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tebtoscaTitle: Knit My Bones Astride
Pairing: Jared/Jensen, brief Danneel/Adrianne
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~8000
Warnings: Underage (Jensen 16/17), noncon & dubcon of the war bride variety, ritualistic gore
Summary: Given in marriage to the chieftain of a fierce warrior tribe to secure an army to regain his cousin's throne, Jensen --prince of the House of Ackles--is thrust into a world he has never known before and must fight for not only who he wants to become, but also a love he never dared to expect
Loosely inspired by the Dany/Drogo storyline from Game of Thrones
Author's Notes: Written for the...21st (cough) birthday of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fiercelynormal, who is not only my Gif Mistress and Borgmate, but also my best friend. This is kind of ridiculous, but I think you'll love it, girl ♥
Art Masterpost ♥ AO3
A/N: Special thanks toldyghst for once again blessing me with beautiful art, including the amazing WEBSITE that you need to check out right this second. Also a huge shout-out to loghorea, who laughed at the disastrous idea of me making up a brand new language and instead offered to translate if I used Polish for the Padalecki clan (hover over the word/phrase for the English translation). Any linguistic butchery is totally my fault.
Big thanks topinkwithoutplot for literally beta'ing this bad boy as I wrote it and my rather persistent friends, who informed me that writer's block was no reason to not write customized barbarian war bride birthday fic for my best friend.
Title from I Missed the Point by Neko Case
It is the morning of Jensen Ackles’ wedding and he has never felt more alone.
When he tries to place when the downfall of his family started, it would likely be when the Gods saw fit to take his twin sister from the world. Alona had grown weak with fever not two moons after their fifteenth summer, and not even the greatest healers in the kingdom could save her. Jensen remembers sitting at her bedside, willing some of his own strength into her. He had held her hand but when she took her last breath, it was as if she took his soul with her.
His mother, Princess Samantha, widowed matron of the Ackles dynasty and sister to the King, became bereft with sorrow, and perished not a fortnight later. The King, fearing that his family was cursed by the Gods, turned mad with suspicion, and started wiping out those he thought were against him. Soon, the marauding hordes from the North were upon him, and in a scene of bloodshed and horror, the King was killed and Jensen and his cousin Michael--the King’s son and heir and the now-orphaned child that had united the once mighty Ackles and Rosenbaum clans--were whisked away into exile by the head of the Royal Guard, Sir Jeffrey of Morgan.
They began living together in an abandoned palace far outside the city they once called home, the wounds of their loss festering in a way unique to each of them. For Jensen, there is an emptiness in his heart that he fears will never be filled, no matter the circumstance. For Michael, there is nothing but burning hatred and rage towards those that would deny him what he feels is rightfully his.
Jensen had existed in this middling state until the first day of his sixteenth summer. It has always been customary for the men born into the upper levels of their society to be shaved completely when that occasion arrived, as a sign of the purity and cleanliness that befits adults of their station. The body, shorn of coarse hair like that of animals, is then rubbed with spiced oil daily to attain a gleaming perfection that helps them attain a shine that brings them closer to the Gods they believe they were sprung from. Jensen remembers being still a boy on the day that Michael had his ceremony. Michael had preened as the high priest took his blade to his skin and his personal body slaves anointed him with scent. He had looked as close to a God as a mortal could be, and Jensen found himself in awe at the spectacle of it.
On the day that Jensen had reached that milestone, no one came for him. There was no spectacle, no celebration, no loving maternal touch. He rubbed his hands through his golden hair and cursed the very strands that told him that the Gods did not exist for him.
It was less than a moon later when Michael told Jensen that he had been given like a prize in exchange for the might of a barbarian army. It was the only time he had cried since the moment his sister’s hand had been ripped from his own.
“I am not going to do it,” Jensen says, his voice soft but firm.
Michael turns to look at him with lowered eyelids. “You act like you have a choice, cousin.”
“I am a prince, not chattel to be traded at your whim!”
Jensen gasps when he realizes that this is the first time he has ever raised his voice to his cousin.
Michael walks purposefully over to Jensen and grasps his face with one steely hand. Michael’s voice is a low whisper, but as cold as the most shocking ice. “I would grind the bones of your dead sister into dust to get my kingdom back. Do not be mistaken, cousin. You might be a prince, but I am your fucking king.”
The scent of spice from the skin of Michael’s smooth skin overwhelms Jensen’s nostrils, and he feels ill deep inside himself. “We are all we have left, cousin. Why do you forsake me?”
Michael smiles at him then, but it the smile of a serpent, not a man. “No, cousin. I have my throne, and you are going to help me get it back. All you have to do is open your legs and smile that pretty smile of yours.”
Michael pauses for a moment, just long enough to run the line of his nose along Jensen’s cheekbones. “Would you rather it had been your beloved sister? Poor Alona on her back for the barbarian horde?”
Jensen shivers, and turns his head, suddenly ashamed.
“Yes, keep those eyes down, cousin,” Michael murmurs, pushing a lock of hair behind Jensen’s ear. “Better not to see in order to accept.”
Jensen drifts back to his quarters, to attempt to find some peace in his quickly waning solitude. It doesn’t last much longer than a hour before a slim girl with crimson hair steps into his chambers. She is dressed in the garbs of a body slave and her eyes are lowered in respect, but there is a smile musing on her lips that belies complete submission.
“My prince,” she says with a warm voice, peeking up from under long lashes.
Jensen blushes and pulls the covering on his bed over him. “What is it, girl?”
“I am Danneel, my prince. Your cousin purchased me to accompany you to your new home with the Padalecki clan, as your body slave. I am familiar with their language and hope that I will be of great help to you during this transition,” the girl says, her voice calm even as her words twist him into knots.
Jensen has no home.
“I already have a body slave, Matthew, and he will surely accompany me in my travels,” Jensen insists, attempting to take some level of agency back.
Danneel’s expression is one of great pity and Jensen’s insides burn at the thought that even a slave can see his sorrow. “My prince, if I may be so bold…I do not believe your new husband would take kindly to another man’s hands upon you in such an intimate manner. I have been told that Matthew is going to stay behind here at the palace.”
Jensen takes a sharp breath and presses the meat of his palm to his mouth. He realizes with a mixture of growing fury and despair that there is nothing left for him to control; not even his own body is his any longer.
Danneel hesitates for just a moment before walking over to where he sits on the bed. She kneels down in front of him and places a tentative hand over his knee.
“I know that I am speaking above my station, my prince, but I want to let you know that I will do my best to help you in any way that I can. I know how it is to be young and thrust into a life that one did not plan for.” Her eyes darken and she looks away for just a moment before looking back at him with determination. It is the first brush of kindness that Jensen has felt in a very long time, and it causes an emotion in him that is hard to categorize.
“I am scared.”
The admission comes out as but a wisp atop his breath, but it is the only thing he knows to think at this moment.
“I know you are,” she says, her hand squeezing.
Jensen closes his eyes for just a moment, willing himself to gain a composure that he doesn’t know how to access. “I suppose you are here to prepare me for my wedding.”
“I am, my prince.”
“Very well then. Draw my bath.”
Later, feminine and alien hands wipe moisture from his steam-warmed skin. Jensen stands stock-still, lets Danneel raise his arms and run cloth between toes and up thighs spread with thin golden hair. He attempts to disassociate himself from any of it, until she pushes a pot of salve into his hand and bites her lip with worry.
“What is this?” he asks, looking down at it.
“It is to ease the way for your claiming.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Like this, my prince.” Slim fingers run along the crevice of his bottom and Jensen gasps and pulls back, almost dropping the cursed silver jar from his hand.
Danneel holds up her palms as if to placate him. “My only wish is to save you pain, my prince. Your husband will claim you and if you slick yourself beforehand there is the chance that you might take pleasure from it as well. If you do not, I am afraid that there is the possibility that you will hurt yourself in the course of it.”
Jensen chews on the flesh of his lower lip, willing himself not to weep. He has known logically that his husband will instigate some sort of consummation, but he is young enough to not understand exactly what that meant. But now…
“Show me,” he says. His voice is weak, hollow as his heart.
Danneel rests one cheek against the back of his shoulder blade. Jensen feels her lashes tickling his skin like pinpricks. He feels her take the pot from his hand; feels fingers on the joint of his hip.
“I will teach you, my prince.”
Hours later—an eternity within Jensen’s headspace—Sir Jeffrey comes to take him on the journey to his wedding.
“Are you ready, my prince?” Jeffrey asks, his voice sympathetic. He is a good man; wise and caring. Jensen often suspects that he loved Jensen’s mother greatly, even though he knew that his class was not high enough to do anything about it.
Jensen places his hand on Jeffrey’s arm. The thick hair there—so unlike the now-sickening smoothness of his cousin—is comforting, as Jensen’s fingers clutch onto it for support.
“No.”
“I’m sorry, Jensen.”
Jensen blinks back tears. “I know.”
Every one of Jensen’s senses are suddenly overloaded. The heat of the waning afternoon sun; the stench of horses and the humans who ride them; the words of a language that he does not understand.
Jensen clutches the white ceremonial cloth that one of the Padalecki women has thrust into his hand. His knuckles turn pale from the action and he looks up at Michael with desperation.
“I cannot do this.”
“You can and you will. Now move.”
Michael thrusts Jensen down the makeshift aisle towards his fate. As he walks on shaky legs, he tries not to stare at the people surrounding them. Some look at him with wary eyes, some with envy. The Padalecki people are warrior stock, all of them tall and broad with shoulders like stone. They believe themselves to be descended from a great God, a giant with the body of a horse. According to Jeffrey, this belief is in every flex of their muscles and it terrifies Jensen. He has never felt so much like a sacrifice until this very moment.
Jensen reaches the end of the aisle and is suddenly standing in front of his betrothed. Wódz Jared, the head chieftain of the powerful Padalecki clan as his title denotes, is a beast of a man. He stands more than a head taller than Jensen, with shoulders that one could seat children upon. His eyes swirl with all the colors of the seas as he stares down at Jensen, lids heavy with kohl . His gaze is unreadable but strong and unflinching.
Legend says that when a warrior of his ilk is defeated in battle, the opponent cuts off the mane of the loser’s hair. From the shock of dark strands that hang down the slope of Jared’s bare back, he has never known anything but the warm haze of victory.
Jensen finds him as beautiful and deadly as a storm.
“Witaj mój mały,” Jared says, his voice like the rumble of thunder. He lifts one great hand and runs a finger across the seam of Jensen’s lips. His palm fits snug against the side of Jensen’s face, taking up almost the entire length of it.
Jensen trembles against him, willing himself not to bite at his lips to lay claim on them and keep them his own.
A wry smile twists the corners of Jared’s mouth and he gestures at the white cloth in Jensen’s hands. Jensen finds it hard to even breathe while Jared’s hand is upon him, but fortunately he drops them back down to his side and Jensen is able to carry on with the ritual.
“Oddaję Ci siebie,” Jensen recites slowly, just as Jeffrey taught him. His voice is shaking though and every fiber of his being is aghast at the words.
I give myself to you.
He lifts up onto to his toes as Jared bends down just enough for Jensen to get the white cloth over his head. This is a symbol of the bridegroom giving himself to the chieftain, giving his purity and obedience and very soul.
Jensen drops his hands from it like it is on fire the moment it rests against Jared’s form.
He goes through the rest of the ceremony in a haze, looking up only to catch a glimpse of his cousin smiling like his crown is being placed on his head every time Jared’s hand brushes Jensen’s flesh. But Jensen supposes it is, after all, what this entire thing is about.
The day fades to dusk as what is considered a great feast for the Padalecki clan is prepared. Jensen can barely stand the smell of cooked game as he is ushered over to a staging area. Jared takes his place next to him, close enough for possession without the threat of touch. A chalice of wine is thrust into Jensen’s hands and he tips it to his lips to escape the knowing looks of the woman who gives it to him.
The sound becomes cacophonous, the sound of harsh voices singing in a foreign tongue rivaling the cries of girls being thrust into like animals on the outskirts of the celebration. Jensen is flushing all over, be it from the wine or the degrading circumstance, he is not sure.
Michael sits to his left looking disinterested, as Jeffrey keeps alert for any signs of trouble. Jensen attempts to catch his eye, and when he finally does, a soft smile breaks out on Jeffrey’s roughly bearded face. Jensen tries to return it, attempting to take comfort in something familiar and true.
He is distracted by the appearance of two men--fierce warriors both--who Jeffrey told him earlier were directly under Jared’s command within the clan. They are kneeling in front of Jared now, bending their long, burnt-amber bodies in supplication to the man that is now Jensen’s husband.
“Wódz Jared,” they chant together. They glance at Jensen then, and that shocks him. “Oblubieniec.”
“What does that mean?” Jensen whispers to Jeffrey, who leans closer so Jensen can hear over the moans of the crowd.
“That is your title now. It means that you are the Wódz’s beloved.”
Jensen bites a bitter retort back on his tongue. He is ripped of even his name now, nothing more than a piece of the giant’s puzzle.
“Daniel i Thomas,” Jared introduces his warriors, nodding towards them and then back at Jensen, who gives a perfunctory dip of his head to be respectful.
The warriors take this as a blessing, and before Jensen knows what is happening, the two of them are putting on a great display of might in the space that has suddenly opened up in the dust in front of them. Their naked torsos gleam in the twilight, and the musk of sweat and blood is heady. Jensen doesn’t know how much more he can take of festivities like these before he is completely overwhelmed.
It feels like an eternity later when Jensen is led over to a white horse, his gift in marriage from the clan. He is supposed to be one of them now, one with his animal and the blood of a people that he cannot even fathom how to understand. He does not struggle as Jared lifts him bodily onto the beautiful ivory beast, holding tight to the reins as Jared leads the two of them off somewhere away from the clan.
Jensen allows Jared to lift him to the ground, his body tensed tight with fear. The Wódz looms over him, the heat of his body soaking in to Jensen’s skin without even the brush of first contact. Jared’s hands, the hands that have killed hundreds of men in battle, drag slowly up the tender arch of Jensen’s elbows. Jensen’s shakes with it, fear and the bitter fight against submission tugging inside of him with every calloused scrape of the Wódz’s fingers.
Jensen thinks that his new husband is going to kiss him and he holds his breath. He has never been kissed before, never known the flush of lips swollen and hot against his own. He doesn’t think that he wants this to be his first kiss, and yet there is a part of him that wants the affection of it before what he knows is to come.
Jared instead noses along the sweat beading along Jensen’s collar, wet tongue peeking out to brush against salted skin. Jensen gasps, and Jared’s hands tighten around his shoulders as he twists Jensen around until he is looking away from Jared, out at the sea beyond the cliffs. Jensen stares out into the oblivion that he wishes he could obtain as Jared pulls down their wedding robes and thrusts his sex harshly along the crevice of Jensen’s bottom.
A forceful hand creeps up the back of Jensen’s neck, sliding with the moisture that remains and up into the golden locks of hair that curl around Jensen’s skull. Jensen is bent and then a pressure unlike anything he has ever known overwhelms him as his husband presses himself inside of Jensen’s body.
Jensen cries out, a wounded cry, a cry that begs for mother and sister and home.
The salve that Danneel has prepared him with is tacky from the time in between, but Jensen cannot imagine the fire that would be ripping through him without at least that small mercy.
Then Jensen simply lets go. He floats on a cloud, knowing that the Gods have forsaken him, but refusing to allow them to take anything more from him than they already have. Jensen barely breathes when his husband finally empties himself inside of Jensen’s body. Doesn’t move when Jared wraps him up into those strong arms and whispers “Słońce Moje” into his mouth.
Won’t even recall that this is his very first kiss.
It has been a moon since the wedding and Jensen exists like a feather trapped in amber. The Padalecki are a nomadic people, and they push on along the grasslands edging the nearby sea. There is dust in Jensen’s mouth, the tangle of his hair both lightened by the sun and darkened by the roughness of living most of his time on horseback. Jeffrey speaks to him of a palace owned by the Wódz in the great Padalecki City, a place where their union will have to be consecrated one day, so Jensen rides on.
They ride alongside each other in the quiet of the late afternoon. Jensen knows that he looks unwell, knows that he has not yet learned to dine happily on wild animals and the overabundant horsemeat that the Padalecki use to sustain themselves while traveling. He is growing slim enough for Danneel to notice when she dresses him, and the deep smudge of purple underneath the green of his eyes stands out against the reddening skin of his fair complexion. Every bump in the road makes him stifle a hiss at the ache in his bottom from their coupling.
“I cannot begin to know what you are feeling,” Jeffrey says, his voice breaking through the silence.
“I do not belong here,” Jensen replies, grips the reins of the beautiful mare below him. Her hooves clack against the dirt, the sound so common to him now yet still not natural or soothing.
“My prince,” Jeffrey starts, but Jensen scoffs and holds up a hand. He is not a prince any longer. He is but a man groveling in the dust like the rest of them.
“Jensen,” Jeffrey continues, forcefully, and Jensen looks away from the pity in his eyes. “The Gods have dealt you a difficult hand, and I more than most wish there was something I could do to change that fact for you.”
“I know you do, Jeffrey, and I thank you. My mother spoke highly of you, always. I want you to know that.”
Jeffrey looks away then, the skin of his neck taut as he swallows.
“And I her,” Jeffrey replies, eyes closing briefly, before landing on Jensen again. “But I think what she would say if she were here now with you, is that you must decide whether you are going to let fate break you, or survive and become strong. I know that you did not choose them, but these people, this clan, is yours, Jensen. “
Jensen’s laugh is so bitter that it startles his horse, and before he knows it, he is falling prostrate to the ground. A cry goes up among the Padalecki around them, but Jeffrey is first to jump off his horse to tend to Jensen.
Jensen tucks his head into Jeffrey’s shoulder, the ache of the fall throbbing through him, yet less dangerous than it could have been. He is ashamed suddenly, knows that the entire horde will likely halt because of his fall, and the thought of his own awkwardness gives him greater pain than any broken bone could.
Thomas comes striding through the crowd then. He looks at Jeffrey, who just nods at him to assure him that Jensen is not injured. Thomas has been the one most wary of him, and Jensen fears that his closeness to the Wódz will turn opinion against him. He mentioned it to Danneel one night, and she had merely chuckled at his folly, telling him that he is Jared’s Oblubieniec and that he would slay the entire nation to defend his honor. Jensen didn’t see how that could be true, but Danneel had seemed so sure that he dared not disagree.
Before Thomas can say anything more, Daniel comes bounding through. He offers a sturdy hand to Jensen, who takes it gratefully and pulls himself to shaky feet. Daniel, who has been the most welcoming of the warriors so far, smiles bright enough to cause the indentations in his cheeks that Jared also shares in moments of levity.
“To nie miejsce na drzemkę, Oblubieniec!” Daniel guffaws, making a teasing snoring gesture and pointing over towards the white mare. Jensen looks over at Jeffrey, who just nods with a slight smile.
“Your people care for you greatly, Jensen. This is the time when you must decide whether you care for yourself as well,” Jeffrey whispers in his ear, before hopping back up onto his own horse and following the once again moving tide of the horde.
“Książę. That is you, prince” Danneel says slowly, her round little mouth curving. She presses a hand against Jensen’s chest. “Książęce serce.”
“Niewolnika,” Jensen retorts and Danneel’s smile turns immediately to a frown.
“You are not a slave, my prince, except in your mind,” Danneel insists strongly, tapping his forehead.
“And what of you? Methinks you are much too forward to be a slave yourself,” Jensen says teasingly, brushing away her hand and sitting back near the edge of the tent they had set up to rest for the night.
“Ah, but your grace, I was more than just a common slave. I studied the great art of giving and receiving pleasure. It is a skill, no more and no less than weaving or horse-riding.”
“Receiving pleasure?” Jensen asks, eyebrows cocking in question.
Danneel’s lip curls up into the smile that Jensen knows means nothing but wickedness. “There is no greater power than receiving pleasure from giving it.” She pauses and her expression is all too knowing for his tastes. “Tell me, my prince. When the Wódz takes you, do you look him in the eye?”
Jensen flushes hot, his skin burning as he clings to the last of his innocence. “Danneel! What sort of question is that for your prince?”
“Ah, so you are a prince! I knew that somewhere deep down inside you still remembered your birthright.” She appears all too pleased with her trick, but Jensen can’t refrain from smiling.
Jensen pauses then, thinks of his couplings with Jared, the slick press of Jared against his back, skin warmed by sun and exertion. “No, not once. I have never looked him in the eye when he takes me.”
Danneel crawls across the floor to kneel in front of him. She puts her hands on his knees and looks him straight in the eye. She is the only one that really does nowadays and Jensen is frightfully grateful. “You are not a slave and you are not a whore. Do not let your husband fuck you like you are one.”
Jensen’s breath quickens at the coarseness of her language, but something stirs in him. “Will you teach me, Danneel? Teach me how to make him happy…and make myself happy?”
Danneel’s smile dims just a little, but it is still bright enough to lighten the dark of the tent. “I can give you tools, my prince. But it is you and he who must find happiness in your union. The first step is letting both him and yourself know that you are willing to try.”
Jensen opens his mouth to speak, but knows not the words. Instead he merely nods.
Danneel takes that as a sign and stands up. Jensen doesn’t understand what is happening for a moment, until Danneel goes out and comes back in with Adrianne, one of the Padalecki maidens in his care circle. She is tall like her brethren, broad of shoulder and long of limb, with burnished copper hair and eyes like the sky.
“It is fine, my prince. Not only can Adrianne be trusted, but she also does not know our tongue, so we are safe to speak freely,” Danneel insists. She pushes Adrianne towards the makeshift bed of heavy furs, and lays the girl down upon it. There is no fear in Adrianne’s face, and Jensen realizes with wonder that this might not be the first time Danneel has taken her to bed.
Jensen leans back to watch as Danneel climbs atop Adrianne, bottom resting firmly on the mound of Adrianne’s sex. Adrianne moans with the contact, and Jensen bites his lip at the sound.
“Look him in the eye, my prince. And if he looks away, you turn his gaze back to you and command it be so,” Danneel says, staring deeply into Adrianne’s low-lidded eyes, yet speaking directly to Jensen.
“You can see his heart directly through his eyes. That is the way that love can be accessed, and the reason that you must always keep yourself open to it.”
Danneel laces her fingers with Adrianne’s, brings the palms up to the ripe swelling of her breast. “You must bring him to you, instead of letting him take you. Take his hands in yours, move them to the hidden places on your body that you would not dare to touch.”
Jensen can imagine it, the weight of Jared’s calloused palms against the flat of his nipples or the soft skin of his inner thigh. Dreams of it sometimes, on the nights when he curls away from his husband to put distance between what feels most of the time like desecration.
Danneel starts rolling her hips, sensual movements which Adrianne bucks into involuntarily. Danneel holds Adrianne’s fingers to her mouth, pressing warm kisses against the flat of the tips and the curve of the knuckles.
“You let him know that every time you allow him into your body, it is a gift. A blessing from the Gods that allows a connection so deep. You say to him with your hips and your mouth and your sex that you are equal. That, yes, you are his beloved, his oblubieniec, but that he is yours as well.”
Adrianne gasps and throws her head back as Danneel swivels just right for shudders to rack her body. Danneel leans down, touches her lips to Adrianne’s in a tender kiss.
“Dziękuję,” Danneel says to her.
“Thank you,” Jensen translates. Repeats. Understands.
Danneel finally looks at him, a lazy and pleased smile curving her lips as she nods. She says nothing else.
It takes Jensen a fortnight to gain the courage to seek this new measure of happiness from his husband.
Jared comes in to his tent late that evening, moving with purpose towards the bed of furs. Jensen can smell the faint hint of sandalwood, a sign that Jared recently washed, and Jensen thanks the Gods for simple comforts. Underneath it all, however, is the scent of Jared, of sweat and the land and sheer masculinity. It frightens Jensen even now, yet in recent days he has thought of nothing else but drowning in the heady mix of it.
Jared slides a hand up to tangle in Jensen’s increasingly unruly hair and tugs him forward. Barely a second goes by before he is twisting Jensen in an attempt to bring him to his knees.
“No,” Jensen protests, using all the strength he has to keep himself forward.
There is a spark of shock in Jared’s multi-hued eyes, but they narrow slightly as he puts extra force into turning Jensen to his will.
“Nie,” Jensen repeats in Jared’s tongue, his hand going up to Jared’s neck this time. He holds it against the heated skin, tiny tremors betraying his determination.
Jared looks at Jensen as if he has never seen him before, and the surprise of it makes Jensen brave.
“Like this,” Jensen says, moving his other hand up to Jared’s neck to mimic the other, smoothing them down the slope of it until they rest on top of Jared’s monolithic shoulders.
Jensen hesitates just a moment before leaning forward and touching the shell of his mouth to Jared’s. His lips are slightly chapped from the rough winds of travel, but Jensen revels in the prickly sensation of the scratch of Jared’s facial hair rubbing against the soft skin of Jensen’s cheek. It is the first connection, and Jensen tells himself that this is the initial step to finding a true sense of belonging.
Jensen moves carefully but surely, pushing at Jared’s shoulders until his back hits the bed and Jensen is hovering over him. Swiftly, Jensen throws his leg over him until he is straddling his husband. Jared’s breath quickens and his eyes grow dark as the night sky.
Jensen’s gaze does not waver, eyes locked with the Wódz even as he presses their palms together, Jensen’s fingertips just touching the edge of Jared’s second knuckle. Jared looks at him as well, testing him, daring Jensen to actually play the game that he has started. Jensen feels it then, the power that Danneel spoke of. The rush of acknowledgement that can only come from demanding to be seen.
Jensen pulls away just long enough to pick up the pot of salve from the blankets. He has grown accustomed to preparing himself before any claiming, but has never imagined that the same actions could be a pleasurable endeavor. Danneel, as usual, had set him straight, and the phantom ache for Jared’s fingers inside of him has haunted Jensen since the idea was sprung.
Jensen rubs salve on two of Jared’s fingers, before moving them back around himself until they ghost across the crease of Jensen’s bottom. Jared’s eyebrows shoot up in question, but Jensen just bites his lip between his teeth and nods encouragingly as he guides Jared’s hand towards the fragile little hole.
Jared looks shocked at the first brush of his fingers against Jensen’s delicate skin, but recovers quickly as he slides one huge digit deep into Jensen’s body.
Jensen moans and trembles, grabbing on to Jared’s wrist to still him. Jared acquiesces, and waits for Jensen to release his grip before massaging Jensen’s insides with the leather-worn skin of his finger.
Jensen moves with it, lets it sink into him as Jared adds another finger. There are no words, just heavy breaths and the slip-slide of penetration. There is a tenderness there, newer than a spring-born colt, and Jensen surrenders to it at the same instance that he feels flush with power.
Jared touches something deep within him and a spark of lightning goes through Jensen’s body. Jensen cries out and Jared’s lips curl up from his teeth, hungry from the sound. Jensen can feel the throbbing pulse of Jared’s sex underneath him, and he suddenly aches for the weight of it. He pulls Jared’s fingers from his body and takes a moment to mourn their loss before reaching back to bring Jared’s sex into him to fill the emptiness.
It’s a slow glide down, so unlike the animalistic rutting of their previous couplings. Jared looks like he’s ready to rip flesh from want, but remains still until Jensen is pressed flush against him. Jared’s heavy sac rests tight against the curve of Jensen’s bottom, and the warmth of them is, for the first time, soothing.
Jensen brings those pleasure-giving hands up to his chest, moving Jared’s slick fingers until they are ghosting sensually against the flat nubs of his nipples. Jared understands quickly and starts kneading them, twisting them into needy little points until they are swollen and red.
Jensen brings himself up just a fraction before slamming back down again. Does it one more time, and then another, twisting his hips until he is able to sustain a comfortable rhythm. He rides Jared like the white mare, like Jared’s own stallion, like the great Padalecki Horse God Himself. Jensen understands now, every road they traveled down, every journey of the clan, was to prepare him for this. Jensen aches with it, and his motions speed to a frenzied level.
Jared finally snaps and cannot take it anymore, judging from the way he lifts himself up by the core into a sitting position. He grabs Jensen’s bottom, greedy hands gripping tight and pulling Jensen down brutally on to his sex.
Jensen doesn’t relent though, grabbing at Jared’s shoulder with one hand as he anchors himself upon Jared’s lap. He grabs the long braid of Jared’s hair with the other hand, the tiny bells adorning the strands making music as Jensen’s grips it tight and uses it like the reins of a saddle.
Jensen can feel Jared tensing beneath him, knows that he is going to be overtaken with pleasure soon, so he pries Jared’s hand off of his bottom and brings it to his own sex. Jared glances down at the organ briefly before a feral smile overtakes him and he engulfs it with the glorious roughness of his palm. It takes mere seconds before Jensen is spilling hot over the top of his husband’s hand, crying out in the agony of ecstasy even as he feels Jared spend himself deep within him.
There is a deep stillness immediately afterwards, and a tiny bubble of doubt rises in Jensen’s heart. He feels like he did the right thing here, feels the truth of it, but there is no way of knowing the way Jared will react after all is said and done.
That is until Jared brings his fingers, covered with Jensen’s seed, up to his own mouth. He dips one finger inside, the pink tip of his tongue swirling around the pad of it. Jensen’s gaze follows, watches how the tiny drops of white stand out against Jared’s flesh. Jensen makes a tiny sound, without knowing, and Jared acknowledges it by bringing another slick finger over to paint the seam of Jensen’s mouth.
Jensen opens for it, takes it like a consecration of their union. Licks the drops of sticky seed until he can feel the heavy weight of Jared’s fingers snug against his tongue.
Jared pulls his fingers out after they are clean, a needy strand of saliva clinging to them as they go. Jensen licks his swollen lips to take it back.
“Dziękuję,” Jensen says, and he knows that he is talking as much to himself as he is to Jared.
“Wstawaj, Oblubieniec,” Daniel says good-naturedly, gesturing for Jensen to rise from where he had just been knocked down. His eyebrows dance on his forehead and Jensen narrows his eyes at such blatant, if well-earned, insolence.
Jensen huffs and jumps back up, wiping the dust from his customary horsehair leggings, and holding up the wooden training sword Daniel had given him earlier. Jeffrey had pointed out that perhaps engaging the Padalecki in the art they know best—the fight—would be a good way to further ingratiate himself with the clan.
“It is not my fault that you are a giant,” Jensen insists, raising his chin. Jeffrey, who is sitting next to Jared and another clansman named Alexander, translates Jensen’s words and the warriors laugh.
Daniel looks like he’s about to retort something scandalous, but Jared shoots him a warning look and he bites it back. Instead, he begins quickly sparring again, wasting no time engaging Jensen in a practice battle.
It is a tough lesson, but the sun is dipping in the sky and a cool breeze washes the sweat from Jensen’s brow. His face is covered in dust, the speckles on his cheeks and nose more pronounced than usual. His entire body aches in a way that it hasn’t since he fell off his horse those torturous moons before.
Yet, there is a freedom in the sword, one that he hasn’t felt before, even at night in the quiet luxury of Jared’s embrace. Every time Jensen falls, but gets back up again, a wisp of a smile crosses Jared’s face. Daniel pushes harder each time, trusting Jensen to take it, to earn it. Even Thomas, who wanders over to share some mare’s milk with Alexander and Jeffrey, looks at him with a new measure of respect.
Jensen feels reborn unto the dust of the earth. He feels strong in a way that couldn’t have existed in the gilded lily of exile.
It doesn’t quite last long enough, as Jensen heads back towards camp to wash up, and is stopped by the furious face of his cousin.
“Look at you. Playing in the dirt like a child,” Michael spits out, blocking Jensen from heading into his tent.
Jensen bristles at the angry tone. “What right do you have to question me? You sold me into this life, cousin—I am merely trying to learn to enjoy it.”
“Enjoy? Enjoy, you stupid little cunt?” Michael rages, fisting his hands in the worn leather of Jensen’s tunic. “I do not give a fuck what you enjoy. Your job is to spread your legs long enough for the barbarian to take his dowry, and then pay me back with an army to reclaim my throne.”
“That barbarian is my husband. You watch your tongue, cousin,” Jensen whispers, bringing his face close to Michael so that no one else can hear the tenor of his threat.
Michael gasps and moves to fist Jensen’s throat, but instead is pulled off by a hulking Thomas, who throws Michael to the ground and presses one sandaled foot against his windpipe.
“Stop! Let him go. Zatrzymaj sie!” Jensen says, when it appears that Thomas is prepared to crush the breath from his cousin.
“Oblubieniec,” Thomas replies, bowing his head in submission and stepping back from Michael. A muscle in Thomas’ face twitches as Michael coughs and pulls sour air through his battered throat.
“I will have you put to death, you fucking animal,” Michael wheezes, struggling to his feet and pointing at Thomas.
“You will do no such thing, cousin. You are a not a king yet, and until the possibility of that day comes, you live solely by the grace of the Wódz,” Jensen informs him, his voice pitch-black. He marches into the tent, leaving a bewildered Michael standing aghast in the dirt.
“Not bad, my prince,” Danneel smirks as he passes the threshold of the tent.
Jensen merely smiles.
“Nose,” Jensen says, touching his fingertip to the point of Jared’s nose.
Jared wiggles it and huffs back a laugh. “Nose,” he repeats, the word heavily accented but true.
“Eye,” Jensen continues, tracing along the delicate skin of Jared’s eyelid.
“Eye.”
“Neck,” Jensen murmurs, caressing the slope of Jared’s neck down to the curve of his Adam’s apple.
“Kutas,” Jared says instead, palming his naked sex and smiling at his husband crudely.
Jensen flushes yet laughs, pushing at Jared’s chiseled, gleaming chest. Jared joins him in his laughter and reaches over to pull Jensen into a tight embrace. His tongue begs entrance to Jensen’s mouth and Jensen opens gladly to him in surrender.
“Kiss,” Jensen says, pulling back after a moment. He touches both Jared’s swollen lips and his own in demonstration.
“Pocałunek,” Jared translates, leaning in to connect them once again.
“Heart.” Jensen places his hand over the solid thumping in Jared’s chest.
“Serce.” Jared mimics the action, and Jensen shivers. “Słońce Moje. My sun.”
Jensen feels warm all over at the endearment and the thought that Jared obviously went to Jeffrey to learn it in Jensen’s own tongue. “And you are my moon. Jesteś Moim Księżycem.”
They lay flush against each other in their marital bed, Jensen’s slim limbs tangled in his husband’s mass. His hands caress the curve of muscle in Jared’s abdomen, until finally it rests purposefully on the flushed redness of his sex. Jensen looks at Jared, never wavering.
“Kocham cię, Jared,” Jensen whispers against his mouth as his hand starts stroking.
Jared’s firm grip holds Jensen’s thighs sturdy against him, undulating like the winds causing waves over the Great Sea. He bites down on Jensen’s lower lip, tugging it and then sucking on it until it is it tingles.
“Kocham cię, Jensen.”
The Padalecki clan has only one permanent city, Miasto Padaleck, a jewel next to the sea. Within its walls, no man is to draw sword or shed the blood of another. It is where the high temple to the great Bóg Koń sits and where, as Wódz, Jared has a simple yet comfortable palace.
It has been half-a-dozen moons since Jensen became the Oblubieniec and there is one final test before the Gods can officially consecrate their union. Jensen, simply put, must prove himself worthy to be their beloved.
He stands on a pedestal in the middle of the ceremonial room, bare to the waist with blue clay markings scrawled by the Padalecki wise women across his slim torso. He holds the raw heart of a stallion in his hands, as he presses it against his lips and chew pieces of it slowly. He swallows bitterly, trying not to retch violently, forcing the disgusting organ past his stained red teeth.
The Wódz sits on a throne of stone in front of him, eyes calm and dark as they watch Jensen. The oracle chants words that Jensen doesn’t understand, and the crowd is buzzing with anticipation.
Jensen looks only at his husband. Every harsh swallow, the stench of iron, the bile coating his throat—all of it means that he is ready to accept and be accepted in return. He has taken the god of horses into his body in a thousand different ways, and this, right here on this pedestal in this somehow familiar land, is the final surrender.
He swallows the last bite and closes his eyes as a hush goes over the crowd. Jensen tilts his head back, searches for strength, for connection. He sees his mother’s eyes behind his lids, the curve of her smile and the flaxen waves of her hair. He can almost feel the whisper of her touch on his face, and it’s that memory that gives him will to open his eyes and look at his future.
Jensen steps down from the pedestal just as Jared stands up from his throne. They walk silently towards each other, until Michael bursts from his seat and interrupts their path.
“Enough!” Michael roars, wild-eyed. His head and face, once smooth as the bottom of a newborn, is pricked with dirt-brown stubble. His rage pours out of every now-impure pore.
Thomas, Daniel, and Alexander all step forward, but none dare draw their weapon in the sacred city. Jared holds up a hand to keep them back, and turns calmly towards Michael.
“I want my fucking army, Jared,” Michael spits, leaving off Jared’s rightful title in condescension. “I have played your barbarian games for far too long, and I will not be denied what is mine by rights.”
Jared says nothing, but his mouth curves up into a smile that only serves to make Michael froth with anger.
“Jeffrey, translate for this beast,” Michael commands.
“I think he understands far too well what you are saying, my grace,” Jeffrey replies wryly.
“And you,” Michael hisses, turning to Jensen, whose appearance he takes in with unveiled disgust. “Look at you, covered in filth. You are no longer a prince, but a savage’s whore!”
With his final brutal words, Michael pulls his sword. The exclamations of the crowd cannot drown out Jared’s growl as the Wódz disarms Michael with one swift movement and holds the man up off the ground with one mighty fist around Michael’s throat.
“No, Mój Księżycu, not like this,” Jensen yells. Jared turns to face him but Michael remains gasping for air in his grasp. “On nie jest tego wart.”
With a short nod, Jared drops Michael to the ground where he stands, leaving him in the dust.
“I am your king, Jensen, and the only thing left of your kin. You degrade the memory of your mother by going past your duty and becoming an animal like them.”
Jensen stills and looks down at the man who represents nothing more than his past, now lying slumped and defeated on the floor. An unearthly calm overtakes Jensen then, and he knows the path he is destined to take.
“My mother was a daughter of the sun. My sister the echo of starbursts. Their fire burns through me now, cousin, and warms the hearts of every man and woman in this clan. My people, cousin. These are my people. You are nothing to me. Leave us now before I part you from this world by my own hand.”
A trio of warriors step around Michael’s prone form, a silent warning that there is nothing left here for him. With a snarl, he stands up quickly and starts backing out of the room.
“I will have my birthright, cousin,” he pronounces one last time, before fleeing.
And just like that, the past is forgotten.
Jensen turns back to Jared, his smile painted red with blood and love.
“Oddaję Ci siebie,” Jensen repeats his wedding vows, but there is no terror in them now.
“Sługą Twego serca staję się,” Jared replies with the oath that he could not utter truthfully until this sacred moment.
Their hands touch, a tender caress at first, until Jensen crowds himself into his husband’s space and throws his arms around Jared’s neck. They kiss then, heated and righteous, and Jensen knows in that moment that no matter what trials may come, he and his people will face them as one.
Pairing: Jared/Jensen, brief Danneel/Adrianne
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~8000
Warnings: Underage (Jensen 16/17), noncon & dubcon of the war bride variety, ritualistic gore
Summary: Given in marriage to the chieftain of a fierce warrior tribe to secure an army to regain his cousin's throne, Jensen --prince of the House of Ackles--is thrust into a world he has never known before and must fight for not only who he wants to become, but also a love he never dared to expect
Loosely inspired by the Dany/Drogo storyline from Game of Thrones
Author's Notes: Written for the...21st (cough) birthday of
fiercelynormal, who is not only my Gif Mistress and Borgmate, but also my best friend. This is kind of ridiculous, but I think you'll love it, girl ♥A/N: Special thanks to
ldyghst for once again blessing me with beautiful art, including the amazing WEBSITE that you need to check out right this second. Also a huge shout-out to loghorea, who laughed at the disastrous idea of me making up a brand new language and instead offered to translate if I used Polish for the Padalecki clan (hover over the word/phrase for the English translation). Any linguistic butchery is totally my fault.Big thanks to
pinkwithoutplot for literally beta'ing this bad boy as I wrote it and my rather persistent friends, who informed me that writer's block was no reason to not write customized barbarian war bride birthday fic for my best friend.Title from I Missed the Point by Neko Case
It is the morning of Jensen Ackles’ wedding and he has never felt more alone.
When he tries to place when the downfall of his family started, it would likely be when the Gods saw fit to take his twin sister from the world. Alona had grown weak with fever not two moons after their fifteenth summer, and not even the greatest healers in the kingdom could save her. Jensen remembers sitting at her bedside, willing some of his own strength into her. He had held her hand but when she took her last breath, it was as if she took his soul with her.
His mother, Princess Samantha, widowed matron of the Ackles dynasty and sister to the King, became bereft with sorrow, and perished not a fortnight later. The King, fearing that his family was cursed by the Gods, turned mad with suspicion, and started wiping out those he thought were against him. Soon, the marauding hordes from the North were upon him, and in a scene of bloodshed and horror, the King was killed and Jensen and his cousin Michael--the King’s son and heir and the now-orphaned child that had united the once mighty Ackles and Rosenbaum clans--were whisked away into exile by the head of the Royal Guard, Sir Jeffrey of Morgan.
They began living together in an abandoned palace far outside the city they once called home, the wounds of their loss festering in a way unique to each of them. For Jensen, there is an emptiness in his heart that he fears will never be filled, no matter the circumstance. For Michael, there is nothing but burning hatred and rage towards those that would deny him what he feels is rightfully his.
Jensen had existed in this middling state until the first day of his sixteenth summer. It has always been customary for the men born into the upper levels of their society to be shaved completely when that occasion arrived, as a sign of the purity and cleanliness that befits adults of their station. The body, shorn of coarse hair like that of animals, is then rubbed with spiced oil daily to attain a gleaming perfection that helps them attain a shine that brings them closer to the Gods they believe they were sprung from. Jensen remembers being still a boy on the day that Michael had his ceremony. Michael had preened as the high priest took his blade to his skin and his personal body slaves anointed him with scent. He had looked as close to a God as a mortal could be, and Jensen found himself in awe at the spectacle of it.
On the day that Jensen had reached that milestone, no one came for him. There was no spectacle, no celebration, no loving maternal touch. He rubbed his hands through his golden hair and cursed the very strands that told him that the Gods did not exist for him.
It was less than a moon later when Michael told Jensen that he had been given like a prize in exchange for the might of a barbarian army. It was the only time he had cried since the moment his sister’s hand had been ripped from his own.
“I am not going to do it,” Jensen says, his voice soft but firm.
Michael turns to look at him with lowered eyelids. “You act like you have a choice, cousin.”
“I am a prince, not chattel to be traded at your whim!”
Jensen gasps when he realizes that this is the first time he has ever raised his voice to his cousin.
Michael walks purposefully over to Jensen and grasps his face with one steely hand. Michael’s voice is a low whisper, but as cold as the most shocking ice. “I would grind the bones of your dead sister into dust to get my kingdom back. Do not be mistaken, cousin. You might be a prince, but I am your fucking king.”
The scent of spice from the skin of Michael’s smooth skin overwhelms Jensen’s nostrils, and he feels ill deep inside himself. “We are all we have left, cousin. Why do you forsake me?”
Michael smiles at him then, but it the smile of a serpent, not a man. “No, cousin. I have my throne, and you are going to help me get it back. All you have to do is open your legs and smile that pretty smile of yours.”
Michael pauses for a moment, just long enough to run the line of his nose along Jensen’s cheekbones. “Would you rather it had been your beloved sister? Poor Alona on her back for the barbarian horde?”
Jensen shivers, and turns his head, suddenly ashamed.
“Yes, keep those eyes down, cousin,” Michael murmurs, pushing a lock of hair behind Jensen’s ear. “Better not to see in order to accept.”
Jensen drifts back to his quarters, to attempt to find some peace in his quickly waning solitude. It doesn’t last much longer than a hour before a slim girl with crimson hair steps into his chambers. She is dressed in the garbs of a body slave and her eyes are lowered in respect, but there is a smile musing on her lips that belies complete submission.
“My prince,” she says with a warm voice, peeking up from under long lashes.
Jensen blushes and pulls the covering on his bed over him. “What is it, girl?”
“I am Danneel, my prince. Your cousin purchased me to accompany you to your new home with the Padalecki clan, as your body slave. I am familiar with their language and hope that I will be of great help to you during this transition,” the girl says, her voice calm even as her words twist him into knots.
Jensen has no home.
“I already have a body slave, Matthew, and he will surely accompany me in my travels,” Jensen insists, attempting to take some level of agency back.
Danneel’s expression is one of great pity and Jensen’s insides burn at the thought that even a slave can see his sorrow. “My prince, if I may be so bold…I do not believe your new husband would take kindly to another man’s hands upon you in such an intimate manner. I have been told that Matthew is going to stay behind here at the palace.”
Jensen takes a sharp breath and presses the meat of his palm to his mouth. He realizes with a mixture of growing fury and despair that there is nothing left for him to control; not even his own body is his any longer.
Danneel hesitates for just a moment before walking over to where he sits on the bed. She kneels down in front of him and places a tentative hand over his knee.
“I know that I am speaking above my station, my prince, but I want to let you know that I will do my best to help you in any way that I can. I know how it is to be young and thrust into a life that one did not plan for.” Her eyes darken and she looks away for just a moment before looking back at him with determination. It is the first brush of kindness that Jensen has felt in a very long time, and it causes an emotion in him that is hard to categorize.
“I am scared.”
The admission comes out as but a wisp atop his breath, but it is the only thing he knows to think at this moment.
“I know you are,” she says, her hand squeezing.
Jensen closes his eyes for just a moment, willing himself to gain a composure that he doesn’t know how to access. “I suppose you are here to prepare me for my wedding.”
“I am, my prince.”
“Very well then. Draw my bath.”
Later, feminine and alien hands wipe moisture from his steam-warmed skin. Jensen stands stock-still, lets Danneel raise his arms and run cloth between toes and up thighs spread with thin golden hair. He attempts to disassociate himself from any of it, until she pushes a pot of salve into his hand and bites her lip with worry.
“What is this?” he asks, looking down at it.
“It is to ease the way for your claiming.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Like this, my prince.” Slim fingers run along the crevice of his bottom and Jensen gasps and pulls back, almost dropping the cursed silver jar from his hand.
Danneel holds up her palms as if to placate him. “My only wish is to save you pain, my prince. Your husband will claim you and if you slick yourself beforehand there is the chance that you might take pleasure from it as well. If you do not, I am afraid that there is the possibility that you will hurt yourself in the course of it.”
Jensen chews on the flesh of his lower lip, willing himself not to weep. He has known logically that his husband will instigate some sort of consummation, but he is young enough to not understand exactly what that meant. But now…
“Show me,” he says. His voice is weak, hollow as his heart.
Danneel rests one cheek against the back of his shoulder blade. Jensen feels her lashes tickling his skin like pinpricks. He feels her take the pot from his hand; feels fingers on the joint of his hip.
“I will teach you, my prince.”
Hours later—an eternity within Jensen’s headspace—Sir Jeffrey comes to take him on the journey to his wedding.
“Are you ready, my prince?” Jeffrey asks, his voice sympathetic. He is a good man; wise and caring. Jensen often suspects that he loved Jensen’s mother greatly, even though he knew that his class was not high enough to do anything about it.
Jensen places his hand on Jeffrey’s arm. The thick hair there—so unlike the now-sickening smoothness of his cousin—is comforting, as Jensen’s fingers clutch onto it for support.
“No.”
“I’m sorry, Jensen.”
Jensen blinks back tears. “I know.”
Every one of Jensen’s senses are suddenly overloaded. The heat of the waning afternoon sun; the stench of horses and the humans who ride them; the words of a language that he does not understand.
Jensen clutches the white ceremonial cloth that one of the Padalecki women has thrust into his hand. His knuckles turn pale from the action and he looks up at Michael with desperation.
“I cannot do this.”
“You can and you will. Now move.”
Michael thrusts Jensen down the makeshift aisle towards his fate. As he walks on shaky legs, he tries not to stare at the people surrounding them. Some look at him with wary eyes, some with envy. The Padalecki people are warrior stock, all of them tall and broad with shoulders like stone. They believe themselves to be descended from a great God, a giant with the body of a horse. According to Jeffrey, this belief is in every flex of their muscles and it terrifies Jensen. He has never felt so much like a sacrifice until this very moment.
Jensen reaches the end of the aisle and is suddenly standing in front of his betrothed. Wódz Jared, the head chieftain of the powerful Padalecki clan as his title denotes, is a beast of a man. He stands more than a head taller than Jensen, with shoulders that one could seat children upon. His eyes swirl with all the colors of the seas as he stares down at Jensen, lids heavy with kohl . His gaze is unreadable but strong and unflinching.
Legend says that when a warrior of his ilk is defeated in battle, the opponent cuts off the mane of the loser’s hair. From the shock of dark strands that hang down the slope of Jared’s bare back, he has never known anything but the warm haze of victory.
Jensen finds him as beautiful and deadly as a storm.
“Witaj mój mały,” Jared says, his voice like the rumble of thunder. He lifts one great hand and runs a finger across the seam of Jensen’s lips. His palm fits snug against the side of Jensen’s face, taking up almost the entire length of it.
Jensen trembles against him, willing himself not to bite at his lips to lay claim on them and keep them his own.
A wry smile twists the corners of Jared’s mouth and he gestures at the white cloth in Jensen’s hands. Jensen finds it hard to even breathe while Jared’s hand is upon him, but fortunately he drops them back down to his side and Jensen is able to carry on with the ritual.
“Oddaję Ci siebie,” Jensen recites slowly, just as Jeffrey taught him. His voice is shaking though and every fiber of his being is aghast at the words.
I give myself to you.
He lifts up onto to his toes as Jared bends down just enough for Jensen to get the white cloth over his head. This is a symbol of the bridegroom giving himself to the chieftain, giving his purity and obedience and very soul.
Jensen drops his hands from it like it is on fire the moment it rests against Jared’s form.
He goes through the rest of the ceremony in a haze, looking up only to catch a glimpse of his cousin smiling like his crown is being placed on his head every time Jared’s hand brushes Jensen’s flesh. But Jensen supposes it is, after all, what this entire thing is about.
The day fades to dusk as what is considered a great feast for the Padalecki clan is prepared. Jensen can barely stand the smell of cooked game as he is ushered over to a staging area. Jared takes his place next to him, close enough for possession without the threat of touch. A chalice of wine is thrust into Jensen’s hands and he tips it to his lips to escape the knowing looks of the woman who gives it to him.
The sound becomes cacophonous, the sound of harsh voices singing in a foreign tongue rivaling the cries of girls being thrust into like animals on the outskirts of the celebration. Jensen is flushing all over, be it from the wine or the degrading circumstance, he is not sure.
Michael sits to his left looking disinterested, as Jeffrey keeps alert for any signs of trouble. Jensen attempts to catch his eye, and when he finally does, a soft smile breaks out on Jeffrey’s roughly bearded face. Jensen tries to return it, attempting to take comfort in something familiar and true.
He is distracted by the appearance of two men--fierce warriors both--who Jeffrey told him earlier were directly under Jared’s command within the clan. They are kneeling in front of Jared now, bending their long, burnt-amber bodies in supplication to the man that is now Jensen’s husband.
“Wódz Jared,” they chant together. They glance at Jensen then, and that shocks him. “Oblubieniec.”
“What does that mean?” Jensen whispers to Jeffrey, who leans closer so Jensen can hear over the moans of the crowd.
“That is your title now. It means that you are the Wódz’s beloved.”
Jensen bites a bitter retort back on his tongue. He is ripped of even his name now, nothing more than a piece of the giant’s puzzle.
“Daniel i Thomas,” Jared introduces his warriors, nodding towards them and then back at Jensen, who gives a perfunctory dip of his head to be respectful.
The warriors take this as a blessing, and before Jensen knows what is happening, the two of them are putting on a great display of might in the space that has suddenly opened up in the dust in front of them. Their naked torsos gleam in the twilight, and the musk of sweat and blood is heady. Jensen doesn’t know how much more he can take of festivities like these before he is completely overwhelmed.
It feels like an eternity later when Jensen is led over to a white horse, his gift in marriage from the clan. He is supposed to be one of them now, one with his animal and the blood of a people that he cannot even fathom how to understand. He does not struggle as Jared lifts him bodily onto the beautiful ivory beast, holding tight to the reins as Jared leads the two of them off somewhere away from the clan.
Jensen allows Jared to lift him to the ground, his body tensed tight with fear. The Wódz looms over him, the heat of his body soaking in to Jensen’s skin without even the brush of first contact. Jared’s hands, the hands that have killed hundreds of men in battle, drag slowly up the tender arch of Jensen’s elbows. Jensen’s shakes with it, fear and the bitter fight against submission tugging inside of him with every calloused scrape of the Wódz’s fingers.
Jensen thinks that his new husband is going to kiss him and he holds his breath. He has never been kissed before, never known the flush of lips swollen and hot against his own. He doesn’t think that he wants this to be his first kiss, and yet there is a part of him that wants the affection of it before what he knows is to come.
Jared instead noses along the sweat beading along Jensen’s collar, wet tongue peeking out to brush against salted skin. Jensen gasps, and Jared’s hands tighten around his shoulders as he twists Jensen around until he is looking away from Jared, out at the sea beyond the cliffs. Jensen stares out into the oblivion that he wishes he could obtain as Jared pulls down their wedding robes and thrusts his sex harshly along the crevice of Jensen’s bottom.
A forceful hand creeps up the back of Jensen’s neck, sliding with the moisture that remains and up into the golden locks of hair that curl around Jensen’s skull. Jensen is bent and then a pressure unlike anything he has ever known overwhelms him as his husband presses himself inside of Jensen’s body.
Jensen cries out, a wounded cry, a cry that begs for mother and sister and home.
The salve that Danneel has prepared him with is tacky from the time in between, but Jensen cannot imagine the fire that would be ripping through him without at least that small mercy.
Then Jensen simply lets go. He floats on a cloud, knowing that the Gods have forsaken him, but refusing to allow them to take anything more from him than they already have. Jensen barely breathes when his husband finally empties himself inside of Jensen’s body. Doesn’t move when Jared wraps him up into those strong arms and whispers “Słońce Moje” into his mouth.
Won’t even recall that this is his very first kiss.
It has been a moon since the wedding and Jensen exists like a feather trapped in amber. The Padalecki are a nomadic people, and they push on along the grasslands edging the nearby sea. There is dust in Jensen’s mouth, the tangle of his hair both lightened by the sun and darkened by the roughness of living most of his time on horseback. Jeffrey speaks to him of a palace owned by the Wódz in the great Padalecki City, a place where their union will have to be consecrated one day, so Jensen rides on.
They ride alongside each other in the quiet of the late afternoon. Jensen knows that he looks unwell, knows that he has not yet learned to dine happily on wild animals and the overabundant horsemeat that the Padalecki use to sustain themselves while traveling. He is growing slim enough for Danneel to notice when she dresses him, and the deep smudge of purple underneath the green of his eyes stands out against the reddening skin of his fair complexion. Every bump in the road makes him stifle a hiss at the ache in his bottom from their coupling.
“I cannot begin to know what you are feeling,” Jeffrey says, his voice breaking through the silence.
“I do not belong here,” Jensen replies, grips the reins of the beautiful mare below him. Her hooves clack against the dirt, the sound so common to him now yet still not natural or soothing.
“My prince,” Jeffrey starts, but Jensen scoffs and holds up a hand. He is not a prince any longer. He is but a man groveling in the dust like the rest of them.
“Jensen,” Jeffrey continues, forcefully, and Jensen looks away from the pity in his eyes. “The Gods have dealt you a difficult hand, and I more than most wish there was something I could do to change that fact for you.”
“I know you do, Jeffrey, and I thank you. My mother spoke highly of you, always. I want you to know that.”
Jeffrey looks away then, the skin of his neck taut as he swallows.
“And I her,” Jeffrey replies, eyes closing briefly, before landing on Jensen again. “But I think what she would say if she were here now with you, is that you must decide whether you are going to let fate break you, or survive and become strong. I know that you did not choose them, but these people, this clan, is yours, Jensen. “
Jensen’s laugh is so bitter that it startles his horse, and before he knows it, he is falling prostrate to the ground. A cry goes up among the Padalecki around them, but Jeffrey is first to jump off his horse to tend to Jensen.
Jensen tucks his head into Jeffrey’s shoulder, the ache of the fall throbbing through him, yet less dangerous than it could have been. He is ashamed suddenly, knows that the entire horde will likely halt because of his fall, and the thought of his own awkwardness gives him greater pain than any broken bone could.
Thomas comes striding through the crowd then. He looks at Jeffrey, who just nods at him to assure him that Jensen is not injured. Thomas has been the one most wary of him, and Jensen fears that his closeness to the Wódz will turn opinion against him. He mentioned it to Danneel one night, and she had merely chuckled at his folly, telling him that he is Jared’s Oblubieniec and that he would slay the entire nation to defend his honor. Jensen didn’t see how that could be true, but Danneel had seemed so sure that he dared not disagree.
Before Thomas can say anything more, Daniel comes bounding through. He offers a sturdy hand to Jensen, who takes it gratefully and pulls himself to shaky feet. Daniel, who has been the most welcoming of the warriors so far, smiles bright enough to cause the indentations in his cheeks that Jared also shares in moments of levity.
“To nie miejsce na drzemkę, Oblubieniec!” Daniel guffaws, making a teasing snoring gesture and pointing over towards the white mare. Jensen looks over at Jeffrey, who just nods with a slight smile.
“Your people care for you greatly, Jensen. This is the time when you must decide whether you care for yourself as well,” Jeffrey whispers in his ear, before hopping back up onto his own horse and following the once again moving tide of the horde.
“Książę. That is you, prince” Danneel says slowly, her round little mouth curving. She presses a hand against Jensen’s chest. “Książęce serce.”
“Niewolnika,” Jensen retorts and Danneel’s smile turns immediately to a frown.
“You are not a slave, my prince, except in your mind,” Danneel insists strongly, tapping his forehead.
“And what of you? Methinks you are much too forward to be a slave yourself,” Jensen says teasingly, brushing away her hand and sitting back near the edge of the tent they had set up to rest for the night.
“Ah, but your grace, I was more than just a common slave. I studied the great art of giving and receiving pleasure. It is a skill, no more and no less than weaving or horse-riding.”
“Receiving pleasure?” Jensen asks, eyebrows cocking in question.
Danneel’s lip curls up into the smile that Jensen knows means nothing but wickedness. “There is no greater power than receiving pleasure from giving it.” She pauses and her expression is all too knowing for his tastes. “Tell me, my prince. When the Wódz takes you, do you look him in the eye?”
Jensen flushes hot, his skin burning as he clings to the last of his innocence. “Danneel! What sort of question is that for your prince?”
“Ah, so you are a prince! I knew that somewhere deep down inside you still remembered your birthright.” She appears all too pleased with her trick, but Jensen can’t refrain from smiling.
Jensen pauses then, thinks of his couplings with Jared, the slick press of Jared against his back, skin warmed by sun and exertion. “No, not once. I have never looked him in the eye when he takes me.”
Danneel crawls across the floor to kneel in front of him. She puts her hands on his knees and looks him straight in the eye. She is the only one that really does nowadays and Jensen is frightfully grateful. “You are not a slave and you are not a whore. Do not let your husband fuck you like you are one.”
Jensen’s breath quickens at the coarseness of her language, but something stirs in him. “Will you teach me, Danneel? Teach me how to make him happy…and make myself happy?”
Danneel’s smile dims just a little, but it is still bright enough to lighten the dark of the tent. “I can give you tools, my prince. But it is you and he who must find happiness in your union. The first step is letting both him and yourself know that you are willing to try.”
Jensen opens his mouth to speak, but knows not the words. Instead he merely nods.
Danneel takes that as a sign and stands up. Jensen doesn’t understand what is happening for a moment, until Danneel goes out and comes back in with Adrianne, one of the Padalecki maidens in his care circle. She is tall like her brethren, broad of shoulder and long of limb, with burnished copper hair and eyes like the sky.
“It is fine, my prince. Not only can Adrianne be trusted, but she also does not know our tongue, so we are safe to speak freely,” Danneel insists. She pushes Adrianne towards the makeshift bed of heavy furs, and lays the girl down upon it. There is no fear in Adrianne’s face, and Jensen realizes with wonder that this might not be the first time Danneel has taken her to bed.
Jensen leans back to watch as Danneel climbs atop Adrianne, bottom resting firmly on the mound of Adrianne’s sex. Adrianne moans with the contact, and Jensen bites his lip at the sound.
“Look him in the eye, my prince. And if he looks away, you turn his gaze back to you and command it be so,” Danneel says, staring deeply into Adrianne’s low-lidded eyes, yet speaking directly to Jensen.
“You can see his heart directly through his eyes. That is the way that love can be accessed, and the reason that you must always keep yourself open to it.”
Danneel laces her fingers with Adrianne’s, brings the palms up to the ripe swelling of her breast. “You must bring him to you, instead of letting him take you. Take his hands in yours, move them to the hidden places on your body that you would not dare to touch.”
Jensen can imagine it, the weight of Jared’s calloused palms against the flat of his nipples or the soft skin of his inner thigh. Dreams of it sometimes, on the nights when he curls away from his husband to put distance between what feels most of the time like desecration.
Danneel starts rolling her hips, sensual movements which Adrianne bucks into involuntarily. Danneel holds Adrianne’s fingers to her mouth, pressing warm kisses against the flat of the tips and the curve of the knuckles.
“You let him know that every time you allow him into your body, it is a gift. A blessing from the Gods that allows a connection so deep. You say to him with your hips and your mouth and your sex that you are equal. That, yes, you are his beloved, his oblubieniec, but that he is yours as well.”
Adrianne gasps and throws her head back as Danneel swivels just right for shudders to rack her body. Danneel leans down, touches her lips to Adrianne’s in a tender kiss.
“Dziękuję,” Danneel says to her.
“Thank you,” Jensen translates. Repeats. Understands.
Danneel finally looks at him, a lazy and pleased smile curving her lips as she nods. She says nothing else.
It takes Jensen a fortnight to gain the courage to seek this new measure of happiness from his husband.
Jared comes in to his tent late that evening, moving with purpose towards the bed of furs. Jensen can smell the faint hint of sandalwood, a sign that Jared recently washed, and Jensen thanks the Gods for simple comforts. Underneath it all, however, is the scent of Jared, of sweat and the land and sheer masculinity. It frightens Jensen even now, yet in recent days he has thought of nothing else but drowning in the heady mix of it.
Jared slides a hand up to tangle in Jensen’s increasingly unruly hair and tugs him forward. Barely a second goes by before he is twisting Jensen in an attempt to bring him to his knees.
“No,” Jensen protests, using all the strength he has to keep himself forward.
There is a spark of shock in Jared’s multi-hued eyes, but they narrow slightly as he puts extra force into turning Jensen to his will.
“Nie,” Jensen repeats in Jared’s tongue, his hand going up to Jared’s neck this time. He holds it against the heated skin, tiny tremors betraying his determination.
Jared looks at Jensen as if he has never seen him before, and the surprise of it makes Jensen brave.
“Like this,” Jensen says, moving his other hand up to Jared’s neck to mimic the other, smoothing them down the slope of it until they rest on top of Jared’s monolithic shoulders.
Jensen hesitates just a moment before leaning forward and touching the shell of his mouth to Jared’s. His lips are slightly chapped from the rough winds of travel, but Jensen revels in the prickly sensation of the scratch of Jared’s facial hair rubbing against the soft skin of Jensen’s cheek. It is the first connection, and Jensen tells himself that this is the initial step to finding a true sense of belonging.
Jensen moves carefully but surely, pushing at Jared’s shoulders until his back hits the bed and Jensen is hovering over him. Swiftly, Jensen throws his leg over him until he is straddling his husband. Jared’s breath quickens and his eyes grow dark as the night sky.
Jensen’s gaze does not waver, eyes locked with the Wódz even as he presses their palms together, Jensen’s fingertips just touching the edge of Jared’s second knuckle. Jared looks at him as well, testing him, daring Jensen to actually play the game that he has started. Jensen feels it then, the power that Danneel spoke of. The rush of acknowledgement that can only come from demanding to be seen.
Jensen pulls away just long enough to pick up the pot of salve from the blankets. He has grown accustomed to preparing himself before any claiming, but has never imagined that the same actions could be a pleasurable endeavor. Danneel, as usual, had set him straight, and the phantom ache for Jared’s fingers inside of him has haunted Jensen since the idea was sprung.
Jensen rubs salve on two of Jared’s fingers, before moving them back around himself until they ghost across the crease of Jensen’s bottom. Jared’s eyebrows shoot up in question, but Jensen just bites his lip between his teeth and nods encouragingly as he guides Jared’s hand towards the fragile little hole.
Jared looks shocked at the first brush of his fingers against Jensen’s delicate skin, but recovers quickly as he slides one huge digit deep into Jensen’s body.
Jensen moans and trembles, grabbing on to Jared’s wrist to still him. Jared acquiesces, and waits for Jensen to release his grip before massaging Jensen’s insides with the leather-worn skin of his finger.
Jensen moves with it, lets it sink into him as Jared adds another finger. There are no words, just heavy breaths and the slip-slide of penetration. There is a tenderness there, newer than a spring-born colt, and Jensen surrenders to it at the same instance that he feels flush with power.
Jared touches something deep within him and a spark of lightning goes through Jensen’s body. Jensen cries out and Jared’s lips curl up from his teeth, hungry from the sound. Jensen can feel the throbbing pulse of Jared’s sex underneath him, and he suddenly aches for the weight of it. He pulls Jared’s fingers from his body and takes a moment to mourn their loss before reaching back to bring Jared’s sex into him to fill the emptiness.
It’s a slow glide down, so unlike the animalistic rutting of their previous couplings. Jared looks like he’s ready to rip flesh from want, but remains still until Jensen is pressed flush against him. Jared’s heavy sac rests tight against the curve of Jensen’s bottom, and the warmth of them is, for the first time, soothing.
Jensen brings those pleasure-giving hands up to his chest, moving Jared’s slick fingers until they are ghosting sensually against the flat nubs of his nipples. Jared understands quickly and starts kneading them, twisting them into needy little points until they are swollen and red.
Jensen brings himself up just a fraction before slamming back down again. Does it one more time, and then another, twisting his hips until he is able to sustain a comfortable rhythm. He rides Jared like the white mare, like Jared’s own stallion, like the great Padalecki Horse God Himself. Jensen understands now, every road they traveled down, every journey of the clan, was to prepare him for this. Jensen aches with it, and his motions speed to a frenzied level.
Jared finally snaps and cannot take it anymore, judging from the way he lifts himself up by the core into a sitting position. He grabs Jensen’s bottom, greedy hands gripping tight and pulling Jensen down brutally on to his sex.
Jensen doesn’t relent though, grabbing at Jared’s shoulder with one hand as he anchors himself upon Jared’s lap. He grabs the long braid of Jared’s hair with the other hand, the tiny bells adorning the strands making music as Jensen’s grips it tight and uses it like the reins of a saddle.
Jensen can feel Jared tensing beneath him, knows that he is going to be overtaken with pleasure soon, so he pries Jared’s hand off of his bottom and brings it to his own sex. Jared glances down at the organ briefly before a feral smile overtakes him and he engulfs it with the glorious roughness of his palm. It takes mere seconds before Jensen is spilling hot over the top of his husband’s hand, crying out in the agony of ecstasy even as he feels Jared spend himself deep within him.
There is a deep stillness immediately afterwards, and a tiny bubble of doubt rises in Jensen’s heart. He feels like he did the right thing here, feels the truth of it, but there is no way of knowing the way Jared will react after all is said and done.
That is until Jared brings his fingers, covered with Jensen’s seed, up to his own mouth. He dips one finger inside, the pink tip of his tongue swirling around the pad of it. Jensen’s gaze follows, watches how the tiny drops of white stand out against Jared’s flesh. Jensen makes a tiny sound, without knowing, and Jared acknowledges it by bringing another slick finger over to paint the seam of Jensen’s mouth.
Jensen opens for it, takes it like a consecration of their union. Licks the drops of sticky seed until he can feel the heavy weight of Jared’s fingers snug against his tongue.
Jared pulls his fingers out after they are clean, a needy strand of saliva clinging to them as they go. Jensen licks his swollen lips to take it back.
“Dziękuję,” Jensen says, and he knows that he is talking as much to himself as he is to Jared.
“Wstawaj, Oblubieniec,” Daniel says good-naturedly, gesturing for Jensen to rise from where he had just been knocked down. His eyebrows dance on his forehead and Jensen narrows his eyes at such blatant, if well-earned, insolence.
Jensen huffs and jumps back up, wiping the dust from his customary horsehair leggings, and holding up the wooden training sword Daniel had given him earlier. Jeffrey had pointed out that perhaps engaging the Padalecki in the art they know best—the fight—would be a good way to further ingratiate himself with the clan.
“It is not my fault that you are a giant,” Jensen insists, raising his chin. Jeffrey, who is sitting next to Jared and another clansman named Alexander, translates Jensen’s words and the warriors laugh.
Daniel looks like he’s about to retort something scandalous, but Jared shoots him a warning look and he bites it back. Instead, he begins quickly sparring again, wasting no time engaging Jensen in a practice battle.
It is a tough lesson, but the sun is dipping in the sky and a cool breeze washes the sweat from Jensen’s brow. His face is covered in dust, the speckles on his cheeks and nose more pronounced than usual. His entire body aches in a way that it hasn’t since he fell off his horse those torturous moons before.
Yet, there is a freedom in the sword, one that he hasn’t felt before, even at night in the quiet luxury of Jared’s embrace. Every time Jensen falls, but gets back up again, a wisp of a smile crosses Jared’s face. Daniel pushes harder each time, trusting Jensen to take it, to earn it. Even Thomas, who wanders over to share some mare’s milk with Alexander and Jeffrey, looks at him with a new measure of respect.
Jensen feels reborn unto the dust of the earth. He feels strong in a way that couldn’t have existed in the gilded lily of exile.
It doesn’t quite last long enough, as Jensen heads back towards camp to wash up, and is stopped by the furious face of his cousin.
“Look at you. Playing in the dirt like a child,” Michael spits out, blocking Jensen from heading into his tent.
Jensen bristles at the angry tone. “What right do you have to question me? You sold me into this life, cousin—I am merely trying to learn to enjoy it.”
“Enjoy? Enjoy, you stupid little cunt?” Michael rages, fisting his hands in the worn leather of Jensen’s tunic. “I do not give a fuck what you enjoy. Your job is to spread your legs long enough for the barbarian to take his dowry, and then pay me back with an army to reclaim my throne.”
“That barbarian is my husband. You watch your tongue, cousin,” Jensen whispers, bringing his face close to Michael so that no one else can hear the tenor of his threat.
Michael gasps and moves to fist Jensen’s throat, but instead is pulled off by a hulking Thomas, who throws Michael to the ground and presses one sandaled foot against his windpipe.
“Stop! Let him go. Zatrzymaj sie!” Jensen says, when it appears that Thomas is prepared to crush the breath from his cousin.
“Oblubieniec,” Thomas replies, bowing his head in submission and stepping back from Michael. A muscle in Thomas’ face twitches as Michael coughs and pulls sour air through his battered throat.
“I will have you put to death, you fucking animal,” Michael wheezes, struggling to his feet and pointing at Thomas.
“You will do no such thing, cousin. You are a not a king yet, and until the possibility of that day comes, you live solely by the grace of the Wódz,” Jensen informs him, his voice pitch-black. He marches into the tent, leaving a bewildered Michael standing aghast in the dirt.
“Not bad, my prince,” Danneel smirks as he passes the threshold of the tent.
Jensen merely smiles.
“Nose,” Jensen says, touching his fingertip to the point of Jared’s nose.
Jared wiggles it and huffs back a laugh. “Nose,” he repeats, the word heavily accented but true.
“Eye,” Jensen continues, tracing along the delicate skin of Jared’s eyelid.
“Eye.”
“Neck,” Jensen murmurs, caressing the slope of Jared’s neck down to the curve of his Adam’s apple.
“Kutas,” Jared says instead, palming his naked sex and smiling at his husband crudely.
Jensen flushes yet laughs, pushing at Jared’s chiseled, gleaming chest. Jared joins him in his laughter and reaches over to pull Jensen into a tight embrace. His tongue begs entrance to Jensen’s mouth and Jensen opens gladly to him in surrender.
“Kiss,” Jensen says, pulling back after a moment. He touches both Jared’s swollen lips and his own in demonstration.
“Pocałunek,” Jared translates, leaning in to connect them once again.
“Heart.” Jensen places his hand over the solid thumping in Jared’s chest.
“Serce.” Jared mimics the action, and Jensen shivers. “Słońce Moje. My sun.”
Jensen feels warm all over at the endearment and the thought that Jared obviously went to Jeffrey to learn it in Jensen’s own tongue. “And you are my moon. Jesteś Moim Księżycem.”
They lay flush against each other in their marital bed, Jensen’s slim limbs tangled in his husband’s mass. His hands caress the curve of muscle in Jared’s abdomen, until finally it rests purposefully on the flushed redness of his sex. Jensen looks at Jared, never wavering.
“Kocham cię, Jared,” Jensen whispers against his mouth as his hand starts stroking.
Jared’s firm grip holds Jensen’s thighs sturdy against him, undulating like the winds causing waves over the Great Sea. He bites down on Jensen’s lower lip, tugging it and then sucking on it until it is it tingles.
“Kocham cię, Jensen.”
The Padalecki clan has only one permanent city, Miasto Padaleck, a jewel next to the sea. Within its walls, no man is to draw sword or shed the blood of another. It is where the high temple to the great Bóg Koń sits and where, as Wódz, Jared has a simple yet comfortable palace.
It has been half-a-dozen moons since Jensen became the Oblubieniec and there is one final test before the Gods can officially consecrate their union. Jensen, simply put, must prove himself worthy to be their beloved.
He stands on a pedestal in the middle of the ceremonial room, bare to the waist with blue clay markings scrawled by the Padalecki wise women across his slim torso. He holds the raw heart of a stallion in his hands, as he presses it against his lips and chew pieces of it slowly. He swallows bitterly, trying not to retch violently, forcing the disgusting organ past his stained red teeth.
The Wódz sits on a throne of stone in front of him, eyes calm and dark as they watch Jensen. The oracle chants words that Jensen doesn’t understand, and the crowd is buzzing with anticipation.
Jensen looks only at his husband. Every harsh swallow, the stench of iron, the bile coating his throat—all of it means that he is ready to accept and be accepted in return. He has taken the god of horses into his body in a thousand different ways, and this, right here on this pedestal in this somehow familiar land, is the final surrender.
He swallows the last bite and closes his eyes as a hush goes over the crowd. Jensen tilts his head back, searches for strength, for connection. He sees his mother’s eyes behind his lids, the curve of her smile and the flaxen waves of her hair. He can almost feel the whisper of her touch on his face, and it’s that memory that gives him will to open his eyes and look at his future.
Jensen steps down from the pedestal just as Jared stands up from his throne. They walk silently towards each other, until Michael bursts from his seat and interrupts their path.
“Enough!” Michael roars, wild-eyed. His head and face, once smooth as the bottom of a newborn, is pricked with dirt-brown stubble. His rage pours out of every now-impure pore.
Thomas, Daniel, and Alexander all step forward, but none dare draw their weapon in the sacred city. Jared holds up a hand to keep them back, and turns calmly towards Michael.
“I want my fucking army, Jared,” Michael spits, leaving off Jared’s rightful title in condescension. “I have played your barbarian games for far too long, and I will not be denied what is mine by rights.”
Jared says nothing, but his mouth curves up into a smile that only serves to make Michael froth with anger.
“Jeffrey, translate for this beast,” Michael commands.
“I think he understands far too well what you are saying, my grace,” Jeffrey replies wryly.
“And you,” Michael hisses, turning to Jensen, whose appearance he takes in with unveiled disgust. “Look at you, covered in filth. You are no longer a prince, but a savage’s whore!”
With his final brutal words, Michael pulls his sword. The exclamations of the crowd cannot drown out Jared’s growl as the Wódz disarms Michael with one swift movement and holds the man up off the ground with one mighty fist around Michael’s throat.
“No, Mój Księżycu, not like this,” Jensen yells. Jared turns to face him but Michael remains gasping for air in his grasp. “On nie jest tego wart.”
With a short nod, Jared drops Michael to the ground where he stands, leaving him in the dust.
“I am your king, Jensen, and the only thing left of your kin. You degrade the memory of your mother by going past your duty and becoming an animal like them.”
Jensen stills and looks down at the man who represents nothing more than his past, now lying slumped and defeated on the floor. An unearthly calm overtakes Jensen then, and he knows the path he is destined to take.
“My mother was a daughter of the sun. My sister the echo of starbursts. Their fire burns through me now, cousin, and warms the hearts of every man and woman in this clan. My people, cousin. These are my people. You are nothing to me. Leave us now before I part you from this world by my own hand.”
A trio of warriors step around Michael’s prone form, a silent warning that there is nothing left here for him. With a snarl, he stands up quickly and starts backing out of the room.
“I will have my birthright, cousin,” he pronounces one last time, before fleeing.
And just like that, the past is forgotten.
Jensen turns back to Jared, his smile painted red with blood and love.
“Oddaję Ci siebie,” Jensen repeats his wedding vows, but there is no terror in them now.
“Sługą Twego serca staję się,” Jared replies with the oath that he could not utter truthfully until this sacred moment.
Their hands touch, a tender caress at first, until Jensen crowds himself into his husband’s space and throws his arms around Jared’s neck. They kiss then, heated and righteous, and Jensen knows in that moment that no matter what trials may come, he and his people will face them as one.
