A/N: I had to re-do this chapter, as stupid FP took it upon itself to delete my documents. *Grumbles*

Disclaimer: The characters and places described in this story are owned by me, though I did add in Norse Gods, if only because they're cool.

Warnings: Language, violence, homosexuality, slavery, sexual content, relationships with a minor, mature themes, mpreg. If you're cool with that, I'm cool with you. :)

Summary: A gay prince, an unintentionally sexy foreigner, and the meddling Wizard who just wants them to get laid. Everyone else is just along for the ride. A fairy-tale unlike any you've ever read.

Boy Bride Prologue: Fire and Brimstone

A torch hit the floor and fire lit the grass. The ghost-like whisper of the flames joined the people's screams and the laughter of their torturers.

"Burn it all to the ground, Doozer, we gotta show these Southern barbarians who's boss," a skinny, weasel-like man shouted as he waved his weapon around, hitting as many people as he could. The fat man who he was talking to barked in laughter. Both were dressed in the thin, leather armor of mercenaries and had inexpensive weaponry, not that it helped their victims any.

"Ya, you right, Cheche, I do that now." The fat man had a slow way of talking and a very thick accent, as if he were trying very hard to pronounce each syllable perfectly. That was because both he and the skinny man were Islanders, though he had left only recently while his friend had lived among Mainlanders for quite a while now. The heavily accented man lifted a large keg of liquor over his broad shoulder and dumped the contents into the fire, making the blaze rise to new lengths. A small girl screamed when the fire reached out and grazed her leg and the man --- Doozer --- seemed to soften. "It hurt her, Cheche?" he whimpered softly, but the skinny man slapped his beefy arm.

"Cut the waterworks and get back to yer job!" he began harshly, but melted at the forlorn gaze he received, and responded in a kinder manner. "These Southerners...they ain't human, so you don't gotta worry about hurtin' them."

Understanding lit up in the big man's gaze and he gave his friend a toothy smile.

"I get it. She no get hurt 'cos she not human child," he said, and the skinny man nodded. The bigger man began to laugh. He turned to the screaming girl and sliced her head clean off, silencing her cruelly. "You ain't gonna trick me. Me and Cheche gonna kill you all, right, Cheche?"

The weasel-like man nodded, willing to say anything to get his friend to do his job. Their boss wouldn't like it if any of them slacked off, slow in the head or not, and when the man decided to dislike something, he usually just went and killed it.

"That's right, Doozer, now go on and get 'em before Boss sees ye slackin' off!" At once the man ran off, presumably to go kill more Southerners, and his thin companion sighed.

"Tired, are we?" a cold voice suddenly asked. The weasel-like man leapt into the air, making a grab for his weapon by instinct. Before he could even touch it, a hand twisted around his bony wrist, forcing him to turn around and gaze at a large, bald man with a scarred face.

"B-boss!" The scared man saluted shakily, and his boss laughed, slapping him on the back roughly. It was a cruel laugh, the kind that could scare a brave man to death.

"At ease, fool, how's our mission going?" Even as he spoke, blood-red eyes took in the surroundings, taking note of all the dead piled up on the ground.

"It's...it's goin' real good, Boss. We're gonna have the whole village wiped out by daylight," he answered, stumbling over his words. The man rubbed his scarred chin thoughtfully, stroking the short red beard that grew there.

"I see... Well, I want you to stop killing now," he ordered. The news surprised the skinny man. In all his years of working for the boss, the bald man had never spared anyone before, had never shown any semblance of mercy.

"Stop?" He knew it was a bad idea to question the boss, but his curiosity bade him to plow on. "Are you sure?" Before he could even blink, a thick hand was painfully entwined in his greasy brown locks and his head was twisted at a very awkward angle. He was certain he'd have a crick in the morning.

"Yes, I'm sure, you incompetent fool! Why would I be unsure?" The scarred man shook him like a rag doll and threw him at his friend when the other came near. The weasel-like man clutched at his friend for dear life as the boss continued his rampage. "Odin above me, it's so hard to find good help these days!"

Soon enough, the man walked on, issuing orders to the rest of his men to stop the massacre. The Skinny man wasn't surprised that they shared his confusion.

"Cheche, you gonna be okay?" his friend whispered softly and the smaller man nodded. "I is very glad."

"I know yer glad, Doozer, I know." His whispered reply was almost sad. Both men stayed silent for a few minutes, before the rushing around of their fellow mercenaries forced them into action.

"Why do ya think the Boss made us stop?" They were now lined in ranks, the killing halted, and similar questions were on everyone's tongues. What few survivors there were, were all tied up and piled together. All of the mercenaries watched as the boss walked among their prisoners, stopping occasionally to roughly pull one up and gaze at his or her face. Soon enough, the boss decided to reward their curiosity with an answer.

"These Southerners sure are a pretty lot, aren't they? And not just the girls..." The nonchalant voice made the prisoners huddle together in fear. It was true; all of the Southerners had lean bodies with delicate muscles hidden under their caramel skin --- the kind of muscles used for dance and entertainment, what they were famous for, not battle. They had unusually large, slanted eyes in all sorts of rare shades, and many of them, even the men, had beautifully long hair that was also strange in coloring. Understanding dawned in the eyes of his men and a few whistled perversely, but quickly stopped when the boss shot them a scathing glare. "Inspect them all before loading the chosen ones onto our ships."

With that, he sent them to work. Soon enough, his men were roughly inspecting the people as if they were horses, and touching them in inappropriate places. Cheche and Doozer were among them and worked just as roughly, but with less fooling around. Both men were hoping for as little trouble as possible, so they could just head back home. Their hopes were dashed when one of the men yelped loudly.

"What's the matter, fool?" the boss asked, but the cause of his discomfort immediately became apparent. One of the Southern boys had his teeth clamped around the mercenary's hand, a hand that had probably been touching the boy a bit too fondly for the young Southerner's liking. Immediately, the boss was upon them, tearing the warrior away from the boy, before slapping the Southerner hard. The force of the impact caused the slight boy to hit the floor, his cheek red and his lips stained with fresh blood. "What were you trying to do, bitch?" The boy responded by spitting blood into his face.

"I will not allow you to violate my people any longer!" His comment earned him another slap and a painful grip in his hair, which was a sparkling shade of silver, like the moon these foreigners chose to worship, if rumors were true --- it was a little ironic. The red-eyed boss hissed at his disrespectful attitude, before an icy gleam sparkled in his eyes.

"You know, kid, a comment like that can get you killed," the boss told him in an eerie voice, one that was completely devoid of emotion. The boy in his arms forced himself to not shiver at the tone, for that would mean showing weakness.

"I do not care! I would rather die than become a slave," he spat, and the boss stared into the boy's pale gold eyes for what seemed like forever until a large, toothy smile—one that reminded the Southern boy of a pirana or a shark–filled his face.

"I like you, kid, you're feisty. I like that in my slaves," his said in a low, husky voice, shooting the boy a lustful gaze, and this time the boy could not stop the shiver that coursed through him. "But I don't, under any circumstances, allow my underlings to disrespect me."

The boy bit his lower lip anxiously as the man began to pull him away from his peers. "Kill them all!" Golden eyes widened in horror as the massacre began again and the boy shrieked out loud when a head rolled by.

"No! Please! What are you doing?" The other man held him back with laughable ease, but made no reply. Soon the boy was moved to tears. As they trailed down his dark cheeks, he pleaded with the boss. "Please stop, I beg of you!" Soon enough, the screaming stopped, and with it, the boy's sobs died down as well. It seemed he completely wore himself out and he lay limply in the scarred man's arms, before falling completely still. The boss threw him over one shoulder, like a woman or a sack of potatoes, before ordering the men to ready the ships.

Months later, when the men were home, Doozer forgot about the incident, but Cheche couldn't. He couldn't forget the broken, soulless look in the Southern boy's eyes when the boss had finally broken his spirits. "I wonder where that Southern boy is now?"

A/N: I hope there weren't too many mistakes, I edited it over and over to keep them to a minimum. Also, just so you know, even if the prologue sounds pointless, a prologue is there to sort of start off the story, and thus, a useful part of it even if it doesn't seem so. You can skip it if you like. But, if I were to just start off at the next part, wouldn't you wonder WTF was going on? FP's formating is starting to bother me. Gr, ever-changing FP, fie on you!

R&R: Enjoy please. And review, even if this is only the semi-boring prologue. I thought it came out pretty well, but what do you think? I will explain more about the world this story takes place in during the next chapter. All you have to know is that the Southerners are of a different culture than the mercenaries, and as you can tell, the mercenaries are kind of racist. I in no way approve of that; that's why they're the bad guys. Review??