Chapter Text
Snow fell lightly onto the path up to the castle.
It was an easy winter, the kind that is light and welcoming, one with more delight in the season than the terror of privation and cold.
This winter was magic.
Dean could feel it in his bones.
Looking out over the countryside from an open window, he understood the reason his family and his people had protected this land for over a thousand years.
Or, so went the family legend.
He was the prince, of sorts, of the great Alcázar of Segovia, one of the most beautiful palaces in all of Castile. His father was away on campaign, his mother having perished in a mysterious house fire when he was a child and his younger brother but a babe in arms.
Often, it was said the Arabs had started it. The Moors were unpopular in the region nowadays, but every sultan and sheik in the area refused responsibility. The moriscos denied it as well, and this left the House in something of disarray, full of grief and anger with nowhere to direct it.
Tonight, Dean looked out over the landscape, the meeting of the rivers and the moat beneath the castle, and despite his early misfortune, thought himself fortunate indeed.
The Alcazar was lavish of interior, and spoke of royal, noble blood. There was a tasteful wealth on display in every corner. Dean and his brother Sam were well-known in the city of Segovia and its surrounding countryside, going so far as to lend a hand with the harvest, as hale and hearty princes were better than indolent ones.
Dean knew well, and understood, that his ability to rule and retain his lifestyle was to ensure the continued happiness of his surrounding community unless he wanted to look out over the darkness lit up by torches and reflecting off the points of pitchforks.
He was never much of one for the diplomatic arts, understanding it was a necessary evil given his position, but he preferred days working with his hands out in the sun, beside the farmers and people of the city. He knew on the morrow there would be those paraded up and down in front of him for marriageable purposes and suchlike, although he was not entirely keen on being wedded. He also understood that this was the expected thing for princes, and that Sam was fortunate in being the younger son with no such real expectation.
Dean looked up at the stars, reflecting their light upon the snow.
He hoped, at least, for a marriage that was pleasant enough, and wondered whether his father had loved his mother first, or had learned to do so after the wedding.
Dreams and stars and wishes are all well and good, but Dean had work to do.
The following evening, all the expected pomp and circumstance occurred, with all and sundry present. Every servant and groomsman and coachman scurried around the place, every maid and cook prepared the palace for the guests it was receiving. The tables were filled with every kind of delicacy, and the local wine harvest had been excellent this year. Dean knew this firsthand, because he had participated, even to the point of stepping on the grapes himself (and later becoming perhaps more inebriated than was altogether wise). Friend of the people or not, he was well aware that all princes ran the risk of assassination. Jealousy was a strange beast, and there were those in the world who would wish ill of him, or his younger brother.
Beautiful young women were brought out, one after the other, many which Dean found appealing and to his taste. However, they were all the same, in many ways. This was not entirely their fault, of course, as they were trained to behave and think in a certain way. But Dean had always enjoyed a challenge.
Ah, well. If not this year, he would not begrudge another year’s wait before he wed and settled with a new bride. He felt that it would be acceptable to wait until such time as he became king, and his own father would live a long life yet, were he not cut down in battle or some other misfortune.
Horns blew suddenly, and Dean sat up on his throne in confusion, grape in hand halfway to his mouth.
“Pray tell what is this music?” he inquired of a nearby page.
“I cannot say, sire, it is not in the program of events to my knowledge.”
Several shadows stretched out on the long, rich red carpet of the hall.
Strange and captivating, delightful music issued from the group.
Dean saw the shoes first, and realized.
“Moriscos, sire,” whispered the page, but his information was unnecessary by that point, as Dean had understood immediately those who had decided to pay him a visit.
They were in a group, nearly a crowd, of people wearing the finest silks Dean had ever laid eyes on. Their shoes were of the curled-toe variety he had known of the Moors and the moriscos of old. Some among them played a variety of instruments, and they were surrounded by a fragrant smoke, as if appearing like magic from a fairy tale.
Dean recalled his thoughts the night before –
This winter is magic –
when the entourage came to a halt at the steps to his throne.
Several of those in the advance guard bowed down to the floor, which impressed Dean if only for their flexibility. They stood again.
“Greetings and good health to you,” said one of them, clearly chosen as the spokesman. “We are here to propose a wedding match for you.”
Dean just gaped at him.
“You wish to offer one of your princesses to me?”
The man quirked his mouth, a little.
“Not quite, sire.”
The crowd parted, and brought forth –
a man!
swathed in lovely robes, eyes circled with kohl, giving Dean and everyone around them a stare that could kill.
“What is this insult?” demanded Dean.
“We do not wish to insult you,” said the spokesman.
“Oh? And what of him, he looks verily insulted,” Dean commented, popping the grape into his mouth absently.
“We wish to have a truce between our peoples. We understand that marriage is the best way to come to an agreement.”
“And you would offer this court an insult such as this?”
“Sire, please understand,” the spokesman said, bowing again. “This young man is our prince. The only prince of our people, now.”
This had Dean’s attention.
He sat up, taking a real interest in the proceedings.
The other prince in question folded his arms and rolled his eyes, which Dean noticed were blue like fiery lapis lazuli, even in the low light, as he sighed with irritation.
“This is the son of the sultan?” asked Dean.
“Yes, sire. Castiel ibn Tšārlz, the last of his line.”
Dean ruminated on this concept, as everyone in the room waited for his response.
“And you, Castiel,” Dean asked. “Are you not opposed to such a union?”
Castiel glared at him.
“Infidel,” he said.
He caught sight of Sam.
“Abomination.”
Castiel’s people gasped, and had some hurried conversations under their breath.
“We wish to stay in the city of Segovia,” explained the spokesman. “This truce, this treaty – Castiel was our only possibility, as you understand, we cannot stay otherwise.”
Castiel, looking at his people, softened a little.
“I am not opposed to this union,” he ground out, in a voice like the run of history, like the end of the world. “If it will keep my people safe. But you do not wish to be saddled with such a one as I.”
“I have no personal strife with the Moors or the moriscos,” said Dean.
“Be that as it may,” said Castiel, and his eyes flashed, “you may find that I have one with you.”
“Then why agree to such a thing?”
“I did not so much agree, as realize that my people needed me, and so here I am. Perhaps even you can understand such a choice.”
“He did fight us a little, sire,” said one of the people in the crowd helpfully, who was subsequently elbowed into silence.
Dean observed the room.
Now, here was something different, for once.
And an opportunity to make a stir, an unfortunate personality trait he nevertheless relished.
Besides, he could see the hope in Castiel’s eyes, that Dean would say no, that he would cave to local prejudice and perhaps his own, given his family’s suspicion regarding his mother’s mysterious death all those years ago.
Besides, there was something absolutely captivating about that proud mouth and those blue eyes.
“Very well,” said Dean. “I accept.”
The following pandemonium, and Castiel’s alarmed expression, made him throw back his head and laugh just as the band began to play a jubilant little tune, and the moriscos celebrated as Dean’s own people drew back in shock.
“Now this is fun,” said Dean to himself, and ate another grape with relish.