Then, I will be a bride.
And then…expected to produce a child.
My stomach lurches.
Looking around at the salt-stained wooden structures that surround the port, I see an unmistakable beauty, only contrasted by the hordes of men walking freely across the wooden docks and the dirt roads visible from the boat.
My brow furrows as I try to find women, looking into homes only to glimpse a few cooking near the edge of the dock. One kneads a pale dough, while another turns a spit system full of skewered fish as they roast over a hot red-orange fire.
Fire so close to that amount of wood seems foolish to me, but they continue to work without problem. I look for more signs of children and women, but instead, I’m greeted by the tall frames of the elven men. Some yell, others move with busied purpose as they carry racks of fish, wood, and fabrics.
“Time to go,milady,” Thorne says abruptly, and he starts down the plank.
I follow closely behind, uncomfortable with the shifting of the wood. Once I step off and onto the solid dock, I sway. My legs are unfamiliar with land, it seems. My stomach tightens, also uncomfortable with the feel of standing on solid ground.
The overwhelming sounds, smells, and colors, washed out in the bright light, make my head spin. I take a step back instinctively, as if there might be someone behind me to stop the onslaught of overwhelm. A specific person. Someone who has anchored me to reality and calmed my fears dozens of times before.
He would tell me that we would figure out how to fix everything. I wouldn’t have to fear a child at all.
When the cold metal of one of the soldiers collides with a stretch of my exposed back, I freeze. Blink. My heart begins to beat faster, and my fingers thread themselves through the folds of my dress.
The name bounces around my skull, never coming to the front of my head because I fear I might break if I let it be spoken.
I close my eyes, continuing to banish the thoughts, and instead, I focus on putting one foot in front of another.
One pace at a time, I will find a way to make it out of this.
No one speaks as Thorne leads us through the crowd. As they see us approach, the elves part, but they do not bow as the guards did once I reached Thorne’s boat. These men stare at me. Leer at me, with words spoken as clear as the sky above.
“Human stock” floats my way several times, as if I am nothing better than the products being slung through the bustling place. Some dip their heads to Thorne, or in my general direction, but most continue to act as if I do not exist, as if I’m not there at all.
The human bride.
I straighten my back, refusing to look down as we make our way from the boat toward the dirt road in the distance. Despite the intensity of the sounds around me, my group of soldiers and Thorne remain silent. They do not speak to me or to each other. They already seem to know exactly where they will go and what will be done, leaving no further need for communication.
Suddenly, one of the men I saw carrying a barrel of fish comes close to me, almost too close for comfort, and reaches out and latches on to my breast. He squeezes firmly, and I look down to see his grimy hand still slick with fish juices and scales.
“The tits of the future consort!” he calls out, and a few men behind him break out in laughter. “Fucking pitiful! Perhaps they’ll grow when she bears a filthy half-blood child.”
The shock grips me. My mouth falls open—I have no idea what to say, what to even think. Before the first wave of disgust crashes over me, a blade swings in front of my chest. I feel the wind of itsspeed and hear the whistle through the air just before it severs the hand from the man’s arm.
I gasp. It’s as if I’m no longer in my own body.
“Wait—” I start.
The guards pull me back as the bloody hand falls, somehow missing my silken gown.
My lungs forget how to breathe, and I watch in horror as the man clutches just below the stump of his wrist, trying to staunch the flow of crimson, gnashing his teeth as he falls back into his band of quick-dispersing comrades.
Dioses míos,not more blood. Not more violence. I can’t handle more. Not yet.
Thorne stares at the man coolly. His piercing eyes take in the blood, the agony, but he remains impassive. Like he is neither fed by the sight nor repulsed.
“Touch the king’s property, and he will not hesitate to punish you,” he spits out. His voice is clear and calculating.
One of the only men from the group who hasn’t run away steps forward. He snorts and then spits at my feet.
“You,Peredhel, will not come to our port and give us orders. If that louse Arion wants to mix our blood with the humans’, then he should burn!” he directs to Thorne.