As he sits on his throne, his mind starts to wander in the waiting. Had he been cruel to make her forsake this last night? It's not so much that he regrets getting to bed sooner rather than later; he just doesn't want her to feel like he doesn't value the parts of her that she was before she was his Wife. Hopefully, he can make it up to her today.
Sweeney's only received the vaguest of notes on what's to be expected, and honestly, he isn't sure that things weren't lost in translation at some points. Nevertheless, here he sits, his garments a bit different from the night before; still much in the local fashion, but he's tried to put in some details and colors to pay homage to her people. They're a little bit looser, both for the presumable undressing at some point, and on the off-chance that he does end up having to dance. He'd like as little encumbrance as possible while he tries to stumble his way through both.
The day had been busy, enough that it kept her from worry too much about the night to come. A new royal couple had people to meet, gifts to receive, oaths and people to visit. A dozen other duties about the festivities, especially with how it seemed Sweeney was so well liked.
Which made it even more apparent how she had to make this perfect, in the back of her mind. She must be worthy of him. So when she went back with her maids for the nights festivities and explained to them the change of plans, they did not do these rituals the night before, and instead would be doing them tonight. It at least helped Anya be less irritated at it being put aside the night before.
Then, however, she informed them, it would not be the dance they had previously chosen. Her husband was a warrior, and now she saw how true that was. He would have a bride as fierce as he. She may never pick a weapon, true, but he would find her no less strong beside him. Not the artful pose and intricacy. No. A test of strength and prowess, then. Let him know he had his match.
Dug through her gowns with her, most in the style of his people now, but the few she had taken that were like home, and opted instead of something light, freer, that would show off the strength of her limbs.
Then, with the little rehearsal they had in the chambers, her ladies dressed as she was, though she was hard to miss. Her long curls were braided with ribbons, a well pinned in place wreath of flowers around her brow - and made entirely of the ones he had picked the night before at the wedding especially.
The arrival is not done with the usual announcements, but instead the beat of a single drum as the doors swing open, and barefoot, expression open, she stepped into the hall, past the eyes that watched, mostly pleased and excited, she hoped. She strode past to that simple beat to at last stand before him. There, she dropped down into a deep curtsey to greet her Prince and Husband, then rose, her eyes darting up to his. "With your permission?"
It was his hall, after all, and she was new to these lands.
While he wasn't sure what it would look like, he did expect it to be something different. Her people are so unlike his; Sweeney couldn't imagine it would be familiar. So, he perks up at the drum.
That is not so divergent from what his people perform, at least, in principle. What is not the same is the attire. His eyes flicker wider for a moment, mostly due to her bare feet. Perhaps it is because she is meant to be a virgin when the dance is performed, he tells himself. Sweeney wonders if the floor is uncomfortable for them.
He notices other details, too; the most striking being the wreath of flowers. Though he had not dwelled on the choice at the time, Sweeney hadn't been frivolous about it either, and it's easy to recognize. His gaze remains focused as she approaches, unblinking.
With a swallow, he bows his head in answer to her curtesy. His voice is clear for the others assembled to hear.
"Granted, my Lady."
Then it drops to something more intimate. Not private, of course, but something warm that holds the seed of tenderness.
Her eyes lift, warm as they hold his gaze, that affection in his tone that bolsters her confidence. With blessing granted, she bows her head, and takes the step backwards before turning.
Moving back to her ladies, she lifts her eyes skyward in a silent prayer to the Holy Sea that may she have all the grace she has ever had in her life in this moment especially. Light and brisk as the waves themselves.
It is the last as she drifts with the other women into formation. Their arms looping one another across the back as she fell into the familiar steps of the dance learned so long ago in the fields - their bodies linked together, as the drum changed again the other instruments picking up, and in slow first few steps to get their bearings, they got their bearings to turn in a circle together.
Then it goes faster, faster, as they begin to spin a wheel together, skirts flaring, the music beating louder, until at last in a culmination of all - they split apart like petals scattering to the wind.
Not that the movements slow down, instead form intricate weaving, they move back and forth from one another, and the words sung by one of the small troop rising over the music. The steps have them grasping one another, lifting, jumping, pale skin that flashes as she vaults high in leaps, then is caught, and moving off again. Sometimes moving as one in joined arms, sometimes alternating to give each other a brief pause to take their breath. Later, it will be unsurprising that she has earned blisters for the effort of the movement. But they are well worn, and eagerly gotten.
It's another of the party that comes up to Sweeney himself with a small bow, and offers in slow murmurs a translation of what the song is about. They sing of the warrior, riding out to the roads, roaming the fields and seeing the lands after the snows, green and bright, the armour shining in the sun, the banners in the wind. The dance is done to welcome the wanderer home and the joy of returning to loved ones.
The dance is hypnotic; just when Sweeney thinks he's got the pattern, something explosive happens and renews his fascination. For all the swirling and lifting, his eyes remain locked on her. There might have been guilt that they had not taken the time for it last night, but when she is hoisted in the arms of another woman, when hints of her pale skin is exposed, and their bosom are pressed to each other on the way down, he can't find enough will to regret. He might not have survived the thing without having her.
As it is, he can start to feel how the sight affects him; how the drum compels his blood down, and the way her lips curl breathily only urges it into his prick. Sweeney shifts slightly in his seat, pressing his elbow into the arm of the chair as his fingers start to tighten on the cap.
It would be a lie to say there was not a flicker of worry when the translator approaches; he knew he'd be stuck dancing. But then he's not, he is just granted more understanding, and for that, he's grateful. It does prompt the question, and he leans in to whisper it in hopes of not being distracting. He can't stop staring at her though.
The man inclined his head with further explanation. A report already readily composed to the Princess' mother of how well the match was going- how enamoured the Prince with his bride already.
"When the song ends, it is customary to go to the bride and raise her back up and embrace - to show ones appreciation for the skillful dancer."
And with it the translator stepped back with another bow, his hand lifting to invite all back towards the display. The song rapidly reaching its crescendo, the drum faster, the words rising and falling as Gilia herself was lifted briefly up to be carried and then placed in the center of the cleared space. Directly before him as she readied herself for the last part. The other women fell back, encouraging the start of a clap - and Gilia grabbed a handful of her skirt, lifting it up to free her movement as she moved up onto one leg, and then onto her toes as she fixed her eyes on him wholly with a steadying inhale-exhale.
For him, even in a crowded room, this was for him. She stood before him now as his.
This, her skill, this her practise of years. But with a kick she pushed off, her hands remaining on her hips, and swung her leg hard to spin her body, before her head snapped to follow to keep her from becoming dizzy. But not the once, using her arc leg as momentum she pulled herself with a long kick to curl in and gain speed, and as the clapping began to catch and speed with the music, so did she, faster and faster. Spinning again and again and again, around and around, the snap of her head back to face him making her long braid with its golden ribbons, swing in a fluttering arc out from her. Around, around, around in the sheer show of strength, grace and control. Her bare feet and simple garb obvious - both to show the power of her long legs that flashed in each turn, but that it have her movements freedom. With the speed and force of the movement, the flowers and petals less secure came loose, flutter about her as they mixed with the ribbons and descend back to the earth. A wild, potent display of her best- to match her new husbands reputation and drive.
The last note at last fell, and muscles burning, her body aching, she fell to the last pose of the dance, down to one knee, her arms lifted up - her chest rising and falling with deep lungfuls of air. Exhausted and burning. The sweat on her skin sticking stray curls to her brow and neck.
The applause comes as relief, blurring in between each inhalation, but what she waits for - is given gesture by the translator with a sweep of his hand.
If her husband finds it suitable, finds the display worthy of him, he is now to embrace her.
He struggles to understand how she can spin like that without dizzying and losing her balance; it's plenty to watch her go around and around with precision and grace.
When the music ends and she drops to her knee, Sweeney waits half a breath more before placing his hands on his chair and pushing to rise. He just prays it won't be too painful of an endeavor. Blessedly, nothing gets pinched or twisted uncomfortably as he closes the distance between them.
With the weight of formality, Sweeney takes both hands and guides her to her feet. When their eyes finally meet, the faint crack of a smile tucks in one corner of his lips, betraying the serious tone of the thing. Then he releases her before his hands drop promptly to her waist, and he lifts her in a turn, as close as he can manage to the ones he'd just seen her ladies perform.
When she's safely returned to the ground, he bends to kiss her. Perhaps it's a little too quickly, but there's nothing overtly lewd. Not a chaste peck, but brief and honest. As he straightens, his smile widens.
No further warning given, Sweeney takes her hand and spins her towards the assembled, lifting it as he does so, making a neat presentation of his pride when he announces her.
"Her Highness, Gilia, Princess of Γriu."
She's not forced to stand there, stared at, for he immediately turns her back to him so he can offer a courtly bow. It may be intended for the audience, but his words drop more private for her.
In that moment, as he embraced her, she thinks she feels as bright as the stars themselves. Never felt like this, the appreciation in his gaze. Spun as he lifted her, and she let her arms wrap around him gladly. She grinned brightly, far more than a courtly grace, holding him tightly before he set her down, their lips joined in that affirmation - and to his bow she swept down again in a curtsey.
Maybe... maybe this would not be the end of her life as she had known it. Perhaps there was brightness here, hope. Something new. If just for that gaze he gives her.
But for the deafening applause, she feels a different sort of shakey, still breathing harshly for her effort, and now for her happy laughter.
"I showed good... good for Eiru?" Her hands curled around his in trust, reassurance. "Strong? Brave? Fitting for Princess?" This is what his people were, and she would meet him in that. Risky as this had felt, in the planning.
They may be in a full hall, but by the way he looks at her, they might as well be the only ones in it. Sweeney offers a small nod of assurance.
"Fittin' fer a princess. You honor Eiru. An' St. Loe."
He wants her to know that he's not cutting her away from all that she has been. Yes, she will have to adapt and learn new customs and practices, but he acknowledges that there will (and should) always be a part of her that is the sea of her homeland.
"Yer strong an' brave, full of grace an' light."
With a squeeze of her hand, he moves to guide her up to her throne beside his. It's clearly been freshly carved, created just for her. It stands in contrast to his, worn with age and the men who've held it before him.
When she sits, she can see that two small shells have been carved into its arms, a note quickly added this morning as she'd prepared. Where they are, they're only visible to them, and they are placed where she might rest her palms over them.
After all seems settled and the other dancers start to take their leave, Sweeney takes the opportunity of the crowd mulling about to lean over to whisper with a mischievous grin.
She takes her seat beside him, practically glowing for the happiness she felt. Though the rush was due to desert her soon, once she sat, having pushed herself so hard. But it wore away her usual reserve, and for the first time in his company - or anyone else beyond her family, her laughter is rich and bright. An airy sound as she reaches to take his hand.
Her heart could not feel fuller, as she traced those shells with her thumbs, her eyes crinkled with a smile. The look she gives to him is pure adoration, utter warmth and thanks.
"After we feast, my husband. I need strength after that." Especially for him, of all men. "I ask - some food be made - from my land. To share with your people. Fish, wrapped in spice - hearty bread."
Now that the performance is done, the musicians take up a mix of her songs, though far less intense - better suited for feasting and company.
Hm. Sweeney's brow creases at her answer. How long is all of that going to take? He'd been under the impression that they were meant to be performed in close proximity, especially since they'd been planned for the previous night, after feasting. He presses his lips, considering her answer. It makes his eyes narrow as he leans in further to keep his voice quiet.
"Yer askin' them ta start now? Or it's already been cooked?" Because those are very different things.
"Already made. You do not have to wait long. They bring out soon." She reassures with a laugh, marvelling at how eager he seems to be about the entire thing. Her, she corrects. He was eager about her.
Or maybe just the part that involved her being unclothed. His interest in that was apparent, much as it made her want to blush. Thank the Sea her face was already flushed and it couldn't be seen as readily.
For now, the tables were brought out one by one laid rather not in front of them, so he could still move around, but beside him, and - undoubtedly awful for his readiness, she made the gesture of invitation (especially after his irritation at the interruption last night that she invited it first) for the items to begin.
"Now you... you be... given gift. To show I... gives... gives good ... household?" That sounded close enough as she could translate. Her nose wrinkling a minute. It had been intended the night before, if not for his readiness. Her own people favoured it seemed more pagentry this way.
But at least the gifts were not boring. No, as the doors of the hall swung open, what appeared first was horses, led by their handlers. Two great beasts, a mare and stallion matching, their mane and tail woven with ribbons of the vivid green favoured by Eiru, their dun coats painted with a blue dye of waves.
And tall, so tall only a man of his stature could ride one comfortably, or for her to do just barely. "These come from the hills, our horses, wild that cannot be tempered except by the patient, brave rider. But once earned, they are loyal for life."
Whatever he had been expecting, it most certainly wasn't random horses showing up. After the initial surprise put slack in his jaw, he closes his mouth and looks them over. It's hard to get into the details without getting close enough to touch them, but that can be done another time. Her comment tinges his smile with a rakish air. His brow lifts when he slides his attention from the pair to her.
His surprise and clear interest is all the reward she needs - glad that he liked them - and his answer makes her laugh again. A little abashed this time.
"Sometimes. I am not so wild as they are." No one had ever thought so, the quietest of her family by far. But with his approval, she lifts her hand to send them on their way, and bring the next in - and this time, the hound she had mentioned, along with another. "This is my Eimantas and his mate, LaimΔ«ga." The dogs were simply put, huge, easily mistaken for a bear if you weren't paying attention. "He takes down even the Elk on the hunt. But most of all, he guards the hearth - and before we left, they had a litter of puppies. We have sent the strongest of them, as it is a sign of good luck for a new couple."
It's with a delighted gasp to those closest, as the puppies - all ten of them this time are brought up to him directly. Clearly no more than a few months old, they were easily the size of any of the lap dogs in the room. "He once took down a bear by himself."
The biggest of them, a male, was held for Sweeney to look at directly. Though right now, he seemed more content for sleeping, trying to squirm into the most comfortable position in his handler's hold or Sweeney's lap, whichever seemed easier.
The words on his tongue are banished by the appearance of the next gift. Sweeney's already pleased by the horses; the dogs make him grin. The first name is familiar, and he takes a moment to peek Gilia's way.
"I'm glad yer able ta have him here."
He wasn't sure that she would. A hound should go a long way in having a piece of home in a strange land. That's as much time as he has before the puppy is before him, and Sweeney reaches out to take him without hesitation. Placing him on his lap, it doesn't seem to be any effort to get the dog settled, as sleepy as he is. Sweeney idly scratches him behind his ears before his gaze returns to his princess.
"My lady is too generous."
It's not as though gifts aren't customary, but this sort was not expected.
She'd hoped to make a good impression. Hours debating what to bring her husband-to-be. Nothing was right. Nothing felt fitting. Her doubts chewed at her again and again. Her siblings teasing at her worry and dozens of sleepless nights.
But to see him content with his gift and the ready smile he shares, it seemed worth it.
"Only as is fitting for a Prince of Eru." Comes back the answer, as she kept her happy smile in place. "But I have one more. Though it is best to say it comes from my mother, the Queen."
And with another wave of her hand, came the last gift. Not an animal this time - but a heavy wooden chest that is set down in front of them. "She has had a long, happy marriage to my fathers. So to bless us, she has given us this - one for every day she has known happiness, so that we may have twice as much."
The wooden chest that itself was a marvel - carved in a pattern of waves that were set with shimmering in lays - is opened.
To reveal pearls that makes a gasp at the display from those closest. A mix of white and deep grey, in the torch light they ebbed like water as the servant brushind their finger across the surface. A veritable fortune given to ensure the couple would have every security, (and for pride, that no one would say that they were miserly in their alliances, their first daughter would be given away with all dignity of an old family). Their reputation and these gifts would be spoken of wildly. It would see them and their children safe.
Sweeney can't catch his lips from parting at the reveal; how could they not? The wealth contained within would...well. It should be enough for his brother to be satisfied that he got what he paid for. Promptly shutting his mouth, he nods tightly to the bearers, both acknowledging and appreciating the presentation, but assuring them he'd seen enough. They can take it away. Then he turns his attention back to Gilia with a tip of his head.
"You honor me with yer gifts." A supportive smile curls. "Each worthy and well-suited." He inhales slowly, his gaze lifting enough to signify thought before settling back down on her.
"But I must admit...my favorite is the one yer mother gave me."
Sweeney reaches his hand across her so he can cup her far cheek and assure she's facing him when he fixes his gaze on her eyes. He wets his lips as he leans in to whisper.
"Pearl an' gold, trappin' flame. Honey an' salt, born of the sea."
He leans in the few inches required to kiss her, and it holds more tenderness than lust. Some of the crowd applauses, but he pays no mind. Sweeney puts just enough space between them to meet her eyes.
How she had dreamed of this, wanted this - to be worthy, and to be wanted for it. To do her people pride, uphold her family, and between all of it, to find admiration and care from the one she married.
His kiss was better known, now, a thing she was starting to know from him, something he liked - and she liked just as much it turned out. Her face turned up, her lips parting with a soft smile as he kissed her.
One she finds she wanted to keep going - until the puppy protests the shifting that disturbed its nap. Squirming and yawning with a sad yip and burrowing to get comfortable again.
They part, and she smiles still happy as she looks back into his eyes, softer, more herself in these garments, the flowers shifting, sending loose petals about them. "May I always honour you so. For I could never imagined such happiness as this, with you."
They had done their duty, they had made their display to serve their people, they had ensured peace and connection - and her heart swelled as the weight of the last year of worry and preparation sunk from her to the chance of happiness felt in so long.
He has no doubt she'll continue to honor both of their people, especially once her belly is round. In the meantime, there's a load of other bullshit to get to before he can have her again.
The puppy squirming is distracting, and Sweeney straightens back as he tries to address it. If the dog continues to fuss, he'll hand it off. The situation doesn't stop him from sliding her a quick glance.
"Food now, yeah?"
Please. At least in the bath, she might be naked. Though now that he's thinking about it, he can't be sure how much of an audience there will be, as well.
The attended steps forward with an eye for the unhappy creature immediately. Looking to take it from him and let the couple enjoy the meal.
With the presentation and gifts done, the tables are brought out. Though she laughs, still not quite brave enough to say perhaps what she thinks but- there is a little lift of her brows before she turns her eyes down.
"Yes. Time for food. To keep you strong and fully of energy."
Given the night before, and this morning - she could take a guess what it was he wanted.
Alright. Good. Sweeney nods subconsciously as he turns his attention to the spread being laid out. He suspects this is a similar experience to what she faced last night. He remembers the bit about the dense bread, but has little else to go on except 'fish wrapped in spices'. Oh, and whatever the fuck almonds are. Hopefully, she'll do some further explaining.
Wetting his lip, Sweeney's hands hover slightly, clearly unsure where he's meant to begin.
The fish are served in wrapped bundles of leaves that they had been cooked in - seaweed, by the look. Brought out and dished to everyone seated.
Though where she was born to such a position she makes her movements clear because he was hardly the only one new to it. Even if it is nerve wracking for it to be so directly upon her now as it never had been before. A woman of her own household, her own responsibilties at his side. Taking her knife and carefully opening the kelp, and it is followed by the smell of pepper and onion and lemon, then the fish below it. Letting it air, she gestured for the wine to be poured, and another dish to be served with it.
Rice, mixed with those same almonds, and what smelled like lavender to sweeten it that is spooned beside the fish.
Cutting it up, and spooning up fish and rice together, she blows on it to cool it before lifting it not to herself, but to her husband.
It's not exactly rich, but well blended. Sharp and earth to not take away from the fish. "Here, like this."
He gives her his full attention while she illustrates the thing. The smell is foreign, but not completely unappealing. Sweeney does his best to keep an open mind. Patience is given without hardship, and when she offers the food up, he isn't caught off-guard. It's similar enough to the night before.
Sweeney's mindful to lean in deeply so the spoonful doesn't have to make a long journey. His smile is muted when he opens his mouth to accept it, but starts to return by the time he's chewing. He's not sure he wants this dish all the time, but it's presentable enough, and it makes her happy, which is the important part.
Once he swallows, he picks up his own utensils, ready to try the process for himself. Sweeney's not sure he has the ratio balanced, but there's a little bit of everything on the spoon, so that's some level of success, at least. When he lifts it for her, he cups his other hand beneath, in case he lacks her grace when it comes to reciprocating.
Nodding with encouragement, she takes up her own again, to join him in a bite of her own. It was as close to home as she could make it, but after talking with the kitchen staff here, somewhat changed to suit the tastes of this kingdom to her own.
"Yes. Just like that." She gives a nod and brings her own spook with her food up to join him in taking a mouthful.
Chewing and swallowing, she savoured it privately. Something a little like home after such a long journey was welcome, and she was thankful he allowed it.
Sweeney accepts her offering readily, quicker this time, but before he finishes swallowing, he catches her chin. He just needs to steady it so he can lean in further for a kiss. It's not deep; he's not looking to share the food with her; it's just a touch of playful affection.
Even though they're in public, Sweeney takes delight in the stolen intimacy. He shifts his hand enough to graze his thumb across her lip. Though he puts more than a few inches between them after, he holds her eyes with a tiny smile tucked in his lips.
For the first time in so long that she could remember - she felt light. Happy, wonderful, beautiful- and wanted. He did not seem to mind her company, so far. The hope glimmered in her chest, that for once, she would not be such a burden, that she would do her family proud, and make this work. Her smile fixed so intently from the kiss, that it might never leave her face.
The chaste kiss is returned, and the meal continues. The freedom and exertion of dancing, and his appreciation and warm comfort lets her open up a little more. Finding herself able to talk, however stumbling, as different courtiers greet them, doing her best to return conversation when she could. To strike up her own conversation with those sitting near them.
That each time she turns back to find assurance in that small shared smile, giving one of her own. That now, she gives her own gladness, when she finds his hand closest to her, sitting idle, and still nervous, but intent nonetheless, she rests hers on top of his for this new connection between them.
At least until the meal is drawing to a close, and she squeezes his hand softly to gain his attention.
"I am go, now. To make ready for you." The implication clear, with the way her eyes down turn, and the little abashed smile holds. "They say - when time. To go to me."
Sweeney's spent the meal in good humor, following her lead on any detail of custom or culinary palate she looks to share. Between courtiers, he takes his turn, clumsily working his way through idle comments in her own tongue. It's not necessary, of course, but it's important to him that she can feel him meeting her halfway. And it seems like his patience is finally pays off.
His focus bounces between her eyes and lips as she speaks, and it takes him a moment longer to process the meaning. Not because of the disjointed way she says it, but because he's still caught up in the sight of her. Sweeney shakes himself back to his senses and nods once in confirmation.
"I will see you soon."
With a quick smile of reassurance, he watches her depart. Finishing his wine, he politely takes his own leave. Perhaps he should have stayed a while longer; once he's been dressed properly, there's little to do but pace in his room until the time comes. The lack of layers feels somehow more exposing than him being naked.
At last, he's shown mercy, and is led down the hall by her attendants. Sweeney can't help but wonder about what the experience might be like. Sure, he has broad swathes, but that hardly details the picture.
Taken up, she is undressed with the rituals that she'd been denied the night before. The bath had been found that was big enough for them both, filled with scented oils and flower petals. The candles ebb brightly, the fire lit to keep the room warm as sweet scented steam fills it. Her hair brushed out, her skin rubbed into to soften it, and with it all done, and her ladies singing the little bit wicked, little bit loving, little bit mournful, she is ready.
There they fetch him, to be beckoned in the door. But it is hardly sombre, there is laughter, gladness as he is welcome in, and the women give him good wishes and he is left alone at last again, with his bride.
Gilia laid in the bath, her long hair all the way undone as it hung over the edge became a rich gold by firelight. The candle made the water shimmer in beads on her pale skin, the rose petals sticking to her skin as she waited in a different sort of nerves. When she heard the door close at last, she turned to face him, eyes soft, and raised her hand to beckon him to come close.
The unexpected nature of the whole thing has him on his back foot, just trying to keep up while retaining his dignified presence. The brightness in her attendants' welcome and hastiness of their retreat leaves him to stand and blink at what just happened.
It's a fleeting thing, though, and his attention is all too happy to turn to his bride. A soft smile curls his lip, promising tenderness, even as the raise of one brow speaks to the seeds of wickedness the view is planting.
"Wife."
He crosses to her with confident steps. There's an easiness that comes with the unknown, since it's just the two of them at this point, and that makes any err on his part less gossip-worthy.
Sweeney stands before her, both brows lifted in question.
"You undress, yes." She hums, and as he comes closer, she swallows down. The night before had been good and bad, painful and then pleasurable. It left a ball of nerves in her belly of a different sort. She was letting her take some control. Set how this proceeded between them.
So swallowing down, remembering how he seemed to like the sight of her - Gilia rose up out of the water, cascading off her with a splash, petals stuck across her skin as she beckoned him close to reach for the hem of his shirt and go to tug it off. But rather than too eager, there is a care, a reverence to it. He was her husband, and for her to adore and one day, hopefully, love.
Oh, he likes the sight of her. Very much. Sweeney's lips part when he gets caught up in the view; the way the water makes her skin sparkle in the low light, and how the petals cling to her like secrets. When she reaches towards him, he's drawn to meet her without active thought.
There's a flicker of surprise when she touches his shirt; he thought he was supposed to disrobe by himself. Sweeney is not complaining. He bends down to help her get it over his head. Only when the beads rattle as they settle is he reminded that she's staring at him face-on, able to note the scars he'd tried to deter her from the night before. In the morning, he hadn't had cause to think of it; they were already naked; but in the here and now, he feels left on awkward display.
Sweeney shifts his weight slightly, as if it might help, even though it clearly doesn't. He swallows and busies himself with the laces of his trousers, instead. His fingers are more fussing than actively untying, at the moment. She'd applied a clear purpose to the ritual of the thing, and it's not his place to rush through it.
And like the night before, she does not recoil, her hands place themselves on his shoulders, smoothing across their broad strength. Though as she glances over him, it's even more, she just takes the moment to appreciate him. Her eyes falling down and then back up with a little nervous swallow.
To push up on her toes, the height of the bath giving her that inch more. Her face tilting up, as she flicked between his eyes and then down to his lips. A soft, ready expectation, and invitation that he could do so.
At the closeness of their proximity, she can see the bob of his throat beneath his beard. But when she rises as much as she can, he realizes her intent, and Sweeney's grateful to indulge her, especially if it means she isn't staring at him.
He isn't sure if the kiss is part of the ritual, or if she wants it to be something more heated, so he errs on the side of restraint until he gets more of his bearings. Sweeney may not lift his hand to cup her head or cradle her back, but there is a confidence that leaves the act far from chaste. He does make the effort not to push ahead, wanting to make sure the reins stay in her hands as things continue forward.
Still up on her toes, she leans into the kiss with that new bravery that she knows, now, he likes. Tilting her head to lean with it, her palms smoothing across his shoulders as she goes to the task of truly learning him. Feeling him. Figuring out how to be with one another. Her body warm from the hot water, as her breasts brush his chest with proximity, so there is no mistaking the shiver for anything other than appreciation.
But she knew better now, how he riled quickly, so she stops before it goes further to move on. Her fingers ran down his body with a particular reverence, still new, and shy for it, but the same care as she took him in - then reached for his breeches to slowly undo them. Swallowing, she looked back up, slowly forming the words and how best to translate them.
"... Bride and... Groom... do... do together. Wash each other skin, being... being caring... to know one another. Show... care... care for each other. All parts. Both... in vow... in front of others, and when... private. Take care of you, know you, as only.. us. That my hands will tend you... my... heart... is open to you, am for you vulnerable, and no other."
She had run it over and over with her tutor, to learn it as perfectly as she could. Even so, the nerves made her stumble. But at least she could keep busy as she undid the lace, pulse thudding in her heart.
Sweeney certainly doesn't mind her touch on him, bare-chested or not. It makes his skin flush. When it's clear that she'll be untying things, he lifts his hands out of the way, but leaves them hovering a bit off, in anticipation. He has to make a concerted effort to lift his eyes from her fingers to her face as he swallows and tries to follow her explanation.
"Am I bathin' you too, or 's it meant ta just be you, washin' me?" he whispers, as if the corners of the room held spies that might see him misstep.
He tries to keep his focus on the overarching activity, but by the time she's loosened his trousers, his prick already has the inkling that there might be touching, in short order. Sweeney's not fully erect, but there is plenty of swelling to make him grateful to no longer be trapped in the constriction of the lacings.
"Shared." She answered as he finally came free from his small clothes. "We wash each other."
It was in short, a simple way for a new bride and groom to broach intimacy with less pressure about it all. To take time to get to know each other, especially in the case of nobles who did not know each other.
But with the last of his clothes undone, she encourages him out of them. Sliding them down his legs as far as she can reach with only a little peak down his body. Then once he's fully undressed, she stepped back to invite him to step into the bath with her.
That she had in fact, made sure to get the biggest one they could get. Neither of them were short, after all. Have enough space for them to tuck together comfortably.
One thing that was nice about having the time to prepare for this is that he hadn't been left in boots. It makes undressing easier, and he's happy to help her with the last bit of tugging. Of course, with her in the general proximity, his thoughts keep snagging on the feel of her lips on his prick, no matter how fleeting. Had he been wrong to stop her?
Sweeney doesn't have time to ponder it too deeply, because she's stepping back to give him room. His hand may be in hers, but he's mindful not to hold too tightly, lest things get extra awkward if he slips and pulls her down with him.
Blessedly, no such doom comes to pass, and makes it into the tub unscathed. He steps closer, but not touching, save for her hand. Sweeney swallows purposefully, waiting for further direction as if they are meant to sit or kneel, and if they should be positioned back to front or facing each other. He looks a bit sheepish, standing with nothing on and no charted course of action. Other than fucking her. Sweeney knows it's still a while off, but it doesn't mean it's not on the docket.
Her hand stays steady, giving him the space he wants and needs to get his feet sure. The thin linen sheet over the wooden tub stops splinters from catching on bare skin, the scent wafting as they move the water.
Once he is steady, she drops down into the water briefly to catch a cup that bobs on the surface and fills it. Then up to his right shoulder, she tips it to run down his body. It's done with a nervous, giddy smile. Then repeats it on the other side so there was water mostly covering him.
It's then she settles to the task more seriously of getting the soap, and taking a deep breath, kneeling in front of him in the warm water. Her eyes nervous up, perhaps the idea from last night in her mind but - not right now. She has planned this since she understood as a young woman, beginning to rub soap into the back of his leg. One then the other, around and over from calf to shin, and then up to his knees. Her fingers are soft, but firm, aiming not to tickle but clean and relax him.
With a hand perched on his hip to steady herself, she swallows. Getting the nerve up, to look at him again. Wanted to make sure she hadn't done something wrong or upsetting. Remembering what he said about the kisses being too overwhelming anywhere sensitive, she instead leans to kiss his hip.
When she bends down, Sweeney starts to lower as well, assuming that they're going to submerge for the process. But then she rises again, and so does he. A quick swallow and a searching gaze belies the fact that he's not quite sure what to be doing with himself. The longer she goes on though, the less it matters.
It's soothing and stimulating in equal measure, and she can feel the tension ease in the muscles below her fingers, even as his breath is forced deep to keep rein on his ramping desire. Of course, there's no way for him to keep his prick from swelling, and Sweeney is hyperaware of the fact, given how close it is to her face. There are times he'd swear he can feel her breath on it, even when she's not too near his skin. But then her lips find him.
Not on his cock, but near enough that it twitches in longing, leaving it bobbing a bit as his toes curl and bunch the fabric at the bottom of the tub. His hands had been hovering, unsure of what they were meant to be doing, but standing at the ready. The kiss is fire though, and one shifts to cup the back of her neck.
Sweeney doesn't push her away, or even apply much pressure. It was more instinct than intent, but it hadn't been about steadying himself. Or was it? Either way, his eyes are fixed on her and where they meet, and he fights valiantly not to press her against him. On him. The idea makes him want to swoon.
"Yes--" he whispers, not having enough air for anything louder.
"Nice. Very nice." That seems insufficient somehow, but the words are tricky to find.
It felt... somehow... powerful? He was a man that stood fierce on the battlefield. She had been told every fearsome story on the way to her wedding of his deeds. He would wield sword and spear with equal pride, rode horses like the wind.
Yet her touches made him look starved, somehow, his eyes burning down on her like he could comprehend nothing but her. It made her swallow down, and remember his reaction the night before. His hands grasp her, and she listened to instinct.
Her hands went back to soaping him up again, running it across his hips and stomach, and then gently braced around the base of his cock. Not unlike this morning as she did her best to replicate what he taught her as she stroked his cock down - before she leans her head close.
And lays a line of kisses down the length, a little more sure this time that he'd like it. A lot in fact. But then she lifts up, letting him go free as she continues, now finally straightening up to begin cleaning his chest.
She doesn't shy away or pull back at his touch, so Sweeney just leaves his hand where it is. Truth be told, he's a little nervous to move it, lest he end up urging her towards him, instead of releasing her as he should. He does his best to stand still and take it, enjoying the act while trying not to be consumed with the desire to fuck her.
But then she wraps her fingers around his cock, and a small gasp escapes as he tries not to choke on his tongue. His eyes flicker wide for a moment while the wheels spin. Is this really part of the ritual?
Then she starts to stroke him.
Fucking hell.
At her vantage, she can see the muscles in his thighs tremble as he bites back a whimper, and she can feel the flesh throb in her hand, imploring. Sweeney had thought it a true test; at least, until she starts her path of kisses. Now it's time for him to cough, and his hand falls to her shoulder to catch himself. But he doesn't push her away. Sweeney'd made his comment the night prior; if she still wants to put her mouth on his prick, who is he to deny her?
When she abandons it to wash further up, it's left flexing, begging for more attention.
Compared to that brief touch, the rest is rather mundane, in so far as she roams over him. Her hands brushing over his body with the soap. Over his hips, his stomach, up to his chest. Give him time to breath and ease off that immediate contact. Until she is reach up to his shoulders. Carding away his red locks back so she can map across his clavicals to the base of his neck with even swipes. Cleaning him from top to bottom, and all the places her fingers could dance curiously between. In comparison to the rush of the night before, she can do as she fondly imagined she would - learn him, see all of him, begin to appreciate this man she has been thrust into marriage with.
Then, she finally stops, and short as her breathe feels, nervous and yet eager she brings up the soap to offer him.
"Now.. you.. me?" And she gestures down her body to indicate he was to do the same for her.
It may be mundane, but that doesn't mean Sweeney isn't awash with more than soap and water. His skin is alive, anticipating every touch, and yet, he does his very best to be patient.
All that waiting only makes the moment when she stops stand stark. It takes Sweeney a second more to follow along, but with a tight nod, he bends to chase the bowl. At his height, it's awkward at best, so he takes another approach. While it's uncomfortable to fill the bowl from standing, doing so from kneeling is much easier.
So he drops down on both, filling the bowl before he looks up at her, savoring the opportunity to do so at this angle. Then he follows suit; wetting her skin, even though there's no need, and starting the soaped washing at her legs. Sweeney does his best to make it meaningful, hoping he's doing it mostly right, at least. When he glides his hand over the swell of one hip, his eyes lift again in soft question.
Her breathe catches as he kneels in front of her. Sticking in her lungs at the sight of him that way, something so without guile between them, all her day dreams made true for a moment.
And Spirits, he was so tall, even like this.
"Good, yes." Gilia answers with a shakey nod of her head. Her skin felt alive all over again, warm under his touch in a way different to the steam of hot water.
"Am... am glad to do, with you. Like... like imagined... when... when girl. Handsome husband to... to share with." She encourages, letting her fingers drift to brush his red hair back over his shoulder as he moved.
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Sweeney's only received the vaguest of notes on what's to be expected, and honestly, he isn't sure that things weren't lost in translation at some points. Nevertheless, here he sits, his garments a bit different from the night before; still much in the local fashion, but he's tried to put in some details and colors to pay homage to her people. They're a little bit looser, both for the presumable undressing at some point, and on the off-chance that he does end up having to dance. He'd like as little encumbrance as possible while he tries to stumble his way through both.
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Which made it even more apparent how she had to make this perfect, in the back of her mind. She must be worthy of him. So when she went back with her maids for the nights festivities and explained to them the change of plans, they did not do these rituals the night before, and instead would be doing them tonight. It at least helped Anya be less irritated at it being put aside the night before.
Then, however, she informed them, it would not be the dance they had previously chosen. Her husband was a warrior, and now she saw how true that was. He would have a bride as fierce as he. She may never pick a weapon, true, but he would find her no less strong beside him. Not the artful pose and intricacy. No. A test of strength and prowess, then. Let him know he had his match.
Dug through her gowns with her, most in the style of his people now, but the few she had taken that were like home, and opted instead of something light, freer, that would show off the strength of her limbs.
Then, with the little rehearsal they had in the chambers, her ladies dressed as she was, though she was hard to miss. Her long curls were braided with ribbons, a well pinned in place wreath of flowers around her brow - and made entirely of the ones he had picked the night before at the wedding especially.
The arrival is not done with the usual announcements, but instead the beat of a single drum as the doors swing open, and barefoot, expression open, she stepped into the hall, past the eyes that watched, mostly pleased and excited, she hoped. She strode past to that simple beat to at last stand before him. There, she dropped down into a deep curtsey to greet her Prince and Husband, then rose, her eyes darting up to his. "With your permission?"
It was his hall, after all, and she was new to these lands.
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That is not so divergent from what his people perform, at least, in principle. What is not the same is the attire. His eyes flicker wider for a moment, mostly due to her bare feet. Perhaps it is because she is meant to be a virgin when the dance is performed, he tells himself. Sweeney wonders if the floor is uncomfortable for them.
He notices other details, too; the most striking being the wreath of flowers. Though he had not dwelled on the choice at the time, Sweeney hadn't been frivolous about it either, and it's easy to recognize. His gaze remains focused as she approaches, unblinking.
With a swallow, he bows his head in answer to her curtesy. His voice is clear for the others assembled to hear.
"Granted, my Lady."
Then it drops to something more intimate. Not private, of course, but something warm that holds the seed of tenderness.
"My Wife."
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Moving back to her ladies, she lifts her eyes skyward in a silent prayer to the Holy Sea that may she have all the grace she has ever had in her life in this moment especially. Light and brisk as the waves themselves.
It is the last as she drifts with the other women into formation. Their arms looping one another across the back as she fell into the familiar steps of the dance learned so long ago in the fields - their bodies linked together, as the drum changed again the other instruments picking up, and in slow first few steps to get their bearings, they got their bearings to turn in a circle together.
Then it goes faster, faster, as they begin to spin a wheel together, skirts flaring, the music beating louder, until at last in a culmination of all - they split apart like petals scattering to the wind.
Not that the movements slow down, instead form intricate weaving, they move back and forth from one another, and the words sung by one of the small troop rising over the music. The steps have them grasping one another, lifting, jumping, pale skin that flashes as she vaults high in leaps, then is caught, and moving off again. Sometimes moving as one in joined arms, sometimes alternating to give each other a brief pause to take their breath. Later, it will be unsurprising that she has earned blisters for the effort of the movement. But they are well worn, and eagerly gotten.
It's another of the party that comes up to Sweeney himself with a small bow, and offers in slow murmurs a translation of what the song is about. They sing of the warrior, riding out to the roads, roaming the fields and seeing the lands after the snows, green and bright, the armour shining in the sun, the banners in the wind. The dance is done to welcome the wanderer home and the joy of returning to loved ones.
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As it is, he can start to feel how the sight affects him; how the drum compels his blood down, and the way her lips curl breathily only urges it into his prick. Sweeney shifts slightly in his seat, pressing his elbow into the arm of the chair as his fingers start to tighten on the cap.
It would be a lie to say there was not a flicker of worry when the translator approaches; he knew he'd be stuck dancing. But then he's not, he is just granted more understanding, and for that, he's grateful. It does prompt the question, and he leans in to whisper it in hopes of not being distracting. He can't stop staring at her though.
"Will she come ta me?"
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"When the song ends, it is customary to go to the bride and raise her back up and embrace - to show ones appreciation for the skillful dancer."
And with it the translator stepped back with another bow, his hand lifting to invite all back towards the display. The song rapidly reaching its crescendo, the drum faster, the words rising and falling as Gilia herself was lifted briefly up to be carried and then placed in the center of the cleared space. Directly before him as she readied herself for the last part. The other women fell back, encouraging the start of a clap - and Gilia grabbed a handful of her skirt, lifting it up to free her movement as she moved up onto one leg, and then onto her toes as she fixed her eyes on him wholly with a steadying inhale-exhale.
For him, even in a crowded room, this was for him. She stood before him now as his.
This, her skill, this her practise of years. But with a kick she pushed off, her hands remaining on her hips, and swung her leg hard to spin her body, before her head snapped to follow to keep her from becoming dizzy. But not the once, using her arc leg as momentum she pulled herself with a long kick to curl in and gain speed, and as the clapping began to catch and speed with the music, so did she, faster and faster. Spinning again and again and again, around and around, the snap of her head back to face him making her long braid with its golden ribbons, swing in a fluttering arc out from her. Around, around, around in the sheer show of strength, grace and control. Her bare feet and simple garb obvious - both to show the power of her long legs that flashed in each turn, but that it have her movements freedom. With the speed and force of the movement, the flowers and petals less secure came loose, flutter about her as they mixed with the ribbons and descend back to the earth. A wild, potent display of her best- to match her new husbands reputation and drive.
The last note at last fell, and muscles burning, her body aching, she fell to the last pose of the dance, down to one knee, her arms lifted up - her chest rising and falling with deep lungfuls of air. Exhausted and burning. The sweat on her skin sticking stray curls to her brow and neck.
The applause comes as relief, blurring in between each inhalation, but what she waits for - is given gesture by the translator with a sweep of his hand.
If her husband finds it suitable, finds the display worthy of him, he is now to embrace her.
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When the music ends and she drops to her knee, Sweeney waits half a breath more before placing his hands on his chair and pushing to rise. He just prays it won't be too painful of an endeavor. Blessedly, nothing gets pinched or twisted uncomfortably as he closes the distance between them.
With the weight of formality, Sweeney takes both hands and guides her to her feet. When their eyes finally meet, the faint crack of a smile tucks in one corner of his lips, betraying the serious tone of the thing. Then he releases her before his hands drop promptly to her waist, and he lifts her in a turn, as close as he can manage to the ones he'd just seen her ladies perform.
When she's safely returned to the ground, he bends to kiss her. Perhaps it's a little too quickly, but there's nothing overtly lewd. Not a chaste peck, but brief and honest. As he straightens, his smile widens.
No further warning given, Sweeney takes her hand and spins her towards the assembled, lifting it as he does so, making a neat presentation of his pride when he announces her.
"Her Highness, Gilia, Princess of Γriu."
She's not forced to stand there, stared at, for he immediately turns her back to him so he can offer a courtly bow. It may be intended for the audience, but his words drop more private for her.
"My beautiful wife."
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Maybe... maybe this would not be the end of her life as she had known it. Perhaps there was brightness here, hope. Something new. If just for that gaze he gives her.
But for the deafening applause, she feels a different sort of shakey, still breathing harshly for her effort, and now for her happy laughter.
"I showed good... good for Eiru?" Her hands curled around his in trust, reassurance. "Strong? Brave? Fitting for Princess?" This is what his people were, and she would meet him in that. Risky as this had felt, in the planning.
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"Fittin' fer a princess. You honor Eiru. An' St. Loe."
He wants her to know that he's not cutting her away from all that she has been. Yes, she will have to adapt and learn new customs and practices, but he acknowledges that there will (and should) always be a part of her that is the sea of her homeland.
"Yer strong an' brave, full of grace an' light."
With a squeeze of her hand, he moves to guide her up to her throne beside his. It's clearly been freshly carved, created just for her. It stands in contrast to his, worn with age and the men who've held it before him.
When she sits, she can see that two small shells have been carved into its arms, a note quickly added this morning as she'd prepared. Where they are, they're only visible to them, and they are placed where she might rest her palms over them.
After all seems settled and the other dancers start to take their leave, Sweeney takes the opportunity of the crowd mulling about to lean over to whisper with a mischievous grin.
"When is bath?"
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Her heart could not feel fuller, as she traced those shells with her thumbs, her eyes crinkled with a smile. The look she gives to him is pure adoration, utter warmth and thanks.
"After we feast, my husband. I need strength after that." Especially for him, of all men. "I ask - some food be made - from my land. To share with your people. Fish, wrapped in spice - hearty bread."
Now that the performance is done, the musicians take up a mix of her songs, though far less intense - better suited for feasting and company.
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"Yer askin' them ta start now? Or it's already been cooked?" Because those are very different things.
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Or maybe just the part that involved her being unclothed. His interest in that was apparent, much as it made her want to blush. Thank the Sea her face was already flushed and it couldn't be seen as readily.
For now, the tables were brought out one by one laid rather not in front of them, so he could still move around, but beside him, and - undoubtedly awful for his readiness, she made the gesture of invitation (especially after his irritation at the interruption last night that she invited it first) for the items to begin.
"Now you... you be... given gift. To show I... gives... gives good ... household?" That sounded close enough as she could translate. Her nose wrinkling a minute. It had been intended the night before, if not for his readiness. Her own people favoured it seemed more pagentry this way.
But at least the gifts were not boring. No, as the doors of the hall swung open, what appeared first was horses, led by their handlers. Two great beasts, a mare and stallion matching, their mane and tail woven with ribbons of the vivid green favoured by Eiru, their dun coats painted with a blue dye of waves.
And tall, so tall only a man of his stature could ride one comfortably, or for her to do just barely. "These come from the hills, our horses, wild that cannot be tempered except by the patient, brave rider. But once earned, they are loyal for life."
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"Like their princesses?"
He does like to ride, after all.
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"Sometimes. I am not so wild as they are." No one had ever thought so, the quietest of her family by far. But with his approval, she lifts her hand to send them on their way, and bring the next in - and this time, the hound she had mentioned, along with another. "This is my Eimantas and his mate, LaimΔ«ga." The dogs were simply put, huge, easily mistaken for a bear if you weren't paying attention. "He takes down even the Elk on the hunt. But most of all, he guards the hearth - and before we left, they had a litter of puppies. We have sent the strongest of them, as it is a sign of good luck for a new couple."
It's with a delighted gasp to those closest, as the puppies - all ten of them this time are brought up to him directly. Clearly no more than a few months old, they were easily the size of any of the lap dogs in the room. "He once took down a bear by himself."
The biggest of them, a male, was held for Sweeney to look at directly. Though right now, he seemed more content for sleeping, trying to squirm into the most comfortable position in his handler's hold or Sweeney's lap, whichever seemed easier.
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"I'm glad yer able ta have him here."
He wasn't sure that she would. A hound should go a long way in having a piece of home in a strange land. That's as much time as he has before the puppy is before him, and Sweeney reaches out to take him without hesitation. Placing him on his lap, it doesn't seem to be any effort to get the dog settled, as sleepy as he is. Sweeney idly scratches him behind his ears before his gaze returns to his princess.
"My lady is too generous."
It's not as though gifts aren't customary, but this sort was not expected.
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But to see him content with his gift and the ready smile he shares, it seemed worth it.
"Only as is fitting for a Prince of Eru." Comes back the answer, as she kept her happy smile in place. "But I have one more. Though it is best to say it comes from my mother, the Queen."
And with another wave of her hand, came the last gift. Not an animal this time - but a heavy wooden chest that is set down in front of them. "She has had a long, happy marriage to my fathers. So to bless us, she has given us this - one for every day she has known happiness, so that we may have twice as much."
The wooden chest that itself was a marvel - carved in a pattern of waves that were set with shimmering in lays - is opened.
To reveal pearls that makes a gasp at the display from those closest. A mix of white and deep grey, in the torch light they ebbed like water as the servant brushind their finger across the surface. A veritable fortune given to ensure the couple would have every security, (and for pride, that no one would say that they were miserly in their alliances, their first daughter would be given away with all dignity of an old family). Their reputation and these gifts would be spoken of wildly. It would see them and their children safe.
"Does this please you, husband?"
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"You honor me with yer gifts." A supportive smile curls. "Each worthy and well-suited." He inhales slowly, his gaze lifting enough to signify thought before settling back down on her.
"But I must admit...my favorite is the one yer mother gave me."
Sweeney reaches his hand across her so he can cup her far cheek and assure she's facing him when he fixes his gaze on her eyes. He wets his lips as he leans in to whisper.
"Pearl an' gold, trappin' flame. Honey an' salt, born of the sea."
He leans in the few inches required to kiss her, and it holds more tenderness than lust. Some of the crowd applauses, but he pays no mind. Sweeney puts just enough space between them to meet her eyes.
"No king has e'er received such a gift as you."
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His kiss was better known, now, a thing she was starting to know from him, something he liked - and she liked just as much it turned out. Her face turned up, her lips parting with a soft smile as he kissed her.
One she finds she wanted to keep going - until the puppy protests the shifting that disturbed its nap. Squirming and yawning with a sad yip and burrowing to get comfortable again.
They part, and she smiles still happy as she looks back into his eyes, softer, more herself in these garments, the flowers shifting, sending loose petals about them. "May I always honour you so. For I could never imagined such happiness as this, with you."
They had done their duty, they had made their display to serve their people, they had ensured peace and connection - and her heart swelled as the weight of the last year of worry and preparation sunk from her to the chance of happiness felt in so long.
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The puppy squirming is distracting, and Sweeney straightens back as he tries to address it. If the dog continues to fuss, he'll hand it off. The situation doesn't stop him from sliding her a quick glance.
"Food now, yeah?"
Please. At least in the bath, she might be naked. Though now that he's thinking about it, he can't be sure how much of an audience there will be, as well.
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With the presentation and gifts done, the tables are brought out. Though she laughs, still not quite brave enough to say perhaps what she thinks but- there is a little lift of her brows before she turns her eyes down.
"Yes. Time for food. To keep you strong and fully of energy."
Given the night before, and this morning - she could take a guess what it was he wanted.
And she found it did not seem so awful an idea.
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Wetting his lip, Sweeney's hands hover slightly, clearly unsure where he's meant to begin.
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Though where she was born to such a position she makes her movements clear because he was hardly the only one new to it. Even if it is nerve wracking for it to be so directly upon her now as it never had been before. A woman of her own household, her own responsibilties at his side. Taking her knife and carefully opening the kelp, and it is followed by the smell of pepper and onion and lemon, then the fish below it. Letting it air, she gestured for the wine to be poured, and another dish to be served with it.
Rice, mixed with those same almonds, and what smelled like lavender to sweeten it that is spooned beside the fish.
Cutting it up, and spooning up fish and rice together, she blows on it to cool it before lifting it not to herself, but to her husband.
It's not exactly rich, but well blended. Sharp and earth to not take away from the fish. "Here, like this."
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Sweeney's mindful to lean in deeply so the spoonful doesn't have to make a long journey. His smile is muted when he opens his mouth to accept it, but starts to return by the time he's chewing. He's not sure he wants this dish all the time, but it's presentable enough, and it makes her happy, which is the important part.
Once he swallows, he picks up his own utensils, ready to try the process for himself. Sweeney's not sure he has the ratio balanced, but there's a little bit of everything on the spoon, so that's some level of success, at least. When he lifts it for her, he cups his other hand beneath, in case he lacks her grace when it comes to reciprocating.
"Like this, yes?"
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"Yes. Just like that." She gives a nod and brings her own spook with her food up to join him in taking a mouthful.
Chewing and swallowing, she savoured it privately. Something a little like home after such a long journey was welcome, and she was thankful he allowed it.
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Even though they're in public, Sweeney takes delight in the stolen intimacy. He shifts his hand enough to graze his thumb across her lip. Though he puts more than a few inches between them after, he holds her eyes with a tiny smile tucked in his lips.
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The chaste kiss is returned, and the meal continues. The freedom and exertion of dancing, and his appreciation and warm comfort lets her open up a little more. Finding herself able to talk, however stumbling, as different courtiers greet them, doing her best to return conversation when she could. To strike up her own conversation with those sitting near them.
That each time she turns back to find assurance in that small shared smile, giving one of her own. That now, she gives her own gladness, when she finds his hand closest to her, sitting idle, and still nervous, but intent nonetheless, she rests hers on top of his for this new connection between them.
At least until the meal is drawing to a close, and she squeezes his hand softly to gain his attention.
"I am go, now. To make ready for you." The implication clear, with the way her eyes down turn, and the little abashed smile holds. "They say - when time. To go to me."
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His focus bounces between her eyes and lips as she speaks, and it takes him a moment longer to process the meaning. Not because of the disjointed way she says it, but because he's still caught up in the sight of her. Sweeney shakes himself back to his senses and nods once in confirmation.
"I will see you soon."
With a quick smile of reassurance, he watches her depart. Finishing his wine, he politely takes his own leave. Perhaps he should have stayed a while longer; once he's been dressed properly, there's little to do but pace in his room until the time comes. The lack of layers feels somehow more exposing than him being naked.
At last, he's shown mercy, and is led down the hall by her attendants. Sweeney can't help but wonder about what the experience might be like. Sure, he has broad swathes, but that hardly details the picture.
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There they fetch him, to be beckoned in the door. But it is hardly sombre, there is laughter, gladness as he is welcome in, and the women give him good wishes and he is left alone at last again, with his bride.
Gilia laid in the bath, her long hair all the way undone as it hung over the edge became a rich gold by firelight. The candle made the water shimmer in beads on her pale skin, the rose petals sticking to her skin as she waited in a different sort of nerves. When she heard the door close at last, she turned to face him, eyes soft, and raised her hand to beckon him to come close.
"Husband."
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It's a fleeting thing, though, and his attention is all too happy to turn to his bride. A soft smile curls his lip, promising tenderness, even as the raise of one brow speaks to the seeds of wickedness the view is planting.
"Wife."
He crosses to her with confident steps. There's an easiness that comes with the unknown, since it's just the two of them at this point, and that makes any err on his part less gossip-worthy.
Sweeney stands before her, both brows lifted in question.
"I undress or you?"
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So swallowing down, remembering how he seemed to like the sight of her - Gilia rose up out of the water, cascading off her with a splash, petals stuck across her skin as she beckoned him close to reach for the hem of his shirt and go to tug it off. But rather than too eager, there is a care, a reverence to it. He was her husband, and for her to adore and one day, hopefully, love.
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There's a flicker of surprise when she touches his shirt; he thought he was supposed to disrobe by himself. Sweeney is not complaining. He bends down to help her get it over his head. Only when the beads rattle as they settle is he reminded that she's staring at him face-on, able to note the scars he'd tried to deter her from the night before. In the morning, he hadn't had cause to think of it; they were already naked; but in the here and now, he feels left on awkward display.
Sweeney shifts his weight slightly, as if it might help, even though it clearly doesn't. He swallows and busies himself with the laces of his trousers, instead. His fingers are more fussing than actively untying, at the moment. She'd applied a clear purpose to the ritual of the thing, and it's not his place to rush through it.
He just rather not be bare-chested for it.
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To push up on her toes, the height of the bath giving her that inch more. Her face tilting up, as she flicked between his eyes and then down to his lips. A soft, ready expectation, and invitation that he could do so.
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He isn't sure if the kiss is part of the ritual, or if she wants it to be something more heated, so he errs on the side of restraint until he gets more of his bearings. Sweeney may not lift his hand to cup her head or cradle her back, but there is a confidence that leaves the act far from chaste. He does make the effort not to push ahead, wanting to make sure the reins stay in her hands as things continue forward.
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But she knew better now, how he riled quickly, so she stops before it goes further to move on. Her fingers ran down his body with a particular reverence, still new, and shy for it, but the same care as she took him in - then reached for his breeches to slowly undo them. Swallowing, she looked back up, slowly forming the words and how best to translate them.
"... Bride and... Groom... do... do together. Wash each other skin, being... being caring... to know one another. Show... care... care for each other. All parts. Both... in vow... in front of others, and when... private. Take care of you, know you, as only.. us. That my hands will tend you... my... heart... is open to you, am for you vulnerable, and no other."
She had run it over and over with her tutor, to learn it as perfectly as she could. Even so, the nerves made her stumble. But at least she could keep busy as she undid the lace, pulse thudding in her heart.
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"Am I bathin' you too, or 's it meant ta just be you, washin' me?" he whispers, as if the corners of the room held spies that might see him misstep.
He tries to keep his focus on the overarching activity, but by the time she's loosened his trousers, his prick already has the inkling that there might be touching, in short order. Sweeney's not fully erect, but there is plenty of swelling to make him grateful to no longer be trapped in the constriction of the lacings.
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It was in short, a simple way for a new bride and groom to broach intimacy with less pressure about it all. To take time to get to know each other, especially in the case of nobles who did not know each other.
But with the last of his clothes undone, she encourages him out of them. Sliding them down his legs as far as she can reach with only a little peak down his body. Then once he's fully undressed, she stepped back to invite him to step into the bath with her.
That she had in fact, made sure to get the biggest one they could get. Neither of them were short, after all. Have enough space for them to tuck together comfortably.
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Sweeney doesn't have time to ponder it too deeply, because she's stepping back to give him room. His hand may be in hers, but he's mindful not to hold too tightly, lest things get extra awkward if he slips and pulls her down with him.
Blessedly, no such doom comes to pass, and makes it into the tub unscathed. He steps closer, but not touching, save for her hand. Sweeney swallows purposefully, waiting for further direction as if they are meant to sit or kneel, and if they should be positioned back to front or facing each other. He looks a bit sheepish, standing with nothing on and no charted course of action. Other than fucking her. Sweeney knows it's still a while off, but it doesn't mean it's not on the docket.
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Once he is steady, she drops down into the water briefly to catch a cup that bobs on the surface and fills it. Then up to his right shoulder, she tips it to run down his body. It's done with a nervous, giddy smile. Then repeats it on the other side so there was water mostly covering him.
It's then she settles to the task more seriously of getting the soap, and taking a deep breath, kneeling in front of him in the warm water. Her eyes nervous up, perhaps the idea from last night in her mind but - not right now. She has planned this since she understood as a young woman, beginning to rub soap into the back of his leg. One then the other, around and over from calf to shin, and then up to his knees. Her fingers are soft, but firm, aiming not to tickle but clean and relax him.
With a hand perched on his hip to steady herself, she swallows. Getting the nerve up, to look at him again. Wanted to make sure she hadn't done something wrong or upsetting. Remembering what he said about the kisses being too overwhelming anywhere sensitive, she instead leans to kiss his hip.
"Good? Feel nice?"
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It's soothing and stimulating in equal measure, and she can feel the tension ease in the muscles below her fingers, even as his breath is forced deep to keep rein on his ramping desire. Of course, there's no way for him to keep his prick from swelling, and Sweeney is hyperaware of the fact, given how close it is to her face. There are times he'd swear he can feel her breath on it, even when she's not too near his skin. But then her lips find him.
Not on his cock, but near enough that it twitches in longing, leaving it bobbing a bit as his toes curl and bunch the fabric at the bottom of the tub. His hands had been hovering, unsure of what they were meant to be doing, but standing at the ready. The kiss is fire though, and one shifts to cup the back of her neck.
Sweeney doesn't push her away, or even apply much pressure. It was more instinct than intent, but it hadn't been about steadying himself. Or was it? Either way, his eyes are fixed on her and where they meet, and he fights valiantly not to press her against him. On him. The idea makes him want to swoon.
"Yes--" he whispers, not having enough air for anything louder.
"Nice. Very nice." That seems insufficient somehow, but the words are tricky to find.
"Very very. Very nice."
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Yet her touches made him look starved, somehow, his eyes burning down on her like he could comprehend nothing but her. It made her swallow down, and remember his reaction the night before. His hands grasp her, and she listened to instinct.
Her hands went back to soaping him up again, running it across his hips and stomach, and then gently braced around the base of his cock. Not unlike this morning as she did her best to replicate what he taught her as she stroked his cock down - before she leans her head close.
And lays a line of kisses down the length, a little more sure this time that he'd like it. A lot in fact. But then she lifts up, letting him go free as she continues, now finally straightening up to begin cleaning his chest.
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But then she wraps her fingers around his cock, and a small gasp escapes as he tries not to choke on his tongue. His eyes flicker wide for a moment while the wheels spin. Is this really part of the ritual?
Then she starts to stroke him.
Fucking hell.
At her vantage, she can see the muscles in his thighs tremble as he bites back a whimper, and she can feel the flesh throb in her hand, imploring. Sweeney had thought it a true test; at least, until she starts her path of kisses. Now it's time for him to cough, and his hand falls to her shoulder to catch himself. But he doesn't push her away. Sweeney'd made his comment the night prior; if she still wants to put her mouth on his prick, who is he to deny her?
When she abandons it to wash further up, it's left flexing, begging for more attention.
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Then, she finally stops, and short as her breathe feels, nervous and yet eager she brings up the soap to offer him.
"Now.. you.. me?" And she gestures down her body to indicate he was to do the same for her.
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All that waiting only makes the moment when she stops stand stark. It takes Sweeney a second more to follow along, but with a tight nod, he bends to chase the bowl. At his height, it's awkward at best, so he takes another approach. While it's uncomfortable to fill the bowl from standing, doing so from kneeling is much easier.
So he drops down on both, filling the bowl before he looks up at her, savoring the opportunity to do so at this angle. Then he follows suit; wetting her skin, even though there's no need, and starting the soaped washing at her legs. Sweeney does his best to make it meaningful, hoping he's doing it mostly right, at least. When he glides his hand over the swell of one hip, his eyes lift again in soft question.
"Good?" He's cautiously optimistic.
"Correct?"
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And Spirits, he was so tall, even like this.
"Good, yes." Gilia answers with a shakey nod of her head. Her skin felt alive all over again, warm under his touch in a way different to the steam of hot water.
"Am... am glad to do, with you. Like... like imagined... when... when girl. Handsome husband to... to share with." She encourages, letting her fingers drift to brush his red hair back over his shoulder as he moved.