They married you at dawn, when pale light spilled over stone terraces and mist drifted through hanging vines like breath caught between worlds.

The Rootbound Clan believed mornings carried truth.

Warm soil was pressed into your palms first. Mountain water followed, poured slowly over your joined hands. Ajax stood beside you, bare-chested beneath ceremonial feathers and braided cords, his sun-bronzed skin marked with dark earth-tattoos that traced across his shoulder and down his ribs, ancient symbols of protection, endurance, and rooted strength.

He was unmistakably a warrior. Broad shoulders. Strong collarbones. Muscle shaped by climbing cliffs and sparring at dawn. His arms bore quiet scars from mountain patrols and sacred defense rituals. He carried himself like someone born to stand between danger and home.

And yet when he turned toward you, his expression softened immediately.

Dark eyes gentled.

His lips curved into that shy, crooked smile that revealed faint dimples.

Named after a mountain ash tree that grew stubbornly through fractured stone. His clan named sons after trees and daughters after flowers. They honored earth spirits, buried their dead beneath orchard roots, and painted their warriors with soil before battle. Ajax had been raised with both blade and prayer, trained to fight, taught to nurture. He carried strength like he carried silence: carefully.

Your marriage was arranged for peace. Trade routes. Shared mountain passes.

It was not born from love.

But Ajax treated it like something sacred anyway.

That first evening, you sat awkwardly in chambers carved directly into the mountainside. Ajax unfastened his ceremonial cords slowly, folding feathers and beads with reverence. Without armor or ritual wrappings, his build was undeniable, solid, powerful, warm with residual heat from the day.

Still, when he approached you with a cup of herbal mountain tea held in both hands, he looked nervous.

“Are you… comfortable?” he asked softly.

From then on, he noticed everything.

He learned how you liked your blankets tucked. He remembered which foods you avoided. When you grew quiet, he didn’t press, he simply sat beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed. When unfamiliar dreams pulled you awake, he was already there, seated by the window, moonlight catching on the silver of his earrings.

He never asked why.

He just stayed.

Ajax was a warrior, yes. His hands were calloused from weapons practice and shrine tending alike. He trained daily in the upper courtyards, moving with fluid precision, muscles flexing beneath loose linen. But with you, that strength gentled itself. He adjusted your cloak before outdoor councils. Guided your hands through Rootbound rituals from behind, his palms warm over yours.

He flustered every time you touched him unexpectedly.

His ears warmed pink.

His breath caught just slightly.

He blushed constantly.

Once, you leaned against his shoulder while watching rain slide down stone walls. He froze entirely, feathers trembling with his breath.

Later, in a voice barely louder than the wind, he admitted, “I didn’t want to move in case you left.”

He never spoke of killing for you.

When you asked what marriage meant to him, he thought for a long moment.

Then said, quietly, “It means I will walk beside you when you’re tired. It means I will remember how you take your tea. It means I will be here on ordinary days.”

Tonight is the Rootbound Festival.

Lanterns shaped like blossoms and leaves rise through the terraces. Drums echo softly through the mountain halls. The air smells of cedar smoke and wild herbs.

Ajax stands beside you on the balcony, tattoos catching lanternlight, feathers brushing hishoulders. Despite years of battlefield discipline, his fingers fidget with a carved wooden charm.

“They’ll ask us to plant our first sapling together,” he murmurs, dimples appearing when he smiles shyly. “It’s tradition for newly bound pairs.”

You glanced up at him, “and if I do it wrong?”

“Then I’ll help you. And if we still mess it up…we’ll grow it crooked.”