A click of heels announces the presence of my mother even before I can see her. She strides down the hallway that links to the top of the throne room where my husband to-be currently stands waiting, the long veils of her dress trailing behind her, stalking the hallways like a lioness in hunt of its prey. Her eyes are sharp, her mouth pressed in a harsh line, a smear of lipstick wobbling above her lip which I have no intention of telling her about. Frankly, she looks positively livid.
It would be unfair to say I didn't bring this upon myself. I knew exactly what I was doing whittling away my time outside in the palace courtyard. But that doesn't make the Queen any less intimidating.
Silently, I steel myself for the onslaught of criticism.
"Where have you been, Elowyn? You say you want some fresh air and then you stay outside and keep the Prince waiting! You ungrateful girl! I arranged this all for you, you know! And you have the nerve to go and keep me, and my nobles, waiting!" she hisses in as low a voice as she can muster without alerting the awaiting nobles in the throne room of her wrath. I grit my teeth. I know what this is really about- I embarrassed her in front of her court of nobles, I made a fool of her time obsessed, perfectionist ass, ruined her perfect little set up.
Alastor turns around behind me, obviously trying to hide his grin with his white gloved hand- a grin that the Queen fortunately is too distracted to notice. But his tail is twitching, his body shaking with the effort to keep himself contained, clearly tickled by seeing my mother in such a state.
Alastor always found it hilarious when my mother got angry, mostly, he'd say, because 'she was never any good at it.' He'd tell me after each ticking off that she sounded like a yowling cat, and would proceed to make hand puppets re-enacting the scene with an uncanny cat like meowl.
I expect he did it to cheer me up- and it did. It always got me giggling too- much to my mothers displeasure.
At long last I tune back in to my mothers rant.
"The heavens help me. The Prince has been up there five minutes you know and-" she stops, pausing to take a good look at me. I can't be sure, but under the flickering lights of the overhead lanterns, I swear her skin grows pale. "Where did you get that flower?"
I shrug casually.
"It was a gift."
"A gift?"
"Yes, a gift. Do I have to repeat myself again? Because it gets really tiresome going on a loop," I sigh, leaning back on the balls of my feet, scratching my arms anxiously, just ready for everything to be over with. But the Queen, however, has other ideas.
Nervously, she peers inside into the throne room, her eyes scanning over the rows of seated and awaiting guests who fail to notice her as they chatter casually amongst themselves. Most of them appear to be eyeing the banquette tables that are pushed up to the far side of each wall, a hungry look on their features, their eyes bulging slightly in their sockets. I doubt they are even here for the wedding, they probably just want to food.
Sharply, the Queen's gaze goes back to me.
"Take it out. Take out the flower, and give it to me."
"What? No! Why?" I say, drawing back a bit, my fingers clenching into angry fists. I rarely get given gifts around here, mostly because people don't really care to offer me them. And any gifts I do receive must be passed through my mother. I rarely get any of them back.
There is no way in hell I am giving her this one. Not today.
"Because I said so. Alastor, tell her."
Alastor, who had suddenly become rather interested in one of the oil paintings on the wall, flicks his gaze back to me, then to my mum, his ears twitching in obvious distress. He gives an audible gulp.
"Well, I think we have kept the Prince waiting longer than necessary. So why don't we forget about the flower and just get out there?"
I can tell at the end of his sentence he is holding his breath, his body rigid with a tense apprehension. The Queen grits her teeth.
"Fine," she says bluntly, allowing Alastor to breathe a heavy sigh of relief. "But as soon as this is over, you are burning it."
I bite the inside of my cheek.
"Whatever you say mum," I mutter, not really sure why it's such a big deal to her.
I certainly won't be burning it later, either. Perhaps I will find something else to burn- one of her nice dresses, or one of her hundreds of necklaces that she never wears. I doubt she would even notice.
The Queen visibly composes herself, pushing back her free flowing locks with a huff of disapproval. Although her face is for the most part perfectly smooth, there is a slight indent between her brows from excessive frowning, a mark that I am likely the cause of. As she looks at me, this mark deepens.
"Now get out there, or so help me that poor prince might die of boredom."
I nod slowly, holding in a sigh, and a couple of witty remarks. Right. Time to get this shitty wedding over with.
As soon as I enter the throne room, the music starts playing. Classical organ music, too loud for my ears, and equally too loud for Alastor, but being the sturdier of the two of us, he links his arm round mine and walks me down the aisle of gold. The room erupts in the drunken cheers of rowdy nobles, who lift their arms in a bleary cheerfulness at the sight of the awaited bride. I stare straight ahead of me, unwilling to meet their gaze.
Fucking nobles. I bet they are already pissed.
Under the canopy at the top of the dais at the far end of the room lies Yariel, dressed in a fine white suit with a golden traced rim. Alastor see's him to, and though he does his best to hide it, his arm goes a little rigid against mine.
Some people might call that nervousness. I, on the other hand, call it jealousy.
"Just stay calm," he whispers over the cries of the organ, his grip tightening on me. "It will be over soon, I promise."
But whether he is saying that to me, or himself, I cannot tell.
My eyes once more land on the Prince, his messy golden curls slightly ruffled, as though he has been running his hands though his hair several times over. He is a handsome man- though rather ordinarily looking for a Prince, at least compared to the other ones around the Upper Realm. He is the eldest of the Princes of Ethelia and thus a theoretically perfect match for me.
But as I walk closer and closer, the eyes of a thousand nobles drilling into me like stakes through a vampire's heart, the more I feel like this is not a good match at all. He reminds me too much of my mother- the same curly blond hair and bright blue eyes, the same stoic expression that looks like he has never seen an ounce of fun in his life. I wonder silently whether he has the same obsessive personality as the Queen, and perhaps if that is why she liked him so much. I wouldn't put it past her.
All too quickly I reach the canopy, and all too quickly I am standing face to face with my future husband, my brain rushing at a thousand miles per hour, wishing with every second that I could escape. The minute Alastor lets go of my arm is the minute I come undone. Panic breaks over me in wave upon wave, washing up my insides in a clamorous turmoil as the music slows to a halt. The smell of flowers under the canopy is nauseating, almost sickening, so much so that I have to bite my cheek to withhold the vomit that climbs its way up to my mouth.
Fuck this, I don't even want to be here.
But my mothers cold, insistent stare drills in to me from across the dais, locking me in place. There is no escape for me now.
The Prince takes my hand in his.
"Princess Elowyn," he says in a heavy accent, bringing his lips up to my hand, planting a kiss upon the top. "So nice to finally meet you,"
I strain a smile.
"Likewise, Prince Yariel. It's an honour."
Lies, my head shouts. All lies. But I keep smiling anyway.
A priest steps down from his altar, a leather bound book in his hands, full of the faint smell of must and worn out leather. He looks ancient, wisps of hair clinging to his scalp, totally out of place in this gleaming marble palace, like he might collapse into a pile of withered bones any minute.
I grimace.
The priest coughs us all to attention.
"We gather here today to witness the marriage of these two young royals, Prince Yariel, and Princess Elowyn. If everybody is here, the ceremony will now commence."
A short round of clapping courses through the crowd, and from the side of my eye I glance over each face, hoping I might catch a glimpse of the gentleman in the courtyard, that he might be able to help me. But on my brief checking over, I find no such luck. So much for that idea.
Nerves continue to bubble away at my insides, swallowing me up. I feel like I am going to be sick.
"Prince Yariel," the priest says, dipping his head in acknowledgement to the blond haired boy whose hands encompass my own. I become faintly aware of my mothers presence beside me, watching in authoritative admiration at the scene that commences before here.
"Do you take Princess Elowyn, star of the Kingdom of Vriryn, to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
The Prince nods solemnly.
"I do."
The priest turns to me. Terror seethes in my stomach, filling up my veins with an icy cold of fear and dread. Get out, my heart pounds. Get out, run. But my feet stay firmly planted.
"And do you," the priest continues, raising the spectacles on his wrinkled face. "Princess Elowyn, take Prince Yariel, warrior of the Kingdom of Ethelia, to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
My heart stops.
"I-" Something in me falters. "I…"
A cold voice whispers behind me.
"Say it, Elowyn," my mother hisses, as though trying to hurry me. "Say it."
"I-"