Archive of Our Own ^beta

The soles of Salem’s feet stung. They often did, perched atop rough concrete rooftops with only thin cloth between his bare skin. When Belle was around, she’d wrap them in pale bandages the night before a job. Nevertheless, Belle wasn’t here. He could feel the scarlet blood seeping out of his raw scrapes, the steady silence of the liquid soaking into the wood beneath him. He was curled around the beige board, the cobwebs shielding his white assassin suit. He was covered completely, only his sharply feline eyes visible. Sweat beaded on his neck, the cloth covering his mouth brushed against his nose.

Neither the blood nor the fabric bothered him. It was the sight before him, stirring an agonizing ache in the deepest crevice of his soul. He watched to dig his fingernails into his chest and tear his heart out whole, it would be less painful. 

The castle was adorned with gold and marble. Modeled after traditional Kimkcova architecture, the palace was a beautiful temple to the Gods in its own right. It was unlike the Northern district of dulled colors and demolished buildings, overrun by creatures of the night. It was beyond anything Salem was ever supposed to step foot in. He felt strangely out of place, the drumbeat in his ears running wildly. He did not belong in this extravagant wealth, and he could feel his evident misplacement in the air.

Yet the smaller extension to the palace was temporary, and hastily constructed. The Lionis and The Royal Family had to prove to the public as quickly as physically possible they were on good terms, and this horrific situation was the only solution they could conjure. The Altar was divine, a sacrificial table. Blinding liles of white and soft yellows surrounded marble pillars, a carnelian carpet rolled down the aisle. The pews were constructed of Kimkcovan Thraak saplings, a grand tree that was once extremely expensive. It was stunning, something Salem could not deny. Mars deserved such heaven.

Mars knew Salem was there. It was no secret, in the suffocating morning light. Mars would know Salem’s presence in oblivion. Blind or deaf, in overbearing darkness or consuming light. The silence of his breath, the way he slipped away so easily. The piercing obsidian of his eyes and the animal curve of his bared teeth when he was furious. He couldn’t cling onto him, but he could know him. Salem despised him for it.

A large man of dark skin and vibrant golden eyes cleared his throat. Shuffling guests of blurred faces and lavish jewelry silenced. He spoke in a language Salem could not understand, presumably Eirairc. “The ceremony shall commence soon, be seated.” He switched to Salem’s tongue, thick accent with a booming voice. 

Salem swallowed. He was avoiding staring at Mars, but his curiosity was nothing tameable. He could see the Irara in his blood now. He was adorned with traditional regalia and bangles of aurate, crystals kneaded into his dark hair. He was a divinity personified. Salem didn’t think mortal men could look so beautiful. It was disorienting. He stood stiffly, wrists crossed. Salem couldn’t tell if he was breathing. He knew Mars felt his eyes on him, how couldn’t he? He narrowed them, as if to will the other boy to look at him. He deserved that recognition. Would Mars really ignore him, cast him aside? The thought made him grind his teeth.

The choir began, the organ sounding lowly. It reminded Salem vaguely of a funeral march, as he expected to see a casket being dragged down that vermilion velvet. Salem wanted to throw something. Anything to disrupt this, to end it permanently. He’d fall from the ledge or pounce on a stranger, it did not matter. Though he could not move a muscle, could only hear the children in gold and the sound of his own sorrow. He couldn’t blame Mars for Davinia. She was ethereal in herself, floating down the aisle like a love goddess. Her flaxen hair was tied tightly in a waterfall braid, her sharply cut cheekbones and cerulean eyes of Breain shores. Her mother held her thin arm tightly, as if to command her to stay upright. She was everything Salem was not.

As Davinia took her place across from Mars, she nodded politely at him. The preacher spoke. “Goodmorning, crerdram uk eroro,” children of Irara, “We welcome you here today to unite two of the most powerful houses of Elliea.” He motions to The Lionis’ house banner and The Royal Family’s. “By a splendid marriage between two of their eldest children. Marshall Lioni, spare heir to their inheritance.” A knife goes through Salem’s gut. He thought it might be his own. “Princess Davinia, second child and daughter of Queen Cleo.” He smiles falsely, licking his lips. “Before we initiate this pair, we shall read from Eroro’s book of the stars.”

Salem never knew how to pray. He was raised away from religion and sacrifices, gods were for desperate men. Saints were for the weak. Mars was the closest thing he knew to heaven. Yet here Salem was, begging the open sky. Pressing his eyes shut so tightly he saw Irara, pleading for a second chance. Irara, if you’re listening, end this. Irara, if you’re listening, alter fate. Salem knew nobody heard him. He was crying out to an empty consciousness, making up a place where prophecy couldn’t reach them. 

The ceremony was drawn-out and paralyzing. He was an insect pinned to styrofoam. They both were, in a sense. Salem pinched himself, comforted by the blunt throbbing of the vermilion substance running through his gloved fingers. Salem had spent the entirety of his life loving Mars. Before he knew them, their souls were intertwined. He was cursed with him, destined and dying. He was his burden and his blessing. Was this purposeful torture, watching the wedding? He couldn’t not, it was a given he’d be there. He was always there. Even if he didn’t race across the rooftops and slip through an opened stained-glass window, he would be there. He was a ghost, a haunting, an omen. This wedding wasn’t just torture for himself. Salem was living torture for Mars. As long as Salem lived, Mars wouldn’t be able to escape him. That was perhaps the most terrifying reality of this – knowing no matter how far he was taken away, how many heirs he produced, how many empires fell and rose, Salem would be there. Love was a starved man and a graveyard. 

The preacher concluded his sermon. “Vows now, yes?” He grins. Salem’s stomach lurches. “Ladies first, my Princess Davinia. Do you swear to uphold the values of the ancient Breain houses, and remain faithful to the gods? By binding this oath, you are indebted to produce an heir and uphold your duties as a wife.”

“I do.” Davinia whispers, softly and quickly.

The preacher nods, turning his attention to Mars. Salem feels vomit climb up his throat, burning a hole through his skin. “Prince Marshall. Do you swear to uphold the values of the ancient Breain houses, and remain faithful to the gods? By binding this oath, you are indebted to produce an heir and uphold the honor of warfare if needed.”

For a moment Mars is silent. His eyes are glossed over, fingernails going white as they dig into his skin. Salem’s chest aches. Slowly he raises his head to the wooden beams of cobwebs, a deep frown flickering across his face. He meets eyes with Salem, and for a second – Salem hopes. All the yearning and desperate pleading for forgiveness is written across his face, every false promise and daring to want, and suddenly Salem can’t remember why he was a destructive inferno of anger. The hollow betrayal is carved out, leaving only agony. Only a despairing prayer that he might walk away. When Salem thinks he might, Mars tears his eyes away.

“I do.”

Salem inhales sharply. He stands swiftly, darting from the ledge and out the opened stained glass window. Mars was never the fool, Salem was. He was the fool and the jester, and he let himself believe he had the power to pull himself out of his humor. Mars would feel Salem’s absence in the courtroom. Let him die knowing he could’ve been at the altar instead. Let him die haunted, and let him die wanting. At least Salem would die knowing he loved Mars unregretfully. Mars would die with many regrets, all of him. Mars would die with Salem’s voice in his ears, and a hallucination of his silhouette. Salem would die quickly. Mars would have to confront, to confess, to swallow himself. Fool.