The Wedding

The tragedy of sexual intercourse is the perpetual virginity of the soul. ~William B. Yeats

One of the joys, or perhaps disappointments, of an arranged marriage is that the bridegroom need not be nervous. He does not break into a cold sweat as the minutes waiting for the bride glide past, though he smiles when the double doors open to reveal a mirage dressed in silk and lace he fails to beam, the family claps as the he presses his lips swiftly to hers but it is the bride rather than her family softly weeping now.

Ermelian stood resplendent in a white meringue dress she loved – she had designed the gown herself, spent the past week with her sister sewing on lace and making adjustments so that the train fell just so – and Cleon simply couldn't understand how she had made it so puffy. He could admire how the corseted top defined her small waist and brought attention to her breasts, rising above the bodice and falling again like half-moons. Ermelian had insisted on a tiara and full veil for her last day as her father's princess and appreciated the drama as her father lifted it to kiss her goodbye. A private moment on display.

The ceremony was to be traditional. The Goddess' priestess and the priest of Mithros stood hand in hand at the alter, sang the hymns, and poured libations to the Gods before the awkward couple, standing exposed at the front of the temple, were mentioned. But Cleon understood why Ermelian had pressed for this ceremony rather than the single priest bonding them in the castle hall. The voices rang out sweetly, with passion and more faith in love than Cleon could remember. The awe of the Gods he had felt as a boy was here in their voices, in the congregation behind them, in the red and blue light from the Rose window shining on the alter and in Ermelian's hand. Awe he had not felt since meeting the Kraken and going to war just to stay alive.

And suddenly the priestess was asking Cleon to promise his life, "… do you vow to protect her from the fray, shield her from harm, provide for her needs, respect her and honour her all your life? Do you take her as your wife?"

"I Do." Cleon was calm. Cleon was confident. For once someone had spelt out what was expected in this whole mess, and it was something he could do. Something he could promise and keep.

The priest of Mythros voice was stern as his eyes stared into Ermelian, "Do you accept Cleon of Kennan? Do you vow to always obey your husband, to respect him and remain always faithful, to be his comfort, soothing him? Will you bend your will to his and uphold his authority? Do you honour him in service all your life?"

Ermelian had shrunk inside her dress but she forced out the whisper, "i do."

Cleon had faltered during the speech, shocked by the subjugation of women in marriage after years watching Kel succeed in combat, relying on the riders in battle and looking up to the King's Champion. But the service continued. Blessings and prayers that now felt tainted, an acrid taste rising in his mouth and pricking his eyes. The priestess slid gold bands onto their fingers and bound their hands with a ceremonial red ribbon.

"With this kiss your marriage is sealed."

Cleon suddenly appreciated just how puffy Ermelian's dress was. He set his hands on her waist and leant forward, not quite reaching her face. The crowd began to titter. It had been a long service. Cleon blushed as he thought of the audience.

"Just kiss me." It was almost a hiss under the breath, a plea for help, for release. So he took her waist in his big hands again and lifted her small frame up to him. Pressing her crinoline against his thighs, causing it to puff out behind her, pressing his strong forearms into the small of her back and kissing her once. Softly. Swiftly.

And champagne reigned. Fell from the sky; splattered across good silk stockings; trickled down flesh; flowing down the throats of the inexperienced until laughter bubbled forth. Laughter at slurred speeches, stumbled dances and overt fondling. Laughter for laughter's sake.

A traditional service was followed by a traditional reception, and Aldron had provided. The bride's maids were drunk. The groomsmen were taking advantage. The dowagers, rigid as always, had turned a blind eye to the revelry. The serving maids had been pulled onto the dance floor and plied with spirits, the orchestra debased with requests for all the cheap, fast dances enjoyed in the shadiest of establishments and the camps of way.

Cleon was drunk. He was drunk as he cut the wedding cake. Cherry cake with white icing. He smeared it across Ermelian's face and laughed as he did it. She laughed too. Took the cake in her clean white gloves and launched it at his face. A food fight in a bubble. Sweet alcohol that enhanced emotion. Enhanced relief.

Big hands took Ermelian's waist for a second time, smearing cake across her hips and feeling out the boning of her corset. Their second dance as husband and wife and it was not so genteel. Ermelian pressed her body against Cleon's, wrapping one hand in his tunic and the other around another flute of champagne. Cleon looked down at her half-moon breasts, shining golden in the hot light from the torches, was tempted by icing that had dripped there.

"I love you." It was whispered urgently as kisses were pressed down her neck, causing her to swallow too much bubbly alcohol and drop her glass to the rushes lining the floor. "I love you." Cleon continued to taste her sweet perfumed skin.

The steward of Kennan, Cleon's stand in best man, found them like that: clinging to each other, whispering, sloppy and indiscreet. Moments of passion are so rarely attractive to those forced to look on.

Tapping Cleon firmly on the shoulder, then forcefully disentangling him, the steward announced, "The wedded couple will now retire with their attendants."

Cleon was doused in cold water, quickly changed into a white nightshirt and left in his mother's bedroom, the master bedroom, his bedroom. The affect less sobering than confusing. A boy left cold and alone in his mother's bed. A man awaiting his wife.

Ermelian was changed by her mother into the white nightgown made for the occasion. Her hair was combed, her face washed and scent applied to her wrists and the base of her throat. Ermelian's mother squeezed her shoulders once and kissed twice, whispering goodbyes that Ermelian thought unnecessary but caused her eyes to water nonetheless.

With a final kiss, a final goodbye, she was nudged inside, while family members, friends and attendants gathered outside. Some still carrying the fine crystal glasses to help them listen at the keyhole.

Cleon looked at the girl he had just married and felt the nerves run down his spine. He reached for the port his mother kept always on her bureau and poured out two tumblers. Ermelian walked towards the bed, taking small steps, and Cleon noticed how restrictive the long silk nightgown was, wondered crudely how he would spread her legs. Passing the smaller measure of port to her as she clambered onto the high bed, he ran his hand up her arm. From her wrist to her delicate shoulders, down her back to the curve of her waist. He quickly downed the port.

Cleon took a deep breath and prayed his voice wouldn't crack, "I've never done this before. I don't know what to do."

Ermelian shifted closer to him on the bed, smoothing the silk over her thighs and then reaching up to fiddle with the laces on Cleon's night shirt. Never quite meeting his eyes, "You never took her to bed?"

"You think I would dishonour her that? Throw her reputation to the court dogs for my own selfish wants?" Ermelian drew back at his acerbic tone and Cleon consciously missed the ladylike fingers that had been tracing patterns across his chest. He looked away to avoid her eyes, "You would have preferred I had experience."

"You would prefer I had none." Ermelian did not try to recapture Cleon's attention with her quiet response but his eyes snapped to hers and his large hand reached out to grasp her knee.

"You had a sweetheart?" Ermelian couldn't read the desperate hope mixed with defeat in Cleon's question. She had been expecting rage rather than, "Why didn't you marry?"

The question struck Ermelian like a blow. A blow she had no defense for, that she knew she deserved and must accept, "I had a court scandal."

With that bitter tone stuck in her eye she fed Cleon her port and pushed him back onto the bed. Kissed him and removed her nightgown. And they both did their duty with the sad, continuing knowledge that what they did was duty.

The onlookers were satisfied that night.