Chapter Text
Deep breath. There was no room to be afraid, to make a mistake. Not on the day of such an important wedding. Olivier Armstrong tried to return her mother's encouraging smile, but she was pretty sure it just looked like a grimace. The handmaid working on her hair gave a sharp yank and she hissed through her teeth.
“Just a little while longer, dear. You need to look perfect.”
Olivier said nothing, both of them knowing that was the reason no breakfast had been brought up--so her dress could be laced that little bit tighter--but neither willing to start a fight on what could well be the last day they saw each other. Political marriages didn't allow for sentiment, after all. It wasn't that she was ugly, it was just that this was the most important wedding of the century, securing an alliance with the secretive, and wealthy, people that were all that stood between them and Drachma. There could be no mistakes, no missteps, at least until the marriage was finalized.
“It'll be alright, Livvie, just remember what I told you.” Her mother paused, clearing her throat, “and try to smile; you look miserable.”
She inclined her head, “yes, Mother.” She tried again to fix her face in a pleasant smile, but her mother's sigh told her it didn't work. Nevermind that she was miserable, offending her soon to be groom, or his family wouldn't do. As much as she hated being married off like a particularly disappointing pawn, she knew it was Amestris’ best chance at not being overtaken by their massive neighbors, and she loved her country too much to risk it for her own comfort. As soon as it had become clear the “secretive and barbaric” nation that was not only well situated, but flush with natural resources was looking for an alliance, she with “the look of a queen and the bearing of a stablehand” had been the court’s first choice. With her shoulders squared and her chin up, she was prepared for the life of a political prisoner rather than a wife.
“Maybe he won't be so bad,” Amue had suggested gently when her parents returned from the negotiation and pronounced the prince to be wild in countenance, but serious. She had acquiesced to appease her sister, but had seen in her parents’ eyes that they did not think so.
As long as the tiny nation had been their neighbor, spanning the Briggs’ mountain range like a fortress, they’d been mysterious. She had heard every rumor and every bit of gossip about the people, and while she was smart enough to not believe everything, she still had no idea what was true.
“Stand straight, love, chin up.” She straightened, slowly, taking her father’s extended arm. Her mother pulled the beaded veil over her face and slipped into place behind them as the doors slowly swung open. The walk up to the altar was long and every step felt like a death march. It was traditional for the mother to walk behind the bride and her father, but for the first time she wondered if it was to keep the bride from turning and running.
She knelt on the cushioned step and allowed the veil to be lifted, raising her gaze to meet her groom’s for the first time. For a split second she thought the man hadn’t bothered to kneel, but after a moment she realized the veritable bear beside her had knelt, he was simply so tall he towered over her regardless.
He barely glanced at her, his eyes fixating instead on the officiant. She turned her face toward the altar herself, but she couldn’t seem to keep her eyes focused. Maybe it was the absence of food, the heavy embroidered gown, the thousands of incensed candles, or just the fact she was being sold off like a fattened cow, but she was feeling considerably less brave and considerably more faint than before.
She couldn’t remember the ceremony, it was a blur of rising and kneeling, candles and chanting, and suddenly she was being ushered into a back room. A group of women, none of whom she recognized, were pulling pins out of her hair and undoing the stays of her dress, pulling a different kind of traditional garment onto her, braiding her hair, and painting her face. They pushed her in front of a mirror and she didn’t recognize herself, but she only had a moment to look before she was tugged into another side room and the women melted away.
She turned and it was a good thing the fur-lined tunic and trousers were looser than her corset had been because the shock made her gasp. He was standing there, huge and imposing, arms crossed, frowning down at her. He shifted, an expression she didn’t know how to categorize crossing his face.
“You look nice.” Olivier bit back a retort and only nodded her head, feigning shyness. No mistakes, no missteps. He frowned and held out his hand--the flesh one, she noticed, not the one replaced by a sorcery Amestris was eager to learn--and she slipped hers into it. “We should go.” She nodded and they stepped out together. A united front. Two nations coming together.
The cheers at their presence started off the celebrations that she knew would last for hours, even after she and--she glanced at her new husband suddenly, Buccaneer wasn’t it? She supposed she ought to know--had departed. The light-headed feeling was back, but she squared her shoulders and turned back to attempt smiling at their well-wishers.
She found herself standing off to the side, watching the goings-on and trying to talk herself out of just eating everything in sight, when she noticed Buccaneer talking to a man who looked very much like him. They both looked over at her and she forced herself to look down and away again, keeping up her facade of sweet shyness, while her mind raced. As unreadable as Buccaneer was, she could read the look on the other man’s face clear as day. She took another steadying breath, and sent a silent prayer to any diety who might listen, that the rumors she had heard about their tendency to share were false .
---
Buccaneer found the quietest place he could to try and fade into the background, something that was hard enough on a normal day and was now nearly impossible. He watched Olivier, who looked angry as could be, and felt a twinge of something like guilt and pity. The marriage was of his own volition, a decision he had made to better the position of his country, but he had no guarantee that it had been her choice. He’d been surprised when she hadn’t even come to the negotiations herself, her parents coming with a handful of other courtesans to make the arrangements.
He resisted the urge to roll his eyes when he saw his brother making his way over. The arm around his shoulder was expected and he shoved it off with ease, earning a chuckle.
“Well, what do you think?” Buccaneer gave a noncommittal noise in response, shrugging one shoulder. His brother, of course, kept talking as though it had been an encouragement. “Looking at her, I wish I was the one getting married tonight.”
“We’re making a political alliance,” Buc fixed his brother with a steely look, “that doesn’t work if you use and abuse your ally, then toss them aside for your newest conquest.”
“Still,” he leered at the bride, “look at that-”
“Don’t start .”
“Right. Let you get your fill-”
“I’m serious,” he lowered his voice to a deadly growl, “this is something that we cannot afford to have you ruin.”
Whatever his brother intended to say, it was cut off by the arrival of their mother, who arched her brows at them, and then smiled gently at the favored son. “It’s time.”
He swallowed and nodded, following her across the room to take the hand of his new wife. His least favorite part of all weddings was this. He’d always pitied the couples that had to stand in the middle of the room, having blessings for their wedding night rained down on their heads, then leaving to act on those blessings, fully aware that everyone knew what was happening. Now, he and a woman he had never even seen before, had to endure the ritual and he had no idea what to expect after.
---
They’d stayed in North City, and spent their preparation time confined to a few small rooms, leaving Olivier with no idea where to go or what would be there when she got there. Her husband led her by the hand and she wasn’t sure if he was hurrying or if it was just his long legs but she had to step quickly to avoid being dragged. The halls he led her down were simple, but not inelegant, with high wooden ceilings, candle sconces, and tapestries, a detail that surprised her given she’d been lead to believe the finer arts were lost on the Briggs’ Mountain people.
She almost didn’t realize they’d arrived until Buccaneer released her hand and turned to close and--her heart sank into her stomach--bolt a heavy wooden door behind them. No mistakes, no missteps. She drew a breath, squared her shoulders, and surveyed the room. It was reasonably large with an impressive four-postered bed as a focal point. But there were two chairs and a little table situated in front of a large fireplace, and two chests and two wardrobes.
“Do you not keep separate chambers?” The question flew from her lips, more harshly than she meant. After the arrangements an elderly woman had been brought to tutor her on the culture and etiquette, but she’d spent most of their time nit-picking her accent and insisting she ate too much, resulting in Olivier having very little knowledge.
“What?” The big man frowned at her.
“In Amestris, husbands and wives keep separate chambers. Do you not do that here?”
“Why would we do that? Nights here are cold.”
She turned away without comment, trying to force down the unease that that statement prompted and her gaze landed on the bag her mother had packed for her. She moved toward it, opening it carefully and examining the contents. A letter rested on top and she pulled it out, breaking the familiar wax of her mother’s seal.
“My dearest daughter,
If you’re reading this, then a new chapter in your life is about to begin. I can’t even begin to tell you how proud of you I am. Even so, there’s no point in pretending now that this will be easy. I’ve included everything I could think of that may be of use to you. Best wishes, my child.”
She looked into the bag, almost afraid, and found her mother really had prepared
anything and everything she thought she might need. First there was a nightgown, soft and nearly sheer, then bottles of lotions, perfumes, and even a balm in case she bled, not to mention a little blade in case she didn’t. Holding the bag in tightly clenched fists, she turned back to her husband who was watching her curiously.
“I require privacy to-” she cleared her throat in what she hoped was a delicate manner, “ prepare.”
To her amazement, a blush crossed his features. “I can-” he glanced around, “I’ll just turn around.”
She kept an eye on him the entire time that she slipped off the new garments and pulled on her nightgown. She took her time undoing her braids and wiping the paint off her face, drawing it out as long as she could. At last, she was clean and prepared for bed.
“You may turn around now.” She tried to sound soft and sweet, the way her mother told her to, but she knew she sounded cold as ice. Nevertheless, he did so, blush impossibly deepening.
He cleared his throat, eyes sweeping over her, “you look,” he cleared his throat again, averting his eyes, “wow.”
She crossed her arms, tried to formulate a response, and shook her head. She didn’t consider herself a vain woman, but the least he could do was try to woo her before he took his pleasure from her. The sick feeling in the pit of her stomach intensified and she swallowed. They both stood there in silence, her staring at him and him studying the floor until she couldn’t take it anymore. She turned and slid between the heavy covers--a mix of fur and embroidered feather downs--and tried to relax per the directions her mother had given her the night before, but found fear tightening every muscle in her body.
The big man made his way over slowly and she fought the urge to strike him as he crawled in beside her. She prided herself on being the sort of woman who could take care of herself, no matter how much the court disapproved, but her people needed this alliance to work out, and she couldn’t let them down. Her pain, her humiliation, was a small price to pay for the safety and welfare of Amestris.
She forced herself to stare up at the ceiling as the bed shifted, settling under his weight. She wouldn’t allow herself to close her eyes, or avert her face, but was determined to meet her fate head on. No tears, no cries of pain or sorrow. No mistakes, no missteps. Her fingernails pressed into her palms, as she forced her hands to stay at her sides; to not fly up and protect herself from rough hands.
Seconds ticked into minutes and her fearful anger gave way to confusion. She turned her head to find Buccaneer simply laying beside her, watching her. She stared back, wondering if he was expecting her, for some reason, to make the first move. She certainly had no intentions to give him the satisfaction.
Another unreadable expression crossed his face, and then he reached up and brushed the back of one knuckle across her forehead. She pulled back slightly, frowning in confusion and he withdrew his hand.
“Goodnight, nula .”
Before she even had a chance to respond, he rolled over, turning his broad back to her. More than a little confused, she did the same. His breathing leveled out slowly before giving way to loud snores. Then, and only then, did she bury her face in her pillow and let silent tears fall.