven’s care. Though no reports had satisfactorily explained why the north’s Eikon went undeployed during the majority of the campaign.
The leading theory was fear of retribution from the Phoenix. Following their patron goddess’ resurgence after eighty long years of silence, Thegn Geir Warrick was unwilling to risk such a valuable prize in open warfare. Not when Rosaria could counter and potentially kill their Dominant in return. Especially not after he’d spent the better part of the last decade uniting the northern tribes in her name, while simultaneously fighting the war with Rosaria and fending off rumoured incursions from the Ironblood.
Whatever the case, Clive’s orders were to assault the Iceflats and secure the Dominant so Rosaria might use her as a bargaining chip to broker peace. He’d been given leave to use crystal fetters to keep the girl contained if required, loathed as Clive was to actually employ them.
On the Iceflats, Clive battled against the Ice Witches and found himself locked in one of the fiercest melees he’d endured over the past six years. The Witch, the Coven’s leader unless Clive missed his guess, was a fierce combatant in her own right. Though covered head to toe in fur-lined leather and chainmail armor, she bore the steel grey eyes and porcelain skin typical of northern nobility. Swift and precise with her blade, she moved elegantly, dancing and weaving and deflecting blows by a hair’s breath, all the while augmenting her attacks with strong ice magicks.
That intense duel stretched on for minutes or for hours for all Clive knew, requiring the sum of his combat prowess and no small amount of trickery to gain ground. The Ice Witch slipped, lost her footing when Clive’s fire magick detonated between them, blasting them both off their feet. Clive recovered first. Brought his great sword down in a decisive blow, snapping the rapier she brought up to guard, leaving only a finger’s width of the blade. Steel cleaved through her armour, cutting into her left shoulder.
Despite her scream of pain, admirable defiance burned in those steel eyes and swift retaliation came with an ice-rimed hand thrust towards Clive’s face. The telltale rush of aether followed. Less than a second later, rime spidered out from a dozen nicks her rapier cut into his armour and skin, including a thin cut on his left cheek he’d barely noticed earlier in their duel. It exploded outwards, taking a good chunk of his flesh with it.
“The demon bleeds, sisters!” The Witch’s dying crow of triumph carried on the frigid winds, trailing Clive into unconsciousness.
Clive had vague disjointed memories of being dragged away from the battlefield after that. Rescued by his second-in-command while his men threw themselves at the front line, desperate to deny the Northfolk his head as their trophy. When he awoke a day later, ready to resume the siege despite his grievous injuries, he’d received word that Archduke Elwin and the Silvermane called a truce. Evidently the Northfolk would’ve rather sue for peace than allow their crown jewel to fall into Rosarian hands. Months of negotiation later, they’d finally brokered the terms of a treaty.
Now here Clive stood almost three moons later to fulfil his obligation and bind the treaty in marriage. He knew this day was long coming.
As a man of twenty-four years, many in the duchy agreed it was long, long past time he’d wed. Silvermane’s eldest eligible daughter would arrive any moment now, though Clive could scarcely imagine what kind of creature she would be with a war-torn brute of a man like Geir Warrick as a father. Their public courtship would last one full moon after she arrived, and then they would wed.
Of course, that did not spare Clive from Joshua’s torments. When his younger brother heard the news of the betrothal, he took great pains to tease Clive at every opportunity from the moment they returned to Rosalith Castle. Goaded Clive with idle speculation at what the princess would be like. As with everything Joshua said in their private moments, nothing was sacred and everything was mercilessly, pitylessly mocked. And thanks to those conversations, Clive required more bottles of wine than he could ever care to admit to rid himself of the fur clad half-wolf beastwoman Joshua vividly painted for him. Harmless though Joshua was in his enthusiasm, there were times where Clive dearly wished he could knock that insufferably smug grin off his beloved little brother’s face.
Unfortunately, their mother made her displeasure at the arrangement well known in almost the same magnitude.
Ever eager to strip Clive of anything remotely resembling a chance to make the best of things, Lady Anabella took great pleasure in making his role abundantly clear.
Do not dare think of deriving happiness from this, or even a modicum of contentment. It is not required. The Duchess lectured him, full of scorn and bitterness and disdain. Not that she would ever grant you any. You are the killer of her kin. A murderer whose hands are drenched in their blood. She will never let you forget it. Make no mistake; she unquestionably despises this match as much as she would despise you. Clive was a noose around the Northern Territories’ neck, nothing more. A shackle to bring them to heel. His duty was to wed the 'northern mongrel', bed her and put a child in her to seal that shackle forever.
Try as Clive might to ignore her, his mother’s words dug deep. Contempt was typical whenever the Duchess deigned to address Clive in any capacity, but she spoke with a new layer of barely restrained fury. Clive discovered the source of this fresh enmity less than a day later when a hopeful noble daughter accosted him. An overly plump girl with a rather unflattering hooked nose and crooked teeth made advances towards him. Rather unsubtle ones at that. The poor girl, from House Karstein if Clive remembered right, stormed off in tears when his mother happened to overhear the exchange and shooed her off. Then the Duchess turned and harshly reprimanded Clive for leading her on when he was already promised to another.
Evidently, while the Archduke and Clive were tending to matters of war, the Duchess worked diligently to negotiate a handsome dowry with House Karstein, one of the wealthiest noble families short of the Ducal line. Yet before she could formalise the agreement in absentia word came from the north that the Archduke had bound Clive’s hand as the seal upon their new treaty.
It was a relief in some ways. Clive would never say it out loud but if given the choice, he much preferred being a pawn of his father’s diplomacy than a bargaining chip in his mother’s ill-concealed avarice. Even if it rendered him victim to Joshua's merciless baiting and his mother's scowls.
"My Lord." A handmaiden knocked on his chamber door and beckoned him to follow her. "The delegation from the north has arrived. Your presence is requested in the throne room."
Clive heard the buzz of activity and the murmurs before he arrived. The Great Hall was already lined with representatives of the Seven High Houses and dozens more of the lesser Houses of the duchy. Names and faces Clive could only half remember. Though he did recognise Lady Hanna and Lord Murdoch near the front. He caught their eye and Lady Hanna offered him a gentle smile, which Clive returned briefly before assuming his place. Lord Murdoch offered him a single nod in greeting before they resumed their hushed conversation.
Archduke Elwin sat upon his throne overlooking the entire hall, dressed in his rich crimson gambeson embroidered with black stylised phoenixes. Duchess Anabella sat to his left, albeit on a less grand through. Amidst the sea of black and red, she stood out in her purple and white gown. Every fold and pleat of fabric set just so, as though she were carved from cold marble. Her blond hair was braided and swept in a high do, adorned by pale crystals in the likeness of a crown. A subtle way to demonstrate her superiority to the arriving royalty.
To Elwin’s right hand stood Joshua as heir to the throne, back straight and hands behind his back. Like Clive, he was dressed in formal leathers more in keeping with Elwin and Clive’s style, nothing like the overly flowing red and white robes his mother insisted he wear to make himself as the Phoenix in their youth. Clive joined his younger brother on the right, mirroring Joshua’s stance.
“Lady Jill of the North.”
The announcement carried to every corner of the Great Hall, leaving a hush in its wake. The assembled nobility turned, silent in anticipation. Every pair of expectant eyes drew towards the Great Hall entrance. The great oak doors opened steadily, revealing a group of five women standing in waiting, haloed by the midday sun. Four of them were dressed in the manner of Northern warriors, fur-lined blue and grey leather, plate mail armour and each held a spear in hand. They remained in the outer corridor with the two Shields posted as guards, their duty done.
The fifth woman, slender in frame, strode in. She did not wear a travelling dress one would expect for a princess. Instead she was adorned in a white blouse and a deep blue leather riding vest with a fur-lined collar, dark slacks and thigh high grey leather boots lined with fur. An outfit better suited for hard riding than the courts. Her silver hair had been tied back in a loose braid which swayed with every step she took into the hall.
Though it was not her choice in outfit that drew Clive’s eye. His heart quickened as the woman drew closer. He recognized those features, recognized the woman he dueled in the Iceflats. The one who gave him this scar, whom he thought he'd slain in that skirmish.
An Ice Witch. Father has betrothed me to an Ice Witch… Clive realized with trepidation, his stomach dropped at the thought. He swallowed down an uncomfortable lump in his throat. Mother is going to lose her mind, if she finds out.
Jill continued her glide through the Great Hall, effortless and confident in her stride. She kept her head high and proud.
Between his sudden bout of nerves and desperate attempts to push away the memories of their duel three moons ago, Clive was not ignorant of her great beauty. Ethereal, even. Like Jill was a creature plucked from another world. In some ways she was, he supposed. Though he knew beauty did not count for much in the grand scheme. By common conventions Clive’s own mother was beautiful, even in her advancing years, yet those surface qualities belied the true ugliness that lay underneath.
Almost as if the woman could hear his thoughts, Clive heard a sniff of disapproval from his mother in the relative silence, as though the whole display was unbecoming of royalty in her eyes. Or that might simply be because Jill was a ‘filthy northern savage’ as the Duchess frequently liked to describe their new allies.
No.
Clive resolved quietly. He would not judge this woman by their previous encounter. That was war. They were merely performing their duty to protect their countries and their peoples. The hostilities ended when the treaty was signed.
In truth, between the two of them, Clive believed Jill received the worse end of the bargain. It was Jill who was forced to leave the homeland she'd fought so valiantly to defend, forced to bid farewell to the coven she fought with - perhaps, even led. They were both as trapped in this marriage as the other, yet she was forced to give up more in this arrangement. The absolute minimum Clive could do was attempt to make peace with her.
A stir of movement knocked Clive from his private ruminations.
Jill dropped gracefully to one knee five paces from the ducal throne, head bowed. “Your grace, I bid you greetings. I am Jill of Clan Warrick out of Modgud by Geir. I have come on behalf of my clan and my people as a symbol of unity between our nations.”
Her voice was pure and clean as freshly fallen snow. Melodic, even.
Elwin nodded respectfully. “I bid you welcome to my halls, Lady Warrick. Rise, please.”
Jill rose smoothly to her full height, hands at her sides. She stood straight as a soldier addressing her commander, rather than a princess addressing another nation’s monarch. Her expression remained diplomatically neutral, perhaps a touch cold.
“I trust your journey did not tax you overmuch?” Elwin continued.
“Not overly, Your Grace.” Another scripted answer.
“Good. I am pleased to hear it."
Jill inclined her head respectfully again in acknowledgement. That stoic expression did not change one bit. Clive would almost mistake it for a masked carved from glacial ice.
The Archduke regarded her for a moment longer. "I know such affairs are difficult even in the most fortuitous circumstances. I wish it to be known that Rosaria thanks you for your efforts in securing peace on behalf of her people."
"I merely strive to do my duty, Your Grace, as any loyal son or daughter would. Nothing would please me more than to see our countries come together in mutual betterment and, perhaps one day, true friendship."
“Justly said.” Elwin replied. “We would be honoured if you would join us for supper this eve. On the morrow, a formal feast shall be held in celebration of this engagement. At the turn of the next moon, you shall be wed to the eldest son of House Rosfield, the Lord Marquess Clive Rosfield.”
On his cue, Clive descended the steps towards Jill. She turned her head to face him. There was perhaps a flicker of recognition there but it passed in an instant. He bowed deeply. “My Lady. In the flames of the Phoenix, I bid you welcome into the House of Rosfield.”
Clive gently took her hand when she offered it, pressed his lips to her knuckles then respectfully dropped her hand and took a respectful step back. Her expression remained unfazed as she observed him.
“Gratitude, my lord.” Jill answered, then turned her attention back to the Archduke. “I shall be honoured to join your family at the feasting table this eve, Your Grace.”
“Very good.” The Archduke waved the handmaidens over. “Show the Lady to her chambers so she might prepare for this evening.”
A pair of women in grey and red dresses stepped forward from their left side and ushered Jill into the inner castle. With another pronouncement, the Archduke dismissed the audience. The assembled nobility slowly but steadily began whispering among themselves again as they began shuffling out. Anabella rose from her throne and disappeared into the castle, followed by the sycophant handmaidens that hung on her every word.
Joshua had somehow disappeared when Clive's back was turned, but before Clive could question it his father's hand landed on his shoulder. "Come, my son. Let us speak in my office."