Staring down the woman, who so clearly loved her bond, filled Necun with a wide ocean of emotions.

The overwhelming one was exhaustion.

"The room?" she stated, reminding the Knight of her duty.

The woman ground her teeth in that disturbing human way. Then she turned and stomped down the next hall. Or at least Necun thought it was stomping, the woman's normal stride was so loud it was hard to discern.

The armored form stopped before a large doorway, the doors themselves a deep beautiful purple.

"I'll be outside." the Knight hissed out. "Behave yourself. Honored guest."

Stepping past her without a word Necun threw open the doors, and stepped into darkness.

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"Are you sure about this?" Nickolas's mother whispered into his ear.

She was hugging him tight, nearly crushing. Her advisors had left the room a moment ago, muttering their respectful good nights to their Lord.

"This hug? Not sure I'll survive." he wheezed out dramatically.

She snorted and withdrew. Nickolas got a moment to breath before his father nearly tackled him.

"She means the orc you stone headed ditz." the consort of Blightstone said while crushing his son to his chest. "She wants to confirm you're so far gone you want to abandon your home for a terrifying blighted pit filled with monsters. That you hate us so much you're willing to shatter our hearts with your death. That-."

"Enough." his mother sighed out. "It's done Basil. Our son has made a choice. Perhaps dozens of choices if we start counting what he did to the Redfield Heir. He has steered the course of this path. While I might viciously disagree with his choices, they were his to make. Too late to gainsay him now."

"Our son is about to stride into certain death, Victoria!" Basil replied, choking back a sob. "I would say it's the perfect time to gainsay this foolishness!"

"He'll have a warrior at his side." Victoria replied. "One willing to use her aura just to win his heart."

She chuckled throatily.

"A girl like that? Pushing the bounds of her honor to seduce a man?" she continued. "She'll die before letting our son come to harm. You can see it in her eyes."

Nickolas wished he could get a word in, but his father's hug had made getting a word out awkward. Luckily for him it seemed his mother had taken his side, for all that she had opposed his plan for several seasons.

"Be fine-." Nickolas squeaked out while trying to push his father off. "Have magic."

"Also that." his mother agreed. "Don't forget he made War Mage, love. A few beasts won't get to him. Besides, he'll be in the orc's city. It's fortified enough."

"Fortified? I've heard they don't even have proper stone walls!" his father wailed. "And even if they did the trees are taller than mountains! He could be snatched by some heinous bird creature and we'll never see our boy again!"

"Dad, come on. The orcs manage it." Nickolas retorted. "And we always get letters back from some of the boys we send on the tithe. They're fine!"

"And Nickolas will be extra protected with Molly at his side." Victoria said. "She'll make sure everything is proper for our son."

What? Nickolas's mind reeled. Mol? With me? When was this decided?

He opened his mouth to protest, but his mother cut him off.

"She insisted." Victoria explained. "And it will be good to have a woman to represent me. Deepening ties with the RazorRiver's is worth one Knight. She can handle most of the negotiation with their Chief."

"I was going to negotiate the deal!" Nickolas pointed out. "That was the plan."

"And it was a good plan." Victoria said. "But you have no experience in these matters Nickolas. Molly does. She's skilled enough to handle it. Besides you'll be too busy setting up a household. Make your contacts within the menfolk of the tribe. I'm sure you'll find the other human husbands a ready network for rumors and information."

Nickolas gaped at his mother.

This wasn't the plan! he thought, filling with indignant rage. This was suppose to be! Agh! No! Why?

"How long ago did you decide this?" he managed to hiss through clenched teeth.

"When it became clear you weren't going to accept a nice girl from the heartlands." his mother replied. "It was the logical decision. I knew you would be too busy convincing me to go along with the tower plan to notice Molly's preparations."

"Why her?" he asked, running out of protests to buy time with.

Nickolas knew the answer before his mother spoke it. Molly knew him best, she had grown up protecting him. Her experience at court was only a bonus, she would be his mother's eyes, ears, and firm hand. She would keep him under thumb even in the far away orc city.

His mother had bested him. Again.

Nickolas listened to his father's protests for a while longer, coupled with his mother's soothing explanations. It all seemed forced now. Wooden, like a badly performed play. He had no real choice here. According to his mother he had used that up guaranteeing himself an orc bride. The thoughts rushed though his mind, and filled him with...exhaustion. He slumped into his father's arms.

"Can we pick this up tomorrow?" he sighed out. "We'll have time. They don't leave until noon."

His father rubbed his back, still concerned.

"Molly will be guarding your door." Basil told his son. "She'll be right there if....if you need her. Take the night to reconsider this madness. Please Nickolas?"

"Yes father. I'll consider it." Nickolas breathed out, too tired for a better lie.

Finally, he broke free of the hug, and offered his mother a small bow.

"We will talk in the morning, son." she told him. "Go spend the night with your wife. I'm sure she's expecting you."

Basil's face soured at that, but he held his tongue.

Nickolas stepped into the hall, and breathed a weary sigh. Behind him he could hear the argument resume, but he knew his mother would win in the end. For all that she loved his father she was Lord of the fortress. No man could oppose her on these matters.

Not even me. he thought bitterly.

Pushing himself off the door he started walking the familiar corridors to his room. Taking a detour as he cooled his head, he drifted down the long halls. They were coated in murals of his ancestors and their history. He could use the distraction.

The battle scenes were always a favorite, even to the menfolk of the castle. Vibrant depictions of the founder of the fortress, whose name had been lost, spearing a massive Leviathan from the Deep Green. The legend stated that the fortress itself was built upon the beasts bones, driven into the mountain itself by it's death throes.

Nickolas was unsure if he truly believed that. Certainly no maintenance of the fortresses foundation had uncovered any gargantuan bones. His tutor had privately shared that the legend was likely an invention of one of his more creative ancestors. Regardless of the veracity it made for a decent mural. An orange spear glinting with the rising sun ramming into the eye of the titanic beast to kill it for good. All around the hero shined a brilliant golden light, while the silver of her loyal soldiers crowded around to harry the creature.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

It was the most lovingly tended to mural, and often visited by the Knights and servants. Yet as Nickolas stared at the image he couldn't help but wonder how many such beasts the orcs had felled in their legends. If this task worthy of song impressed their eastern guests, or if they found the story lacking compared to their own tales of the Green.

Silently he passed by the mural, and the other smaller scenes to find the one he had come for.

The Gardener.

It was not nearly as well maintained as the nameless hero ancestor's picture. Paint was too expensive to keep every scene in perfect condition. Yet the faded paints, in some places weathered to bare stone, gave this mural a certain appeal of it's own.

It was an outdoor scene. A man in simple garments on a small rocky hill. The man was bent over, his slender hands cupped around a single sprout. A glum tree, as their western neighbors had mockingly named it. It was a staple of any local table. Their only unique export. The pride of their farmers, despite it's unfortunate appearance. It was the gardener who first grew one in the mountain rock. No one knew how, but the seeds from that first fruit had bloomed in solid stone forever more.

Unlike the nameless hero the Gardener was a known quantity. Nickolai, husband of Lord Stefanie. Nickolas had been named after the man, as had hundreds of sons in Blightstone. They all knew the story. The famine, the plagues that followed it, the war which cut their supply lines and trade routes.

Lord Stefanie had been a capable woman by all accounts, but she could do nothing against the storms and neighboring wars. Nickolai, by contrast, had started as a court scribe's son from the heartlands, spending most of his time in a small garden set aside for the consorts of fortress Lords. His marriage had been a small wonder, as no Knight had a son within the young Stefanie's age range. The story of how the two met, as well as how they courted, was a constantly changing story, often told by washermen during their duties.

The story of the first glum tree was more constant. Nickolai had been wondering outside the fortress walls, searching for something to raise his wife's spirits the story went. Instead he had found a withered tree, some western fruit tree that had managed to take hold in a small divot of rare soil. It had clearly outgrown it's container, soaking up what little life the dirt could give. It wasn't large or old, it's life cut short by the barren mountain. Yet it had produced a single small fruit.

As the Gardener plucked the fruit his servants had chattered about the wonderfully brave little tree, and asked him if he would make the fruit a gift to his wife. Instead the consort walked a short distance and smashed the fruit to the barren stone of the mountain.

The servant's were shocked, appalled at the waste of food during a famine. Even the Knights protecting the Gardener took a step back from his apparent bout of madness.

Neither group expected Nickolai to kneel on the hard stone, and push what magic he could manage into the pulped fruit.

The fortress dwellers were not known for their Mages at the time. Nor were they today. They had created the moniker of 'War Mage' to differentiate themselves from the heartland Mage societies. The Gardener had not even achieved that mild title, and never would.

Despite this, he attempted an impossible task. To make a seed bloom in solid stone.

Time slipped by as he poured what magic he could gather into the seeds of the smashed fruit. Sweat dripped from his brow, legs shaking as his knees dug into stone.

As the sun dipped over the horizon his escorting guards attempted to drag him away from his task, but he rebuffed them. Not willing to harm or upset their lord's consort they sent for Stefanie herself in the hopes she could talk sense into her maddened husband.

Nickolai cared not. He poured into the seed all that he could, until eventually, as night fully fell, his wife arrived.

And as she watched with his escort and the fortress servants, the tree bloomed.

Roots tore into solid stone, cracking rock as it extended downwards. The trunk expanded, twisted and gnarled, but strong as well. From the trunk came spindly branches, snaking out into the air, and blooming with sickly yellow leaves.

The gathered onlookers were astounded by the impossible feat of magic, and so did not notice Nickolai collapse at the tree's base.

It is said he fell into a deep sleep, and did not wake for until the season of fire had ended, coinciding with the tree's first budding fruit.

The tree was a wonder. The story spread across the lands controlled by the mountain fortress, filling the minds and hearts of the people with hope. Hundreds would make the trip to see the impossible tree within the cycle.

The fruits of the tree, as wondrous as they were, could not feed the entire territory. So the people subsisted on hope, and whatever food they could scrounge. However, no matter how hungry they became, they remained civil. They faced the famine as a unified community, not the squabbling war-bands too many of their neighbors had descended into.

Eventually the famine came to an end, Blightstone territory's farms finally keeping up with the hungry mouths. The long wars ending, and trade resuming from the west. The relief gave way to rejoicing, and in the festive air Lord Stefanie returned to the tree, still growing in the barren stone.

No one had dared to eat from the tree, but several of it's fruits were planted. Like their parent they had taken in solid stone, refusing to grow anywhere else. Lord Stefanie strode to the tree, taking a moment to admire her consort's work. She plucked a fruit from the tree's branch, and took the first bite of the strange fruit.

It was bitter, but not foul. While the Lord of the then growing fortress struggled to swallow it, she admitted the taste was interesting. With time it was a mainstay at her table. In five cycles a tree was planted near every homestead. twenty cycles after that first tree the fortress Blightstone was known for the strange glum fruit. It spread as a delicacy, albeit one with an acquired taste, and along the trade routes the story of the Gardener was carried.

It was a well loved story, even by those foreign to Blightstone. A symbol of hope, of perseverance.

And a man's place.

That was the bitter seed at the core of the story that had slapped Nickolas across the face when he realized the lessons of his favorite childhood tale.

A man's place as nurturer. Helplessly wandering until he found a cause to devote himself too. His magic given freely to an outside entity to ensure that entity's prosperity.

It was a tale where the main character fell out of the picture shortly after fulfilling their purpose. A tale that glorified everything Nickolas hated about his home.

His fingers traced over the Gardener's faded face.

"Were you happy?" he wondered. "Did seeing it bloom make it worth the pain?"

The mural held no answer's for him.

But my bedroom might. he thought.

Nickolas continued down the hall, fingers tracing the rough stone as his ancestor's watched his passing.

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The room was colorful, nearly eye watering to Necun as the mage lamps sparked to life. A riot of purple and green. Why those colors she could not begin to guess, but they had a certain charm, especially in the intertwined patterns marking the curtains.

Once again she glanced down at the grime smearing her armor, and looked around the room for a solution.

Spotting a doorway she carefully pushed it open to reveal an odd room. It was sparse and cold but held a washbasin and spring stone to her relief.

While it took her a moment to work the small spring stone she managed to activate it's basic function. Running it over the filth of her armor rivets of muck flowed away. Soon the basin was filled with brown water and she used a nearby cloth to wipe down her armor.

Snorting with contentment, and feeling clean again she moved on to what weapon maintenance she could. Her armor would have to wait, she had neither the tools nor skill to repair the pitted breastplate of hardened scales. Necun noted she had been fortunate, her axes were largely unmarred, though she realized she had forgotten her favorite in the tower during the excitement.

Probably chipped. she thought with a sigh. They're never the same after.

It would take a long session with the grindstone to remove the chip, and that always gave the axe a subtle new balance she would have to learn.

Necun pondered this as she stepped back into her bond's bedroom in an attempt to think about anything other than what she might be doing tonight.

Spending the night with a man was not something Necun thought would happen so early. She had thought about it certainly, often in fact, but it was always a far off idea. Something wonderful and mystical at the end of a long journey. Something to be prepared for. Provisioned for.

Now she might be bedding the most beautiful man she had ever seen before the next dawn, and she had no idea what to do.

There were no guides to this. It wasn't a first hunt, or a community task. She had no mentor to imitate.

All she had to go on were the half drunken brags of the more experienced Hunters. Most of which consisted of the 'good' men they had bedded, and what made one man or the other better in bed.

Narrow hips, wide jaw, a decent sized 'member'. The little noises they made when they were 'taken in hand' whatever that meant. All useless. It didn't tell her how to make this evening special for her pretty bond. He would know she was inexperienced. She knew that deep in her heart. The instant she touched him he would realize she was a bumbling brute of a woman who had never been with a man. Her ignorance would be clear. Would he be similarly anxious? It was a hope, if a thin one. If her bond had not been in bed with a woman her inexperience might go unnoticed. At least the guard outside had spoken of 'innocence' which improved the chances.

When she returned home she could ask her house-mothers about how to impress a man in bed. They always understood these things.

The doors swinging open ripped her out of her thoughts.

Before her stood her bond. Her wonderful, beautiful, fiery bond. He blinked at her with those piercing eyes, as if inviting her to fall into his beauty. The dust, sweat, and muck did nothing to break the spell of perfect loveliness that surrounded him.

"Oh good." perfection made flesh stated. "You're already cleaned up. Give me a moment."

He walked past her to the small room and shut the door. The double doors to the hall swung closed, giving her a brief glimpse at the angry Knight.

She was left alone with her thoughts again as her love cleaned off the grime she had smeared him with.

Necun was certain a poet could make something of that imagery.

All too soon he emerged again. The sweat and grime had been disposed of, and her bond stood before her.

He was also devoid of his robe.

And his smallclothes.

Necun gulped as her eyes roamed her bond's slender body. Dimly she was aware it was rude to so brazenly oggle him, yet that seemed a distant concern.

Nickolas remained still under her examination. Then suddenly did a slow spin, allowing her to see his body in totality.

"Like what you see?" Nickolas purred.

Necun saw hunger in his eyes she didn't expect.

"I-yes." she managed to rasp out. "You're very pretty."

Nickolas reached out his hand towards Necun, beckoning slightly.

Unsure of what he intended she touched it with her own hand. He smiled slightly and guided her palm to his mouth kissing it gently. Her eyes widened and she shivered slightly at the gesture.

"I don't think I mentioned in the excitement how glad I am that you're the one who won." Nickolas whispered.

"So am I." Necun replied automatically, staring at his face to distract herself from the rest. "I knew I couldn't lose. I-."

She swallowed, her throat was dry, far too dry.

"We don't have to...do anything tonight if you're not comfortable." she tried.

"I'm perfectly comfortable." he stated. "Just be gentle."

He brought her hand down to his chest, and Necun realized how much trouble she was in.