The Arrow's Bride

A/N: Happy Heart's Day, everyone! This Arrow/Olicity medieval fic is a Valentine treat from me to everyone that clicks on this story, especially those who have read anything else that I have written and published here. Thank you so much! Thank you for clicking on this story, and I hope you enjoy it on this special day of celebrating love and relationships. And if you would be so kind or inclined, do let me know what you think of this story. It's going to be only a two-part fic. Hearing from you would certainly motivate me to write and post the second part before the week ends.

Disclaimer: I do not own Arrow nor its characters and plot. Those belong to the CW and DC.

PART 1 - My Lord, My Lady

Felicity dreaded this moment.

She despised it more than the day of her beloved father's accidental passing during the annual hunting trip of the lords and barons. She loathed it more than that wintery night when her mother broke the news of her impending marriage to the king on the first day of spring just a few months after they'd buried her father, Lord Smoak of Vegas. It had been the last resort that Lady Smoak had desperately taken to secure their social status, their land, and their future.

She stood in front of the huge, old oak door with her lady-in-waiting behind her as her mother held the large iron ring and rapped on the wood to announce their arrival at the bridegroom's chambers. The former Lady Smoak was elated that her daughter had been wed to the most gallant knight in the whole realm, the son of the Baron of Starling. It was her daughter's best chance for an even more secure future. But Felicity felt trapped. She couldn't even breathe. She felt like she it was better for her to be strangled where she stood or to suffocate, before the door to a lifetime of misery opened and she'd have to go through it unwillingly.

Even the dreary winter weather outside the stone walls of the castle sympathized with her. The harsh, cold winds blew fiercely and beat against the wooden shutters that had been firmly closed shut for the night, foreboding a snowy season ahead.

Felicity had nothing against the man she had been obliged to marry. Sir Oliver was a handsome and brave man, respected by the nobles and the king's hosts, admired by the ladies of the court, and well-loved by commoners and peasants alike. Nevertheless, Felicity was a fair young maiden with a brilliant mind and extraordinary abilities that were unique to most young women in the entire realm. She had had dreams for herself – dreams that will never come to pass now that she was becoming someone's wife far too soon for her liking, and worse, that someone was a man she did not really know, did not love. She had already accepted her rank and lot in life the day her mother wed the king of Arrowland. She understood that she may never have the freedom to choose who to marry, but she had never thought that she would have to marry under such demeaning, condescending circumstances.

The king and his subjects owed Sir Oliver and his band of skilled archers a debt of gratitude. Sir Oliver and his men had rescued the kingdom from the month-long siege of King Malcom's castle-fort by the monstrous mountain people that had taken advantage of the kingdom's vulnerability soon after the last of the strongest and ablest knights had gone to reinforce the fast-depleting armies that the king had already dispatched in droves over the last five years to participate in taking back the Holy Land from the Moors. No one had expected it. Generations of kings in Arrowland had only read from the sages' scrolls about the existence of this savage race of barbarians who were rumored to have survived the Dark Ages hundreds of years ago. King Malcolm had never even seen a single barbarian cross the northern walls that his great, great, great grandfather had built.

One week after the last of the king's troops had left, the barbarians had breached a portion of the wall in the Valley of Bones. By the second week, the enemy had advanced to the castle-fort in Mt. Merlyn where the inhabitants of King's City had retreated to and sought refuge in. A week into the siege, King Malcolm had already seen what lay ahead. Their puny army of older and retired knights and armed peasants did not stand a chance against the ruthless barbarians that had already ravaged and pillaged the northern villages, and it was only a matter of time before the castle-fort fell into the hands of the enemy. So, the king sent out riders who had committed to memory the royal message of their kingdom's desperate cry for help to any of his gallant knights scattered in the far-flung eastern lands.

How the riders had managed to sneak out of the castle-fort unnoticed by the mountain warriors was a feat short-lived. One of the riders had been caught, tortured, and killed when he had refused to reveal anything. The other had been pursued as far as the borders of the realm and then speared to death while still mounted upon his steed. The last of the riders had been shot with an arrow in the shoulder but narrowly escaped his pursuers and reached the Great Lake where Sir Oliver and his men had just disembarked from a fishing boat that had brought them closer to home. The rider had stayed alive long enough to relay King Malcolm's message – a plea for the remaining brave knights of Arrowland to abandon the Crusades and swiftly return to deliver their homeland from the onslaught of the vicious barbarians.

Felicity had been the prize for accomplishing this feat, together with the conferring of the right to be listed among the prestigious lords and barons of the realm from which the successor of King Malcom would be selected (since Sir Thomas, Prince of Arrowland and fellow knight and best friend of Sir Oliver, had perished in the Crusades three years ago, leaving the king without an heir). Having been promised as a bride to the knight that would defeat the invading army of mountain people had been beyond Felicity's control, and the savior of her people deserved no less than the best and fairest lady of the land. Felicity understood this. She really did. But it did not mean that she liked the idea.

As any lady of the court whose lot in life and love was determined more by social status rather than the dictates of the heart, Felicity had convinced herself that she could learn to love any decent man, or at the very least, live with him civilly, especially if he bestowed the freedom to take up some, if not all, of her aspirations in life in peaceful solitude. But no one had even asked her if she was willing to do it, not even her mother. She had not even been given time to get to know the man in whose bed she would yield her virginity and be initiated into complete womanhood, the husband with whom she would be expected to produce an offspring – and a possible heir to the crown. The king had wasted no time; less than a month after the defeat and retreat of the enemy and as soon as a semblance of order had returned to the land, the wedding rituals and traditional preparations had commenced. Felicity had become some hero's reward, and she had no choice in it. That was what she detested the most.

So, she stood there with an expression on her face that reflected her silent protest, as a dark-skinned man opened the door to the bridegroom's chambers.

The colored man was almost as tall as the wooden door. He had huge, muscular arms the size of tree trunks. Felicity had seen this man a few times before, following Sir Oliver wherever he went like a living, breathing protective shadow. The man was also present in the wedding ceremony and in the feast that followed. What piqued her curiosity was that the dark-skinned man appeared to be more than Sir Oliver's armor bearer or escort – judging by his demeanor and the unfamiliar sabre with a curved blade hanging on his right side. She had never known of any colored man to have been allowed to be a knight's squire in all of the Western kingdoms.

She didn't dare look into the eyes of the Moor as he bowed and stepped back to allow her and her small entourage entrance. It was because of a mixture of timidity and respect, not fear, really. There was actually something about this man that calmed and humbled her, and she had feeling that they could be good friends, given the chance. He did not seem to belong there at all, and that inability to fit in was something that they both had in common. In more ways than one, they were different from everybody else in the realm, and that made her feel a little less of an outcast and a misfit for a brief moment.

"Thank you, John. That is all for now. I shall not call on you until morning," a voice in the shadows said.

The Moor bowed, did a gesture with his hand that Felicity found strange, and then stepped out of the room walking backwards until he was nowhere to be seen. The man had been called by a Christian name, she noticed, so Felicity inferred that the dark-skinned foreigner might have been a convert from the Crusades that had returned with the knights from the East.

Felicity's eyes scanned the dark room and she spotted the source of the low, somber voice sitting regally on a beautifully carved wooden chair in a corner of the room farthest from the fireplace. A large matrimonial bed occupied the wide space that separated them.

As soon as the door was shut, the former Lady Smoak spoke with a clear and confident voice, "Sir Oliver, Lord of Starling, and champion of the kingdom of Arrowland, it is my humble privilege to present to you the daughter of the Queen, the Lady Felicity, your bride."

Upon hearing the Queen speak his name and address him in a most flamboyant manner, Oliver immediately arose from his seat, somewhat startled that the Queen herself had accompanied his bride to his chambers, a custom reserved only to royal-born princes and princesses on their wedding night. He cleared his throat and replied, "My Queen, you honor me with your unexpected but delightful presence."

"Likewise," the Queen responded with a smile and a twinkle in her eye. "And please, Lord Oliver, you need not get on your feet on account of me. You will need to reserve your strength for the night." A mischievous snicker (quite unbecoming of a queen) escaped her lips, and Oliver caught a glimpse of his bride's blushing cheeks in response to her mother's inappropriate innuendo.

A brief moment of quiet awkwardness passed, and as soon as everyone in the room regained composure, the queen spoke again, this time more tactfully. "Once again, we are grateful for what you have done for our people, Lord Oliver. The king and I hope that you are pleased with your reward."

Felicity kept silent and stood her ground, even if butterflies in her stomach had begun to flutter once again. She felt (more than saw) his gaze upon her, making her feel even more self-conscious than she had already been the moment she stepped into his private domain. She avoided his gaze and looked down. The queen cleared her throat softly behind her, prompting her daughter to dispense the proper greeting her husband deserved.

Felicity lifted her head and curtsied in the manner expected of nobility. "Good evening, my lord," she spoke with all the confidence she could muster and with the courtesy that she had been trained all her life to master.

"Good evening, Lady Felicity. Welcome to my chambers," Sir Oliver acknowledged her. "I trust… that all is well with you?"

"Yes, my lord," Felicity replied curtly. She knew it was a lie, and she had a feeling that he somehow knew it, too.

Before the queen and the lady-in-waiting (better known to Felicity as her friend Lyla) took leave, they divested the bride of the woolen evening cloak that kept her warm from the winter air and set it aside on a chair nearest the door. The queen kissed her daughter's hand, ran her fingers from her cheek down to her chin and smiled. She then walked away and left the room. Lyla closed the large door behind them, leaving the newlyweds alone in the dimly-lit bedroom, which was one of the sleeping chambers in the eastern wing of the castle that were reserved for the king's special guests. Aside from the muted, crackling noise from the fireplace and the howling winds outside that caused the shutters to clatter intermittently, there was just silence between them in the spacious room.

Felicity could hear the wild beating of her heart, though. This was it.

During the procession down the long hallways of the castle from her own bedchamber to her groom's, she had tried to condition herself repeatedly that this will all be over in a few minutes, just like her mother had been telling her for days. The hero of Arrowland would be satisfied (she hoped, for her own sake), and she would retreat in tears to her own place in the morning a different woman, having fulfilled her royal and spousal duties at the expense of her own happiness. But now, any conditioning of the mind seemed futile, as the seconds of dead silence stretched to minutes when neither one of them spoke or moved.

She stared at the four-poster matrimonial bed with mixed emotions of nervousness, uncertainty, and emptiness. The canopy draped over the bed elegantly, she thought. She'd only ever see them on four-poster beds in the castle on special occasions, mostly during winter when everyone, not just guests, needed to stay warm. The curtains were ready, just waiting to be unfastened from the posts to provide the privacy they needed if they called for their respective attendants to come in. She only wished she had similar coverings that would envelop her heart and conceal the hurt she was bound to feel once she gave of herself to a man she didn't love, no matter how noble and kind he turned out to be. He was the hero of Arrowland, one of the possible successors to the throne, and he was her lawfully wedded husband. She knew what was expected of her, and she would do it. She would give him her body, but not her soul. That belonged to no one, for she had not yet found the one person whom she would willingly surrender her heart.

Unbeknownst to her, Oliver felt just as nervous and uncertain while he waited for her arrival. John, his friend and brother-at-arms since he had spared the Moor's life from a cruel white man's sword, had provided him the companionship that calmed his nerves. He could not hide from his friend the anxious enthusiasm that exuded from his usually steadfast heart. As soon as his bride had entered his chamber, the pounding of his heart increased in speed and intensity, that he found it absolutely necessary to stay seated in the corner of the room, so that the shadows could conceal the emotions that were written all over his face and were reverberating within his body. He wondered how one little woman could soften and melt the hardened, battle-scarred heart of a seasoned warrior like himself. He felt it strange, and so did John.

Oliver had seen Felicity for the first time during the wedding of King Malcolm to Lady Smoak. He and his parents, Robert and Moira, Baron and Baroness of Starling, and his little sister Thea, had traveled from their manor to attend the occasion, which had been the most lavish and most auspicious of gatherings and festivities that the king had held in the castle ever since his first wife Queen Rebecca had died of an unknown disease when Prince Thomas, his best friend, had barely been twelve. News of the untimely death of Lord Smoak had circulated in the kingdom a few years after, and King Malcolm had very soon set his eyes on making the widowed Lady Smoak his new queen.

Oliver recalls the first time he had laid eyes on Felicity at the throne room, where the bishop had officiated the ceremony uniting the king with her mother. She had worn a white long-sleeved gown made of fine linen and a deep purple woolen tunic embroidered with colorful flowers along the neckline and the hems. Her hair had been covered and wrapped entirely in a wimple that framed her lovely, pretty face. She had worn an ornate headdress that was much too big for a young lade her age, and that came in the shape of something he couldn't exactly recall. No, not as much as he recalled the sapphire blue hue of her captivating eyes, and the dimple that showed when she so much as slightly smiled.

He had observed her every movement that day – every expression on her angelic face, how she laughed at the court jester's antics and smiled contentedly at the music of the minstrels that blew their pipes and tapped their timbrels. Thomas had danced with her that night at the wedding banquet, and though Oliver hadn't had the courage to ask her to dance with him despite the fact that he had been the only member of the male species that remained sober in the great hall, he had contented himself watching her. He had been smitten by this beautiful and sweet thirteen-year-old, no doubt about it. Thomas had teased him constantly about his cowardice and unrequited feelings for his step-sister, and had called him a cradle-snatcher for setting his eyes on a girl much younger than either of them, and who was none other than his step-sister. Oliver didn't know how to express his growing affections during their entire week of stay in the castle, mainly because he considered her much too young to be wooed at the time by a squire such as himself that was already being groomed for knighthood. He and his family had returned to Starling Manor, and still Felicity did not have the faintest idea that she had won the young nobleman's heart.

Oliver pined for her for almost two years, taking advantage of every opportunity to accompany his parents to the castle on official business just to see her. He would catch glimpses of her during their meals with the king and queen, or when he would spy on her walking in the early morning or late afternoons in the castle's moat gardens with her lady-in-waiting following close by. The first time he had seen her sitting alone under a tree reading a book had also been the first time he had seen her long, golden hair; he had almost approached her to reveal how he truly felt about her, but reason prevailed over emotion. The young lady he had affections for had been blossoming into a beautiful lady, and soon, he would be ready to speak to his parents about expressing to the king and queen his sincere and formal intent to court their daughter.

But then the new Bishop of Rome had issued one final plea to all of Christendom to wage a holy war against the Moors and recapture Jerusalem, and King Malcolm responded eagerly to that call in the hopes of winning the good graces of the new Pope. The king had sent his own son with some of his best knights and warriors, but in less than a year, they had received word of the tragic demise of the prince. Upon learning of the death of his closest friend at the hands of the Muslims, Oliver volunteered to join the next batch of knights and raiders dispatched to the Holy Land so that he could somehow avenge the murder of Thomas. Oliver buried his affections for the love of his life in the deepest recesses of his heart, hoping that heaven would grant him mercy and grace and return him to his homeland a victor, or at the very least, a survivor. He promised himself that if she was still unmarried by the time he returns, then he would know for sure that he and Felicity were truly meant to be together, and he would waste no time to ask the king for her hand in marriage.

But it had been five years since. Five long, very difficult years of fierce fighting and agonizing suffering. She had been the only thing that had kept him going, the only reason left to fight for. And when all hope of success had vanished in him and his men, she had been the only reason left for him to survive and come home.

Would he still be able to woo her after all this time? Would she have him willingly? Now that he had the blood of countless human beings in his hands? Now that his body was covered in scar tissue and his back had been branded with the mark of a slave after he had been captured and sold, and then crafted by Arab assassins as a weapon to kill and destroy? What would sweet, innocent Felicity think of him now?

It had only been through a miracle that he had escaped and began the arduous and dangerous trek home. Along the way, he had rescued a group of prisoners that had been captured by the Moors and were about to be sold to traveling Arab merchants. Because the men owed him their lives, they had pledged their allegiance to him. They persuaded him to be their leader and for them to travel with him back to his homeland. During the year and a half from the time he left Palestine until his return to Arrowland, his band of archers and warriors had grown to fifty fighting men who knew how to skillfully wield swords of various kinds and whom he had also trained to be archers. He had trained them further, the way he had been forcibly trained by the Arab assassins to fight.

The last person he had saved from certain death was John the Moor, who had been disowned by his family and threatened with death for forsaking the Islamic faith. John had sworn an oath to protect Oliver for the rest of his life, and had pleaded that they take him with them back to his country.

When Oliver and his men disembarked from the boat in the pier of the Great Lake beyond the borders of the Moorish lands, the wounded rider from Arrowland had just arrived. Jumping off his horse and then limping towards them, the man asked in between gasps of air who they were, where they had come from, and where they were going. Oliver revealed his identity to the dying messenger, who had been overjoyed to hear that he was not going to die in vain.

When Oliver learned about the attack of the barbarians from the mountains of the north and the siege of King Malcolm's castle-fort, he spoke to his men and asked for their help. He told them that this was not really their battle, but that if they were willing to fight alongside him, they would be released from their life-debts to him, and he would personally obtain from the king their right to live as free men in his realm regardless of their ethnicity. Every single one of his men gave his support to fight with him and rescue his people.

And rescue his people they did. Fifty men plus two – and plenty of strategic battle planning – were all it took for them to take down their leader, trim down the army of the barbarians to more than half, and then drive out the demoralized invaders from Arrowland and back to the mountains where they belonged.

If Oliver were asked, he would have done the same thing for his people without the receiving the reward that King Malcolm had promised to give him as soon as the battle had been won. However, no power on earth would prevail against him to refuse it. He would never refuse her. When the king told him that he was giving the queen's daughter to him for a bride because of the heroic feat he had accomplished, he had been overwhelmed and overcome with inexpressible joy and disbelief. Heaven had granted his prayers, half-spoken and half-groaned during many a night in his time away trying desperately to stay alive. He was awed by the reality of grace and mercy, astonished at why God would favor and lavishly bless a poor, undeserving wretch like him with what he considered most precious of all in life – the bride of his dreams.

Right then and there in his own bedchamber, Felicity stood before him, and he still couldn't believe it. She was his for the taking. But he wasn't sure what to do.

His battle-worn hands were trembling, and he wondered if her silky soft ones were, too. He had noticed how wonderfully soothing her hands had felt in his, earlier that day during the ceremony that ushered them into a sacred union as man and wife. He had dreamed of holding her hand for many, many years, and when he finally did, he hadn't wanted to let go. But they had social obligations and wedding traditions to fulfill all day long, so he had let go of her hand after the recessional to give her time to prepare for the wedding banquet that normally began in the late afternoon and lasted way past midnight (in other words, until the merrymakers ran out of wine and fell over drunk in the great hall).

After the main meal was done, the newlyweds traditionally were excused from the banquet to spend time alone in the bridegroom's chambers where they would consummate their marriage. Expectations were high, especially among nobles and royals, as the bridegroom's family and the wedding guests continued to eat, drink, and be merry while they await evidence of the breaking of the bride's chastity.

Oliver understood the significance of their wedding night. He loved her, and he knew for sure that he wanted her. But did she feel the same way about him? They had been acquaintances before he left for the Crusades, and yet since his return and up to this point, she had given him no clear indication that she had even a tinge of affection for him. They had had several personal encounters between the retaking of the castle-fort and the wedding ceremony, but still she showed nothing but civil, polite behavior and the impeccable manners fit for nobility. He figured that because she struck him as a submissive, dutiful daughter and an honorable lady of the court, she would follow through with what was expected of her with head held high, no matter how much it crushed her heart to marry someone like him.

The last thing Oliver wanted was for her tender, fragile heart to be shattered to a million pieces. And not on account of him. He did not want to force himself upon her at the expense of her happiness and dignity. He did not want their first night, her first experience of intimacy to be meaningless and empty, or worse, laced with bitterness and regret that will forever be etched in their memories. He loved her too much to hurt her this way. He loved her too much for him to think of his own needs and disregard hers. He loved her too much to take advantage of his privilege as her legitimate husband in this way.

"I hope…" Oliver began to speak. "I hope that you are not afraid of me?" he asked graciously, intending to calm any anxiety in her.

"No, my lord," Felicity replied, her eyes still directed to the wooden floor. She then looked up and asked intuitively, "Should I be?"

Her concise question was pregnant with meaning, and so was his answer.

"No, my lady," he answered, his voice reassuring yet sincere and sure. "I would never hurt you."

Wordlessly, Felicity bravely took several steps forward, showing him that she was giving him the benefit of the doubt. But then she stopped halfway between them, indicating that she wanted him to meet her the rest of the way to show his sincerity. She had not realized that she now stood between the bed and the fireplace. She was just a few feet away from where he was seated now, and the reddish orange glow of firelight allowed him to see her quite clearly, to relish her physical beauty and natural charm. She was absolutely beautiful and positively breath-taking!

Without a wimple or a veil, he could behold her long and wavy golden hair, which was braided loosely from the right side of her neck down to her waist. He could actually smell the talcum powder that gave her face, neck, arms, and bare feet an ethereal glow that heightened his senses. Without a woolen cloak or tunic, her long evening gown was not doing a very good job of hiding her alluring frame. The finely-woven linen somehow clung to her body like silk from the Far East that he had seen in his travels, concealing in vain the captivating outlines of her hips and lower limbs, as well as the undulating curves and peaks of her bosom. He could see her up close now, and he realized that the best of his imaginations did not come close to what he beheld before him. Felicity had grown into a woman in the five years that he had been far away, and now that she was his, he was overwhelmed that his bride was beyond delightful. She was perfectly, unarguably desirable.

Felicity brought one hand up and across her chest to pull up the one side of the neckline of her gown that had fallen off her shoulder, revealing the creamy white skin that glistened in the firelight, in plain view of her groom. She looked at him and saw an intense expression in his darkened eyes that made her breath hitch. When her shoulder was no longer bare, she did not bring her hand back down to her side. Instead, in her shyness, she clutched the material and kept her arm on her chest in an attempt to somehow shield herself from the ardor of his stare. The gesture, coupled by a deep breath she had taken, had broken Oliver out of his stupor. Embarrassed with himself, he dropped his gaze, closed his eyes, and swallowed hard.

She did not know what to make of this. It was an awkward moment between them. She did feel uncomfortable and self-conscious; that much was certain. But she was also curious as to what her husband must be thinking… about her. Yes, she wasn't very happy about the hastily arranged marriage and the pressure of expectations on their wedding night, but she also didn't want to fail. She'd never failed in her entire life, and on the one hand, this would be her first time to do so – to fail herself in fighting for control over her own life; on the other hand, you could still succeed at something – to please her husband, the defender of the land who had risked his life for thousands of their kind.

Felicity thought that what she had seen in his eyes might have been what her mother had taught her to recognize in a man. There had been passion and desire there a moment ago. But when she shifted her gaze from the arm on her chest to his eyes once again, what she saw in them was something else. Was it disappointment? Was it displeasure? She wanted to know.

To her dismay, Oliver dropped his gaze and close his eyes, his brow slightly furrowed. She had to know.

"Do you not find me pleasing, my lord?" Felicity spoke at last. Her simple, softly spoken question commanded his attention once more.

Oliver opened his eyes and immediately looked up at her. Far from it, he thought. He was not going to allow her to give room for insecurities and doubts about what she means to him, about what it that she does to him. So he answered with a reassuring tone, "Forgive me, my lady. I didn't mean to scorn nor to spurn. On the contrary, I do find you most attractive. In all my life… I have never laid eyes on a creature more beautiful than you on this side of heaven."

There. The words just tumbled out of his lips on their own. They were the truth, and he wanted her to know it. Nevertheless, he had surprised not only her but also himself at his lengthy and enthused response. Since he left for the Crusade, he had never uttered more than a sentence at a time, even in excitement, except now. He wondered what spell this blonde beauty might have cast on him to evoke such a response in him in her presence.

The blush on Felicity's neck crept upwards through her neck and cheeks until her entire face flushed pinkish-red. She had absolutely no feelings for this man she had wed; nevertheless, she did feel flattered knowing that she could have such a powerful effect on him.

Oliver didn't want to embarrass her any further, or else her pretty face would turn as red as an overripe tomato, so he stood up and walked towards her. As he entered her personal space, Felicity took another deep breath to steady herself. Because now that he had completely stepped out of the shadows, she could very well see that pair of ocean blue eyes again, the same ones that stared somberly at her during the wedding ceremony, the ones that seemed to draw her in and welcome her into his soul, the ones that she had spurned when she decided to fix her own eyes on their joined hands until the end of the wedding rites.

Felicity thought he was going to reach for her hand, as he drew near. But he just walked right past her, their fingers brushing against each other's as he did. Oliver kept walking, but she did not move a muscle or turn around to look at where he was going. She stabilized her breathing and waited for what he was going to do or say next.

Since the time when they were formally introduced as each other's betrothed, Felicity had learned a few things about the man she was going to wed. First, stories of his exploits in the Crusades, which his band of archers had begun to circulate in the castle grounds, and the accounts of how he and his men had driven the barbarians back to the mountains, proved that he was a very courageous warrior and competent strategist. She liked that about him because she not only cared about the safety and welfare of their people, she also saw in it a tinge of hope that there just might be a meeting of minds of some sort between him and her. Observing his conduct, he struck her as a very private, serious, and broody man, and this she found boring and unappealing. Oliver hardly smiled at anyone.

Anyone, except her. At first, she had thought that perhaps it was his way of just reaching out to her for the simple reason that they were soon to become man and wife. But now that he had just cracked a tiny, timid smile while enthusiastically and earnestly complimenting her physical endowments, she began to think that maybe her husband did admire her sincerely to a certain degree.

While she mused, Oliver moved furtively and quietly, retrieving her cloak and coming up just a hand span behind her without her noticing him at all. (She would later add to her short list of Sir Oliver's observable traits one more thing – that he was undoubtedly a master of stealth.)

"You're shivering," he whispered near her right ear. He was right, but she hadn't noticed it at all.

Felicity felt the gush of his warm breath tickle the skin just behind her. She gasped and turned slightly over her right shoulder. She could have sworn that she caught him attempting but hesitating to plant his lips on the exposed skin of the crook between her neck and shoulder. She bit her lower lip to keep herself from saying anything she might regret, as she was quite well-known in the castle for her uncontrollable rambling whenever she is nervous or excited. (At that moment, she wasn't exactly sure which one of the two she felt.) Felicity closed her eyes in anticipation of what was going to happen next.

She felt him lift her woolen cloak with both his hands and drape it over her shoulders. He then pulled the left and right edges of the cloak towards her front, situating her slender figure in between his sturdy, muscular arms. The warmth of his body enveloped her, and she didn't know what to make of how being wrapped up in his arms felt. (She'd have to deal with that later during one of her soulful reflections, because, although the feeling was strange to her, it was strangely pleasant and soothing.) They stayed that way for a few more seconds, until Oliver was sure she was warm and her shivering had stopped, and then he came around to stand in front of her.

Oliver took both her icy cold hands in his warm and calloused ones, and then said to her ever so tenderly, "Lady Felicity, I am well aware that this… that our marriage… came about as a result of the will of the king. Whatever you think of me, please know that I am honored… and blessed… to have you as my wife. I pray that someday, you will be able to say the same thing about me… from your heart. The ceremonies, traditions, and the law of the land may have made this thing between us a marriage, and we will have to live with that and make the best of it from this day forward. However, I would very much like for our union to happen on your terms."

One of his hands let go of hers and moved up to lift her chin with his forefinger. He wanted her undivided attention when he completed what he wanted to tell her. When he was sure that their eyes were locked on to each other's gaze, he cupped her cheek with his free hand and whispered to her, "Felicity…"

He rubbed the pad of his thumb on her face and went on to say, "I will wait for you to be ready. To be willing. Because aside from making sure that you will always be safe, there is nothing else in this world that I desire than for you to be happy."

Felicity was astonished at all his words. His words penetrated the core of her being, and they made her feel like he had known her deeply for a very long time. His words rendered her speechless; all she could do in response was to nod twice with glassy eyes and to favor him with a small smile. She made a mental note to add two more things to the list of her husband's traits: one, that Lord Oliver was the most honorable man she had ever met; and two, that he may just be the kind of man that she could learn to love.

When Oliver saw on her face that she had understood and accepted his words, he moved away. He took his quiver out of a large wooden chest and picked out the sharpest arrow in the cluster. He also took a bottle of wine from the table near the bed and poured some of it into a clean linen towel. He then proceeded to sanitize the arrowhead with it.

"What are you doing?" she asked him, puzzled. She clutched the edges of her cloak close to her chest and approached him out of curiosity.

"Giving the inebriated guests downstairs what they want. We wouldn't want to disappoint your mother and the king, would we?" Oliver answered confidently, trying to keep himself from breaking out into a full-blown grin.

Felicity immediately understood what he meant, although the prospect of having to inflict injury on himself wasn't something that she preferred he'd do to accomplish his intent. She winced as she watched him make a shallow cut on the palm of his hand using the arrowhead. She flinched at the sight of blood. For a second there, she thought she would faint, but suddenly Oliver's uninjured hand found its way onto her forearm to steady her.

"I'm fine, really," she told him, swallowing hard as she tried to compose herself once more.

With that, Oliver walked towards their matrimonial bed and stained the off-white sheets with just the right amount of blood as most inquisitive (and intrusive) people would expect (and inspect), as soon as he returns to the great hall with the blood-stained linen after waiting for another half hour. He seriously disliked norms and customs such as these, and he thought that if and when the opportunity to rule the land becomes his, he would promulgate certain laws that would supersede cultural traditions that did more harm than good.

Felicity picked up the bottle of wine and the towel he had used, went to him and poured some of the antiseptic beverage on his cut, and then bandaged it tight with the small towel to stop the bleeding. And this time, it was Felicity's turn to keep herself from breaking out into a full-blown smile.

A/N: Well, there it is! It would be nice to hear from you if you have the time to leave a review. Is this worth finishing at all? I was in the middle of finishing the next chapter of another on-going fic posted here that I'm working on, but the ideas for this medieval AU just wouldn't leave me alone! Inspiration struck, I decided to go with it, and the words just flowed. Maybe it's the occasion, maybe it's the hopeless romantic in me, I don't know.

For those of you following Arrow historical war fic "Purple Heart, Red Cross, and Green Arrows," I promise I will finish the next chapter by weekend and post it as soon as possible. I am just as inspired to write that one as this (but I guess that one is harder to do with all the research and readings I have to do before and during writing). So please bear with me.

Thanks again for reading this! Hope you enjoyed it.

P.S. I just would like to clarify that although this is a medieval AU fic, it is not meant to be strictly historically accurate. It is merely set during those times. I have created my own "characters" instead of taking off from actual historical figures and events, my own geographical setting, and my own specific socio-cultural elements that still fit within the grand scheme of the Middle Ages, in general.