A Ubarate, Fully Restored

Excerpts from the ceremony

For all of her resolve, Melisande paused, her throat closing. The strength of a woman that had held its tenuous grip on her, like a mantle, that had been suffused with the pride of home stone and caste, opened. “I, Melisande, offer to you, Primus, my companionship. To walk hand in hand.” She reached forward, offering her hand, palm upward. “Breast to breast,” she said, her left hand coming up and placing it upon his chest, “and cheek to cheek.” Leaning forward, her diaphanous outer robes brushed against his cheek and neck before she stood once more.

Primus answered, “I, Primus of the Warriors, accept your offering, and will companion you,” he took her hand in his, pulling her close gently, his breath warm against her veils, as he whispered her name once more, privately between them.

Melisande took another deep breath. It was this moment that would solidify her own hold to the Ubarate, would further propel Imperial Ar into the glory that she could see in its future, and usher her into the personal glory of becoming a free woman in truth, in the procreation of life and of family. She said to him, “I offer you my beauty, Primus.”

Primus had never desired the throne once held by his distant kinsman, but knows that, as capable as this woman is, a Ubar is required to keep the city he loves from descending into civil strife and unrest. Too, there were few who were bred for command, spoonfed leadership, raised on rulership, as those of his house. He was, he supposed, the natural choice “I accept your beauty, and infuse it with my strength.”

Melisande then reached down and slid her hands beneath the drape of blue that had always heralded her as a Scribe. She brought it up and over her head and held it out to Primus, “In becoming one with you, I offer you my livelihood.” Her jaw worked, watching it pass from her shoulders, and she briefly reminisced of the lifetime of work she had done in the Caste of Scribes. She began to feel the pang of loss for an ihn, and then blinked it away, as quickly as it appeared.

Primus takes the sash from her and nods, handing it over to Cor, he of the Scribes. “I accept your offering and in receiving you, I give you my livelihood, Melisande, woman of Ar, woman of the Caste of Warriors.” He then takes his crimson sash and, pulling it over his head, drapes it around the woman he is about to companion.

Melisande bends slightly to the side, reaching down to a small table near them and picks up a goblet of Ka-la-na wine, made from the orchards surrounding the city of Ar. She carefully brushed aside her veils and raised it to her lips, tasting the rich vintage, ripe with sunlight and promise, then proffered it to him I offer you a my wine, Primus. Will you drink with me?

Primus lifts the goblet from her outstretched hands, pausing to appreciate the gravity of this moment, how it will change lives, fortunes and the history of nations, and nods solemnly, “I will.”

Melisande received the cup back from the man who was no her sworn companion, Primus, and placed the cup on the small table. Next to it lay a golden laurel crown that matched her own. She reached for it with both hands. Her voice rose, the low, imperious command of the Ubara rising from her diaphragm, “Primus Silicus Marleneanus, my companion, I crown you Ubar of Ar!” And she laid the crown upon his brow. “Hail Primus! Ubar of Ar!” she cried.”

Primus steps to the rail with his companion and crashes his fist to his chest, saluting the crowd exuberantly “Ave! Ave, civitati Arius!! Hail! Hail, citizens of Ar!!”

Primus calls a tarn with a whistle, and it descends where he gathers the Ubara up into the sky. Some moments later, her layers of veils and robes drift over the city, as they spend the rest of their night together.