Meet Me Halfway (part 1)

Sir Ingram – Duke of Aven – had pledged his daughter, Belle, to be wed to King Raul's son, Nolan, ever since she was born. The pair would wed on her eighteenth birthday. Belle had never met Neal, but she had met his father – King Raul. He was a man with short graying hair and a stern countenance. He never smiled, and Belle was aware of the ruefulness always lurking within his soulful depths. When, Belle, had asked her father why Neal had never visited, Ingram had informed her he was a sickly child. Raul would often journey to Avonlea and converse kingly affairs with her father. He'd never spoken to her in passing, often pretending she was invisible whilst in her father's presence.

Belle inwardly dreaded the day she would have to leave Aven and become the wife of a man she'd never truly met. She'd filled her time with educating herself about kingdom affairs, leading up to that moment. She'd received an extensive education during her childhood, because she didn't intend to be an ignorant ruler. By the time her eighteenth birthday arrived, she assumed she would meet the prince she was destined to wed. She'd been mistaken when her father revealed that Prince Nolan had died a few short years earlier of the bubonic plague. In fact, Raul's wife – Queen Mia had passed as well.

“I don't understand, Papa. What are you saying? I've been expecting to marry this prince my entire life, yet why am I just finding out he's deceased?” she queried, her mind buzzing with questions.

The duke exhaled sharply. "There will be a wedding, Belle. It just won't be to Prince Nolan.”

“Then who!?” She demanded, sickness roiling in her gut.

Ingram swallowed hard, averting his gaze. "King Raul still intends to honor the marriage agreement we forged at your christening. You'll marry him instead. He's without an heir and needs a new queen to rule beside him.”

Belle's countenance fell at the mention of the callous, standoffish royal. “You can't be serious, Papa. That man has the personality of a dead fish,” she countered.

Ingram sighed, wrapping his arm around his daughter's delicate shoulders. “You don't know him like I do. I know he's twice your age, but he's an honorable man. He'll be a good husband to you, I have no doubt. Though you may find you have little in common, you'll have a comfortable life.”

Belle nodded. “I'll accept King Raul's proposal because it's the right move for both of our kingdoms. I never knew the prince, but I'd hoped to.”

Ingram smiled, pulling her close. “You make me proud, Belle. Tomorrow, Raul will arrive for the wedding celebrations, and then you'll be escorted back to Albannach.”

“Let it be as you say,” she consented, spending the rest of her evening being refitted for her wedding gown. When she was finally granted some solitude, she spent her time reading in a cozy nook in her personal library. She would dearly miss her castle, her father, her friends, including every other piece of herself she was leaving behind.

~X~

The day of the wedding left her stomach tied in knots. He'd met her at the altar, decorated in his kingly ensemble. The veil hid her rouge cheeks and lacquered lips. The first words they'd speak to each other would be their vows. She fought back the urge to tremble as she spoke the sacred vows pauper and prince had exchanged for ages. His eyes fixated themselves on her, studying, committing each detail to memory. She became enraptured by his eyes, the wind being knocked from her as he brushed his lips ever so slightly against hers. She blinked as the crowd erupted into cheers and applause. There wasn't time to contemplate what had just transpired, before she found herself being led by his arm to a carriage. Once the doors shut, she knew she'd never step foot in Avonlea again. A tear trekked down her cheek, and she couldn't stop the way her body trembled. The king gazed at her, his eyes filled with something unreadable.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered. “For ripping you away from everything,” he spoke – the sound of his lilting brogue filling the carriage, startling her.

“Pardon?” She spoke, startled by his phantom voice.

“The ripping. I'm sorry for ripping you away from your homeland, your friends, your father,” he paused. “The ripping hasn't stopped though, the seam hasn't been mended.”

“Why do you speak in riddles, your highness?” She addressed him formally, trying to wrap her mind around his enigma.

He smirked at her response. “I'm used to the ripping. My son was ripped away by the plague, my wife, my subjects, my countrymen. There's so much blood it would flood the towns. I need the ripping to stop.”

His countenance fell, revealing those same sad eyes she vaguely remembered during her girlhood. She longed to reach out to him but wasn't sure if it was appropriate, but she supposed it mattered little because it was their wedding night. Soon his hands would be anywhere they wished, marking her as his prize.

Despite her hesitation, she reached out to him, grasping his hand in her own, and testing the weight of it in her palm. He stiffened, and she assumed he wasn't used to this kind of touch, but she continued, stroking his fingers, admiring his beautiful, weathered hands. “You have beautiful hands, you know?”

He scoffed, amused. “There's nothing beautiful about me, princess. The years have worn me away, until I'm a shell of the man I used to be.”

“Your highness, I believe we're all layered. And maybe the years have been unkind.” She continued her gentle ministrations over his digits. “But my father said you were a good man, and I don't doubt him at all.”

He interlaced their fingers, startling her. Her breath hitched in her throat as he began making obsolete patterns on her skin. “These worn, despicable hands have killed men, princess. Yet, you touch me without revulsion.”

Belle dared a glance into his eyes. “I'm aware the cost of keeping a kingdom, securing your reign for centuries to come. It is built upon blood and alliances. And it's the reason we're sitting here in this carriage. I wasn't supposed to marry you, and you weren't supposed to marry me. However it's the way fate destined it to be – You and I, sitting here in this carriage, hand in hand.”

“Now who speaks in riddles, princess?” His age lines crinkled into a smile, as he drew her knuckle to his lips, kissing it reverently.

Belle's breath hitched in her throat. “Tonight, I apologize for my inexperience.”

The king gazed at her, full of wonder and awe. “And I apologize for mine, it has been many years since a woman has warmed my bed,” he admitted, sending a shiver down her spine.

He gathered her hands in his own, gazing into her cerulean depths – his eyes filled with so much sincerity, it wrenched her heart. “I would never hurt you, princess, and tonight I will treat you as a delicate flower. It will be a new journey for us both, this union. I'm sorry I'm not young or handsome.”

“I think you're handsome though.” She brushed prettily at his statement, and he half smiled. He couldn't help but think of her as his delicate flower, one he hoped wouldn't wither at his touch.

“And twice your age,” he teased, planting a sensual kiss against the underside of her wrist. She shuddered at the contact, aware their hands were still connected.

“38,” she answered coyly.

“39,” he corrected. “Today is my birthday.”

Belle blinked owlishly at his statement. “Why ever did you choose to wed on your birthday?”

The king shrugged. “To make a fonder memory. My birthday isn't exactly a joyous occasion.”

Before she could inquire further, the carriage came to a screeching halt. Screams erupted from the outside, and her eyes grew wide as she observed him brandish his sword. “Stay in the carriage, and whatever you do, don't leave. I shall return,” he commanded swinging open the door. He shut it, and she bolted it, sinking down – muffling her ears to drown out the screams coming from the outside. She wasn't sure if it had been hours or days, but the screams finally ceased and all was quiet. She stayed frozen in the carriage, wondering if he was dead. Suddenly the door swung open, revealing his cloaked form.

“Bandits, bloody bastards killed my driver and a few guards, but we got them rounded up,” he cursed, and Belle's face paled when she noticed the blood drenching his tunic.

“Are you hurt?” She inquired, her ears beginning to ring. He reached for her, bracing her fall. He pulled her onto his lap, commanding his men to make haste. He knew she'd only fainted. She was too delicate for him, and he secretly feared he would crush her with the weight of his sins. An innocent lamb caught in the lion's den.

She awoke, lying in his arms. She blinked, noticing a far away look in his eyes. The carriage was dark, and she assumed the sun had already set. She admired his beautiful, careworn face. She absentmindedly reached up to caress his jawline. He shuddered, gazing down at his new bride, unused to such a reverent touch.

“What are you doing, princess?” he mumbled, taking her hand and delicately kissing the underside of her wrist.

“I was hoping to, get a feel of what my new husband's skin felt like,” she spoke, blushing deeply from her admittance.

He gently brushed chestnut locks from her eyes. “Oh how delicate you are, wife. So innocent and fair. What have I done to deserve such a gift?”

Feeling bold, Belle raised up to capture his lips in an inexperienced kiss. The one they'd shared back at the ceremony was brief, but this time, she allowed herself to truly explore the outline of his lips – truly taste him. He kissed her back fervently, cradling her face in his hands. She'd shifted her position and was now sitting on his lap. He nipped lightly at her lower lip, and she carded her fingers through his soft mane.

He gripped her hips gently, securing her onto his lap. The kiss made her feel pleasantly warm, and she ground her hips into him, causing him to jerk forward.

He broke the kiss, a predatory look in his eyes. “Be careful, little lamb, not to awaken the lion. The beast within has quite an appetite,” he warned.

Belle experimentally ground her hips into him again, causing his grip on her to tighten. She flushed deeply, her rosy cheeks eclipsed within the darkness of the carriage. His gaze grew intense, and he bruised her rosebud mouth with his lion teeth. Tongues and teeth clashed messily together, battling for dominance. The kiss was short lived for the carriage had came to a halt.

“We are here, my delicate bloom,” He purred deliciously in her ear, causing her entire body to tremble in the most pleasant of places. “We are in Albannach.”