Chapter 19 The Ceremony
Marriage is a vow in Hlódyn not to be taken lightly.
When the goddess Mehr created the ceremony rites, she breathed divinity into the practice, making it a wondrous and sacred tradition.
Those who take the vows are bound together through both love and Magick.
To break such a thing is seen as a scorn on the goddess and House Stjarna, the star line from which she was born.
To regain the goddess’ favor, the separated must offer sacrifices and prayers at her temple each day for a year.
If not done, they may be cursed to never find love again.
–Excerpt from the forbidden 'Anatole Text', written by the Crimson Scholar
The last rays of sun melt into the horizon, warming my exposed shoulders.
Sora’s tread beside me is soft, but she stays close—a reminder of her presence as if she thinks I might make a run for it.
It's a tempting thought, but I have no idea where I'd go.
From the coast, Elaris didn't appear very big, and Rhyland's warning yesterday is a humming trapped in my ears. Stay on the path.
“Keep going. It's up the hill.”
I blink, coming back to the moment to see the winding way in front of me.
It's a sandy trail, the same one I followed last night.
We must be going to that strange stone circle with those shifting carved statues.
The place that felt primal—kissed by magick—and I'm not eager to go back to it, let alone be married there.
Sora prods my shoulder. We pass a small thicket of blooming trees and she falters next to me, resting a hand on my arm that stops me in my tracks.
“What?” A swell of annoyance caresses me. “Go. Stop. Which is it?”
Her free hand stretches toward the branches of a low growing tree that bursts with vibrant, pale pink blossoms. I watch in begrudging awe as the branch reaches back to her, stretching like a floral clad snake.
The budding flowers expand, turning a richer pink.
She breaks a cluster off and hands it to me.
“Every bride needs a bouquet.” She shrugs off my open mouthed stare and herds me forward where the hill peaks in earnest, and I'm left puffing slightly when we finally reach the top.
A wave of shock erupts to see how the circle has been transformed.
Trees, grown up from nothing, dot the area around the hill, swelling with flowers in shades from deep maroon to pearly white.
Some of the petals have fallen, decorating the ground and benches.
Globe shaped lanterns are strung overhead between them.
In their light I can more clearly see all of the statues, counting a total of six stoic figures.
Unlike the night before, their faces aren't rippling or shifting, but it still feels as if they're watching me.
The makeshift aisle, lined with smooth sea-shells, leads to the waiting party.
I notice Rhyland first, his back to me. He's facing Briggs, who stands in front of a looming statue, its head topped with a chiseled crown.
The sight of it clicks something in my mind.
They each represent a godly line—of the Smaurhiel that is.
The “important” gods. The crowned one must be Ireus from the sun line; next to him a more delicate carving, Trine, born of moonlight and shadow.
She's beautiful, and the sight of her calms something in my chest so that I'm able to step forward without shaking.
Sora slips off to stand near the others. I catch Reave grin at her, and how she rolls her eyes back at him. The twins are there, too, hawkish yellow gazes gleaming as they watch me. Faded into the background, Cyprian leans against the trunk of a thicker tree, his face unreadable.
Mòr smiles from the right side of Rhyland. It looks like she's combed through and braided her long hair for the occasion, and donned a simple earthy green blouse tucked into clean brown trousers. She may have even washed her feet.
My fingers tighten around the snapped tree branch bouquet. I can feel the sweat gathering in my palms, coating their slick bark as I move. Overhead, the sky darkens to a blue that almost matches my dress, hinting at stars.
I want to scream. To stop in place to announce that I can't do this. Won't do it. But the words are anchored in my chest. I fear if I tried to speak them, my voice would crumble like stale bread.
All too soon Rhyland is turning to look at me. If I thought I could make it to him without shaking I was fooling myself. The gentle quake begins in my fingers, riddles its way up my arms and down to my knees.
Of course he looks breathtaking. Windswept black hair, striking eyes to match the color of a midnight eve.
They look at me, unreadable. Something hidden and masked behind them so that his expression remains cool and neutral.
Dark stubble lines his sharp jaw. I don't even want to think about what my face looks like, drinking him in.
He stands tall, broad-shouldered. Almost as tall as Briggs, which is a feat in itself.
His outfit isn't fanciful like mine, and I'm not sure it's fair that he wasn't poked and prodded by Sora all day.
But I suppose he didn't need it. Not with a face like that.
Black seems to be his signature color. I haven't seen him in anything else since he shed his guard uniform.
His dark leather coat pays homage to the night; the gold buttons and various rings on his fingers gleam under the lamplight.
I look at him and feel suddenly unraveled, like I'm a single thread from blowing away in the wind.
A lifetime spreads between us. The few feet to the end could be miles and miles long.
Everything has slowed and the light bends strangely for a moment until I blink, vision clearing.
I realize I've made it, standing opposite his strong, lithe form.
Mór leans forward to gently pry the makeshift bouquet from my fingers.
A glance to the side and I gasp, finding that the edge of this hill is a cliff.
It falls off a few feet behind the statue of Ireus, opening to a view of the sea and mists beyond.
As if this could get any worse, I get to stare at a reminder of every bad thing in the face.
My eyes hunt for the Nightingale, but she must not be docked on this side of the isle, instead kept away from the harsh riptide that slams into the rocky shore.
Part of me longs for Rowan, a source of comfort.
But it's probably better she doesn't witness this.
It would only hurt her to know I'm being forced into an unwanted marriage that she has no power to stop.
Briggs clears his throat, holding four long lengths of braided rope that shines a faint, silver blue. The sound draws my attention back to the ceremony, every blinking, expectant eye rested on us.
“I'll have you join hands,” he says solemnly, all business.
With a pronounced reluctance, I lift my hand to Rhyland's waiting palm. His are rough, calloused, and warm as the embers in Mòr’s hearth when he closes his fingers around mine.
Briggs begins to bind us together with the lengths of rope—a handfasting, I realize. His voice turns heavy—low but strong as he addresses both us and the small gathering.
For a moment the words are just a droning buzz in my ear; my mind has slipped away, elsewhere.
Drifting. Escaping where I cannot. But then Rhyland’s hand twitches around mine, and I’m not sure if he did it on purpose, but it anchors me back down into the moment.
Everything returns sharp, focused, and the gravity of what’s happening settles back in.
I’m marrying Rhyland Crow, fallen god, pirate king.
One of the worst men to have ever walked through Hlódyn.
Even if it’s a sham. Even if it’s just for a little while, it feels like a scorn against everything nymphs stand for.
I can’t help but imagine how disappointed my people would be in me.
Nymphs aren't meant to marry. Not meant to bind themselves to another like this.
We are free spirits—one with nature, willingly confined by no one and nothing.
Briggs continues his binding of the cords, by the look of it halfway through.
"The sea tests the strongest ship, fire tempers the finest steel. Through these waves and this flame, your spirits are forged true.” He pauses, securing his work before beginning the final knot.
“By the storm-tossed seas, by the salt on your lips, by the stars that guide your course, may your hearts find a safe harbor together, and remember two threads may fray, but a rope will bear the weight. With this, you are bound to one another before man and gods.” He gestures around us and then up to the sky which I notice is completely free of Elaris’s mists.
My head jerks to look out over the water.
No misty walls, just clear blue sea. Swelling waves.
What in the four realms is going on here? I almost open my mouth to ask, but Briggs’ next words have my heart stuttering.
“You may exchange rings and with a kiss seal your vow.”
My heart stutters. How could I forget there would be kissing? I stare between him and Briggs in bewilderment, and take a moment to consider what refusing might cost me.
“Nymph?” Rhyland cocks an eyebrow, his head tilting, almost innocently.
Fucking pirate.
My knees want to shake but I refuse to let them. If he wants a kiss, I’ll give him one.
Carefully, Rhyland maneuvers our hands out of the braided ropes without unraveling the knots, which are to be preserved as a keepsake and promise. From his smallest finger, he slips off a simple silver band to fit over the one between my pinky and middle. It's warm and, annoyingly, a perfect fit.