Marc stood at the head of the royal barge, his bejeweled hands gripping the rail tightly, his face turned into the wind. The wind from the river whipped at his hair, sending his fiery locks fluttering from the sharp angles of his face much in the manner of the royal banner that cracked and snapped overhead, proclaiming to all that either the king or princess was on board. But it was not for reasons of merriment that His Royal Majesty sailed down the river on that day. He did not go with a big party. In fact, only a few of his closest companions sailed with him on that particular trip, along with a few guards and of course, rowers for the barge.

“Your Majesty, we have almost arrived,” a voice said from behind the king, though Marc did not turn to see who it was. He was not blind – he could see as well as any the form of Ivystone Place slowly growing in the distance. But, as with each stroke of the oars brought them closer to the townhouse’s dock, Marc’s irritation grew. His irritation at what? Life? Circumstances of said life? Circumstances of said life that lead one down roads that don’t wish to be lead? Perhaps all, perhaps none. Marc himself wasn’t even sure why he was irritated. All he knew was that he was irritated.

And he was about to give the Infanta de Emeralda one Hell of a visit.

As the barge was brought up to the dock, the young king didn’t even hesitate before he was leaping off the rocking vessel and onto solid ground, striding purposefully up through the gardens and towards the ivy-covered building while his companions were still struggling to catch up. Marc was not in the mood for waiting. Not even noticing the beauty of his surroundings – the gurgling of the fountains, the sweet aroma of the flowers, the manicured shrubs, the tidy walks – Marc breezed up the walk and through a back entrance of the townhouse. A servant dressed in the Ingling livery did a rather interesting squealing-jumping-cowering-curtsy at the rather sudden appearance of the King of the Sapphire Realm bursting through a back door of Ivystone Place, but Marc barely noticed the woman’s oddly amusing reaction.

“I am here to see Princess Isabella.”

Many long minutes later, Marc found himself standing within the receiving chambers of the apartments in which Isabella was staying, surrounded by her Emerald train. A rather buxom woman was standing before him shouting in the Emerald tongue – a garbled mess which he couldn’t understand for the life of him – while a man, obviously a priest, pleaded more gently in the Sapphire tongue next to him. “Your Majesty, it is not our way. She is not to be viewed until her wedding day… she has retired to her bedchamber for the evening.” Marc, more stubborn than a mule and with the power of the Sapphire Realm at his back, stood his ground. “I will see my wife-to-be in no less than ten minutes. Damn your customs. You’re in my kingdom now and that is not the Sapphire way. I will see what I have bought.” With one last venomous glare towards the yelling woman – who was no longer yelling, too stunned was she to speak – Marc then stormed towards a chair and sat himself haughtily down, throwing his feet up on a nearby table and watching the servants within the room. Waiting for them to spring into action.

Princess Isabella, in all of her glory, was bowed before the Madonna praying that her marriage to King Marc of the Sapphire Realm would be the best for her people that she left, and the people that would soon be hers. Unknowingly, and extremely ironically, the King was arriving at the place she was staying at just that moment. At the end of the parade, she was whisked away to a place she had come to know as Ivystone Place, a townhouse belonging to Earl Rowland and the Ingling’s. They were a nice people, and Isabella told herself she would not forget the kind gestures the staff had shown her and her friends before the wedding. The room around her, she was told, was the best there was, and it was nice indeed. Two large, open windows looked out upon the river and facing east, the sun sparkling its way into her eyes as morning came. An inset cubbyhole and a place for votives made her worship and prayer perfect, most comforting being so far away from her familiar court.

Much distracted in prayer, Isabella did not hear the large raucous on the first floor of the townhouse, nor the growing volume of sound that neared her room. When one of her maids that had practically raised her began shouting in her inaudible Emerald tongue, Isabella became aware of the situation. Straining to hear, quite upset that her prayers were interrupted, she did make out many refusals, clueing her into the fact that somebody was to see her, now, as the evening wore on and in the middle of her time devoted to the Virgin Mother and her Son. It was then when Maria, the robust maid, came bounding into her chambers with the full story. King Marc had come, and refused any other action but to see her. A cord of anger went through her mind that he would break the customs she held true and come at such a time as prayer. Did he have no respect, no decency? Was she to marry some reformist who cared nothing for the traditionalism she held so near to her heart? Standing up quickly, Maria wordlessly began to dress her much more appropriately. The gown she had been wearing was much more for being alone, a black velvet gown wrought with gold cloth, hanging tightly on her body. Maria remedied this appearance with throwing a majestic cloak around her, the same she had worn when received to Norshire. It was also black velvet, gold imbued all over it and green cords strategically tied into it. Her hair, which was down, was pulled back by a velvet headpiece over a wire frame with gold bullion trim and a veil that matched her gown. Maria, agreeing that she was respectable enough, fumed off to let the Princess receive her guest.

Moving out of her chambers, and into the receiving chamber, she curtsied perfectly with a hidden grace and poise, saying, “Your Majesty.” Desperately, she wanted to tell him of what he had interrupted and how very wrong it was for him to be viewing her, but she felt she said enough by gazing down, towards his feet. “You have come during my prayers,” she resolved to say, her voice heavy with the Emerald accent but still quite understandable. More than once, the Emerald court had told her she spoke the Sapphire tongue far too well for being pure to the Emerald crown.

She raised her head, slowly, to look upon the man she was to marry. He was handsome, with strong calves that suggested he was athletic, and a very pleasing form all around. His clothes were, of course, the finest made and fit precisely to his measurements. Moving up farther, his face captured her heart at that moment. It was better than the portrait she had had in her homeland, not showing the strong cheekbone that suggested pride and the equally strong jaw line that suggested a strong opinion. Still quite bashful, but all the same flustered by his arrival, she waited for him to speak. For him to judge. For him to lost heart at his marriage or gain hope.

As the door to Isabella's inner chambers opened, Marc got a glimpse of his wife-to-be for the first time. And was astounded by what he saw. She wasn't an extreme beauty, but she was far from homely as well. There was something about her... though Marc couldn't exactly place it. It was in the way she carried herself. It was in the way she turned her head. It was in the way she curtsied. It was in the way her dark eyes gleamed like drops of chocolate. She was statuesque. She was lovely. She was a very handsome woman. But she was far from an extreme beauty. But maybe that was why Marc liked her so much? Suddenly feeling very foolish indeed, the young king leapt from his seat, threatening to overturn the table his feet had been resting on moments before as he did so. Bowing respectfully, though his intensely blue eyes never left her face, Marc sent his future wife a small smile. A smile that was quickly wiped away with her next words. They were a slap in the face - the effect of which was immediate to his blooming interest. The only way she could have been any plainer would have been if she had said: "You are a very stupid and rude man."

But he was king, was he not? And she was only a princess. And a foreign one at that.... and his future wife. And future queen.

"My apologies, madame, but I'm afraid I was eager to see you."

It was true enough. Marc had been eager, but not in a romantic or gentlemanly sense. He had been worried that she would be brutally ugly, distorted in some way, monstrous. If Raoul had thought to trick him, then Marc wanted to find out before the wedding day... when he could not hide his shock and disgust before the whole court. But even if she had been not to his liking, what could he have done? Send her back? Such an insult would have caused a war. And if the Emerald Realm had allied with the Amethyst... his kingdom would be lost. Finished. The line of the Sapphire family crushed and lost in the pages of history.

But back to the moment, there he was, standing like a boar within Ivystone Place, confronting his betrothed, having just interrupted her prayers... and suddenly tongue-tied. What was there to say? "I brought you a gift," he suddenly blurted, running his fingers through his wavy locks in an attempt to gain his composure and to remain calm. "I trust that is not against your customs? To receive gifts from your future husband?" It was meant as a jest, but it fell flat from his lips, making him sound even more rude. And more stupid. And more like a man.