Part I

If She Does Not Love, Soon she will love

Even unwilling

Chapter I

Knight-Captain Dame Florentine Roux

Florentine tried to breathe and put on a brave face, but every second that passed brought the distant carriage closer and closer. An opulent mode of transport for an opulent family. It was flanked by the Diadochi senate’s own elite soldiers: the Praetorian Guard. They rode tall, in perfect formation; a tactic to inspire awe and discourage the same hasty actions as her own unit were attempting.

The Royal Guard to the family of King Ludwig Cavendish-Montagu-Wellesley-Beauclerk-Chicheley the Descendant, ruler of the Royal Kingdom of Dawn Stone had, by order of the king himself, set themselves up in parade formation on the Dawn Stone/Diadochi border to meet the incoming senator, and escort him back to the capital. The carriage and its escorts, understandably, slowed a safe distance from the border. Florentine tried once more to suck in a deep breath, and found herself stranded in the shallows. She turned to the personnel handpicked to go with her, all of whom bore their dress uniforms: a white coatee with gold buttons and stitching, black jodhpurs, and spit polished riding boots. A purple-ribboned silver medal hung from her left breast. Stiff, awkward formalwear that looked visually stunning but lacked for any task other than imitating a wood-carved nutcracker. The Royal Guard snapped to attention while a trumpet started the birds from their trees.

Florentine started forward by herself to meet the praetorian sent ahead to scout the situation, meeting him in the middle. She considered herself an excellent fighter, but the fully armoured and armed soldier seated atop a powerful steed towered over her literally and symbolically. His armour was impeccably crafted to mimic the ideal of peak male physicality in Diadochi, a long maroon cloak loosely tied to his shoulders rippled in the wind, his helmet sported a large, flamboyant white crista. She dreaded the thought of a possible confrontation under ideal conditions, less so standing beneath him in her formal wear.

“My Lord Senator of the Diadochi Republic demands to know the meaning of this,” he said, attempting and failing to flatten the naturally poetic Diadochian accent. “He will not tolerate such acts of aggression.”

Florentine bowed with the stiffness of a closing hinge. Sweat trickled down her back. The king’s shortsighted attempt at a show of respect risked sinking the whole endeavour before it even started. “No offense was intended, I assure you,” she replied, in her own formal parlance. “His Majesty, King Ludwig Cavendish-Montagu-Wellesley-Beauclerk-Chicheley the Descendant, honours the arrival of Senator Antonius and his family by sending his most elite soldiers to provide escort back to the capital. You can see that we stand before you unhidden, in parade formation, and baring our”—her formality slipped—“finest uniforms. I assure you, this is a sign of the utmost respect and dignity.”

The shadow cast across the narrow slits of his face by the helmet made Florentine feel as if she was being judged by a demon. The praetorian manoeuvred his horse with great grace and returned to the carriage. Florentine watched the silent exchange. She hoped the senator would decry her a liar and turn back, sinking any possibility of the marriage of his son, Alexander, to Crown Princess Lena. Then Lena wouldn’t have to move to Diadochi, and they could continue being together. The thought was nothing more than a fairy tale born from the errant thoughts of one lovestruck fool.

The consultation dragged on. Then the praetorian gestured to the others of his unit and they spread out, eyes scanning their heavily forested surroundings and the road bridging the two nations. Whole conversations happened entirely in snappy, practiced military sign languages she wasn’t familiar with. Her shoulders tightened and she had to risk the urge to wipe off her clammy hands. She felt it throughout the formation around her. Tensions were already high enough after Diadochi’s denunciation of Dawn Stone for their war with Blueland, nation of the kjemper, in which they emerged victorious at a heavy economic cost. Throw in the fishing disputes to the East and mining disputes in the mountains separating the two countries to the West, and pressure continued to rise.

The Praetorian Guard returned to their original formation, and the carriage continued its journey. She allowed herself a sigh of relief and returned to the Royal Guard. They conducted their elaborate dance of honours and formal greeting, and general fluffing, as the senator’s carriage crossed the border, stroking the incoming dignitaries ego like a courtesan being paid triple. The whole act was demeaning, but they put on their professional faces and forged on. It was their job, and ultimately promised to lead to the best path for the future—for everyone except herself and the princess.

Marcus Antonius pushed aside the curtain over the window of the carriage door and beckoned her to him with a sharp nod. The flowing, vibrant white toga-topped tunic with a distinctive maroon laticlave did little to hide his considerable gut, and the gold wreath sat atop his balding head. Across from him sat Calpurnia, his wife, looking like she’d been crammed into that carriage for far too long, and Aria, his daughter, looking out at the sights and sounds of a new land. Each member of the family wore an item of deep maroon clothing, reminding Florentine of how colossally influential the Antonius family were in Diadochi society.

Sitting beside him, staring out the opposite window, was Alexander. He had the figure befitting a statue that his tunic highlighted: lean, muscular limbs and a slim frame; soft, feminine features; delicate curls of brown hair; and a regal air. Florentine had met, and even talked to, him on multiple occasions, and the thing that stung the most about him as a person was his competence.

“Quite an impressive display!” The senator’s eyes roamed the lines a toy soldiers arranged just for him. “I must give my regards to His Majesty the King when we arrive. Keeping it a surprise was quite the risky move, and to think a simple misunderstanding could’ve further damaged relations between our two nations.”

Florentine awkwardly bowed her head. She didn’t think it was possible for the king to make her despise him more than she already did, but, unsurprisingly, he’d managed by putting her in this situation. “I’m happy it meets with your approval, Senator.”

“Most certainly, most certainly!” He looked to Calpurnia, who regarded him with calculated neutrality designed to hide her contempt for being crammed into the carriage with little-to-no stops for days at a time. “Isn’t is simply splendid for them to surprise us with such a showing?”

“Quite impressive.” She hadn’t paid any attention. “But, if it’s over, I’d very much like to get moving.”

Marcus nodded. “Indeed.” Then to Florentine, he said, “we’ll gladly accept your escort. And again, incredible performance from everyone!”

“Thank you, Senator.”

Florentine bowed once more as she stepped away from the cart. It was then, as it restarted its journey, that Alexander looked round, and the pairs eyes met. His were the same colour as his hair and as deep as wells, and she hated him for it.

Florentine passed out the order, and the Royal guard went to work packing up the instruments and props, changing back into their day-to-day uniforms, and mounting up. Her second-in-command, Knight Sire François Merlant came up beside her.

“At least someone was impressed by our performance,” he remarked.

“Whoever thought it was a good idea to make us perform in these uniforms can rot in the deepest, darkest corner of the underworld,” she replied with unrestrained venom.

“Careful, careful.” François wagged his finger at her. “You could be charged with treason for speaking that way about His Majesty.”

“I’d happily take prison rags; at least I’d be able to move.”

He started undoing the buttons on his coatee. “Well, then, what are you waiting for?”

She felt her full range of motion return when she changed back into her other uniform. The impromptu parade grounds were packed up inside of fifteen minutes, and the Royal Guard caught up with the senator’s party and fell into formation behind them as a symbolic gesture that they were letting him lead the way while upholding their duties to escort him.

#

They spent another week escorting the senator’s caravan through the heavily wooded countryside without a single suspicion or false alarm. As a party, they numbered only two dozen, but their experience far outshone any of the opportunistic bandits or brigands roaming about in the woods, and their clearly marked uniforms, flying banners, the design and livery on the carriages kept those who might get untoward ideas far, far away. The formal rigidity between the Royal Guard and Praetorians melted away over the course of the journey as the two groups shared their experiences as veterans and elite soldiers, and by the time they reached the town they were scheduled to stop off in at the halfway point, they were intermingling like old friends. What tension had once existed had been soothed by understanding.

Senator Antonius and his family were put up in the local tavern and invited to the regional governor’s manor for dinner. This, too, had been planned for publicity purposes, as every other night on their journey had been spent in tents around a campfire. Florentine threw herself into conversations and reminiscent retellings if only to stop her constantly glaring across to wherever Alexander was at any given time. She knew it was childish, but it was her only means of emotional venting that was societally acceptable in a public space. The date of the wedding seemed to creep up on them until it was suddenly only weeks away. Time did that with unwanted occasions.

The canopy soon receded, the trees fell away. Woodland gave way to stretching expanses of fields divided by grey brick walls and hedges. The weather had gradually taken a turn and saturated, heavy grey cloud cover sat overhead, threatening to rain on their parade at any moment. Sitting off on the horizon was the city of Dawn Stone, merely a suggestion in the distance. The detail filled itself in gradually with each step closer, the city growing and growing, until the outer wall dominated their entire field of view with an eternal gravitas to its burned, scratched, battered face, like an ancient tree rooted in the ground for generations. Over the centuries, as the world had modernised, the ditches and moats, various smaller walls and chevaux de fries had been removed until all that remained was the immovable curtain that had frustrated a thousand besiegers.

Foundations became scaffolding became brickwork houses that comprised the newest district of the city. People drifted towards the convoy like flowers to sunlight, and by the time they reached the main street, a crowd orbited, all eager to catch a glimpse of the groom-to-be. Alexander kept the window on his side covered.

 They passed through the massive, arched primary entryway, riding under the raised portcullis and into the small area under the wall that, once-upon-a-time, proved a killing room for any able to breach the outer defences. Now, however, it was home to the customs office. The road transitioned seamlessly from dirt to cobblestone to smooth brick. Normally the street would be packed with stalls and workers and shoppers and transport and planters, but today the heaving masses were hemmed in up either side of the street by rows of City Guard—with some additional manpower leant by the army. Cheers crashed and reverberated between the stone buildings. Some in the crowd waving small flags of Dawn Stone, others of Diadochi. Streamers rained down around them, and someone tossed their underwear at the carriage. Florentine bit her lip to prevent losing composure when a garter swatted the driver in the face.

News of the event had spread far and wide across Orbis, the national hysteria carrying it onward to the farthest corners of the planet. Tourists flocked to the country in droves, and many businesses had pivoted to take advantage of the boom. Florentine saw it in the make-up of the crowds, as an already diverse city played temporary home to every race of people on the known world: humans, elves, kjemper, ogres, yeti, gnomes, sasquatch, fairies, minotaur’s, cattus, dwarves, chromavi, mushroomeez, trolls, kobolds. A handful of draconum were perched atop various roofs along the road blasting fire and ice and electricity and poison into the air in their form of cheering. A small collection of wheelbarrows filled with water were parked up right at the front of the crowd. Each had a kaṭaṟkaṉṉi seated in it. The bold, colourful scales of their lower halves sparkled in the sonn. A handful of treants had somehow been manoeuvred inside the wall and towered over the people and the buildings alike. Tipped forward slightly, they watched, leaves rustling in a breeze that didn’t make it to ground level. Florentine couldn’t begin to imagine the trouble they’d gone through to ship themselves all the way from the Arkwoods.

The inner wall swallowed up the leading Praetorians, then the carriage as it passed into the governmental district and residence of the nobility. Florentine’s eyes swept the crowd on her side of the road and landed on her own family, who’d been trying to catch her eye amidst the rabble. Elaine, her baby brother, was perched atop their father Jeremy’s shoulders and waving wildly at her, shouting something she couldn’t hear. Her father waved back with less vigour to ensure Elaine didn’t get whipped off with an overly theatrical gesture. But her mother, Melissa, was screaming like an overly enthusiastic parent at the school play—the woman had boundless energy, even approaching her seventies. Florentine shot them a charming smile and a short wave just as she passed through the wall.

The intensity of the crowd dropped off significantly in the inner city. Nobles had poured out in their finest attire to greet the senator and the twelve governors had travelled to the city from their regions. High Priestess Marianne Bellisa stood amongst the gaudy show of outfits with poised dignity and a simple robe of white and gold denoting her position. The currently serving parliament and top members of all the departments of the armed forces each waited at their designated position according to their symbolic importance on either side of the lush red carpet that led up to the stairway to the palace entrance.

The carriage came to a stop at the end of the carpet and Marcus emerged. He started forward, gliding to and fro from person-to-person performing the expected niceties as he worked his way towards the royal family at the top of the stairs. Next came Calpurnia, then Alexander, then Aria. The whole song and dance took several minutes to which Florentine had an excellent view from atop her horse.

Stood outside the heavy wooden doors to the palace, into which was carved a mural of the Crystalline Goddess bestowing the crystals of Orbis with arcane enhancing ability, was the royal family itself. King Ludwig and Queen Helena directed their best professional smiles at Marcus and Calpurnia as they ascended towards the sovereigns. Florentine’s eyes lingered on the third member of the family, the centre of discussion since the marriage had been announced: Crown Princess Lena.

Her dress was an exquisite Elfriede Genovese original, and one of several specially commissioned to be worn once to its designated events and never again. It would sell for ten times the absurd price it cost to make. Inspired by a waterfall, delicate sky blue frills with white stitching cascaded outward from the bottom of her body-hugging bodice in a classic pear-shaped silhouette. The bodice itself was textured with swirling patterns and darkened to a deep midnight blue round the top which curved outward to form a slight lip. Florentine lingered on the way it presented Lena’s cleavage. Memories of their myriad stolen moments played in her imagination. Her heart thrummed. Florentine flushed when she noticed the princess notice her lustful gaze and flash her a teasing wink. She replied by way of a flustered nod.

Senator Antonius reached King Ludwig and the pair embraced in a manner befitting two stage actors ensuring everyone in the crowd could see.

The king then swept out a hand towards the gathered nobles, and by symbolic extension the whole citizenry of Dawn Stone. “Subjects of the Crystalline Goddess, hear me,” he announced, voice arcanely projected—the citizens in the outer city and countryside just beyond would hear as clearly as if he were stood before them. “Today is a monumental day in the histories of the Royal Kingdom of Dawn Stone and the Diadochi Republic. Today we begin festivities for a marriage between our two nations that Senator Marcus Antonius and I have facilitated to foster community between our two great cultures, and forge a new age for the continent of Iperon!”

Lena and Alexander, who stood across from each other on the stairs, met eyes, and shared an intense discomfort.

“Treat our visiting neighbours as your own, show them all that Dawn Stone and its people have to offer, teach them of our customs and in turn learn of theirs! Welcome those who have travelled far and wide from all Orbis with open arms! The light of the Crystalline Goddess is refracted through her very being and bestowed upon us as a spectrum! Diversity is our strength, flexibility our power! We adapt to changing circumstances and we never give up! I trust each and every one of you to represent our great nation with the utmost pride, dignity, and warmth!”

A volcano of rabid cheering erupted from all walks of the city that many newspapers, tabloids, and official reports would no doubt claim could be heard all across the world. Florentine didn’t cheer; it was wrong to cheer such a dark day.

Both families then disappeared inside the palace where they would indulge in a state dinner that could feed the country for ten years. Public spending on the wedding, and everything surrounding it, would never be made public for fear that the disgusting misuse of tax revenue would spark revolution in even the most loyal subjects. It turned Florentine’s stomach as she thought about the scant meals her family had had to survive on when she was young, and all the families in the outer city and beyond who still did survive on such scraps.

#

Florentine sat in the lounge of the Royal Guard’s barrack with her third cup of steaming teaffee cradled in her hands, floating in the warming orange glow of the fire. The kindling piled in the brick fireplace popped and crackled, silhouettes rose and writhed in the flames before succumbing to the increasing graveyard of ash at their feet and sinking away. Ghostly screams howled in the chimney, each one a voice crying out for mercy, drawing Florentine closer. Invisible hands clawed at her nightshirt, trapping her in the chair. Pulling, pulling, pulling. Dragging her into the underworld.

A startled Florentine whipped round to look at the door, narrowly managing to avoid soiling her pyjamas with scolding teaffee. Shy, uncertain steps probed the border of the room, and a head popped round the door. Princess Lena smiled upon seeing Florentine was the only occupant, and locked the cold prying eyes out.

Florentine shot to her feet, and bowed her head. “Milady.”

Lena crossed to her, the light giving Florentine a better look at the princess. Her hair remained in its excessive, complicated style that had taken three hours in the chair to get perfect, and remnants of her make-up remained around the edges of her face as if having been hastily removed. The nighty she wore now was baggy and conservative, solid white with the coat of arms for the royal family stitched into the left breast. Her eyes sparkled in the firelight, and Florentine tripped, stumbled, and tumbled right into them.

The pair indulged in the extended eye contact, and Florentine felt herself becoming lost in the moment.

“T-Teaffee!” she blurted, remembering her manners. “Would you like some?”

“Please,” Lena replied in her natural tone of voice, slightly strained from hours of talking in the posh, oh-so-delicate accent religiously drilled into women of the royal family—almost as if backwards, outdated attitudes were a prerequisite for running a functioning monarchy.

Florentine hurried over to the bar, and retrieved the kettle from beside the water barrel and dunked it. She placed it on the metal grate above the fire, then returned to the bar and slung a towel over her shoulder, leaning forward onto the wooden surface. “So, what does a fine lady such as yourself drink at two in the morning?” she asked, unable to suppress a smile.

“Hmm…” Lena perched on the stool across from Florentine, and leaned forward to plant a kiss on her lips. “A peppermint medium, if you please.”

“Certainly.” Florentine pulled open one of the cupboards behind her, retrieved a jar labelled with the specified teaffee, and set to work putting together the cup while the water boiled. “I’m surprised to see you here tonight; figured you’d be whisked back to your bed chambers after dinner.”

Lena’s tone dripped with mischievousness. “I was.”

“Naughty, naughty.”

“I should be saying that to you. Thinking such impure thoughts about your delicate, chaste crown princess like that.”

Florentine’s cheeks combusted, and she began stammering.

Lena delighted for a moment, then said, “you looked exceedingly dashing in your own uniform today. I wish I’d been with you at the border; those dress uniforms leave nothing to the imagination.”

Shrill whistling sliced through the serene ambiance, and Florentine scooped up the kettle and poured Lena’s teaffee, sliding it off to the side to let it brew for a minute. She cleared her throat, finding some arbitrary spot in the background to stare at. She tried to breathe and her throat closed up. She wanted so desperately for these late-night rendezvouses to continue, for them to wake up the next morning and lie in, to go shopping for groceries and clean the house together. She needed to look at Lena and see a life partner, not some fleeting romance destined to be stolen away.

Florentine jolted when Lena took her hand.

“Are you okay?” the princess asked. “Is it…your soldier’s heart?”

“Uhm… N-No, it’s not. Just some selfish thoughts run amuck.”

“Do you want to talk about them?”

“We’ve talked about them a hundred times since the wedding was announced.”

“Oh.” Lena mirrored her own expression. “Right.” She stepped back into half shadow. “Somehow it didn’t all feel quite real when I woke up this morning, like it was still some nebulous blur off in the distant future. Then it all came together in front of my eyes, and the palace became a wedding venue in a matter of hours. Thousands of people came out to see the arrival of the senators family, and all I could think about was the tightness in my throat, as if suffering an allergic reaction.

“I remember my father once telling me fairy tales are only for commoners, and I was never quite content with that outlook. In stories princesses always run off with the handsome hero because they’re madly, deeply in love, and not because powers out of her control dictate it so. Why should I be denied that because of who birthed me?” She reached out, beckoning Florentine to her, and pulled her in close. “Why am I not free to choose the love of a handsome knight over political games?”

Florentine cradled Lena’s face in her hands, committing every angle, curve, blemish, movement to memory. She never tired of the princesses beauty. “Run away with me.”

“How many times have we promised to live for ourselves only to go right back to our duties the next day?”

“Does it matter? We can see it all being made real around us. If we don’t go now, we’ll be locked into lives of misery until we die.”

“I’ll be locked into a life of misery; you can always seek honourable discharge.”

“I don’t want to build a life without you.” Florentine pulled away. She went to the bar, and handed Lena her teaffee. The rich, minty aroma calmed them. “I want to build our Sapphos together.”

“You must be desperate if you’re suddenly believing in—what was it you said? Myths and legends?”

“Yes, yes, I know what I said. I’m talking about our Sapphos.”

Lena smiled, her eyes alive with imaginings. “A small cottage on the island that we built ourselves, lazy mornings and late nights, a small vegetable patch and herb garden, trips to the nearby village market and our favourite café. A little bubble of our own where we could live in happiness and serenity.” She laughed. “An island of all women, outcasts of society who fled the oppressive systems of the ancient world! They’d accept us there, welcome us with open arms, empathise with our desire to break away from the rigid classism of Dawn Stone!”

The magnitude of Lena’s belief in the place and intensity of the hope in her eyes slashed into Florentine’s chest as she took a sip off her own, now lukewarm, teaffee. She hated being the one to shatter that dream.

“I just don’t want you to get your hopes up,” Florentine said.

“Why would I…” Lena trailed off, and her high crashed. “You think they wouldn’t accept me there...because of who I was?”

“No, no! I didn’t mean that at all,” she hurriedly amended, closing the space between them. “No, no, no! You’re every bit a woman as I, and they’d be bigoted fools to reject you for something so backwards.”

Lena nodded, smiled. “They would, wouldn’t they?”

“Our Sapphos wouldn’t discriminate like that. What I meant was you shouldn’t put too much faith in a myth.”

“All myths have some basis in reality.”

“But the historical sources on the island are slim at best and mired in so much hearsay and rumour that it’s hard to trust if even they’re real.”

“Don’t you want that life?”

“I do, and that’s why I want to shoot for something real, tangible.”

“Do you want to run away with me?” Lena asked, a harder, serious edge to the question that hadn’t been there in the past.

Florentine didn’t hesitate; she’d spent years building up to this moment. “I do.”

They kissed—needy, desperate. The mugs were abandoned on the bar, and the pair retreated to the rug by the fire, feverishly discarding each other’s pyjamas. Florentine froze when she saw Lena naked and lying on her back, propped up on her elbows, the orange from the fire licking at her pale skin, her wide hips and thick thighs, the softness of her tummy, rising and falling of her breasts, her hardening cock. Florentine knelt, petrified by the beauty of the woman before her, the fullness of her heart and heat between her legs. She wanted nothing more than to give Lena the universe, to give her happiness and safety. She wanted nothing more than to support and cherish Lena until her dying breath.

The pair lay together until morning, then Lena stole away into the first light to return to her bed chambers before anyone walked in on them or the princesses chamber maid found her bed empty and cried emergency.

Florentine looked across to the two mugs sitting on the bar as she pulled her nightshirt on, and one question dominated her thoughts:

Was it real this time?