DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters from Guardians of the Galaxy, either in its movie or comic incarnation. I own any OC I can invent, though. I am not making a £ out of this. It is just for shits and giggles.

Warnings: some angst, overtones of BDSM.

On the last chapter someone pointed out that it didn't seem right for Ronan to be swearing in English. You're right, it does not, and in fact, he isn't.
No one of the characters has been speaking any English whatsoever in this fic so far.
They are speaking whatever international language is spoken in the MCU.
Henceforth, I'm going to call this language Trader's Tongue or Trader's for short. It is supposed to be the lingua franca of the setting, that is the langauge used for international commerce, diplomacy and travel. Role-wise,it is a bit like English, or like Latin used to be during the Middle Ages, but it is neither English nor Latin.
All well-travelled or well-educated characters know Trader's, and in addition, they also know the languages from their own planets.

I hope this makes it clearer to everyone

Enjoy!

The Xandarians insist to have the ceremony performed as soon as possible.
Ronan couldn't be more in agreement. He wants to get over with it and get on with the new phase of his life.

So, as soon as the bruises have faded (the Xandarians wouldn't want for anyone to think that he has been abused), he finds himself walking down the most central avenue of Xandar town, escorted by a cadre of guards and with his hands tied at his back.

He is barefoot and wearing clothes chosen by the staff of Nova Prime according to their distorted idea of what ceremonial Kree clothes look like. They must have looked up archaic art, so he has ended up wearing a long pleated kilt, tied at the waist with a wide, decorated sash, all in white, and nothing else.
The cloth is new, crisp linen, the folds starched in sharp lines. His head is uncovered, and there is a lot more flesh on display than he would have liked. No one has dressed like that in the Kree Empire for at least a thousand years. Ronan doesn't just feel ridiculous, he feels under-dressed, exposed, and the eyes of the multi-coloured crowd standing on both sides of the avenue watch him hungrily. They all want to catch a glimpse of the vanquished enemy.

Even though his bruises have faded, he is still far from restored. The scar on his stomach is still black, raised, and rather painful, and he is still weak from the loss of blood.
They climb the raised platform where Nova Prime and the rest of the Xandarian government are waiting. Ronan is grateful when the guards stop and part, leaving him to face the Xandarian government.
He sinks to his knees, as agreed. He doesn't think he would have managed to stand for much longer anyway.

Nova Prime barely looks his way. She starts her speech, instead. Ronan intentionally zones out, disconnecting himself from his surroundings so that her words become a hushed drone. He is sure that she is talking about Xandarian values and the superiority of Xandarian civilization. He doesn't have the stomach for that, especially as he knows first-hand that the key principles of their government are not really justice and virtue, but the pursuit of strategic economic interests and plausible deniability.

The speech goes on and on. Ronan concentrates on the pattern of golden threads in Nova Prime's stole of office, making a private game of following each thread from end to end. He wonders if the design is symbolic. If it is, he cannot imagine what it should stand for.

When it is finally over, the crowd explodes into a loud cheer. Ronan switches his attention back to his surroundings.
Nova Prime is holding something in her hands, something that looks like a thick metallic arc.
She lifts a hand and two guards hold him by his shoulders. Nova Prime places the arc around his neck and snaps it closed. It is a restraining collar.
He should have imagined.

One of the guards attaches a chain to the ring riveted into the front of the collar, and hands the chain over to Nova Prime. She takes it and holds it proudly, looking down at him with a haughty, domineering expression.
Ronan meets her eyes and refuses to look down.
"You are not my mistress." he thinks defiantly. He can see a spark of anger light in her light-coloured eyes. She glares at him, willing him to submit, but he won't give her that satisfaction. He will submit to the Guardians only.

It takes only a moment for him to start feeling a firm pressure against his windpipe. Nova Prime is clenching something in her free hand. Ronan bets it is a remote for the restraining collar.
He doesn't look down. She can't hurt him in any noticeable way while they are in public, it would defeat all her "humane treatment of prisoners" routine. He can defy her for a while longer, he tells himself.
The pressure increases steadily, making it harder for him to breathe, and then cutting his air supply almost completely. Dark spots start to cloud his vision, but he doesn't back down. He keeps looking straight at her.
Her pupils are dilated, her nostrils flare with her quickened breaths, and a hint of colour has appeared on her pale face. She doesn't seem angry any longer, though. How strange...
The realization of what is going on hits him in a flash: Nova Prime is getting aroused by their little fight for dominance.
Ronan finds the notion deeply unsettling. He is too embarrassed to look at her any longer, and lowers his gaze, conceding.
As soon as he does that, the pressure disappears and he can breathe freely once more.

Nova Prime yanks the chain, signalling to him that it is time to move. She leads him a few steps away, to where the Guardians are waiting. Ronan kneels once more. He keeps his head down for his true masters and can only see their feet and lower legs, but the clinking of the chain tells him that he is being handed over.

"I give this man to you. - Nova Prime announces - Treat him humanely and according to all virtues." she adds and Ronan has to stifle a laugh. He has just realized how horribly like a traditional marriage ceremony this is looking, only he is the bride, and all the Guardians are the grooms. He wonders whether it is just a coincidence, or the Nova know more about the traditions of taking and keeping haaq than they have so far shown.

A warm hand presses against his chin, forcing him to look up. Instinctively, he closes his eyes, trying to avoid disrespecting his masters. There is a sigh.
"Look at us, Ronan of House Danu." Gamora orders.
Ronan obeys, rather surprised. He has not been called so since he was fifteen. He has always been only the Accuser ever since his investiture.
He and his grandfather were the last two members of his noble House. Now that he is haaq, House Danu is no more.
Gamora is looking at him sternly, but her sternness is tempered by some sort of sympathy.

"Do you pledge to serve our family in all things to the best of your abilities, until you have fully atoned your deeds against us?" Drax asks solemnly.
"I do." Ronan replies, trying to keep his voice loud and clear.
"Then this is no longer necessary." Star-Lord chimes in, kneeling in front of him to detach the chain from his collar.
The Terran rises and steps behind him. Ronan hears a knife slide out of its sheath, and the ropes binding his wrists fall to the ground.
"And neither is this." he adds, retaking his position in front of him.

"Rise, Ronan of House Danu. - Gamora orders - Take your place among us."
She holds out her hand to him. He hesitates only a moment before taking it and letting her help him to his feet.
Gamora smiles gently and signals for him to take his place behind her.
Star-Lord hands him a white hooded cloak and he gratefully dons it, hiding as much as he can in its folds. The cloth is soft and warm. He represses a shiver. Only now he realises how cold he has been feeling during the ceremony.
Star-Lord discreetly pat him on the back and winks, trying to reassure him.

As he had said to him the first night, the Guardians take their responsibilities seriously, and somehow, even if they are not Kree and know nothing about the traditions of his people, they have realized that, while it is his duty to serve them, it is their duty to protect him. They do it as if it is natural to them.
Their protection makes him feel safe, and gives him the strength to stand straight for the rest of the ceremony, ignoring the angry, spiteful looks the Nova officers are giving him.

Maybe he has been too quick to judge the Guardians based on his assumptions about non-Kree, he thinks as he follows them to their little, colourful ship and into his new life. Maybe they will treat him right.
Even though he knows he doesn't deserve any sort of respite, the idea comforts him.