Page 10 of King of the Dawn

I swallowed the lump forming in my throat, and shook my head at the restless church that waited for the start of the procession.

I looked over at my sister, my best man, in her tuxedo, her hair pinned up. She had strands of it curled around her face, and her lips were pink. She had put some effort into her appearance today, and I was grateful for it.

Likewise, I saw Rose in the front row with the Green boy. I looked on in envy as he cradled her stomach with a tenderness that made my stomach squeeze. The bastard loved my daughter. It was the only reason I let him live.

They were devoted, and beautiful together. Their children would be eternally loved by each other, by me and my sister. And maybe that was all the family I would ever need.

The music started. Crashing into me like a wave. It wasn’t that long ago that I had walked my daughter down the aisle and given her to an Irish man. Now, I was receiving an Irish bride.

One that I had first met, and harassed, at the last wedding.

How things had changed.

The great doors of the church opened, and there she was.

A sweet, white veil covered her to her elbows, and her dress flowed like a watery cloud about her. It was made of tulle, gray, then with layers of flowing black, just as she had said. In her hand were a bouquet of black orchids, long and draping down in front of her, almost touching the ground.

Black roses, like the ones I had given her on our first day together, peppered her bouquet. A silver ribbon, like a woven moonbeam, wrapped the entire thing together, and was held in her manicured hands with blood red nails.

She stood alone. She walked herself to me, giving herself freely. It was not a brother, or nephew, or other man who gave me her hand in marriage. It was herself.

I could taste the sweetness of it. The sting in my eyes, and the heaviness in my heart wanted me to enjoy that sentiment. To enjoy her thoughts. But she would never be mine. It hung like a dark cloud over my head.

She was mine, for the time she would need me. But I was not the kind of man to make danger or create a crisis just to feel useful. I would slay her demons, and like a true queen, she would dismiss me when I was done. As a man of honor, I would walk backwards out of the glory of her presence, having served my purpose, and I’d spend the rest of my life in the darkened shadows, away from her light.

And I’d count myself lucky for having had what moments I could.

I wish I could have paused the story right at that moment. To have everything end here, with the possibility of vows and forever.

But the story cannot end in the middle, and a hero cannot stop fighting just when they have satisfaction. Journeys do not end until they have ended. It was a lesson I had taught to Yuliya when she was a child, when she wanted her bedtime stories to end before the heartache and pain. She begged to end her fairytales in the first act, before the villains made their appearance, but I never let her.

And I wouldn’t let myself either.

The crowd was in awe. I knew it. They got to their feet and stared at the little witch walking to the haunting music. There was no bridal march for her. Not for my woman. It was her song, the one she would hum with a little half smile, set to an organ by my piece of shit son-in-law. His musical talents were a marvel. But he was still a piece of shit.

My palms were sweating. I wanted to run to her, throw her over my shoulder, and get her in front of the priest. I wanted to get that wedding band on her finger and declare her mine, and fuck all of these people who were here to spectate. I didn’t care about any of them. Not right now.

Let me get lost in the illusion of it. That we could ride off beneath a pale moon, into the comfort of darkness and tender night!

Her slow, languid steps up the aisle were haunting. Was she a pagan goddess, walking on water to bestow a mission on her chosen vessel?

As she got close, her eyes met mine through the white of her veil and she smiled.

Again my soul cracked, because it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. A beauty so perfect because it would be fleeting, like sand through my open fingertips.

When she stood before me, I raised her veil, revealing her perfection to the eager congregation. I kissed her, without provocation.

I should have waited until after the vows, but I couldn’t help it. I needed to taste her lips with the desperation of a starving man, because I wanted to live in the illusion that she was mine. That we were starting our lives together. A long, pleasant life where I’d watch her hair turn from red to white, and to see the laugh lines grow deep, permanent on her face.

I wanted to cry out to the deity for a moment, to beg them to make this moment real. Just for a second. Just for one, pure and perfect moment, let me believe it to be real.

When the organ music faded, the notes evaporating like morning mist, I pulled away from her and there were tears in her eyes.

“I love you,” she whispered.

If she had stabbed me in the heart, it would have hurt less. I cupped her face in my hands, staring into her green eyes. I kissed her forehead, before the moment was broken by the coughing of the Irish priest.

Fucking Irish.

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