Chapter Text
Logically speaking, you knew you were to be married one day. After all, you were the heiress to a kingdom of fire and ashes. But.., it really just wasn't what you imagined for your birthday. That was more along the lines of here-Beca-have-this-special-edition-songs-list-from-the-twentieth-centuries! Not that, that was actually going to happen. Not in this century, at least.
Still, being pushed (not literally, not one would dare do that to the crown princess, kings orders or not), no questions allowed, into an air jet with the rest of your "family" on the dawn of your twenty first birthday was concerning, to say the least.
"Abuuu," you groan at your father, "Could I at least, like, get to know which kingdom were going to? Like, I'm the one getting married, here..!"
Your stepmother rolls her eyes, pursing her lips in disdain, "And this was why I told you that one of my daughters would be better suited to the proposal, sanam," The term of endearment flows off her tongue sweetly, like a deadly poison.
Her two daughters wince, disgruntled and annoyed to be pulled into the argument. They are decent girls, you suppose, only, they have the misfortune of having her as their mother.
"Sheila," he chuckles warmly, though his tone is gently chiding, in that playful manner between lovers who have fought the same argument a million times and will proceed to increase the count and it takes all you have inside yourself to not lunge at him for the reverence he treats her with, "You and I both know that while Zara and Zarqa would make efficient queens, it is not this kingdom they are meant to run.
Rabqa, was always meant for this. She was born for this."
His rough accent slips in as he says my name and you grin. Rabqa. The name your mother gave to you. Tying and noosing. A name fitting for a soulthread weaver.
Your stepmother frowns, not pleased with the idea and your mind wanders to the countless history lessons you've received.
Your names are different. The countries belonging to the other side can't speak them. It is queer, because your tongue easily adapts to their words but they can't recite your alphabet without stumbling over the first two letters, only. You have two names for that purpose. But hardly anyone but your Abu calls you by your first name. Your Urdu name. Long forgotten is Rabqa. You are Rebeca now.
There are those lucky few whose names don't change. Whose names easily roll off the roughest of tongues with only the slightest accent. Zara, is blessed to be one but her sister shares your misfortune and goes by Zachariah. Zara is adamant in the belief it is a man's name but Zarqa always fights back with a names-don't-have-genders-Zara. And then their is Sheila's name. A name stolen by them, just like every ounce of "honour" they had and any thing else they had managed to earn.
You hope that the country you will be married to is not on the other side. It would be an inconvenience; a nuisance to have a husband or a wife who could not learn your tongue. Your wish is fulfilled as the jet lowers to the ground and halts and you see the easily recognisable structures of Cheen and relief courses through you.
You stand, adjusting your tiara as you wonder why you are in clothes (if you can call them that) of the other side if China was all you had to come to and suddenly an ear-splitting shriek escapes someone and only as Zara and Zarqa turn to you with surprise do you realise that it is you and you blush, the best you can, since no colour is ever visible in your brown cheeks.
The three soulbonds on the middle fingers on your right hand pull. It is almost excruciating, as the threads tighten against your fingers, halting your blood flow. You twitch the fingers of your left hand as a reflex, running them over the threads soothingly, as you hook one of them in a nail and gently tug, loosening it. This is not a foreign practice to you. You are a weaver (-their princess), often a time, you have soothed a servant or a noble's threads. It is a job you could ace in your sleep, you are sure, if there is one thing you can do, it is weave.
It is just that, it has never happened for you, yourself. Your fingers have never twitched and nor have the threads ever tightened. You know that the threads tighten when your bonded are near you and that they hurt when your bonded need you. There is more than a rumour floating in the walls of your castle about how the strongest bonds can talk through their threads.
Your middle thread hurts. It pains like the heart of your bonded and you finally know what everyone has talked about their whole lives. It is a red, like blood and sin. It is a red of victory and a red of seduction. A thread made of embers of fire and bound together by flickering flames. You imagine your bonded to be wicked. To be charming and to be cunning. You imagine a soul, so broken that it is no longer broken, so sad that it is almost happy, so hot that it is frozen.
The other two tug at you. Pulling you closer. In need. In the same desire you feel through every atom of your being, the desire that strums through every nerve and courses through every muscle.
One of them is silver. Like metal, hard and strong, never moving, but tearing, crack by crack, invisibly. You imagine a mind wise beyond years, resilient in the face of danger. A mind filled with curiosity never tended to and wildness never catered to.
The other is blue. Blue like sea water and blue like the sky. Blue like honesty and blue like every single joy in life. You imagine a heart filled with so much love and not enough to give to and a heart with so much purity and that it could burst any second.
And you don't just imagine. You know. Because you read threads and you know to read your bonded. You know every essence of them. And yet, you know nothing of them.
Your father quirks an eyebrow, "Well, this is sufficiently awkward, Rebeca," remembering to say your other name out of politeness, "We wait twenty one years for this and it happens the day we arrange you a marriage.."
You flush and your father continues, "Which one of them is it?"
You sigh and think you couldn't possibly make the situation worse. Oh, how wrong you are, "All three of them, actually,"
Your Abu pales uncharacteristically and then his face shifts into an analysing structure that belongs to a king (and then you remember he kind of is one) and suddenly he starts grinning. Bright and shiny and it almost hurts your eyes to look at him.
Sighing, you follow everyone of the jet, whistling a soft tune to calm your threads, as you run your fingers over them. It is a weird thing to do, but it works.
You wonder why in heaven all three of your bonded need you at the same time as you flatten your dress, slipping on a customary smile. The King and his husband are the first to come greet you.
The two kings make eye contact, tipping their heads in respect while the rest of you fall into curtsies as the the other king bows. You notice the threat connecting them is like blood. Flowing in a stream from one finger to the other wrist.
You know of the Chinese royal children. There are two of them. Their other father is Hawaiian, kind of queer, because Hawaii falls somewhere in the middle of the sides. They have a son, the same age as you and you have met him multiple times. You remember playing with him when you were young and you are pretty sure your marriage with him will move along smoothly. You both were quick friends, but your personalities contrasted greatly. You rack your head, his name is Jesse, you think. (It is probably a nickname, you think, something the other siders do. It is probably an influence of his father's culture.)
They have a daughter too, but you are fairly confident that you know next to nothing of her. You have never met, every time you visit, she is away and every time the Hawaiian or Chinese royal family visit, she prefers to stay and look over her people. Anastasia, you think her name is. You suppose you will know more of her as she is your sister-in-law. You hope you get along.
[You have no idea.]
You follow everyone else to the palace, feeling out of place in the flimsy black thing you are wearing. Why? You wonder. You know the Chinese would have no problem in you showing your culture. They are proud people, and so are you. But, they too, are dressed in clothes like your father's. In red, of course, contrasting with your blacks, but similar, nonetheless.
You walk forward and standing at left of the gate is Jesse. (There are guards, but they stand away. To give you a false sense of privacy.) The kings slide their eyes to the right side of the gate, questioning. Jesse responds in the like, motioning to the corridor with his own. The kings seem satisfied and Hesse turns back to look at you guys again. You sisters fall in curtsy but you forget, walking forward. It seems, so does Jesse, your both embrace and there is a strangled groan from your stepmother and you smirk as you think of the scandalised thoughts going through her head.
As she turns to pay her respects to the king, in a less formal manner, Zarq-
Zachariah moves forward and holds out a fist which he bumps and ruffles his hair. As soon as their attention falls back on us, Zachariah is already back in place.
As Jesse makes a welcoming motion, you and your sisters hurry in (elegantly, of course) and you parents follow. It is only when you hear the hushed whispers of your sisters, that you realise that, though Zachariah has met Jesse before, your sisters are fairly new to this life and have never been to a foreign kingdom.
Out of habit, your gaze falls to the thread connected to Jesse. It is in a loop in his ear, that you yourself pierced because it bothered him on his finger. It is no longer just a thread. It is a moving vine of wood, intertwined and could constantly twisting as a few birds, as tiny as his eyelashes fly about it. So he has met his bonded, you guess. But they are not married, then, because you would have been invited, and because you, are to be married to him.
If your kingdom makes threads, and weaves them. If you are Cupid, they are arrows. The Chinese royal family change the nature of threads. They can make a thread of love turn into a thread of hate, and make a thread, requited, turn into a thread, unrequited. They change red threads into blue and they change the course of nature, they are creatures tonne feared and you feel glad they are with you.
"So," Jesse grins as the Kings and their guards take our parents away, "I think I have to show you lovely ladies your rooms!" [Bonded or not, you think, Jesse will always be a flirt.]
Jesse twirls as he points to a direction where, supposedly, lie your rooms and suddenly, he falls face forward to the ground.
Your sisters choke down laughter but you hunch over, guffawing, to the point tears leak out of your eyes. A girl, apparently, what he collided with, sits on the ground next to him in civilian clothing, a small nightshirt and shorts, begins giggling, finding it as hilarious as you,
"Oh, Uncle," She snickers, "As clumsy as ever!"
You wonder if this is a normal occurrence because none of the guards even blink. And Uncle?
You were never taught that the Crown Princess of China had kids! The girl, is around five. Her hair is a soft golden, that is in a somewhat curled or waved manner, parted in the middle. You think it looks like sprinkled stardust. Her eyes blue. They're so bright, it is almost like the sea lives in them. Contrasting, her skin is tan, not by staying in the sun, but tan by birth. It is nowhere near your brown but you figure that is because of the Asian genes, not that they show on her face in any way. She is probably Hawaiian, you figure.
"Your sense of humour is astounding, Vasilisa," he huffs, brushing the dust off his pants.
"Thank you," the girl giggles, fluttering her lashes, "I try!"
"Go get ready," he chuckles, reaching with a hand to ruffle her hair, smirking as she bats it away, groaning,
"Uncle! Those are curled!"
She runs off into a corridor, her curls bouncing behind her.
Jesse shoots you sheepish smile and runs his hand through his hair, "Uh, so, Princess Zara and Princess Zarqa," he says, "your rooms are this way,"
He guides them into a two large rooms, where their stuff has already reached. Both, servants from your nation and from their own stand in a line next to the door, while Chinese guards man the door.
For your own room, you make a turn to the area where you met the young girl and you follow after Jesse into the corridor the kid disappeared into. You are almost so busy in figuring out who she is that you don't feel the tugs on your strings. Almost.
Jesse grins as he stops at a door. The door is red, like every other thing in the palace, and you wonder if it is made of rubies. More guards man this door than any other you have seen, but only a few of these guards are visible. The rest are hidden in places you would have never looked if you weren't taught to.
He opens the door for you as the guards shift and you begin to step in. You hear a shriek and a woman appears in front of you, stark naked and Jesse abruptly turns away. She screeches,
"JESSE! GET OUT!"
A flush covers her cheeks and she drops her gaze, not looking at you, covering her body with bedsheets and you too, are embarrassed to a heightened extent, and you slowly slide out of the door, shutting it.
The swirl of emotions that lurches within you holds so much anger.
[So much, that you don't even notice your thread.]