It takes two long, frustrating weeks for me to wrangle a ride back to town meet Tromeo in person. In that time we exchange letters through - of all things - an old-school dead drop. I don’t know how he gets them there, but the envelopes are neatly left on top of a portable toilet that hasn’t moved in a decade with a rock to keep them from blowing away.

The first few letters we exchanged were all business. We discussed ways we might try to convince his royalty of the necessity of ending the war. We discussed his eventual deployment back to the front lines. We even discussed, though it was painful for us both, how I was involved in the destruction of the fortress.

Elmer provides the talking points for the politics. He goes over my letters with an eye for detail and tries so very hard to make sure that I let nothing slip that might give away information that they do not already have.

And when he’s done I rewrite the parts that need it. Some of the details of our communication become too personal to share. He tells me about his mother. He tells me about the power she holds to control his career. And he tells me about how he feels strangled by her expectations.

It’s such a human emotion that I could be forgiven for forgetting that it’s a Troo writing it to me. I feel echoes of the same in my own interactions with my mom.

Maybe the best thing about this entire adventure being entirely legitimately a mission with Elmer on my side is getting the freedom to leave the compound so often. The routine has become so familiar that Terry falls asleep in the back seat of the noisy jeep on our way there. Dirk, as usual, drives like a man with a death wish.

He doesn’t know what I’m planning.

“Do you love him?” Dirk startles me out of the reverie.

“Yes,” I answer without even thinking.

“Good,” Dirk responds.

He jerks the wheel and we leave the course we’d followed so many times. We are not heading to the designated meeting point. I have no idea where we’re going. My heart pounds a high speed rhythm in my ears as I engage in panic mode.

Dirk gives me a wild grin and I remember - he’s a mole. And he has finally been convinced that I am too. I return the manic grin, realizing that he is giving me an even better opportunity than the one that had been arranged.

The nimble little vehicle drives at a breakneck pace through a forest path that I absolutely would not have noticed had we not been traversing it.

It takes a shockingly short amount of time to reach the destination. And it’s not at all what I expected.

We arrive at the edge of the forest and before us lies a vast open field. The straw here has been harvested already, and the land lies with short stubble as though it had been recently shaved. The brown mud and sun-bleached white straw leave the area looking desolate. In the distance, past the rolling hills, lies a star-shaped complex of buildings that I slowly realize is the Troo-occupied prison. Most of the fences have been removed, so it hardly looks like a prison anymore.

A copter, not terribly unlike the one I wrecked, sits in the field not far from here. I see two Troos standing nearby, one with bright red plumage and another in muted gray.

I don’t know how to express how disappointed I am that I do not immediately spot the blue-feathered Troo that I was hoping to see. Have I been set up?

“I’ll come with you,” Dirk stops the jeep and I realize that Terry is still snoring. When Dirk sees that I have not unbuckled my seatbelt and am looking between him and the man who is supposed to be my bodyguard, he continues, “Melatonin in his granola.”

That does not put me at ease, but I dare not let on how nervous I am when faced with the risk of this spy deciding that I’m a double agent. I am not heavily armed, after all, and he is definitely larger than I am.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

We walk across the field, straw crunching under our boots with every step. I try to focus on the task at hand.

A small drone, almost a miniature version of the copter, speeds past me and lands on the jeep. Another lifts off from the ground nearby and buzzes in a circle, sparkling dust trailing in its wake. A third scatters tiny white flowers down a path for us to follow.

And I remember what Tromeo said it was he did for his military. He’s a drone operator.

We arrive at the copter and the two Troos there stand at our approach. The one in gray quickly slides open a door panel on the vehicle and reveals the only Troo I wanted to see.

Tromeo wears a sharp white suit, military insignia at his starched lapels in sparkling silver. The daylight gleams off of the shiny silver visor that he removes as he steps out of the copter. His feathers flutter in the soft breeze and they are such a bright, eye-searing blue that they mimic the sky above.

I wish I had spent more time on my own appearance. I smooth down the folds in my black jacket, and note that his outfit is almost an exact opposite of my own.

The fear propelling me forward changes from a deep dread into an excited nervousness and I feel instantly lightheaded. Tromeo’s enormous eyes lock onto my own and it feels like nothing else matters at all in the world.

Feathers on the top of his head lift slightly, and when he steps toward me he drops into a deep bow. The feathers on his tail fan outwards and I realize that I have never seen a Troo’s tail feathers extended like that. I thought their tails were straight like a lizard’s and the feathers just pointed straight back toward the end. I was wrong.

His fanned tail is the same bright blue as the rest of him, with tiny streaks of white at the edges that give the effect of a bright sunny day with scattered clouds. In response, I attempt a bow of my own, not really knowing what the correct response is, but knowing from his many letters that Troos care very much about their etiquette.

But I don’t. I just care that this is my Tromeo, and I am finally able to see him in person again.

I reach out and take his face in both of my hands. His large eyes close and I feel how he allows me to lift the weight of his head. And I kiss him, gently, on the feathered top of his snout.

His tail shudders, shaking his bright spread feathers dramatically.

“I missed you,” he says in a low voice. “I never want to miss you again. May I be your sworn partner?”

“Only if you marry me,” I reply, realizing that I mean it. I actually do want to run away and build a life with this Troo. All the letters and the anticipation have left me feeling like I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my days much closer to this man.

“Is that the same thing?” he asks, and I admit to him that I don’t know.

I look to Dirk who beams at me with wide eyes and an expression somewhere between envy, joy, and panic. Dirk looks to the red-feathered Troo, who I realize must be the one referred to in the letters as Mercutioodon. Mercutioodon nods, his long feathers shaking in the breeze as he keeps his balance with his bald tail.

“How fast can we get it done?” I ask him, realizing that the longer I wait on the decision the more likely I am to change my mind. The faster we can move the faster I can consider the commitment made and permanent.

“Right now?” Tromeo looks to Mercutioodon. Mercutioodon nods again.

“I vow,” Tromeo says in a solemn tone. I can hear that he layers his voice as though singing, and in doing so speaks in both of our languages at the same time. “That I will be that which supports you when you are weak, celebrates you when you are strong. I vow that I will give to you all I have, and will take nothing from you. I vow that I will be faithful to you until we have both passed to dust.”

I don’t know if this has the same ritual requirements as a human wedding, but I am not about to question it now. I choose to think of it as no different than marrying someone in another culture and using their traditional formula in place of my own. That’s what it is, after all, even without all the pomp and circumstance.

“I vow,” I tell him in return, recognizing that there is a pattern I can copy, “to take nothing from you that you do not give gladly. I vow to encourage your strengths and never to mock your weaknesses. I vow that I will honor and love you beyond even death itself.”

And with that, it seems, we’re married according to the Troos. Tromeo leans his neck over my shoulders and wraps his arms around me.

I notice Mercutioodon handing Dirk some papers to sign. It’s official. We are man and wife. Or sworn partners. I am fairly certain that both count.

There is nothing I want more in the world right now than to drag him away with me into bed to complete the process. I’ve never even seen a naked Troo and have no idea whether we are even technically physically compatible. But he and I are consenting adults who are legally wed and what more justification do I need?

Terry is still asleep when Mercutioodon moves him from the back seat to the front. Tromeo and I climb into the back of the jeep and trust our utterly insane driver to get us away to somewhere safe enough.