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“You look beautiful, Sweetheart.” He leaned down to murmur in my ear, his lips brushing my cheek as he did so. I shivered, though whether it was from his closeness or the idea of being seen to be so intimate with him in front of so many people, I was not sure.
“Thank you,” I whispered back, smiling at him the best I could. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”
“You flatter me,” he smirked, “It’s nice that your General showed up.”
It took me a second to register the words Cyrus had said, but when I did, my head spun to look at the guests again.
Right there, in the middle of the very front row on my side, was Maeteo. In full General uniform with his hair combed back and a grin on his face that could rival the sun shining. I grinned back at him, my heart fluttering in my chest at the sight of him, at the comfort of having him nearby.
The priest behind us cleared his throat, and gestured for the guests to all take their seats again. Cyrus winked atme quickly, before we both turned to face the stain glass window, the raindrops dancing down the coloured glass as though they wanted to be in on the day, too.
~~~
An hour later, after the singing and traditional marriage blessings were out of the way, my back was aching. The weight of the dress was beginning to make me sweat, and the heat of so many bodies packed into the room was stifling.
The priest cleared his throat, stopping for a moment to take a sip of water from the cup behind him, and grinned at us both. I could see the sweat starting to bead on Cyrus’s forehead and took some comfort knowing he was just as uncomfortable as I was.
I could feel the eyes of every guest boring into my back as we stood in front of them, and I had to fight every instinct I had to run away from their scrutiny.
“I appreciate that it is getting slightly warm in here,” The priest joked, pulling at his robes slightly to try and get some air about him, “But we are almost finished. It is time for the Queen and her husband to gain their blessing.”
I did not miss the way Cyrus’s teeth snapped together at the priest’s words. He had been moaning about not getting his own coronation for the last few days, every time we were together, he was trying to convince me to change my mind on the matter. But the more he moaned,the less inclined I was to.
The priest stepped away for a second, returning with a long, golden rope.
“If you could face each other,” He instructed, “And hold each other’s opposite forearm.”
Cyrus turned his body towards mine, his eyes full of thunder as he did so. I tried to stop my hands from shaking as I reached out to grip his left forearm, but the smirk on his face showed me I was not as successful as I had hoped. His grip on my arm was almost bruising, and I winced slightly at the pressure, grateful for the fabric of my sleeves between our skin, even if it was thin.
The priest moved close to us, wrapping the golden rope around my arm first, winding it down over Cyrus’s hand and wrist, and then over my hand where I gripped his forearm. The rope shimmered in the orange candlelight of the many lit sconces and the overhead chandelier, and the tighter it was wound around our arms, the harder it felt for me to take a deep breath.
Moving back from us, the priest turned to pick up a golden bowl. We had discussed this during the pre-wedding meetings, but seeing it now made me realise how absolute the whole situation was. The water in the bowl would bind the rope to our skin, leaving us with permanent, almost burn-like, scars.
I grit my teeth as the priest began to chant, an ancient blessing that was used only under these circumstances,and the water began to flow from the bowl, trickling down my arm and winding around the rope as though magic was guiding it. Hissing through my teeth, I watched as the rope began to fade away, going from a solid gold vine to nothing more than a pile of ash on the dais floor.
The new, still burning, white scars on my arm shone through the sleeves of my dress. I eyed them carefully as I listened to Cyrus grunt uncomfortably, his side of the rope burning through his suit jacket and marking him in identical twists to mine. The priest was still smiling at us both, and the crowd behind us were applauding, completely in awe of the spectacle they had just witnessed.
“Continue to hold each other,” The priest instructed, nodding his head, “And we will finish the blessing.”
Cyrus and I both nodded, knowing this was the point we would have to share a kiss in front of the gathered guests. The priest raised both of his hands, placing one on my forehead and the other on Cyrus’s as his voice carried through the chapel, the language he was speaking long forgotten by the common tongue but still taught in religious settings. Goosebumps broke out on my skin, the feeling of old magic floating through the air as his voice bounced off the stain glass windows, carrying itself around the room as though his voice had been enhanced.
As his words faded, and the feeling of magic eased out of the air, applause started from the guests again. Cyrus and I locked eyes, the smirk on his face at complete odds withthe thunderous unhappiness in his eyes as he leaned in towards me. I had to rise onto the tips of my toes, even with him bending down, and sucked in a deep breath, his lips on mine in an instant.
A spark, a rumble of thunder, and a screaming cheer from the crowd all happened the minute our lips touched. Cyrus’s hand that was not still gripping my arm went to my waist, pulling me in against him and squeezing tightly, and mine went to his shoulder, knotting my fingers in the fabric of his suit jacket.
As we broke apart, my breath came in quick bursts, and my eyes went wide at the smile on Cyrus’s face. It was unlike any I had seen from him up until now. It was wide, all his teeth showing, and almost looked feral.
“I now pronounce you, Her Royal Highness Kira Dagon, Queen of Fire and of Earth, Waker of Dragons, Magic Wielder, and you, Prince Cyrus Cafirou, husband and wife. May your marriage last as long as the sun’s fire and the moon’s wonder.”
The crowd behind us began to roar, their applause almost as loud as the thunder outside as Cyrus dipped me at the waist, crushing his lips to mine again and taking me by surprise.
“Hello, wife.” He grinned; his eyes wild when he broke away from me.
“Hello, husband.” I whispered back, my heart sinking slightly at the unhinged look he had gained.
Returning me to an upright position, Cyrus slid his hand into mine, lifting them both above our heads in a dramatic fashion as we started to make out way back down the aisle, between the guests as they all cheered. It was time for Cyrus to change out of his wedding suit and into his Coronation suit, and the feeling of dread, of wrongness, of uncertainty, settled itself deepwithin my chest.
35
