Chapter Text
When Soap meets the man he’s set to wed, he’s surprised.
Which says a lot, frankly.
Everything about this entire process has surprised him. He didn’t think he was capable of feeling any more fuckin’ surprised. From the start of marriage talks, then on to the dowry negotiations, then the time and place of the ceremony. Even if everything went by his people’s age old book.
Well—almost everything. It was a cold day in Hell when anyone would take one look at Soap and think that he’d make the perfect bride to bind two strong, war-torn tribes together.
The Devil must be freezing his nuts off, then.
When The Great War finally ended, when Shepherd had finally been brought to the justice demanded by the Gods and the people he sought to destroy, Soap thought his life would return to normal.
Well, as normal as it could. What was his old normal? What was Soap’s life like before Shepherd and his army crossed the seas, looking for lands to conquer and people to feed to his followers?
What was life before bloodshed? Before honor and mercy and the balance of order the gods had dictated, gave way to blood and blood and blood.
When Soap closed his eyes he could still see it. His people, laid out in riverbanks and along the gentle slopes of the muddy plains. Their blood had made clear bubbling brooks a deep maroon. It had soaked the ground Soap stepped on until every step he took squelched and the furs of his boots were permanently stained red.
Shepherd had come to their land and had rained bloodshed and cruelty over Soap’s people the likes of which they’d never seen before.
Shepherd put the whispers and prophecies of their Seers to shame.
Evil awaits us. They had said. Someone more monster than man, will come to us from a land beyond our seas. He will come, and shower upon us a time of great suffering.
Shepherd’s boats hit land a handful of days after last year’s frost melted off of the grass and trees. Within two full moons of Shepherd’s arrival, a third of the clans and tribes settled along the coast were dead.
Spring last year was bleak. The flowers barely bloomed, having been tread upon as people ran wildly for their lives. What remained of the coastal peoples had flooded into Soap’s clan’s territory.
By the summertime, Soap’s people had tried to entice Shepherd and his cannibal followers into a peace negotiation.
“Me and my army will feed on the flesh of your people until there’s nothing left of you but bones. Once we’ve eaten our fill, we’ll keep some of your young around and peel their skin from flesh, like fruit. Their wailing will lull me to sleep at night,” Shepherd had yelled, laughing high and hysterical after initial contact negotiations had gone up in flames.
Honestly, Soap didn’t know what the old arse leaders expected would happen when the megalomaniac had given them two options: surrender or die.
By the time the colors of the leaves changed from green to yellows and oranges and browns, funeral pyres burned daily. There were too many dying at once, so pyres were shared. Sometimes, ten people were laid out together on the ceremonial logs. Whole families, the last of their name, snuffed out. All burning. Ash and soot soaked the air.
The elders had already heralded it The Great War.
Great, indeed.
His mate’s people came from the land North and West of Soap’s. There, their land was dotted with mountains that jutted up high into the sky, taller than the rolling hills Soap knew. Those same mountains were covered in tall pine trees that stretched as wide as the grassy valleys Soap would race his sister in when they were youngin’s.
His mate’s people were fierce, skilled warriors, and were one of their greatest allies against Shepherd’s band of maniacs. Soap shudders to think of how the war would’ve ended without their help.
“We cannot let them go.”
That’s what his clan’s leader, Laswell, had told Soap, among the other heads of the main families within his clan.
“What would you suggest? We’ve barely enough resources to ensure our own people’s survival,” some old git of a clan leader had huffed. “What can we offer them to get them to stay? The clothes off our backs? The food out of our mouths–”
“Unions,” Laswell had said. Firm. Final. “Mating unions. I have begun talks with their leader, Price.” Laswell holds up a hand amidst the murmurs and rumblings that boil above the silence.
“These people bled with us,” Laswell continued. “They sent us warriors that, combined with the might of our own people, turned the tide in this Great War–”
“They only fought a battle which would’ve come to their own domain eventually. To think they did this out of kindness would be naive–”
“We are not so different,” another elder, who was more beard than man, rumbled. “How many clans along the coast had to be wiped out before we stepped in?”
Silence.
“Price has already agreed to sign a treaty formally recognizing our people as allies. We will have a ceremony to carve in stone this bond of unity in three moon’s time during our springtime festival. At summer’s end, during Feast Day there’ll be a formal mating ceremony between two people of our tribes. We must be unified.”
As Laswell spoke, Soap looked to his mother. The old bat was nodding solemnly, face pressed into the closest thing to a smile he’s seen since the War began.
Soap didn’t see Laswell’s eyes flick around the room, and rest on him.
*
In Soap’s defense, who on this great green earth would think he would make a suitable fucking bride?
He laughed when his mother told him the news. Laughed. The sound ripped out of him so hard he doubled over, grasping at his sides like he was splitting at the seams.
He laughed until tears squeezed out of his eyes and he had to sit down, gasping.
But his mother, the old hag, didn’t move. Not so much as a twitch of a damn wrinkle.
“You’re not shitting me? Really? Are you and the other elders so damn old your brains have turned to cow shit?” Soap yelled, jumping back up to his feet.
He had a sister for Gods’ sake! And if the fucking purpose of these mating unions were to breed new fucking warriors to fight the next monster that escaped Hell, why the fuck would they ask him? Male omegas were fertile only twice a year, with the onset of their heats. So, if you’d take the time and do some quick maths, then–
“Quit your whinging you loud fuck,” his sister hissed, slapping the back of his head so hard he almost bit his damn tongue off. “This is an honor. You’ve been chosen to help the survival of our clan. How else did you plan on spending the rest of your peaceful days, eh?” She flailed, voice rising in volume, “picking fuckin’ flowers in the fields?”
“Well shit, I at least thought I’d be able to take a nap and wipe my arse before getting sold into marriage like some prized horse–”
“Don’t you think that’s a little generous? You’re less of a horse and more of a cow–”
“Laswell recommended you,” his mother cut in, effectively silencing both of her children. She took advantage of the quiet to sigh, only slightly, and approach her son.
“John,” his mother whispered. “You were prepared to die to protect our home, our brothers and sisters, because they needed you. Because we needed you. We need you still.” His mother’s calloused, worn hands ran gently across his skin. “Will you do this for us?”
His mother’s eyes are brown. She’s told him since she was a boy that he had his father’s eyes. Along with his father’s name came eyes like the coastal seas where his father’s people came from. But while he inherited his father’s eyes, his mother gave him her strength and grit. He knows he’s more than just him. He’s his father’s son, his mother’s firstborn, his sister’s punching bag and–sometimes–protector. He’s the descendant of one of the oldest clans on this patch of land. This is about more than just himself.
Soap knows, behind the yelling and the anger, is fear. Fear of tying his life to someone he doesn’t know, hasn’t met. Mating ties were binding for omegas and alphas. One shot. That’s all you got.
But Soap knows fear will kill you. He’s said so countless times in battle. He’s screamed it at his fellow warriors as they plunged headlong into what would either be death or victory. His people have a saying:
“Fear has no place here,” he whispers the reminder and mantra into his mother’s hands.
Funny how Soap’s fear of death paled in comparison to the fear of a life poorly lived, and of being crushed under the weight of poor choices.
*
“Your intended mate is a warrior,” his mother had murmured, knowing the knowledge would soothe him. “They call him Ghost.”