and called for you everywhere

[jasminaofwallachia]

Jasmina would still feel that brief moment of contact, heat collecting by her collarbones, practically throbbing where her own fingertips had touched his. It lingered. Beneath the skin, and now in her own head and heart.

There was not a single thought that was not of Iulian in this moment. His eyes. The great depths of them, like a dark river, comforting and searching all at once. The kindness he was showing her now. A kindness that soothed the questions in her heart, about the unknowns— about a new home they were headed to together. He was good to her, and promised to protect her. They would ride out to the green hills together, sharing a saddle, sharing in the beauty of Wallachia in the spring. The union of their countries had been born from war— could the gouges of battle not now be healed by real affection? That of man and wife? Affection seems to be spilling from her chest now, like a clear mountain stream ever-burbling. A new feeling. But very present. Startlingly strong.

He thanks her, and Jasmina nods, eyes still fixed upon Iulian as he displays his palms in his lap.

'These hands... they are rough. They have taken lives. And still, you favor them?'

She looks upon the scars and callouses. She looks upon the lived experience of Iulian and imagines a great blade in his hand— and does not fear it.

"Yes," she says gently, adjusting herself on the cot, pulling furs tighter as she settles. It is remarkable— how much more relaxed she is. No more tense muscle. No more curled shoulders, eyes darting as if imagining beasts beyond the treeline. "There is much about them to favor. They show bravery. And hard work. And they have promised to protect me. And they shall keep companion with mine."

Yes. Companion. Hands that would brush her collarbone again soon, she hopes. She smiles again.

"I much prefer them as they are, yes."

[iulianjulian]

Jasmina regarded his hands highly, apparently. They showed bravery and hard work. And she meant the things she said. Iulian closed his hands into a gentle fist, letting the words linger in the air before responding.

"I. Thank you, princess."

The corner of his mouth shifted yet again. Warmer, this time. He inhaled slowly, then reached — not for Jasmina, but for the furs. Instinctively, he pulled them closer to her, avoiding her gaze in an attempt at being unfazed by her words.

"You should rest," Iulian said, before his hands returned to his thighs. "The night is not as long as it seems. And we will have a longer day tomorrow."

Things had certainly changed between them that night, and Iulian was thankful for the intimacy. Jasmina was his wife, and he was relieved she did not feel like a stranger.

"I will stay here," Iulian said, "and protect you from the wolves."

Iulian stood from the cot, moving over to the stool where he previously sat. The furs on the ground would be comfortable enough.

"You may wake me if you feel frightened. I won't let anything harm you."

[jasminaofwallachia]

One inhale, two, a moment that Jasmina wants to stretch out forever — Iulian's hand lingering near her collarbone, somehow still so warm, as if he'd let them rest by a fire.

It felt good. Almost as if they were a blanket of their own. Warm and solid and there.

'You will never be alone while you are under my protection,'

It was like the gentlest blow to her diaphragm, Iulian's eyes meeting hers in the dark. Soft. So, so, so, soft. Soft like silks from Zhejiang, soft like the glow from a steadily-kept ember. Whenever he looked at her like this, it's another instance where Jasmina wishes she had never heard a single rumor about him— never let a wild, unproven tale pass through her ears.

'And you do not need to repay me in kindness. There is no debt between us,'

Jasmina makes a noise at that— head shaking. There was no debt, perhaps, Iulian extended this kindness to her freely, of his own volition, yes. But she felt ... stirrings of her own. A strong pulse of reciprocity. A want, of her own, to return it back.

"But you are my husband," she begins. Would her mother have scolded her for that? The bishop? Addressing Iuilan like that before they were married, over-familiar without ceremony. The touching of, course, would have been objected to. But Jasmina, pious as she is, does not care. Not a speck! It feels right and it feels good. "And so you also, will never be alone, when I am under your protection." A beat, Jasmina swallows, brows knitting together from the earnestness of her words. "I want to be kind to you. And so I will."

Her hand— trembling, traitorously, from this buzz of emotion— brushes against Iulian's before retreating. And then his hand returns to his thighs. She mourns the loss. She stares at that, for a moment, his lovely thighs and hands before tearing her eyes away. She hopes she can show him. She hopes she can return the comfort Iulian has shown her tonight

A tight swallow.

"Well. I believe I cannot help but to prefer your hands. Those hands are very courteous. And gallant. And attached to you. And so I think I will favor them over the furs." Saints. Where was all her courtly grace? Everything just tumbles out of her, around Iulian. Her face is burning now. "But— yes. I am much warmer. My teeth shall not chatter and alert the wolves to our position as we sleep."

[iulianjulian]

The words left Jasmina's lips so easily. Husband. Several times already, like it was all set in stone, like they'd exchanged vows already. They sort of had, hadn't they? Just not in front of the church.

She promised that he would never be alone. Loneliness had never been something that Iulian feared. He'd felt it before in the midst of long journeys, or in his chambers, late at night, with no one to warm his bed. Only he had never felt it after knowing Jasmina, and something told him that the loneliness would hit harder after.

She wanted to be kind to him. She brushed her hand over his, and Iulian felt his heart stop again that evening.

"Thank you," he replied, sincere. Of course Jasmina would be kind to him. She was a kind, beautiful devout woman, even after he'd stolen her away from her family, from her life.

When she remarked on his hands, Iulian felt a finger twitch in her direction. He tightened his grip around nothing, before turning one of his hands so his palm was facing up. They were not soft hands, as warm as they might've felt. They were scarred and rough, from riding, from the slices of daggers and arrows in the midst of battle.

"You prefer these hands?" He wondered, all but displaying them for her to see, there in his lap.

"These hands... they are rough. They have taken lives. And still, you favor them?"

[jasminaofwallachia]

Jasmina can recall being curious about stable boys— about visiting dignitaries too, young royals like herself presented before her in brocade and silk. She wondered what the two of them might say while alone. If it would be pleasant, to be subject to their attentions.

Those passing questions are like a spring breeze compared to a biblical gale. Jasmina feels undone, in this moment, in the face of her curiosity sitting next to Iulian. Saints, how her blood roared. So much curiosity. Longing? Yes, longing. This itch curling under skin, not only to feel the press of his leg again, but to know him even better— to pour over the details of him like she did with her tomes and her books. Iulian, who did not sleep well on the road. Who was not afraid of wolves, and who knew these forests since he was much younger, much smaller.

He smiles at her again— it is like a knife slicing through the threads of composure— and assures Jasmina that he has faced worse than wolves, and princesses who become lost in bogs.

Hah.

'You are dangerous in a different way,'

She works her bottom lip between her teeth. If she exhales too obviously, their shoulders will meet.

"I have never once been called dangerous."

Certainly not by someone like Iulian— but, in this moment, crowded together on the cot, clutching her wine, Jasmina understands what he is saying.

'I am glad because you seem at peace right now. And because I would rather have you here, beside me, than than wonder if you are lying awake, cold and frightened. And alone.'

Oh. Oh. Jasmina has to look down for a moment; grapple with the idea of Iulian wondering about her too. Whether she might be cold, beneath the cutting wind and howls. Whether she slept soundly or tossed around in fear.

But her gaze snaps up immediately; she catches every instant of his hands adjusting her cloak, for warmth, his large, elegantly-shaped fingers brushing against her collarbone.

Jasmina sucks in a breath.

He would survive the night, apparently. Could she?

"I am not alone now," she breathes, something unfamiliar working in the pit of her belly.

And then she clears her throat— loses her training and composure all at once and blurts her next words out quite stupidly.

"And your hands are warm. So I do not think I shall be cold either."

Oh, saints. Saints what was she saying. Jasmina washes down her wine. Clears her throat, a pathetic attempt to re-focus. She must seem very transparent, to Iulian. All flustered and silly, unmoored when faced with tenderness such as this.

"I— thank you, for thinking of me. And offering your tent, and your wine, and— all your kindness. Prince. I hope I can return it."

[iulianjulian]

Iulian stilled. And for a moment, he did not move at all. His hand remained near her collarbone, the warmth of her skin lingering near his knuckles. He could have withdrawn— he should have, honestly. This was not appropriate. But he did not. Not immediately.

"You will never be alone while you are under my protection," Iulian said. And to some, it might have felt like a difficult promise to keep — an impossible one, and yet, Iulian made it anyway.

His gaze searched hers, softly, not the way he did when he was assessing a threat or deciphering the truth, but in a gentle, unfamiliar sort of way.

"And you do not need to repay me in kindness. There is no debt between us," Iulian assured her. Could that statement really be true? Wasn't she going to Wallachia as a prisoner, in exchange for peace? He could not give it very much thought while she sat beside him. His mind felt cloudy and unfocused when they were this close.

He finally withdrew his hand. It required a great deal of control.

"The furs will serve you better than my hands," he told her, and he wished that it were not true. He wished that she needed his hands, and that he could keep them on her for the rest of the night.

Instead, he rested his palms on his thighs for a few short breaths, before reaching for his own cup of wine. He took a sip.

"Are you warm enough now?"

[jasminaofwallachia]

'You make this difficult,'

Oh! Not the reply she had expected— Jasmina watches with wide eyes, pounding heart as Iulian detaches from the stool, moving slowly, adjusting his limbs carefully as he moves towards the cot.

Or perhaps not careful enough; one of his legs grazes Jasmina's knee, and the effect must be equivalent to lightning burning through a tree

She feels it. She feels it well after he's adjusted his own leg away.

"My husband must forgive me for making things difficult," she murmurs, wondering if her racing pulse and whirring thoughts and shaky hearts are her own challenges in this moment. Yes. Yes, difficult, indeed. Difficult to remember ... the proper conduct, as a lady of God, and a princess. Iulian, in his solid strength, his depth, his thoughtfulness, his dark eyes, makes it difficult.

It was too easy to want to shift against him.

Husband. She'd called him husband again, even though they had stood before no altar and no bishop. Despite it? The word still feels right. She looks at Iulian and sees husband.

She swallows another deep mouthful of wine. Iulian is so big and so close beside her.

So very solid, and present— large, like a mountain, beautiful and grand the way a miracle of nature was. Their eyes meet again, and once again she is stirred by his softness.

'You are very dangerous. More dangerous than the wolves.'

Is that a smile there? Hidden, kept back, but still the imprint of a smile? He is glad, apparently, that Jasmina is staying.

"...I am glad you extended the invitation to me," she says, equal softness in the set of her eyes and mouth. "Thank you." And then, another breach of propriety. Another instance of Jasmina being bold, more bold than she could ever remember being. Jasmina reaches over and touches his forearm, for a moment, fingers splayed wide across the warm muscle there.

Of course she had wanted to thank him. Of course she wanted to express her gratitude. But maybe— the proper part of Jasmina will not admit it — she simply wishes to feel his arm as well. And she wants Iulian to feel her in return.

Her hand retracts. There is a strange, crackling sort of energy thrumming in her veins, to know they will share a tent tonight.

Her lip quirks involuntarily.

"Though I am surprised at your gladness. To share a tent with a girl more dangerous than wild beasts."

[iulianjulian]

They were husband and wife now, it seemed. They'd skipped the ceremony.

It was the combination of that — repeatedly calling him husband — and the touch at his forearm that undid his composure, melted his insides and left him feeling... undone, in some ways. Vulnerable, perhaps? Full of longing? He didn't know the word, or the feeling, only that he'd ever felt it with Jasmina. A total stranger.

Though she wasn't a stranger anymore, was she? He knew that she liked walking in the cold, enjoyed the taste of plums in the spring, feared wolves. She was well educated and bright. She fell for his jests. She spoke his tongue well. She was his wife.

When her hand fell from his forearm, his gaze lingered there, as if he could still feel the warmth of her touch. It was special. Jasmina was special.

"I have faced worse things than wolves," he told her, half smiling. "And far worse than a princess with poor judgement in marshes."

He smiled now, openly. It was difficult not to whenever he sat so close to her, when he could still feel the phantom touch of her fingers on his skin.

"You are dangerous in a different way," he explained.

"I am glad because you seem at peace right now. And because I would rather have you here, beside me, than than wonder if you are lying awake, cold and frightened. And alone."

Iulian was not restless, but he felt the need to occupy his hands with something. It was his turn for boldness. He reached over, his hand moving before he had too much time to think about it, gently pulling at the fabric of her shoulder, drawing the cloak more securely around her. His fingers brushed against her collarbone. Accidental.

And yet, his hand stayed where it was. Just for a moment longer.

"You are dangerous," he repeated, holding her gaze. "But I will survive the night. I think."

[jasminaofwallachia]

Iulian sits up very quickly— almost like a soldier straightening to attention. There's the muted burble of poured wine, the clink of the flask when left down on the floor of the tent. Jasmina watches him. Clutches her own goblet close to her abdomen.

The tight line of his shoulders has dropped very quickly.

'You are not displacing me,'

Jasmina's own follow.

'There is plenty of room here. I do not— I do not wish to see you walking back to your tent in the cold.'

Oh. That was something that was also new. The prince's words being ... almost hesitant, in delivery, the soft space between his words. It makes Jasmina's heart spill and pool over like honey beneath the sun. Soft were his words, but when Iulian's gaze finds her own again, there is both tenderness and conviction. Maybe even vulnerability. Vulnerability, from a man said to walk with wolves and demons on the battlefield.

'There are plenty of furs here to keep you warm. And wine. And I am here.'

But Jasmina only knows him as the man who will be here husband. And she is only finding softness in her heart for him— not fear. She will meet him with such.

"There are furs. And wine." She swallows. "And ... you."

The last word feels rather weighty. You. Him! He is here, to keep her warm! And so Jasmina raises the goblet to her lips, swallows several quick mouthfuls as she feels the wine drop down into her belly— warm and thick and heady. Very immediate.

He didn't want her to walk back in the cold. Iulian, the most fearsome man in all the land, did not wish to see push through the wind to her own lonely blankets.

"Well," Jasmina says, gathering the cloak about her. "If that is so, then at least sit up here. I do not wish to see you ... banished, to some uncomfortable stool. The cot is not so small that it cannot bear us both."

Now she is properly wallowing in her wickedness, isn't she? Inviting Iulian up onto the cot beside her, as they sip their wine? Unsupervised? After deciding to ride together in such an inappropriate fashion?

What was happening to her!

[iulianjulian]

For the first time in years, Iulian did not trust himself to answer Jasmina immediately. He sat, very still, stiff almost, watching as she gathered his cloak more tightly, watching the way the candle light caught in the curve of her mouth. The invitation itself was ... innocent enough, wasn't it? Simple?

It didn't feel simple.

Sit up here.

He had spent his entire life mastering impulse. He had been taught, from boyhood, that desire was something to master before it mastered you! That a prince who could not command himself had no business commanding men!

But Jasmina.

Jasmina was changing everything.

Jasmina, blushing, bold, beautiful, unaware of the effect she had on him, was beginning to test every difficult lesson he had ever learned. His fist tightened around his cup before setting it to the side.

"You make this difficult," he finally said, and though the words were meant to be dry and slightly humorous, there was something else hidden in them, too. Honesty. But it wasn't a cruel type of honesty, and he hoped Jasmina didn't take it as such. She wasn't actually difficult, but she was doing difficult things to Iulian.

Iulian rose from the stool slowly, as though any sudden movement might betray him. He sat beside her, and the cot gave slightly beneath his weight. His long legs knocked against one of her knees. An accident. But he felt as though he might burn up and die from the sensation.

Iulian was breaking many rules now, sitting this close. Iulian reached for one of the heavier furs across the cot in a feeble attempt to occupy his hands.

"There," Iulian said, quieter. "Now neither of us is being inconvenienced."

He was fighting back a smile again. His eyes found hers, and they were softer than before.

"You are very dangerous. More dangerous than the wolves."

A blink. He was only teasing. More jests.

"But I am glad that you stayed, Jasmina."

[jasminaofwallachia]

'You place too much faith in my bishop,'

'He stopped attempting to govern me years ago.'

Was it— the residual fear of the wolves? The sharp, crackling energy she felt, sharing such close quarters with a man? A handsome man, at that? Iulian, of all people?

Either way, it sparks something incredibly ... unlady-like, within her. Jasmina laughs. Not a delicate giggle, either. Her head drops back, and there's a second of unfiltered amusement that escapes before a hand covers her mouth, before her face is schooled back into something smoother, and more delights. Saints. She was very close to snorting.

'I have endured worse than gossip. And there is no cause for scandal here. You are my wife. It does not matter what the world thinks. You will ride with me until we reach home— and whenever you wish.'

Hmm. That was ... fortifying. Jasmina was a pious woman, a devout woman, but it was comforting to know that her husband would not bend to the overly-concerned meddling of others.

Not even a bishop!

"Well," she begins, warm-faced, almost self-conscious from her fit of laughter. "It is good that your bishop is ... realistic."

Indeed. From what she has seen of Iulian— which is not a lot, granted, over a very long period of days— she suspects she would be hard-pressed to find anyone who could truly command him.

"And it is good to know that I may enjoy my time with my husband freely."

Enjoy her time. Atop his horse. In his saddle. Back pressed close to his chest.

Iulian stands abruptly, scattering her creeping thoughts like a flock of birds in the early morning.

She needed rest, apparently, if they were to ride together. And fortification against the wolves— saints, how they howled!

And saints— how strangely fascinating it was, watching him balance a goblet a wine atop his knee! All while telling Jasmina she could stay here!

Her fingers pinch around the stem of the cub.

"—Ah. Overnight? Me, here?" Goodness. Her face is probably pink and red and purple. Jasmina feels... violently warm, and excited, and surprised, blinking hard and glancing about the tent with a thudding heart.

"What about your tent? You're .. sure I will not take up too much room, my prince?"

She ducks her head, fighting off a broad smile. Hmm. The thought of sleeping in the same quarters ....

"...You're very kind to me."

[iulianjulian]

Jasmina's laughter was the sweetest sound he'd ever heard. It wasn't too loud, or too quiet. Just perfect. The perfect noise. The tent no longer felt like a cold place on this earth. It was warmer, lighter, simply because she had laughed. Simply because he had caught a glimpse of her smile.

He found himself silently wishing that she had not covered her mouth so quickly.

Iulian was battling a grin of his own. The corners of his mouth shifted. He wanted to hear more. How could he make her laugh again? What must he do to draw out the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard?

"—Ah. Overnight? Me, here?"

Iulian's spine straightened, and he began pouring his own cup of wine. He placed the flask on the ground, wondering if he had just crossed a line. This was improper. And she was a princess, and she deserved respect, and he found himself composing an apology in his head before she'd even said her next words. Iulian did not apologize. The words felt foreign and heavy on his tongue, even before saying them.

"What about your tent? You're .. sure I will not take up too much room, my prince?"

She was not objecting. The tension in his shoulders began to disappear.

"You are not displacing me," Iulian responded, shaking his head. "There is plenty of room here. I do not— I do not wish to see you walking back to your tent in the cold."

Finally, his gaze found hers yet again. Vulnerable and soft.

"There are plenty of furs here to keep you warm. And wine. And I am here."

[jasminaofwallachia]

For a moment Jasmina stops studying the crusts of bread— the variations of brown, it's complex lattice of holes — and fixes her gaze back upon Iulian. She stares for a moment. That was another thing about men. Such big thighs. And muscles. She watches Iulian upon the stool, his forearm resting upon his leg, and notices things she had no reason to look for in her father or cousins or grey-streaked advisors who counseled her father.

'When we ride out to the hills, we may do as you wish,'

'Though if you are asking if I would object to having you close to me... I would not.'

Ah. Prince Iulian would not object. It was terrible bold for her to ask such a thing at all— they would be married, yes, would soon lay together like man and wife, but publicly riding together, pressed so close ... well. It was a bit indecent, wasn't it?

Somehow, Jasmina thinks Iulian will not care. Somehow, Jasmina cannot conjure up the proper protestations either. Would it be so wrong? To enjoy a ride into the hills with her husband, feel his comforting width behind her? She had been frightened, the first time he had ridden away with her in tow. That fear dissolved. As each hour passed, Jasmina found the muscular size of his chest, his abdomen, his shoulders to be ... a distraction. Something she quietly hoped a bump in the road would jostle her back into.

Oh, how her face had heated at such thoughts. Except— is there warmth upon Iulian's cheeks now? Surely not. Surely a man such as Iulian would not feel ... the same sort of flushed stirring? Jasmina bites her bottom lip, sharply, inexorably pleased by even the possibility. So brave against death, but flush at the thought of her?

She pinches the crust of bread.

"I ... would not object either. Husband."

And they're not even married, not yet. But Jasmina likes saying it, and it spills out of her, and for a moment she marvels at how an engagement conceived from war can make her feel such a thing.

'Though if you should find yourself tempted by another marsh, I may insist on keeping a closer hold of the reins.'

That stupid story. Jasmina will rue sharing it again yet. But Iulian smiles, again, and Jasmina returns the smile, again, pleased to see how the expression looks upon his face.

'I would not have you ride apart from me ever again, unless you wished it.'

Oh. Jasmina drops her gaze again, inhaling as if stung. Saints. His eyes could be very soft when they wanted to be, couldn't they? All the stories of him drinking blood from captured soldiers doesn't sound real at all.

A beat. Jasmina finds her voice again.

"Well." Her fingers shred another small scrap of bread. "I do not wish it. I find it ... very agreeable. Riding together. I ... would not enjoy our visit to the hills as much, I think. if otherwise."

Hah. There! She's said it. Like the slattern she is, admitting her desire after asking the question in the first place.

"I hope your bishop will not object. I would hate for you to be subject to any rumors about your ... foreign bride tempting you into indecency and inappropriate displays."

She laughs then— breathy, unsteady, a pitchy huff born from a wild pulse and burning skin. Trying to play off her reaction. Goodness. If only the ladies of her old court could see her now.

[iulianjulian]

Iulian clung to her gaze when she said it. Husband. It wasn't the first time, but something shifted in him at the sound of her voice. Something more dangerous than desire. The word should have sounded practical and inevitable, given their engagement, but ... it didn't. It felt sacred.

His eyes fell to the mess of bread that she'd made. She had color in her cheeks. From the cold? From her scare, earlier that night? Or the closeness shared between them?

Maybe it was all of it.

"You place too much faith in my bishop," Iulian said. "He stopped attempting to govern me years ago."

There was another self-satisfied smile hiding at the corners of his mouth. Iulian had never been much for church, or rule following, it seemed.

"And if rumor should follow us into Wallachia, so be it."

He said it simply, the way he stated most things, but there was something steady about the way he said it. He meant it.

"I have endured worse than gossip. And there is no cause for scandal here. You are my wife. It does not matter what the world thinks. You will ride with me until we reach home— and whenever you wish."

He stood from the stool rather abruptly, making his way back to his stores in search of ... anything to keep him busy. Sitting close to Jasmina, when she looked at him like that, was beginning to test his control in a way he had not expected.

"It grows late," he mentioned, searching for the wine he'd requested with his dinner. "And if you mean to ride with me, you must rest."

There — a serving of wine, untouched in its flask, and two small pewter cups. He was not asking her to go. On the contrary.

"You need not go," he said, sitting back on the stool. He balanced a cup on his knee, pouring her wine first. Now this — this was highly improper, and he did not care. "You may rest here. The wolves are getting louder. I do not want you to be frightened."

He handed her the cup.

"This will warm you. And then we must rest."

[jasminaofwallachia]

Jasmina meets Iulian's gaze.

'Perhaps they are right about me,'

'And you are simply set apart from the rest.'

Ack! That stare! The idea of ... some distinctive difference, between how Iulian saw her. Treated her. Hmm.

"Well," she begins, returning his gaze despite the curious turn of her stomach. "It is only natural husband and wife treat each other differently, apart from the world." A nod. Jasmina pursing her lips in thought.

"But I do not think they were right. It was all very outlandish, what they said— and not true, I think." A beat. "Not the entire image of you."

No. Iulian was not the man she expected to terrorize her the entire trip. He was massive and considerate and quiet and stern and careful and courteous— and he did, at times, like to tease Jasmina something awful. And she kept falling for it!

Like an imbecile.

Though she doesn't quite know what to think when she touches him. For a moment it's as if Iulian stiffens. And she's just not sure. Perhaps ... she had startled him? Perhaps he was not expecting it, or perhaps he did not want to be touched by one he did not know well? Or... maybe it was another sort of reaction. Jasmina is not sure. She is only sure about the suddenness of her own new feelings— proximity near a man! A handsome man! Her betrothed, soon-to-be-husband!

It made her very aware of the draping of his cloak over her breasts.

'I would like to accompany you,'

'So that you don't have to climb saplings and ruin all of the dresses that I will gift you.'

Hah. She supposes this is not the last she will be hearing of much and marches. Alas. It cannot be helped now.

He smiles again and Jasmina does too, smiling even broader to hear the prince describe Wallachia's hills as beautiful.

Green, lush. Worth waiting for.

'Beauty came late in the lands, but it always came.'

'I will take you there myself,'

That pleases her— hearing the prince describe something as beautiful. Hearing him promise to take her there himself. Perhaps it would take some time, this blossoming, but the beauty would come.

"I am glad to hear that my new home will become so verdant in the spring."

A beat. Jasmina tears the crust of bread into halves, then quarters, then even smaller again. Her hands are busy now, for some reason. Hmm. Hmm.

"When we ride out to the hills— will we take separate horses? Or shall we ride together, like on our first day?"

Perhaps a fever has overtaken her, or some fit of madness, to ask such a question.

[iulianjulian]

Jasmina seemed to have a lot of faith in Iulian already. She did not think that the rumors and stories about Iulian were true. That was very kind of her. She had not yet seem him cut dozens of men down in battle. Had not see the way his eyes went dark with rage.

Perhaps she would say something differently if she knew that side of him. But she didn't, and so Iulian intended on keeping this image of himself protected. Sacred, just for her. This newfound tenderness would be only for Jasmina.

For now, Iulian let it be. He did not intend on arguing against her compliments, her good thoughts about him. He let the words sit inside of him — words and feelings that he would come to cherish for a very, very long time.

He watched her hands work at the bread, breaking it in half at first, then into smaller and smaller pieces. A distraction. Iulian listened.

"When we ride out to the hills, we may do as you wish," Iulian offered. "Though if you are asking if I would object to having you close to me... I would not."

He cleared his throat. Some more boldness on his end. The beginnings of a blush were working their way onto his cheeks. It was humiliating and girlish, and Iulian longed to extinguish all of the light so she could not see. He leaned back slightly in the stool, one forearm settling against his thigh, managing to quiet his own expression.

"Though if you should find yourself tempted by another marsh, I may insist on keeping a closer hold of the reins."

Another small, private smile again. Teasing, to deflect from the way that he felt currently. Burned up, for some odd reason, despite the cold night.

He held her gaze for longer than necessary, and his dark eyes softened once more.

"I would not have you ride apart from me ever again, unless you wished it."

[jasminaofwallachia]

Jasmina turns her head to the side— staring at the blanket canvas of the tent, lips still curled back in a smile. Hmm. This probably wasn't like Iulian. Willing to risk time and speed. But he would do it, for her, did not mind giving up his tent or his food for her comfort.

Her head snaps back in his direction.

"Prince Iulian," she says, gaze steady. "I wish I had not heard what I did before we met. Many people seem quite wrong about you."

In fact— Jasmina feels shame that she ever heard such whispers at all. It strengthens that resolve inside her, the vow she had made, to guard Iulian's name as fiercely as her own. Perhaps he was wild in battle. Perhaps he made entire armies tremble. But he was honorable towards her, and he was brave, and despite their circumstances Jasmina wants, more than anything, to be good to Iulian. Deserving of his bravery, his consideration. She hopes God gives her a teachable heart— a kind one, a heart and mind aligned with her husband. She hopes Iulian, tough as he is, a man wading through dark forests and wolves, feels Jasmina's stare and feels care— perhaps might even feel comfort from it, one day, if he comes to like her enough. And even if he didn't? If Iulian never did? Jasmina would guard his name and heart just the same.

In a fit of boldness, she reaches over and touches his shoulder before withdrawing her hand back almost immediately! Saints. Such ... indecency, on her part.

But that troublesome marsh story! Of course it was more ammunition!

'You were without an escort? Is this something I shall have to worry about in Wallachia? My wife wandering through forests and marshes all alone?'

"Bah!" Jasmina says, waving a hand at him. "I was— well. My father had promised to take me to get plums. The first of the season, in the best orchards in our country. Hadn't even had time to be picked. But he was busy, and I thought I would prove myself terribly clever by fetching them for us myself."

A pause. She is, in fact, digging herself deeper into a hole the more she reveals. But this will be her husband! She supposes he ought to hear.

"My entire person was soaked in muck. I had to climb a small sapling to avoid sinking into the ground."

Miserable situation! But at least Iulian seems... amused, half-scolding, with Jasmina's foolish decisions.

'If you lose your way in one of my forests, I will find you nonetheless.'

Hmmm. Her chest and cheeks warm at that.

'But this shall never happen because I will show you the lands. Wallachia is mine to know. And in time, it will be yours too. Until then, I would sooner have one of my men escort you on these walks.'

Hmmm! An escort? She knows that is to be expected, and required, even, for a princess, but she bristles at the idea of strange men who might resent her trailing her movements. But— it is not a grateful thought. And she is not trying to be a quarrelsome wife. Prince Iulian is considerate, and she finds herself wanting ... more shared smiles. More shared things, with him. Her husband was her lord, yes, but could they not also be companions to each other's hearts? Could Iulian ever love her?

She smiles at him, allow the pleasure of his words the show in the rounding of her cheeks.

"I should very much like it whenever you can accompany me. And you can teach me of marshes, and wolves, and I shall know you better for the love you have of Wallachia."

[iulianjulian]

"I wish I had not heard what I did before we met. Many people seem quite wrong about you."

Hmmm. Iulian wondered about that. Normally, he did not care what the world had to say about him. And now, suddenly, it mattered very much to him. What did the princess think about him, really? She felt safe with him — or, he was assuming so, since she'd sought him out in his tent. Or perhaps he was the only familiar face she had to turn to.

"Perhaps they are right about me," he replied, weighing the response in his own head. "And you are simply set apart from the rest."

Set apart. She saw a different side of him, wholly, completely. And so soon, too. Only a few days of knowing each other. Already, Jasmina had him swearing vows and oaths to her.

When she reached forward to touch his shoulder, he stiffened — it was a reflex, completely outside of his control. On the inside, he'd been dying for her touch since they first rode together. Especially now, in the dim light of his tent, while she sat on his cot. Was she cold?

This was all very improper, indeed.

Jasmina liked plums. He would remember that. And he would also remember that maybe she was a little impatient, which was really no problem at all, because Iulian never intended on making her wait for anything.

"I would like to accompany you," Iulian replied. "So that you don't have to climb saplings and ruin all of the dresses that I will gift you."

Another small smile.

"When spring comes properly," he began. "The hills beyond the citadel turn green so quickly it seems that the land changes in a single night. And the plum trees flower first. It is very ... beautiful."

Had Iulian ever used that word to describe Wallachia? He described his land as strong, nurturing, brutal at times. But beautiful — perhaps he'd been hiding that word away for a moment like this.

"My mother used to say that was how Wallachia reminded its people to be patient. Beauty came late in the lands, but it always came."

Perhaps it would be a good reminder for Jasmina, too. His gaze returned to Jasmina.

"I will take you there myself," he promised.

[jasminaofwallachia]

There's a noise from Iulian's throat that sounds suspiciously like a laugh— although Jasmina, without further proof, cannot ethically make such wild claims.

At least he is apologizing, however! Her chin lifts.

"Well. Yes. It is good that we establish this now."

Good and important! And necessary! She was not a scold, and her husband-to-be had better realize it!

Jasmina watches with focused eyes as Iulian and his massive frame move to sit upon the stool beside her. In a moment of ungodliness— saints, her soul was being tempted— she wishes the stool was break. It seems much better to Jasmina that he sat upon the cot as well. Perhaps closer?

But she swallows a bit of cheese, steers her mind into better control when Iulian promises to tell her of Wallachia; this was exciting!

'There is a forest north of Târgoviste. Very thick. So thick, in fact, that the light barely reaches the ground. When it snows, the pines carry snow so heavily that the branches bend low enough to brush on a rider's shoulders.'

Oooh. And Iulian's father used to drag him through those dark woods? How scary. She eyes him for a moment— what other ways had he been molded, forced into toughness? Was Iulian hammered like new metal into iron?

She watches the shrug of his shoulders and wishes to put her hand upon it.

'I did hate him for it — but he was right. You learn about the rivers after a heavy rain. Where the wolves rest. Which roads men favor when they're hiding their secrets.'

So there was all that wolf knowledge. Jasmina shivers, nibbles more at the salty-savory wedge of cheese– new to her, this variety, but tasty.

He would not, apparently, make her pass through such a forest at night. Out of consideration for her fear.

"No?" Her lip tilts gently. "Not even if that will slow us down?"

Yes— there it is! He is smiling! Iulian of Wallachia— rumored to call upon the strength of demons — is smiling at Jasmina. His enemy, but a week ago.

'I do not want my wife to hate me the way I hated my father. And I do not want my wife fleeing to Serbia before we have even reached the gates of Wallachia.'

Jasmina smiles back; feels something blazing in her abdomen before her gaze drops to her hand, then raises back up again.

"I shall not hate you," she pronounces.

"Ever. It would not feel good, to hate my husband. Even if he dragged me through some black forest infested with ravenous beasts." She smiles. "Your legs are bigger, so I think the wolves would snap at your ankles first. At any rate."

Actually— if Jasmina were a wolf, she would probably be very afraid of Iulian. And if she were a princess who had not been shown a shred of kindness, she would be very afraid of him now too.

But she's not. Because he surprises her. He vows to eat with her. Gives her food from his own stores, insists that Jasmina understands her tent is always open to her. Jasmina smiles— wide this time — because she wants him to understand the same. She is not brave, nor powerful, nor in command of an army, but she wants Iulian to understand this openness exists for him as well.

"And in the spirit of shared stories, I must confess I could not even find my way back to Serbia or anywhere else. I am forlorn without map. When I was twelve I became stuck in a marsh for half a day. Upon rescue, I discovered I was not even a quarter-league from the road."

[iulianjulian]

Jasmina was smiling back at Iulian, and it felt like something new for them. They'd successfully tiptoed past this barrier of formality between them, and each day, they'd get further and further away (at least, Iulian hoped).

"Not even if it will slow us down," he replied back, promising yet again. He seemed to promise a lot of things to Jasmina, very easily, and the problem was that Iulian didn't mind at all. He intended to follow through with each and every promise that he made her.

At the mention of the wolves snapping at his ankles, Iulian smiled again — bigger this time, in somewhat of disbelief.

"The wolves like me. They would not snap at me," he stated, very confident of the fact. They had always left him alone — and Iulian quite enjoyed watching them. And they shall like you too, Iulian thought. When you are at my side. They will know better than to hate you. Because how could anyone hate Jasmina? Beautiful woman, beautiful soul. Even Iulian's hardened heart was not immune to her.

Her confession drew genuine amusement out of Iulian, and he tried not to laugh so cruelly. She must have been scared, perhaps — stuck and lost for half a day, only to find out she was not truly lost at all. Very close to a road.

"You were without an escort? Is this something I shall have to worry about in Wallachia? My wife wandering through forests and marshes all alone?"

Iulian's tone was half-scolding. All in jest, of course.

"If you lose your way in one of my forests, I will find you nonetheless."

A small pause.

"But this shall never happen because I will show you the lands. Wallachia is mine to know. And in time, it will be yours too. Until then, I would sooner have one of my men escort you on these walks."

He cleared his throat.

"Or keep you company myself, should my duties allow."

[jasminaofwallachia]

'Thankfully, there is no cause to defend my name tonight. But I will always remember that you offered.'

Jasmina nods. No— nobody to defend to defend his name from but the wolves. And, of course, Iulian's men, and though they frightened her, every inch of them hardened by road and mud and blood and battle, none of them seemed like they would ever dare besmirch their prince's name. But she had offered regardless, in an attempt at unity. In attempt to be a godly wife. That's what Jasmina had prayed for their first night on the road, shivering in her tent, worried— if nothing else, if there was only ever the bitterness of enemies between them let her be a godly wife.

But things ... felt different. She's still in the wilderness. Still sitting in a tent, shoulder hunched. But Iulian is here, and she is perched upon his cot, in his cloak, and there's something beating behind her heart. She stares at him, and feels curious. She stares at Iulian and feels touched by his words— gentler ones, than she ever expected, gracious towards her, reassurance that her gratitude is not owed.

And then his eyes drop, and Jasmina's chest feels very warm, and there's a wicked, deliberate decision not to drape the cloak more solidly atop her breasts.

It feels good, not to. It's like a hard gallop atop her horse. It's like jumping from a rock into a river.

'You have not eaten enough,'

'Tomorrow, you will stop me when you are hungry, and we shall eat together, the way a husband and wife should, and you will eat enough.'

Courteous, but commanding. Caring, but very firm. Jasmina fights off as a smile as he ducks to retrieve a small bundle— figs, food that keeps well on the road— and insists that she eat. Even trying to take care of his bride, he is princely. Self-assured and immovable. Jasmina finds it utterly charming, this air of authority. This ... surprising tenderness.

She selects a fig and smiles in thanks.

"You are kind. I would like to share a meal with you."

"As we get closer to your castle, I would be glad hear more of your lands. Your ... knowledge, of the area." She bites into the fruit— the sweet jamminess of the fig spreading atop her tongue— and smiles a bit shyly. "Perhaps stories?"

Yes. She much likes that, Jasmina decides. She's pleased at the idea of sitting with him, taking meals together, almost absconded away from responsibility to simply talk. No men. No duties. She wonders if she could even be lucky enough to draw out tales of a personal nature— young Iulian, learning to ride. Young Iulian, bringing down his first boar. Maybe he would tell her what he found beautiful about his lands, and she could love Wallachia through her husband's eyes.

'I have no wish to arrive in Wallachia with a wife too weak to scold me.'

"I am not a scold," Jasmina scolds.

"I have only ever lectured my sister, at times, and only ever when it has been thoroughly earned by wickedness. And her rather impish misconduct. And her natural proclivity to ignore me. I have never wagged my finger simply for the joy of scolding, Prince Iulian."

[iulianjulian]

Iulian almost laughed. Not quite, but the noise was there, somewhere in his throat.

"Forgive me for assuming that you are a scold. I do not know where I gathered such an idea from."

More of that dry humor that only seemed to make an appearance around Jasmina, his bride to be. He crossed the tent yet again, sitting on a low stool near the cot, rather than beside her. That would have been improper.

(This whole interaction was improper, Iulian thought, and they both did not care. Iulian kept silently praying that his cloak might fall off of her shoulders.)

"I will tell you about Wallachia," he promised. And even though they weren't riding together now, perhaps it was good to indulge her — to offer something up for Jasmina.

"There is a forest north of Târgoviste. Very thick. So thick, in fact, that the light barely reaches the ground. When it snows, the pines carry snow so heavily that the branches bend low enough to brush on a rider's shoulders."

There was a pause, before Iulian added more explanation.

"My father used to wake me before dawn and drag me through it. It was miserable. He believed that a prince should know the shape of his land through darkness and sunlight."

There was a small shrug, and Iulian boldly reached for part of the bread. He tore off a piece. Why could they not share a meal now? He chewed on it before continuing.

"I did hate him for it — but he was right. You learn about the rivers after a heavy rain. Where the wolves rest. Which roads men favor when they're hiding their secrets."

He exhaled, thinking back to the memories. How old had Iulian been? Ten? Or twelve, maybe, when he first rode through with his father?

"We will pass through this forest on our return to the castle. Though, out of respect for your great fear of the wolves, I won't make you pass through at night, my princess."

A small this time. A real one, private, and intended only for her.

"I do not want my wife to hate me the way I hated my father. And I do not want my wife fleeing to Serbia before we have even reached the gates of Wallachia."

[jasminaofwallachia]

Jasmina's brows knit together.

'My princess — you are neither a burden, nor an inconvenience to me.'

Well. Surely that was false? She could not ride as swiftly in her skirts, and she could not hunt, did not know how to hew wood for the great fires the men would circle around. She certainly could not defend the camp!

She was his former enemy, and his foreign bride. And a woman who could not contribute. Surely that constituted a burden. But Iulian— who strikes her as a fiercely practical, fiercely blunt man — does not see it that way. Somehow.

Or else he is trying to be extremely diplomatic after the chaotic start to their journey.

'You owe me no thanks for what is already mine to do. Your safety is not a courtesy.'

'It is my charge.'

Oh. Jasmina straightens upon the cot— feels the slightest whisper of chill against her abdomen. She ought to be more careful about her modesty, secure the cloak better. That was hers to guard! As a lady! As a christian woman! But somehow, when Iulian is swearing upon her safety— with such seriousness— she is finding it hard to mind the idea of him seeing her skin, golden-pink from the torch-light, pressing up against the thin coverage of the shift. Maybe ... maybe she even likes that.

She believes him now, anyway— that it has nothing to do with diplomacy, or courtesy, and more to do with what Iulian sees as a serious, solemn, unbreakable duty.

A duty to her!

"Well," she begins, brows knitting together with even greater force. What is she supposed to make of this? A week ago, before the surrender, she'd be swearing to her father about this prince of Wallachia— the threat he represented— and would have found it hard to speculate on any sort of goodness or chivalry on his part. Now? Jasmina feels herself physically moved by his apparent abundance of it. He is thoughtful, and brave, and stoic, and considerate towards his bride.

"I do wish to thank you, even still," she manages, nodding as she finds her composure again. "For my safety may be your charge, but it is a good foundation, for a marriage, gratitude." Indeed. The conviction in Jasmina's voice strengthens. "And safe-guarding your name! You laugh now, but we will be joined in a union, my prince. I take any insult against you as serious as any insult to my person."

"You have been ... honorable, towards me. And brave. And are my husband. And I would not suffer a contradiction to that."

She nods again— inhaling fiercely, surprised at the vigor behind her own words. The idea rankles. For some reason. The idea of anyone disputing that Iulian was not courageous! Seeing her husband incorrectly.

Hmm.

Jasmina clutches the cloak closer. Once again, he's inquiring about the state of her.

"I... admittedly am needing to adjust my diet. Such travel is more vigorous than I expected." Riding all day! Not for a lark, not to hawk, not a gallop for pleasure. But hours and hours! How did Iulian do this, and hunt! He was ... very strong.

[iulianjulian]

Iulian observed her in silence. She spoke with more certainty now, about Iulian's character, safeguarding his name, referring to him as her husband. The wedding had not happened yet — but it was a sure thing, wasn't it? There was no escaping it, no way around it, so yes. She was his wife, and he was her husband.

"Thankfully, there is no cause to defend my name tonight. But I will always remember that you offered."

The tiniest shift there, at the corner of his mouth. Not very noticeable, but present. Eventually, Jasmina would start to notice, and Iulian's private smirks would be a secret he shared only with Jasmina.

"As for the gratitude. I do not object to it, but I do not want you to feel that you must offer it to earn your place here."

His eyes dropped briefly to where she held his cloak against herself. He stared for longer than he'd meant to, eyes and chest burning.

"You have not eaten enough," he agreed, voice quieter still. "Tomorrow, you will stop me when you are hungry, and we shall eat together, the way a husband and wife should, and you will eat enough."

It was a silent apology from Iulian. He had been careless and inconsiderate to the princess.

He immediately crossed to the small travel chest near the edge of the tent. He knelt briefly, retrieving what remained of the evening's provisions. Bread, a wedge of cheese, a handful of dried figs wrapped in cloth.

"And you will eat now," he told her, standing to deliver the items on the cot beside her. "I have no wish to arrive in Wallachia with a wife too weak to scold me."

[jasminaofwallachia]

'God forbid I comfort my bride when she is in distress,'

Bride. Yes. It's a wine-soaked word.

Heavy with meaning and history. With connotation. When Iulian speaks, there is an undercurrent of dismissal— perhaps towards the authority of the church — but there is an air of possession there. My bride.

Hearing it somehow feels different to Jasmina, than when he'd first galloped up to the castle and demanded what was his. Yes. Yes. Sitting wrapped in his cloak, cushioned on his furs, the possession tastes different.

It makes Jasmina's eyes dart to the far panel of the tent. It makes some hidden part of her glow.

She was not a disturbance, apparently. Iulian, the man who could lop off a head with a single swipe of long sword, who rode through snow and fog and sleet without flinching, who did not quaver at death, made a point to let Jasmina— a once-stranger, his former enemy— know that she always had a place in his chambers.

'I, and I alone, am responsible for your safe passage to Wallachia. I would be ridiculed if I allowed the wolves to eat my bride. So you shall stay here until the sun rises, or until the wolves stop howling. And anyone who says anything of it ... '

If Jasmina has not even had a droplet of wine, why does her face burn? And why is sitting up straight a struggle? She watches Iulian's large hands work at his belt— belly alight as she watches something very masculine and new to her. Removing a belt. Right. She'd never even thought of that. Men— their bodies— are very foreign to her.

On their own accord, her molars clench.

"That is all— very well-said of you, my prince. And very kind." Where are her courtesies? Her well-practiced manners? Theirs is an engagement borne from a treaty and surrender, and now she's flushed pink like some shepherd's daughter being courted on May Day. Iulian's earnestness, despite the deepness of his voice, the seriousness of his brows, has her desperately seeking her footing.

"I know it is ... likely, that you are not used to traveling with a woman, and therefore are not used to one's fears. Or ... my ignorance, about your lands." About the wolves, apparently, who would not dare to enter camp. "I appreciate that you treat me with such patience."

She swallows. And then adjusts his cloak, feeling a cold stab of air seep through her shift as the motion exposes her chest before the fabric is re-adjusted. But ... were there ever women at the camp? Courtesans? Traveling whores? Had Iulian and some woman ever— no. No! Jasmina shall not indulge such questions. She was not supposed to think of fornication outside her marriage. Or how broad he would be under his undershirt. Or how his muscles moved when—

Saints. She's so... undone, sitting before him. On his bed!

Her hands come to clasp in her lap.

"Though even if I were devoured by wolves, my spirit would not allow you to be ridiculed." A nod. A determination, even if her vow is far, far less ... impressive, than securing safety against wild beasts. "I am your wife. Well– I shall be. So your good name shall be mine to guard from now on."

[iulianjulian]

Iulian wondered if Jasmina had grown on him too quickly. His father would have warned him against becoming weak — trusting in a stranger far too quickly. An enemy, as of a few short days ago.

Jasmina was thanking him yet again. She was grateful for the patience that he had shown her, while also acknowledging the potential difficulties of traveling with a woman. Iulian did not mind. Did she not understand that? Perhaps he needed to make it clearer to her. Nothing that Jasmina had done so far was a disturbance.

"My princess — you are neither a burden, nor an inconvenience to me."

And then she shifted in the cot, readjusting his cloak over her shoulders, and Iulian's eyes couldn't be stopped from traveling down to her chest. His face burned red and hot, and he looked away after a few brief moments, hoping she had not noticed. It could not have been that much of a sin if they were going to consummate their marriage in a few days. Right?

"You owe me no thanks for what is already mine to do. Your safety is not a courtesy."

A pause, as he found her eyes again.

"It is my charge."

The pair of them couldn't seem to stop exchanging vows, could they? He supposed it was a good thing (if they were sincere; Iulian did not know Jasmina very well, but he did not think she would be so cruel as to toy with him).

"And you will not be devoured by wolves, so you need not concern yourself with defending my honor in death. But it is appreciated."

A small tug at the corner of his mouth, yet again. It was becoming increasingly difficult to remain so composed and serious around Jasmina all the time.

"Are you cold? Did you have enough to eat today, princess?"

[jasminaofwallachia]

'You may always enter my tent. Especially under threat of wolves.'

Oh.

Jasmina doesn't know what to say to that— this explicit permission. It was not orthodox, her being unchaperoned in his tent, not allowed, but who was here to contradict him anyway? And who the fuck was stupid enough to tell Iulian he couldn't do something? Certainly not his men. And the wolves certainly had no say.

Jasmina's face feels decidedly warmer. When she clutches at the edges of Iulian's cloak, her fingertips, against her own volition, sweep against the fabric repeatedly.

His next words are so ... utterly Iulian. No. She doesn't know him. Not well. But it rings true to what she's come to expect of him during this short time— practical and blunt. Straightforward, in an almost severe way.

If Iulian missed something? He simply didn't dwell.

Jasmina does not think she can manage that level of strength. A good portion of her journey— the long uninterrupted stretches of riding— consisted of her thinking of the drapes around her bed. The gilded comb, her sister got her. Her mother's smile. The identical laugh her father and sister shared. Perica's little paws. Jasmina even missed the understated sweetness of her country's pears.

She wonders, swallowing as she watches Julian secure the tent's opening, if she would grow to miss things in Wallachia. When traveling for matters of state and ceremony, would she miss the details of her marriage chamber? The specific bread of the kitchens? When— and would — Wallachia feel like her home?

At the very least, Iulian is doing his best to make her comfortable on the road. Regardless of wolves. Regardless of cold. As he'd promised before— he'd protect her. He invited her to sit. For a man who did not seem to indulge in much sentiment, he is ... very sensitive, towards her comfort.

Jasmina marches towards his cot.

"Any priest would give us a severe rebuke," she says, smoothing her nightgown beneath her as she sits. There. There. She's sitting on Iulian's cot— his furs! Unchaperoned! As if taunting the devil herself! "Or worse."

She bites her cheek, eyes flashing towards Iulian anyway.

"...Thank you."

A beat. "You must promise to tell me if I am disturbing you, my prince. You may toss me out. I have been watching you hunt— at times. I may be able to fend the wolves off well enough."

And then her face all but purples at how that sounds. Saints! The insinuation she had been watching Iulian! Watching him re-string his great bow. Watching him clean the honed edge of his skinning knife. It was true, of course, she had been watching, but she hadn't meant to admit it!

[iulianjulian]

Iulian's eyes fell to the princess's hands, watching as they grasped at the ends of his cloak. She looked quite beautiful in his colors, he thought. Would she grow to love them at some point? Would she feel proud to be his wife?

Would she love Wallachia, the same way that he did?

He watched as she moved toward his cot.

She reminded him that this was not traditional, or proper — but who would dare say anything of it?

"God forbid I comfort my bride when she is in distress," he said, the dryness in his voice evident. His tone wasn't unkind, not toward Jasmina, but the church as a whole. Iulian was not very devout. He wondered if that would upset her.

"No priest here would dare rebuke it. And if he did, he would be sent away before even finishing the thought."

"You must promise to tell me if I am disturbing you, my prince. You may toss me out. I have been watching you hunt— at times. I may be able to fend the wolves off well enough."

For a reason that Iulian could not quite understand, her gratitude had him feeling ... warm. There was no need to thank him, but instead of saying so, he moved on, reassuring her.

"You are not a disturbance, princess."

Now Iulian was the one left standing, feeling ... out of place, for once, or perhaps nervous in front of his bride. It was all unusual for him — and destabilizing.

"It is important that you can come to me," he said, attempting to hide the sincerity in his voice. It felt weak and soft — deeply private. "As my wife, there will always be a place for you in my chambers."

And in an instant — his gaze sharpened. He straightened, removing the belt around his waist. It gave him something to do.

"I, and I alone, am responsible for your safe passage to Wallachia. I would be ridiculed if I allowed the wolves to eat my bride. So you shall stay here until the sun rises, or until the wolves stop howling. And anyone who says anything of it ... "

He left the threat unfinished, grunting in the place of words, as he tossed his belt to the floor.

[jasminaofwallachia]

It is late, and perhaps the chorus of howls deafens Jasmina's ears— but she almost detects a faint trace of amusement in Iulian's tone.

Well. Maybe. Did the prince ever laugh? It was difficult to imagine anything jolly spill from his mouth, but then again, the man was fond of teasing. He had his humors.

'They would find me difficult to swallow,'

See! Right there! Jasmina's eyes narrows, breath expelling harshly as she studies the width of his shoulders, weighs it in her mind against the size of the largest possible wolf. Hmm. Yes. Difficult to swallow indeed.

Her head shakes, mouth twisting wryly.

Iulian divulges that he does not sleep well on the road— a fact that feels very shocking to learn. Surely someone like him, traveling long distances, would be accustomed to life in a tent? Was it .... increased wariness? Or was he like Jasmina? Perhaps he was not overly fond of the gnarled roots that dug into one's back.

But her attention is pulled from matters of sleep. Iulian is staring. Once more. At her. He says she should sleep now, while it is safe, while they are camped and settled and circled round the fire.

And then he makes an offer that to Jasmina that leaves her mouth gaping.

'If the noise frightens you still... you may stay here until it passes.'

'They will not come near you while I am here.'

Oh. Dear. Had her face grown dumbstruck and pale? Or was there a beet-red color to her cheeks?

"Oh. Well. I thank you for your offer, my prince," she stammers, ducking her head in an aborted curtsy. "It was quite inappropriate for me to come barging in here. At this hour. And without permission. Very rude. I should have knocked upon—" Jasmina does not know how to say tent flap— certainly not while she feels flustered — and so she raises her hand again, mimes knocking it against the canvas door. "Quite coarse of me."

Improper of her to be here. And yet Jasmina does not make for the door despite the impropriety. She doesn't even turn in that direction. There is no inch of Jasmina that wants to leave—not while the wolves howl. And, wickedly, there is no inch of her that wants to leave even if the animals fall silent.

She's quite ... charmed, by Iulian's gallantry. Why did the tales and rumors never speak of that? Only wild words about him drinking blood from a skull goblet— nothing about how chivalrous he could be! Nothing about how his simple, steady, certain bravery had not wavered tonight, and was now fortifying her in turn. It feels good, to be with him in the tent. He's so ... brave.

Jasmina smooths her hand down the length of the cloak, increasingly away at how thin her shift is, against bare skin.

"... Do you miss your home? Your chambers, I mean." Her eyes flick to him, side-stepping a few scant inches in his direction when the howls are particularly loud. "Or ... can you not sleep because of vigilance? Bears?" Hah. A half-joke. First tales of bandits— now wolves!

[iulianjulian]

Lately, Iulian spent most of his time watching Jasmina. And there was nothing different about it now, only ... in the dimness of his tent, illuminated only by a few struggling candles, she seemed softer, somehow. This is the Jasmina that Iulian would see every night, once they were wed. Undone, unguarded, though possibly frightened in Wallachia. A foreign land. After their wedding ceremony, perhaps Iulian would embrace her.

"You may always enter my tent," he told her, reigning in his distracted thoughts. "Especially under threat of wolves."

There was a tiny shift, there at the corner of his mouth, but it disappeared as quickly as it came.

He paid close attention to her question.

"I have learned not to dwell on things that I miss," he said. "A man who does often overlooks what stands before him."

There was another howl in the distance, and he watched as Jasmina shifted closer. She stood near the entrance, letting the cold air in. He closed the gap between them — only to close the flap of the tent.

"You are safe here," he assured the princess, wondering what comfort he might offer her. "You need not stand as though you are about to flee."

Iulian had furs on his cot, and he motioned to the bedding.

"You may sit, my princess. It is very late... and you must be very cold."

[jasminaofwallachia]

'The wolves,'

Jasmina nods fervently. Yes. The wolves. The very creatures surrounding their campsite, howling into the freezing, star-lit sky— probably on the hunt!

And probably large. Large in the way Iulian was. Almost preternaturally. Large in the way an apex predator was.

Jasmina watches his face carefully, anxiously as his gaze seems to pierce through the fabric of the tent, falling silent as he listens to echoing, overlapping cries.

'The wolves will not come this close to the fire,'

What?

"They sound closer than they are."

What? To Jasmina, they sound as if they're about to dig beneath the tent flap! But Iulian ... he is as composed as stone. No bead of sweat, to indicate worry, no tightened jaw that indicates fear.

In fact, save for the dagger he is sheathing, Iulian is relatively ... undone. An undershirt. No armor, no cloak. Boots, unlaced, gone are the garments and tools of a warrior. No broach, or standard, or crest. Just Iulian's pectorals.

Oh. Oh! Hmm. It is then Jasmina realizes it's all reciprocal, in a way— she in her thin shift, Iulian in his undershirt. And she had just barged right in!

Warmth colors her cheeks, particularly when he speaks to her in such a soft manner.

'You are frightened. You do not have to be,'

Oh— very gentle.

'Do you think I would let the wolves to eat you?'

And that makes Jasmina pause, stare up at Iulian with wide eyes as she digests the sincerity in his tone. It feels like stepping into a bath.

"I—" She draws in cold night air. "—I think you ... are brave. And would defend me, as you promised."

Cheeks warm, she bites down hard at her cheek. Yes. Yes. She does not think Iulian would leave her alone to such a fate. But still— the wolves! So loud! They must be the size of a draft horse! Jasmina makes a noise.

"But for all I know they could have chewed through your tent and gotten you while you slept. Swallowed you, in one bite, like the tales."

She's beginning to become aware of how silly she sounds— how silly she must sound to a seasoned warrior like Iulian. She's also becoming aware of his cloak. The heaviness. How it bore the scent of him; how it brushed against her breasts, and how very handsome he looked in the darkness.

"...Were you sleeping?"

[iulianjulian]

Iulian exhaled through his nose, something like a laugh threatening at the edges. He turned his head slightly, as if something else had caught his attention. In truth, he was averting her gaze for a few moments, out of fear of laughing.

"They would find me difficult to swallow," he said, the faintest trace of amusement beneath his words. She was quite funny, wasn't she?

His gaze turned toward her again.

"You give them too much credit anyway."

At her question, his hand stilled briefly, resting near the hilt at his side. For a moment ... he thought about answering simply, or dismissing her all together. But something in her expression, still frightened, still seeking, convinced him otherwise.

"No, not fully. I do not sleep well on the road," he admitted. There was nothing quite like the bed in his chambers, back in Wallachia — only a few days away now. Plush, expensive, comfortable. It was a dream to sleep in.

His eyes scanned her yet again — aware. He stared at the flush in her cheeks, the way she held his cloak around herself.

"You should sleep," he added. "It's safer to do so while you can."

His father would have been disappointed at his hesitation. He stared around at the darkness in his tent. There was a single bedroll, but it was obviously Jasmina's if she wanted it.

"If the noise frightens you still... you may stay here until it passes."

He cleared his throat, staring at the opening of the tent yet again — the darkness that awaited beyond. The wolves that terrified his princess. He had never minded them until now. They frightened her, and that alone seemed to upset Iulian.

Then again, perhaps Iulian should have been thanking them for bringing her to him.

She was a gift to look at, even in the darkness of his tent.

"They will not come near you while I am here."

[jasminaofwallachia]

It's then, as her nightgown sways above her feet, that Jasmina realizes Iulian is still awake.

Very awake. Very alert. Probably clear-eyed.

Her, in this thin fabric that seems as translucent as mist— still able to reveal the form of something. Heat rushes to her cheeks as Iulian's gaze roams over her. Assessing, she thinks. Probably checking for injury.

But that does not change the impropriety of her dress. Or the intimacy of their situation. He is a man, she is a woman, and they have known the press of each other's body on horseback. In fact— Jasmina thinks of it often. The warmth. The muscle. She'd dreamed of it before, more than once, and woke up warm.

'You should not be outside your tent,'

Sharp inhale, at that.

Iulian asks what what was frightening her.

And Jasmina— tense as a bowstring — exhales sharply. The howls start again.

"My tent, yes," she affirms, hand flinging behind her as if to point backwards in its direction. "I should remain in there so I can be eaten nicely, so I can be— ovas! Oats in the trough!"

But then Iulian drops a heavy cloak upon her shoulders. Adjusts it. He is calm. He is thoughtful — he is making sure Jasmina does not freeze. A lump solidifies in her throat at the gesture.

She inhales. More calmly this time. She looks up at Iulian with big, desperate eyes.

"We are surrounded."

[iulianjulian]

Iulian would have been lying if he were not charmed by this entire ordeal. It was difficult to keep a straight face. He simply cleared his throat.

"The wolves," he began, suppressing the smug expression to the best of his ability. Had the princess never gone hunting? He supposed not. She was royalty, the eldest daughter to the royal family of Serbia. Of course this was new. And she was in a new land, surrounded by strangers.

Iulian stared down at her.

"The wolves will not come this close to the fire," he explained, glancing briefly toward the dark beyond the tent. He listened, measuring the distance of the sounds.

"They sound closer than they are."

He fought his newfound instincts tremendously — there was a need to place a hand atop her shoulder, comforting. Instead, he sheathed the dagger in his hands.

"You are frightened. You do not have to be," he told her, voice gentle, still low.

"Do you think I would let the wolves to eat you?"