Alone I stood in the church, before the altar, donning my deceased mother's wedding dress. The ceremony had been my father's idea - a desperate plead to mask the true nature of my departure, I suppose. But he didn't attend. Only Nan did, sitting on a random pew some meters away from me, quietly watching the walls, for there was nothing else to see. The priest stood before me, quietly holding open a bible, quietly reading it to himself, too self-conscious of my situation to pronounce them clearly. Nothing but his voice echoed through the empty church.
Down the aisle came a strange old man, dressed in an unfamiliar foreign attire, a square hat on his head: he was there to validate the wedding ceremony and to fetch me away, on behalf of Lord Fredrick, the Duke of Greavontis Isle, who wouldn't be joining us. Of course he wouldn't: we all knew that already. I didn't shake where I stood because I knew I needed not expect him: this wedding ruse was a game the Duke didn't wish to partake in any more than what was necessary, so this hasty, sour old man rushed down the aisle in his stead, nodded an impersonal greeting to the priest, bent over the pulpit and signed the papers that sat there, waiting to be officialized. And that was it: one small scribble imprinted by a representative of the Duke, and I was 'wedded'.
All three of us that were present watched the queer man as he unceremoniously walked to and from the altar, and finally assumed a stiff position behind me, dignifying me with not even a small greet. Once there, he checked his watch, sighed and crossed his hands behind his back, an inconvenienced air about his face: I was a parcel to be delivered, it seemed. An almost lifeless thing which had now been given to his care.
I investigated him with the corner of my eyes, before turning my attention back to the despondent priest. The foreign man's presence did nothing to alleviate the mood; his strange mannerism and lack of decorum only forebode of the tragedy of my future – the friendless country I was to be carried away to.
Still, like mine, the priest's duty was set before him, and he must not opine: Awkwardly he read my wedding rites, not really knowing what to do with the ones that addressed my husband. I stopped listening to spare him, and stared at the massive cross looming behind the altar instead, reflecting upon what it stood for. Why did it matter, this silly religious formality? For a second I was as impatient as the old man behind me: why did it matter that I go through a wedding ceremony, summoning God's blessings, when I was to be given away to a demon? I bet everyone there thought the same, but we said nothing. No one cheered and no one clapped when the priest coldly declared me a married girl – instead, deeper silence ensued. We were fooling nobody: I did not attend my wedding – I merely stood at my own funeral.
"Shall we?" the greying man cleared his throat to address me in an impatient, condescending way. I didn't know what to say – but I don't think I was in any position to say anything, really. Not anymore. No longer was I the pretty princess of Dromoria. I was now the Duke's parcel, on its way to be delivered.
Ruled by politeness, I nodded my consent – why make more drama? The man turned around and paced swiftly ahead. Hesitant, scared and with a heavy, bleeding heart, I took to following him. I walked past Nan, I marked her sad expression – no goodbyes, no time to say it, no strength left in them to endure those condemning words. Cowards! I bitterly wished the Duke would ship them back my chopped remains, or that somehow a testament of my suffering reached them when I was gone, so they wouldn't go on their lives in the comfort of not knowing! Cowards, all of them: I walked out of the church with nothing but curses swirling on my tongue!
Hardened by anger, holding back anguished tears, I boarded a ship. The Duke's banner – a four-legged dragon holding a dagger on one side and a chalice on the other, open wings and a screaming mouth – swayed lazily atop the main mast.
Having boarded, I was given a quarter below deck, and there I stayed for most of my journey, reflecting on my life, dreading its prospects, weeping bitterly. The fear I experienced kept me from any charitable feelings towards my people, who were now saved. For four days I lay there in the dark, wallowing in self-pity. On the fifth, I left my nook to wonder the deck, to feel the chilly sea breeze and watch the ship's cruise for a while. Bundles of my possessions were scattered about, stuffed in boxes, crumpled into compartments or tied together in ropes around the masts – fancy furniture, chests, even childhood toys, as if the King needed to guarantee the princess her comfort in this new country she travelled to, surrounding her with all that was dear and familiar to her. In truth, it felt like he was just getting rid of all my things, so that nothing could remind him I had even existed within his castle walls.
On the 6th day, no one told me we'd be arriving – in fact, no one ever bothered speaking to me, though I was treated with cold respect and dignity. They prattled amongst each other – the crewmen – but in a tongue I could not understand. Their rising chatter and their quick moving up and down are what gave it away: that our journey neared its end.
I ascended the steps towards the deck, dodging hasty sailors, and once there, sure enough, as the full moon shone brightly overhead, a rugged country of craggy mountains rose from the sea, distant lights shimmering on what looked like a dock. Night had fully set in, the sea oozed a strong salty scent, the humidity clung uncomfortably to my skin; and as the ship neared the long-reaching dock, a shadow grew in the sky: An elongated castle on the top of a mountain, its pointy towers stretching upwards, watching my arrival was the same banner – the golden dragon, swaying lazily through a breezeless sky. I did not need to understand the language the sailors spoke about me to know what concern they expressed in their restless labor: The Duke was home.