Chapter Three:  A Wedding

Beltane, 444 H.E.

The only good thing about a post-wedding celebration, Raoul firmly believed, was that no expense was spared in supplying alcohol.  Wine, mead, ale, brandy—variation upon variation at his disposal.

And wedding celebrations were those blissful occasions when people relaxed more, in their joy, and let the constraints of etiquette lapse.  At Geoffrey of Meron's nuptials, just two months prior, Alanna and George had challenged each other to a drinking contest.  Of course, the diminutive Lioness had been overly optimistic; George ended up carrying his sauced wife home that night. 

However, the Prime Minister's wedding was not so rollicking an affair.  While Raoul was thoroughly enjoying his ale, he noticed that few others had made this same decision.

Beltane, he thought with a grimace.  To promote a splendid life full of children and prosperity and the things every Tortallan is supposed to wish for all their lives.  He shook his head and took a long drink.  It was bad enough to be present—did he have to be thinking?

He stopped listening to the chatter around him.  Even his closest friends' voices irritated him.  He wanted to get away.  He wanted to go home.

"So when will you be getting married, Raoul?"

It was Douglass of Veldine who spoke; he was Raoul's former squire and a fellow bachelor.

"Oh, he's never getting married," Gary said with a smile, approaching with Cythera just in time to hear the question.  They had been roaming from table to table throughout the Grand Hall, speaking to their guests.

"Never?" Alanna grinned, raising her eyebrows.  "That's a word that will always come back and bite you in the rump."

"You say that now only because you always said you'd never marry," George murmured.  Alanna's face contorted into a mask of mock-anger.

Raoul glared up at Cythera and Gary before rising to his feet.  "I need a drink."

But instead of heading to one of the servants who meandered through the crowd with trays of ale, he stomped toward the door that led to the service hallway.  He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.  The world was spinning, and he wasn't sure if it was anger, misery, or alcohol that caused it to do so.

A cool hand touched his cheek.  When he opened his eyes he saw Cythera standing before him.

"How much have you had to drink?" she asked.  Her voice was gentle.  Sad.  Pitying.

Raoul flinched away from the touch.  "Go back to your party."

"You told Gary you were fine with this," she said.  Her voice held no trace of accusation, but a matter-of-fact quality that he had always associated with her husband.

"I say a lot of things I don't really mean," Raoul retorted his voice growing louder.  "What was I supposed to do?  Throw myself prostrate before you and beg you not to do it?  Convince you to deny any mutual affection between the two of you because I wasn't happy?"

His words were met with silence.

"Would you have changed anything if I had said something?" he continued coldly.  "No.  You would have told me that it was the bed that I made when I ended things, and now had come the time for me to sleep in it."

Cythera's understanding expression was replaced with one that seemed a cross between anger and discomfort.  "How many chances did we give you?" she asked, her voice growing colder.  "How many times did Gary ask you if he was doing the right thing?"

"Plenty of times—but I could tell that he was falling in love with you, and I wasn't going to stand in the way."

"Of course you weren't!" Cythera hissed, "because that would mean putting your heart on the line.  You couldn't marry me when you wanted to because you were afraid, and for the same reason, you couldn't ask him not to!"

Raoul angrily pushed her aside, moving down the hallway.  Before he went too many steps, he spun on his heel only to stagger against the wall.  "I didn't ask to marry you because I didn't know where I stood with Gary," he slurred, reaching for the flask of whiskey he had carried with him all day.  After a generous sip, he continued.  "I didn't stop him from marrying you because I didn't think it mattered, if that was what he wanted.  It doesn't mean that I cared about him or you any less than before.  It means I didn't know what I wanted, so I left you both to decide."  He leaned on the wall again, drained from yelling. "I didn't know that the only two people I ever loved would end up married."

"You let him end things between the two of you, even though you still cared for him?" Cythera asked softly. 

Raoul looked up at her sharply.  "Gary told you everything?" he asked, his voice low.

She nodded.  "We were honest from the beginning.  He told me that he didn't know what was going on between the two of you—what had been going on for years, You were always so aloof about it."

"Yes," Raoul said, closing his eyes again.  He had been trying to protect himself, after the awkward break with Cythera.  "Leaving you was the hardest thing I ever did—until that night he talked about marriage. Letting him go was awful."

"Then why didn't you hold on to him?" she asked, the slightest remnants of anger in her voice.  She closed the gap between them, taking his large hand in both of hers.  "If you loved him, you should have kept him."

He grimaced.  "I know."  He peered through partially opened eyes, examining her beautiful, troubled face.  "Why should it matter now, though?  You can't look sad and tell me that I should've kept your husband.  Not on your wedding day."

Cythera sighed.  "You're right.  But I never wanted my husband, my future, to settle so definitely on someone else's unhappiness."

He pulled her comfortably into his arms, still marveling over the way her tall frame fit so nicely against his own.  He could feel her nervous breath against his neck.  "I'm not unhappy," he murmured.  "Just lonely."  He lowered his mouth to hers, realizing for the first time exactly how long it had been since they had parted. 

She returned the kiss, clutching his tunic; within moments she voiced a protest and pushed him away, her hands against his chest.  "I'm married," she murmured.  "And you're drunk."

He knocked back the remaining contents of his flask with one large gulp.  "You're married," he said with a scowl.  "And I'm a confirmed bachelor with nothing left, since you've taken Gary with you."  He pushed himself past her and moved to return to the Grand Hall.

 "'Taken Gary with you?'" she repeated angrily.  "Have you not listened to one word I've said?" 

He turned quickly, stumbling as he did so.  He opened his mouth, but felt a firm hand clap over it.

"Come along, Goldenlake."  A commanding voice swam into Raoul's head while strong fingers clamped on his arm.  "Pardon us, Lady Cythera."  He did not loosen his grip as he dragged Raoul down the corridor, though he did uncover his mouth. 

"What the hell was that for?" Raoul growled as he was shoved through the narrow entry hall.

"You're making a complete fool of yourself."

Raoul twisted and tried to break free, but it was to no avail. 

"You may be bigger and stronger, but you're also a sloppy drunk."

Raoul was finally able to place that frigid, severe voice.  "Wyldon of Cavall," he slurred, yanking his arm free and facing the shorter man.  "Since when are Conservatives invited to parties like this?"

Wyldon grabbed him by the collar and forced him against the stone wall.  Raoul's knees buckled beneath him, and he had no time to recover before he slumped to the ground. 

"That's Sir Wyldon," he replied coldly.  He crouched down to look Raoul in the eye.  "And perhaps Conservatives are invited to parties like this because we understand decorum and respect, and we don't go propositioning brides in back halls."  His glare was stern.  "Or grooms."

Raoul groaned.  How much did the priggish bastard overhear before his assault? 

"Oh, don't feel ashamed now," Wyldon replied coldly.  He left the entryway and stepped outside.  When he came back, he held a wooden ladle full of water, presumably taken from the kitchen well.  "Drink up," he said, crouching before Raoul and holding up the ladle.

"Why are you doing this?"  Raoul muttered between sips. 

Wyldon leaned back on his heels, examining him with serious eyes.  "Because you're better than this, Goldenlake.  You used to be the best of the lot—the strongest, the sturdiest.  And now… you're a pathetic drunk."  He didn't soften his tone or expression.

Raoul digested the words slowly, letting them sink in and cut through the murky slowness of his thoughts.  He could hardly remember his conversation with Cythera.  Had he made such a complete ass of himself? 

"What do I do?"  The words came out low, barely above a whisper.

Wyldon's brown eyes met his with unfamiliar kindness.  "Give me the flask," he answered.