The Allantide bonfire roars, snarling and crackling as her betrothed tosses a handful of white sage, minced dried apple, cinnamon, and ground walnuts onto its flames, scenting the air with his heartfelt offering. That done, Ronald turns, holding his palm out to her in a silent entreaty for her to come to him, to stand at his side tonight and e'ermore.
It is not typical for a marriage to take place on this night, known as Samhain to the Celts and Calan Gwaf to the Cornish, for this is a holiday reserved for endings, not beginnings.
However, Ronald will be leaving soon with his liege lord, the senior Earl of Devon, on a Holy Pilgrimage to Rome—that, despite the advisement by many for the Earl to wait for winter's conclusion before undertaking such a rough sea voyage—and her leofman does not wish to leave without securing her for his future. She is, after all, well past a marriageable age and there are more than a few eligible bachelors hanging about.
Not that Hermione will stray from this course.
This marriage to her childhood friend is the future that she has carved out for herself, and it is the best she can hope for given her station as the daughter of the Baron of Cranmere's physician-chiurgeon. She cannot afford to turn aside this union, for her aging parents' sake as well as her own. A match with a sixth son of a Baron is better than a tradesman by far, for her children will be landed nobility at least.
Besides, Ronald will be as a good husband as he has proven to be a childhood companion all these years, she is sure.
…And once she is known to a man, she believes she will no longer feel the injurious temptation of the flesh that continually hounds her, that sinful infatuation that boils her blood and leaves her dizzy and desirous every time her eyes dally over the new Baron of Cranmere.
She shivers as she once again thinks of William Arthur Weasley even as she passes off her small, autumn-themed bouquet to her groom's only sister, Ginevra, and lifting the hem of her fine, linen wedding dress, steps forward into the arms of her destiny with feet bared, shoulders back, and chin up. Even now, on this most auspicious of nights, as she goes to join her life to another, she cannot escape her unholy thoughts about the Baron…
The grounded circle of supple, young oak branches that have been twisted and tied together in the shape of an open-faced moon surround them, creating a space only for them and for the purpose of their union. The boughs, she knows, will later be used to decorate her firstborn's crib, just as her bouquet will be taken apart by her Standing-maid sometime before the witching hour and used to decorate the room where she will later lose her virginity. Just as in the ancient times of her long ago ancestors, nothing of the ceremony is wasted and everything to do with it is given reverent meaning.
There is a snapping of energia upon the tips of her fingers that longs to be set free. It is a common occurrence in recent years, since her coming of age, and Hermione believes inconsequential. Why, sometimes, she sees the matronly Lady Weasley rubbing her hands as if to ward off such a feeling, too, so it must not be an evil thing. She shakes it off as she would the same small shock that comes from rubbing two furs together during a cold winter's morn, and extends her hands outward for her husband-to-be to hold.
Ronald's palms clasp hers, and they are both a little slippery from sweat. They share a small, silent smile over that, and his goodly grin reminds her of when they were children, e'er into the devil's mischief under Cook's nose and within the blacksmith's hay.
She keeps her attention on her husband-to-be, refusing to look at the man who stands before them and officiates over their nuptials. As the eldest surviving Weasley male now that Arthur has passed, William stands as witness to her marriage, as well as sanctioning bureaucrat. He knows the antiquated rites well, having watched his brother, Percival, commit to them in the years since his return from fostering and apprenticeship. This will be his first time as minister, however, as she and her betrothed begin to speak their vows.
Before their family and community, she and Ronald offer each other a life-long commitment to weather every storm together, to support the other when there is need, and to understand when there is weakness. As the last of the promises are made, there is the imagined feel of ancient magic in the air to sanctify the union, and the night cloaks them in a thin, fragile silence as they exchange gold rings in the Roman tradition. There is a chaste kiss to seal the deal.
As their lips part, the pronouncement is made to the assemblage by William that they are forevermore bound, and the deed is done. She is now wife to Ronald Billius Weasley.
~.~.~.~.~
Even as Hermione's new husband takes her into his arms while the rest of the assembly cheers, her gaze once more unconsciously moves towards the man who has haunted her dreams of late—the man who has just presided over her ceremony.
The Baron Cranmere stands passively outside her marriage circle, dressed in a set of dashing, foreign robes that his adventuresome brother, Charles, has brought back from the Imperium Romanorum for him. The exotic cut of the imported clothing makes him looks powerful, almost royal. The silver embroidery on the white undertunic matches beautifully with that sewn into the hem of his black overcoat, and adds to the impression of great affluence, as well as adding a flare of mystery to its wearer. The high, open collar is not a design found in English men's clothing, but Hermione finds it an attractive feature, drawing the eye upwards, forcing one to focus on William's strong jaw and chin.
He is, to be sure, a most striking man and a splendid example of his gender in terms of masculine strength, height, features, and fighting prowess. That he is also freshly returned from Crusade a knight of solid repute in helping King Richard retake Acre from Saladin's forces, and the eldest son and heir to his family's wealth—which includes all the lands south of the Earl of Devon's seat at Okehampton, including the rich and beautiful Dartmoor Forrest, down to Fox Tor, east to New House and west to Beardon—only adds to his appeal.
That he is further a widower, his willowy French wife having died in the birth of their third child, his only son, is most likely the reason why there are so many unattached witches in attendance tonight.
Not that Hermione is complaining that many of her wedding guests are not here tonight to favour her new union so as much they are to achieve personal political aspirations with her new brother-in-law. Their attempts to win William's attention by showing generosity to his youngest brother only adds to her and Ronald's household wealth, after all. The furs-lined capes, sumptuous bolts of fabrics, jewels, Afru-ika spices, and gifts of silver will be used wisely to benefit the entire family, and tonight's mingling presents Ronald with an opportunity to potentially win a patron so he may, too, go on Crusade once the old Earl is dead, and earn some personal glory and esteem of his own. Being a fourth squire and a sixth son does not, tragically, offer him prospects aside from serving as an administrator to one of his older brother's lesser estates.
Despite the profit that comes with being related to such a well-considered and land-rich man as Baron Cranmere, however, there is something dark and unholy that draws Hermione unwillingly to William Weasley—some inexplicable feeling for him that appeared quite unexpectedly around the time of his return to England from the Holy Lands these two years past, and which has lingered between them e'er since. When he nears, she is edgy, and to her shame, intensely aroused as a woman should only be in the presence of her husband. She has frequent sleeping and waking dreams about him and his burning blue eyes. There are times she even aches for him to hold her as her husband does now, and wishes for his mouth and strong hands to find and open all her sacred places.
Hermione is no spring chick. Ever curious, she has spent years creeping around the castle at late hours, and she has occasioned to secretly witness the act of love between a man and woman. She knows what things couples get up to when they are alone and where all their parts fit together, and increasingly, she has been imagining herself and William in such positions.
These sinful feelings are the reason she had begged her father to hurry and seal the match with Ronald, for even if she had not harboured some feeling of affection for her betrothed, she still could not have hoped the widower Baron of Cranmere would set his sights upon her as anything more than a winter mistress…and that is a position, no matter her restless, itchy longing, that is not just shameful in her opinion, but unthinkable.
Praise to all the angels and saints that her father has always indulged her, his only child, and he was willing to recognise her childhood connection as a good one for her soul, despite its lack of wealth.
And it is a good match; she loves Ronald, and has wanted to be his wife in name and in deed from the time she was old enough to understand that a man needs a good woman at his side. Besides, theirs has always been a natural and decent fit, as they have been doves since they were small, playing in wheat fields for hours between Matins and Vespers, and counting stars together from his father's parapets on warm summer nights. They have seen many happy days together, getting into mischief in cook's kitchen, braiding each other's long hair, and practicing their archery. They have also weathered great sorrow with the death of their boon companion, Harry, when he was struck by lightning out on the bogs and killed at the tender age of eleven. They have shared touches and "show-me" games and a first kiss at sixteen, after a rather awful row involving the maid, Lavender Brown. Theirs has been a friendship borne of her parents' manipulations through her fostering to Lady Weasley's service, and their match has been an expected outcome from practically the time of her birth. There was no other future imagined for her.
…And yet, for all their affection for each other and their shared history, it is not Ronald Weasley who continually draws her eye with such fascination.
As she looks at William now, she is still perplexed as to put a name to the unnatural hold over her senses that he seems to have despite the new ring on her finger, much less from where it derives. Surely, it cannot be love, for she knows little about Ronald's brother other than their chance interactions around Cranmere Castle, and the one dance she shared with him last Twelfth Night, during the revelling. Perhaps it is pity and compassion for his imperfection that draws her in. The three slashing scars on his cheek—wounds sustained by a wolf attack on the road from Kalocsa in Hungary while travelling home from the war—are scarlet reminders that for all his advantages, he is also a man believed to be cursed. Although, from what she can see of the coy glances turned his way tonight, it seems many females are willing to overlook such a fact.
No, she knows in her heart of hearts that it is lust she feels for him, that most dishonourable of Baal-zebub's sins, and she has given many penances and indulgences over the last two years to ward off such evil.
To no avail, it seems. The Baron now stares back at her, his piercing eyes the same shade as her husband's, and in their depths there is an unmistakable echo of her desire.
She shivers and turns her face into Ronald's chest, letting his familiar smell and the steady beat of his heart provide her with a modicum of comfort. His arms tighten around her, as Ginevra's sweet, clear voice suddenly breaks into song. The traditional Welsh ballad is harmonized by her mother's beautiful, deeper alto and speaks of the fated journey ahead and the sacrifice that waits at the end of it…and of the offering of her body to a greater cause.
.
"Y wawr yn torri
Mae'r tyndra yn esgyn
Fy nghyned yn aros
Rwy'n barod i'r siwrne
Henuriaid yn galw
O fore tan nos
Maen't yn aros am yr aberth
A fydd i'w rhoi rhyddhad
Yn gynnar yn y bore
Lleisiau yn fy ngalw
Yr amser wedi cyrraedd
Ac mae'n rhaid i'm fynd
Wedi treilio amryw flwyddyn
Paratoi am yr eiliad hon
Er mwyn rhoi fy nghorff mewn offrwm
I'r Derwyddon."
.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Author's Notes:
And so we begin. Please review!
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