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But even with the snub dealt them, his friends had come anyway. Illyna, Fingol, and many others crammed into the final row despite the disgusted looks they were getting for the missing hand, damaged foot that caused a limp, burn scars, and other wounds they had suffered during the wars with the trolls and humans.
They understood, probably more than anyone, why he was willing to do this.
The sound of distant singing, high and ethereal, wafted on the slight breeze. His sisters, singing the traditional song for Princess Elspeth as she made her way to the hall.
Farrendel’s chest tightened, even as he hardened his face against displaying any hint of his emotion. He should not be this nervous, considering he had already married her once. He just had to survive this ceremony and then…
And then what? He could not even picture what tomorrow would look like. Change rarely brought good things.
The double doors at the far end of the room opened, and Princess Elspeth stepped inside, her hair a flaming red beacon against her white dress.
Even with all his struggle for self-control, he caught his breath. Somehow, the seamstresses had turned the white, poofy dress into something that flowed down the princess’s form into a graceful train behind her.
What was wrong with him? Somehow, his brain had gone foggy, and he struggled to keep his breathing even and steady.
Princess Elspeth halted at the front and turned to face him, though her gaze latched onto a spot lower than his face.
His scars. He resisted the urge to tug on the tunic to better hide them.
Trembling slightly, she dragged her gaze to meet his, her eyes wide. Was she as nervous as he was?
Most of the ceremony passed in a blur. All too soon, Weylind picked up the shallow bowl containing the eshinelt and held it out to Princess Elspeth. Her face paling slightly, she took it and faced Farrendel with her shoulders squared, her stance stiff.
Farrendel dipped his finger into the eshinelt. It was cold to his touch and would probably feel even colder against her skin. He mentally apologized as he touched her forehead as gently as possible and traced an ancient elvish rune with the green eshinelt on her skin. “May our minds sharpen each other and may we always provide each other wise counsel.”
She held still beneath his touch, her gaze focusing on the bowl she held rather than his face.
He dipped his finger in again and formed the next rune on her right cheek, trying to ignore the adorable sprinkle of freckles across her nose. “May our speech be filled with kindness, gentleness, and understanding.”
As he dipped his finger into the eshinelt for a third time, she visibly braced herself, the slight tremor in her fingers sending ripples across the eshinelt’s surface.
As gently as he could, he traced the final rune on her upper chest above her heart well above the neckline of her dress, feeling her shiver beneath his touch. “May our hearts be bound as one for all our days together.”
She flinched, sucking in a breath. Her gaze flicked to him, then back to the bowl.
What was wrong? He searched her face. He had kept his magic well buried. He could feel only a tingle of it in the eshinelt. Not enough to hurt, surely.
Whatever had just happened, she regained her composure quickly and held the bowl out to him. He took it and found himself bracing much as she had. This was a ceremony meant for those well and truly in love, not strangers who found it highly awkward.
She dipped her finger into the eshinelt, bit her lip, and tentatively reached out. It took all his self-control to stand still and not bolt from the hall.
Her touch was soft, the eshinelt cold against his forehead. He could not tell if she had drawn the rune correctly, though she did swipe her finger in some kind of pattern.
She spoke the blessing in halting elvish, her tone monotone as she recited memorized words. Her pronunciation was terrible, made even worse by an Escarlish accent so thick it would take a sword to cut through it.
Not that he could blame her. He, at least, could speak and read the words he had memorized for the Escarlish wedding. She did not know elvish and thus had memorized patterns of sounds that had no real meaning for her. The fact that even a few of the words were understandable was amazing.
She repeated the process with the rune on his cheek, her pronunciation a mess.
She dipped her finger into the eshinelt a third time and touched his chest over his heart, feather-light and gentle.
His heart pounded, and it was all he could do to stand there. A part of him wanted to shove her hand away, memories of torture and pain all too close to the surface.
And yet tingles spread down his spine, and another part of him did not want her to stop. His mouth went dry.
Then her finger paused partway through the rune. She swayed slightly closer, her gaze focused.
She was definitely inspecting his scars this time. It was a cold dousing, and he stiffened with it. He was scarred. Flawed. Someone who ended up destroying everything around him.
