Marriage.

Rafail's usually effortlessly cocky nature had halted at that word, and he froze midway through reaching out for one of the servants to refill his already empty goblet. His uncle's other words had gone entirely through him, uninterested by his requests that he not speak of his conquests or the comment on his cousin's presence. Uncle Keikelius was often talking such nonsense, and Rafail rarely paid any attention to it, sharing his father's disdain for the man. It was the way he had been raised: to pay no attention to Stravos fantasies. They may forever have been linked through marriage, but he did not need to pay them the respect they did not deserve.

However, there were certain things it was impossible to ignore, and Uncle Keikelius's final word was one of them. It was the only word Rafail had heard - the only one which mattered. 'Marriage'.

Naturally, his gaze slid to the side, and his body shifted in position, almost ready to turn to see what Danae might have thought of her father's words. He stopped himself, however, as a reassurance flew through his mind that, even if he were to be spontaneously married to a member of the Stravos family, it would never be her, and the sole reason why the girl remained in the room during a meeting of such importance was that she was too insolent to leave and her father too weak to force her out. If Rafail were to married to a Stravos girl, then it would surely be the eldest, the far more beautiful and far more suitable Chara, with whom he had already shared many a flirtation in the past.

But perhaps he had misunderstood. Perhaps all his panic was for nought. After all, Pavlos might have been attempting to bargain some union between one of his otherwise useless daughters and the Stravos son and had decided that it was best he bring his brother along so that he might better understand when the time came to organise marriage for his own sons or daughters. It might have been some rare and misunderstood kindness towards him from the older Marikas son. He was just so used to Pavlos's critical comments that the idea of anything positive occurring between the two of them seemed a far-off fantasy.

Deciding to give Uncle Keikelius's comment the benefit of the doubt, the man turned to his older brother to see what he had to say on the matter, hoping to hear those words which confirmed that he was not about to be spontaneously married off to this girl which he so loathed. It was to no avail, however, for Papa burst into the room at that moment, immediately directing himself to the Stravos father, affirming that marriage was indeed the topic of conversation and, perhaps more shockingly still, giving him a deep bow in reverence.

Rafail was unable to muster up more of a response than an awkward "Papa...?" before his father raised his goblet to the air and uttered the toast.

For a moment, Rafail thought he might have misheard, that strong sense of anger and denial rising from deep within him once again because this was not an option. But there was nothing to mishear, no alternative that might have have been said. Papa's words were the truth, though they seemed impossible. His entire life he had been raised to believe that his wife would be perfect for him, that she would be demure and beautiful and live up to every one of his expectation, and, most importantly of all, that she would be a princess.

Danae of Stravos was none of those things. Danae of Stravos could not be destined to be his future bride.

He was supposed to marry a Princess.

* * *

Praratios, 695 BC

A very young Rafail of Marikas sat in Mama’s chambers, comfortably perched on the edge of a kline, feet dangling a few inches off the ground. Mama was sat across from him; her face momentarily turned away as one of her ladies dabbed a sanguine colour on her lips, bright against her pale olive skin, and contrasted in the same way thick kohl brought out her apple-green eyes. That dark Stravos hair, so carefully lightened to a softer shade with all the finest cosmetics that could be found, had been curled into gentle waves and piled into an elaborate up-do, held in place with a magnificent golden headpiece, studded in tiny rubies. Mama had always been very beautiful, and she was very pleased about it, and you could tell in the way she glanced so briefly at her reflection in the mirror her lady held. She had always known just how beautiful she was: confirming it was nothing more than a courtesy. Apparently approving of her appearance, she waved the group of women away again. "Leave us be. I wish to speak with my son alone a while."

"Rafail," she cooed at her son once they had been left alone in the room, turning to face him as she stood from her seat, smoothing down the skirts of her red silken gown and posing for him, a hand resting on her hip. She almost always dressed in the colours of her maiden House, and despite being raised to have a strong dislike for his maternal family, Rafail liked those colours the best and, more often than not, when he didn't find himself in blue, he was dressed up in the same combination. Papa did not like it, but Papa did not have the same control over Rafail as Mama did.

"Does Mama look pretty?"

Perhaps she did not require the validation, but she craved it. There was a vanity about her, a desire to be reassured of the perfection she already knew she possessed. Papa had been a lucky man - dowry aside - when he had married the woman he had. Even Rafail knew that much, and he was still young. He hoped that whenever the time came for him to marry, he would have a wife as beautiful as Mama was, though she had always assured him that much would be the case.

He nodded, tiny hands reaching out to her as though in a plea for attention. "Mama's a princess," Rafail announced, half-lisping through the words as he waited for her to lift him into her arms, which she promptly did, seating herself beside him and pulling the child onto her lap. He nuzzled his head on the soft golden gossamer fabric of her himation and wrapped his arms around her thin waist, closing his eyes. She smelled of hyacinths and roses, and he never felt safer than he did when he was so close to the woman. "Mama's perfect."

One might deem it strange that a male child from such a prestigious family would be spending such copious amounts of time in the company of women - his sister was still little more than a babe, and even she did not spend as much time with Justana of Marikas as her older brother did. However, Rafail was the apple of her eye, best-loved by Mama and only five; not quite old enough to be forced into his education just yet. She kept the boy close to her, coddled him and gave in to his childish whims, and he adored her above any other. Perhaps Papa did not approve of such actions, but he was rarely home, usually occupied with his military work, though his son was too young to understand such things.

Mama had laughed at his words, a soft sound, the sound of bells chiming in the wind, though her pride beamed through her amusement. "My baby, Mama is not a princess." It was an innocent enough comment, but a certain melancholy might have been noticeable to the trained ear, a mild undertone of sorrow which Rafail was too small yet to understand. He had not yet known sadness, only the mild frustrations of matters not going the way he willed: that which he could scream about but not cry. It would still take another couple of years before he would learn to sob for more than his wants.

"But," the woman added, tenderly poking her son on the nose so that he giggled in reaction, the grin on his face so rare to any but she. "My darling's going to marry a princess. Mama won't let you have anything less because that's what my baby deserves." Of course, it was not only she who claimed that his future bride would be from the royal line: Papa had made it astoundingly clear that he intended to ensure such a marriage for his second son, just as he had been successful in doing so for Pavlos. Mama only managed to claim it in a manner which appealed more to the young boy, wanting for him what she had been so close to.

Glancing out the large windows as though to check that the sun had not crossed too far across the sky since she had begun her preening, the woman had frowned, glancing down at her beloved child. "Now...Mama needs to finish getting ready." The child made a sound of recognition, reaching up to peck a kiss on her cheek before he slid off his mother's lap, waiting for her to properly dismiss him before he ran off to find his nursemaid. It was an attempt to linger further, always eager to spend as much time with his mother as was physically possible, not wanting to return to the watchful eye of Maeja, never having cared for her as much. "But, dear, wait a moment. Mama wants to show you something special."

Justana too rose slowly from the kline, always having remained weak after so many years of disease, and returned to the table beside the mirror. She lifted the lid of a delicate box which contained a necklace decorated with gold-cased red gemstones which, once placed around her neck, gave the appearance of falling around her chest like wine droplets. After a further glance at her appearance, Mama turned back to Rafail once more, another smile bright on her face. Pressing a hand against her chest to gesture to the pendant so that Rafail might know where to look, she told him, "Your Papa gifted this to me when we were first betrothed. One day, you'll gift this to your princess. Promise me?"

"I promise," Rafail repeated, truly meaning it. Mama would be there on his wedding day, and she would see his blushing royal bride bearing such an accessory. He would not let her down. "My princess will be perfect, Mama. Just like you."

* * *

He was supposed to marry a Princess.

* * *

Agrianios, 688 BC

The twelve-year-old Rafail of Marikas sat in the dining hall of the Marikas estate in Thesnia, still short enough that his feet did not quite reach the marble ground. His older brother sat to his left, the man seated at the head of the table, and outside of the two servants that hovered to one side lest one of them require something, the pair were alone, Papa still in Athenia on whichever Senate business.

Recently crowned - Rafail dearly preferred the term 'crowned' above all others, 'appointed' just sounded far too mundane - Baron of Thesnia as Pavlos had taken on the title of Head of House, he had taken to wearing a pretty circlet nestled in his golden locks. When Pavlos had first asked him about it a few days after his appointment, the child had been proud to announce to the older man that he was 'King Rafail of Thesnia', and kings did wear a crown, after all, so why shouldn't he? His brother had scoffed and dismissed the jewellery as nothing more than a stage, sure that Rafail would get over it soon enough.

This had not been the case.

"You're still wearing that stupid thing," the man commented, taking a sip from his goblet of wine, eyeing his brother with an unimpressed expression on his face. "I thought we were over this nonsense."

It was almost as though Rafail had prepared for this comment, as he immediately launched into a well-rehearsed response which made it obvious this was not the first time he had heard this. "Mama said that I would have a crown one day and I am King of Thesnia now, so this is my crown." He reached up a hand to tap the headpiece and confirm it was still in position, smiling when he felt the familiar cold metal. It had been Mama's once, though she had never been a princess, and it reminded him of those brighter days when she had still been around.

Mama's funeral had hit him hard. Though the boy had not cried for her on the day itself - somehow passing through the day in a daze, only kicking up a fuss as an attempt to obtain the attention he so desired from his now lost mother - he had hidden away in his chambers afterwards and sobbed for as long as he needed before Maeja had come to find him and had told him that boys his age did not cry. Emotional outbursts were a sign of weakness; Papa had always said so. Maeja had been gotten rid of a few days after, but it had not helped Rafail's mood, and he had continued to cry and whine and demand attention until Papa had sat him down and told him that enough was enough. Rafail did not doubt that Papa loved him, but Papa did not love him as Mama had, and while he gave the boy what he wanted, it was stricter than the way Mama had done so. Things were different now, and Rafail held onto whatever memories of her he could.

Pavlos knew just how much Mama had loved Rafail, and sometimes the younger of the brothers wondered if the elder was envious of the attention, especially given the gap in their ages. He imagined that was why his brother complained about everything he did and why he now sighed deeply as though in some distress that this was still a cause of upset, five long years after the fact. "Mother is dead. You are not King of Thesnia. You are Baron of this province as I was before you and I expect you to uphold the family name as Father, and I do." He had paused, the slightest smirk appearing on his face as he fixed his gaze on Rafail. "Besides, you look more like Queen Rafail with that circlet."

Rafail would not be standing for it. He crossed his arms, bottom lip jutting out in a pout, eyes narrowed at Pavlos. "When I marry Princess Persephone, and she is grown, then I shall be king of all Athenia. Then you shall be sorry for your words." He was not exactly sure how his brother would be sorry, nor what vengeance he would enact on the man for having been born older and hence receiving more of Papa's attention. Papa might not have loved Rafail as Mama had, but he so obviously preferred Pavlos that it had always angered him whenever his brother seemed better than him in some way.

It was not Rafail's fault that Pavlos had been born thirteen years earlier, nor that he was more successful. He was older; it was entirely reasonable that he'd been more successful up until now! But Rafail was Mama's little miracle, and he deserved all the attention and privilege that he requested, and Pavlos deserved the revenge Rafail could give him, but only by becoming King. He narrowed his eyes further and furrowed his brow, trying to fix his brother with a nicely malicious expression that would hopefully deter him from furthering this stupid debate.

It had not received the desired effect. Pavlos had looked at him for a moment, almost quizzical, then released a hearty laugh. The claim did not entirely make sense, though he neglected to mention that outright, likely knowing the way Rafail would react to the news. He was good at screaming. "Princess Persephone? She is but half your age, Rafail, and her mother is alive and well."

"And someday she shall be of marriageable age, and I shall marry her." Rafail shrugged as though none of his brother's concerns was an issue, reaching to take some grapes from the table before him, glad to have noticed there were no figs laid out, as per his usual requests. He popped one into his mouth, still chewing on it as he thoughtfully added: "Besides, she is a woman, and no woman can go without a husband by her side."

"And if she has a brother?"

It was a valid point. The Queen was still young enough that a third child was a genuine possibility, and that child may well be born male and heir to the throne. So then what would become of the Marikas boy's plans? The only chance he would have of the throne returning to his family line would be if his wife's brother died childlessly, and then it would be his sons who bore the title. But Rafail, as ever, had opted to ignore that which might cause an inconvenience to his plans and munched on his grapes until he had come to a reasonable argument. "Well, she won't." It was weak, as far as reasoning went, but it worked in his head.

Noting that his brother still appeared unconvinced, Rafail tried to find further proof to back up his continued claims. What he eventually came up with was as ineffective as his last attempt. "She won't, and I'm going to marry her."

* * *

He was supposed to marry a Princess.

* * *

Ermaios, 678 BC

"I look forward to seeing you again, my Princess."

Rafail had led Persephone to her carriage, waiting for the princess to enter and for the carriage to have departed before he turned his back once more and returned to the interior of the Marikas home, the pride one might expect to see on his face from such a successful meeting with the girl not currently present. Perhaps most would have deemed it a triumphant encounter, but he would not have said the same. He had had a particular idea of what he would have considered a 'success' that day and given that his lips had not met the girl's, this had not been a 'success'.

See, women were easy to manipulate. Rafail had always been a master manipulator when it came to women, knowing their little tricks and secrets and the ways to ensure they melted into your hands. He had used all the same methods with Persephone on this day and, although things had evidently gone well and a second meeting was ripe on the horizon, for she had confirmed intentions of seeing the man once again, and, added to that, that she was looking forward to furthering the friendship between the pair of them. That was the word which had irritated Rafail so: friendship.

The twenty-two-year-old had returned to his chambers after the meeting, storming in and collapsing into a klismos, naturally irritated. His sweet demeanour was lost, the fury apparent on his face as he had motioned Deucalion over from where he hovered in wait. "It should have worked."

His attendant had approached and started to rub his shoulder in a blatant attempt to calm his nerves. "You did all that you could, my Lord."

"She's a stupid girl! A romantic setting and a few sweet words ought to have convinced her. Even the most cold-hearted of individuals should fall for that!" It was something Rafail had learned early on in his years attempting to win the hearts of women, and it was not something which usually failed. In all honesty, the man could think of very few women who had not fallen to those charms. "What happened?"

It had taken a long moment before Deucalion had responded, the man opening and closing his mouth a few times before he came up with an answer he deemed acceptable, which would not offend his master far too much. Instead, he had chosen something which would appeal to the man's sexist nature. "As honourable as I know your intentions were, Lord Rafail, I doubt such words would easily convince a princess who has been raised in a palace much like a nunnery to surrender her virginity to a man that she has known in such regard for only five minutes."

Rafail snorted in amusement. It was true: the palace was practically a nunnery, overrun with female inhabitants (two, apparently, counted as a swarm) and he was sure Persephone had not been taught any better, so every assumption she had on how relationships should go were hewn from her own beliefs or whatever nonsense he imagined her nursemaids must have told her. He might have asked the man for further advice had he not known his manservant held his interests in the same sex and would, therefore, be of little use. Instead, he turned to glance slightly at the man over his shoulder, an almost concerned look on his face. "Mama said I was going to marry a princess, and Papa says I must marry a princess, but I can't marry a princess if my charms aren't working on her!"

Crossing his arms and going into a natural sulk, he slid down in the seat so that Deucalion was forced to step away again. It had always been his destiny to marry a princess, and if the current princess who was the target of his affections did not appear to want them, well, then Mama must have been wrong, and Mama could never have been wrong. Rafail pouted, releasing a long sigh as he glanced at his reflection in the mirror before him, the thought almost crossing his mind that he might not be quite as attractive as he believed himself to be, though it seemed altogether too ridiculous an idea and he wiped it from his mind. This was not the state Mama would have wanted to see him in, so irritable because a princess had referred to their budding relationship as nothing more than a friendship. No, this would not have him defeated.

A simple hiccup would not prevent him from having the future he deserved. There was always a second princess, and, if things did not go well with Persephone, Rafail could easily wait until she too had reached a marriageable age and then attempt this whole ordeal once again with her, although he was not doubtful things would go well. He could rest easy for now.

"Prepare me a hot bath," he decided, rising and turning to look at his servant properly, hands on his hips as he attempted to decide exactly what it was he needed to calm him down. "Scent it with hyacinths...and roses." It was one of his preferred scents, a reminder of when Mama had still been alive, and his go-to whenever he felt dissatisfied with something or other. "If we have none then fetch the perfumed creams." At least such a solution would calm him a while.

Deucalion nodded his consent, pausing before he moved to complete such tasks. He knew his master well enough to know to tread water around him when he was in such a state, though he was also fully aware of how to ease him back into a more positive state of mind. "Would it be safe to assume you have calmed down somewhat, your lordship? Perhaps I might send someone to fetch you something to entertain yourself after you bathe?" They both knew what he was implying, and Rafail was quick to take advantage of it.

"Brunette. Ensure she resembles Princess Persephone at least somewhat, hm? Go." Tonight, he would fuck that which resembled a princess but soon enough, he would marry one, and look at him then. Pride and joy of the Marikas family.

* * *

He was supposed to marry a Princess.

Danae of Stravos was no princess. She may have been a niece to the King and a cousin to the two Xanthos princesses, but she did not share their royal title. She may have been born of royal blood, but she was not in line for the throne, only sister to one who might claim it. She was talkative and rude, and she did not know her place as she should have been taught. She had the same dark hair as Mama, and the same light eyes, but her personality could not have been farther from the woman he had so loved and considered a role model for all others of her gender. She was an atrocity, and Rafail had no desire to marry her.

"Papa," he said once more, ignoring the toast the man was attempting to make and slamming his own empty goblet on the table once more as he stood to make eye-contact with the only man in the room who reached his height, cheeks tinged red. While most of his anger came in the form of those tantrums for which he was so well known within his home, it began pouring out of him on this occasion, thick and dark and unstoppable. Perhaps Rafail usually reserved some respect for the man he called his father, but there was none to be heard in his words as he now approached him.

"Please, assure me that some maddening sickness has befallen you, for I would rather spend the rest of my eternity in the pits of Tartarus than ever find myself in a union with this disgrace of a woman." He raised a hand as he spoke, pointing it behind him at the girl who had been seated so noiselessly in the corner in case they could not understand it was Danae to which he referred. With all the idiocy which had occurred that day, it was hard to know whether they were truly aware. "I am a Marikas. I deserve the best for my bride, not some Stravos girl with which my only interactions have been fights caused by her inability to shut her mouth and remain in her place. I do not want to marry her. Mama said I would marry a princess, and she is not a princess!"

And Pavlos. Pavlos was the man who had led him here, who had acted so mysterious and refused to offer him any information that might have clued him into the meeting they would be attending. He deserved the rest of Rafail's wrath, and he would be receiving it. Turning onto his brother - how short the man was! - his expression only darkened further, though he was somehow too angered with the man to say even a word to him. Instead, he made a disgruntled noise of sorts, half a scoff and half a groan, and then crossed the room again to fall back into the seat he had been previously occupying, as though being unable to come up with anything much else worth saying had drained the life from him. Indeed, this entire ordeal had left him feeling far more exhausted than most events did, if solely from the stress of knowing that he would be forced to spend the rest of his life with a girl he hated so.

Of course, Rafail was not stupid. He understood the reasons behind this marriage, and even he could not deny them as being entirely rational. Unmarried so far, drenched in looks, wealth, power and prestige, and fifth in line for the Athenian throne, he was, without a doubt, the most eligible bachelor in the kingdom bar Danae's own brother, and the betrothal would have been considered a political alliance for which many would have killed. It was hence easy to see where Papa and Pavlos and Uncle Keikelius had gotten their ideas. Moreover, all that aside, there were myriad benefits to marrying this girl: there was some sense of closeness to the throne more significant than what he could already boast; she was not terribly horrid to look at (in fact, had he not already loathed the girl so intensely, he might have agreed she was quite attractive) and, perhaps most importantly of all, he had been made aware by the girl herself of just how large her dowry would be. If he were definitely to be made to marry one whom he loathed with such a burning passion, then at least he would be able to reap a few bonuses from the union.

Still, he could have had all the same from marrying her sister.

He had shifted his position in his seat now to face Danae fully, now regarding her in a manner that he had never done before. To this day he had always considered nought more than an insolent child, and changing that view of the girl seemed nigh on impossible as he ran his gaze over the entirety of her body, quite suddenly understanding why she had been dressed in that pale yellow shade and how incredibly ironic it was that he had chosen his favoured red and gold for this meeting without having been aware of its intentions.

"Danae of Marikas," he tried, testing the name on his lips, almost wincing at the combination. There was a certain appeal to it, if solely based on the knowledge that, by taking his name, she would, more or less, be his to mould as he wished. He supposed he could handle that: there were many ways to teach a woman to be silent, and even if she had not been shown it in her youth, the girl was still young enough that an impression could be made and all her disgusting habits wiped away. There was an appeal in that.

However, Rafail would not have himself seen as possibly accepting the betrothal without a fight, and as he considered all these options for the future, he had reached down to refill that empty goblet himself, taking a long, long drink of wine as he ran his mind over every possibility. Outside of his inherent dislike, there was nothing about Danae that he could not shape to his ideas, and, in that regard, she was almost the perfect wife despite all her shortcomings. On the other hand, she lacked that which he had forever been promised from his future bride, and that was the royal title, and it was that on which he now fell back, unsure of which other arguments to raise.

"But she's not a princess. She's not what Mama promised!"