6. Chapter 6
I’m wearing a gown stitched out of hydrangea petals, standing in a courtyard filled with white wisteria vines that twirl up ivy-covered trellises.
A ceremonial path stretches out before me, littered with pearls and gardenia blooms, all wrapped beneath the cool shade of a billowing canopy.
There’s something to be said about such grace and beauty in a place like this, and how it can be spoiled by a single blight of mold growing uninhibited within.
In this case, the mold is sprouting from the groom standing at the altar, whose receding hairline gives way to a bald head speckled with hairy moles.
The seams of his suit and tie cling desperately to his rotund belly, which harbors pockets stuffed with various assortments of cheese and smashed olives.
He looks like his breath reeks of sour milk and bad apple seeds.
Yet for some reason, there’s a crown perched atop his head.
But that can’t be right, unless he’s the great-great-great-grandsire of the king, and that crown is a symbol of his longevity.
But if he’s standing there, and I’m standing here, then that means…
He’s the groom, and I’m the bride.
This must be a fever dream. It has to be. Because if this were reality, one of the guests seated before me would surely be protesting the blatant age gap. Right?
A quartet of string instruments begins playing a processional song in the corner, drawing the congregation’s attention toward me, the bride at the end of the aisle.
I clutch my bouquet of roses so tightly that one of the thorns pricks my palm and makes me wince in pain.
The servants stop their serving to gawk at me, as if they’re hoping I might spill some of my good fortune along the aisle’s runner for them to ladle into their palms. Little do they know, my good fortune is actually laced with poison.
I don’t want this.
I don’t want this at all.
I take two steps down the aisle and stop, my heartbeat thrumming in my ears. This is not just a dream; this is a twisted nightmare. One where crypt keepers steal crowns and force young women to marry them by hiring an audience of spectators willing to play along.
“This is all wrong…” I whisper to myself as a hand gently nudges me forward. The hand in question is connected to the body of a woman garbed in gray robes with a circlet headpiece poised on the hood of her cloak.
“For Skaldrathia,” she says. “For your people. You must.”
I lick my cracked lips as I push past the priestess and shove around the groomsmen, running in the opposite direction and away from the aisle.
The congregation roars with discontent, outraged that I would dare defy a union with that wrinkly ballsack slumped on the altar, and more importantly, the pretty crown poised atop his shiny head.
As I break through the billowing curtains, a hand grabs the train of my gown.
Fingers claw at my arms, attempting to snatch me.
I wrangle out of their icy grips, then take off sprinting down the hill as fast as I can, my gaze fixated on a gushing riverbank encased by twisting brambles and jagged cliffs.
I rip off my glass heels and run faster, then tear off my veil.
I run until my heels bleed all over the prickly weeds and sharp stones.
They bite into my skin, as if screaming for me to slow down.
But I don’t listen. Not until I run face-first into a wall of steel.
Straight into the chest of a man who enwraps me in his arms for safekeeping.
A man who is looking at me like I belong to him somehow.
The scent of a man who spends far too much time in the forest around pine needles and charcoal.
The face of a man who looks like he never wants to lose me again. A man that I recognize…
Augustine.
I wake up to a fish near my face.
“Gross! What the hell?” I leap out of my sleeping bag and proceed to fling the scaleless, headless fish away from me, watching as it plops in a puddle of mud.
The squelch of its dead body hitting the forest floor makes my stomach contents trundle up my esophagus.
Augustine sighs with discontent from across the fire, but all I notice is that his shirt is back on.
Good. Warmth rushes through my belly. Relief, that must be what this strange, foreign sensation is. Relief that I don’t have to stare at his chiseled abdomen all day while he goads about protecting me from a pack of wolves that don’t seem to exist.
“I cooked that perfectly,” he says, side-eyeing me before shooting a disappointed look back at the fish. “Were you raised underneath a rock or something?”
I try to keep my expression impassive, even though my dreams are threatening to poke holes through my reality and spill into this very conversation, stirring up feelings that I certainly don’t have for him. Why must he follow me everywhere that I go, even when I’m sleeping?
“If you must know…” I slump onto a stump by the fire and sigh, “I was raised within the confines of a shadowy enclave, one with towering stone walls to keep me from escaping.”
“Sounds like a prison to me,” he says as he strides toward the stream and searches for another fish to skewer.
“Not exactly.” I wince, rubbing my tender ankle. “I was raised in an orphanage.”
“Ah.” He skewers another fish with his self-sharpened stick.
“And you were not served fish in that fine establishment, I take it?” As he sets his fresh victim over the crackling fire between us, I can’t help but notice that when the sunlight hits his eyes just right, they turn a rare shade of burnished gold, identical to the glow of an early morning sunrise.
“They served me fish alright,” I recall with a snort. “Slimy, cold fish. Which I would often throw out the window and onto the heads of unsuspecting servants.” A smirk toys along my lips at the fond memory.
“Servants?” He spins the skewered fish with intrigue, causing the flames to crackle like little whips. “That’s quite the fancy orphanage you lived in.” He whistles lowly. “No wonder you never learned to hunt properly, Princess. Now it all makes sense.”
A growl escapes my throat. Little does he know, if I wanted to aim a weapon properly, I could, and with my eyes closed shut.
In fact, I consistently ranked at the top of my class in weapon’s training, but I’m not about to tell him that.
I need him to believe that I’m a ditzy princess with no sense of agility if I’m going to catch him off guard.
Especially if I need to stab him in the back later when he’s not looking.
“Hunting isn’t nearly as satisfying as watching the look on someone’s face when they’re hit with a flying fish,” I remark.
He slips the charred chunk of fish off the stick, slaps it on a wooden slab, and then slides it toward me. “Eat,” he grunts. “You need your strength.”
“I would rather starve to death,” I say plainly.
“Want me to let you in on a little secret?” he asks, leaning forward, his eyes sparkling.
I shake my head, not knowing what he means.
“Never give away your fears for free,” he answers.
“What are you prattling on about?” I laugh.
“You don’t just dislike fish,” he says, giving me a coy little smile, as though he’s apologizing for something he’s about to do. “You’re terrified of fish.” Without another word, he slides the fish off the slab and right into my lap. I scream like a banshee and tumble off the stump.
“See? Scared of fish,” he concludes innocently.
“You pine-coned brain, nitwit of a man!” I screech at him.
With one hand pinching my nostrils shut, I use the other to fling the fish into the forest. Then I scoop up the first fish and fling that one into the forest too.
Something growls from the bushes, or maybe that growl is coming from my throat as I say, “Is this what my life has come to? Getting stuck with the likes of you?"
Seemingly unbothered, Augustine douses the fire with the remainder of his canteen.
"Will you at least tell me where we're going?" I ask, sitting back down on the stump.
“We’re traveling a day’s ride to the north,” he reveals.
“Care to share why we’re traveling all that way?” I ask through clenched teeth.
“There’s something I must do near Riverhall."
“And you’re bringing me with you, why?”
“Would you rather me leave you here instead?”
“No?”
“Great,” he says, “then it’s settled. You’re coming with me.”
He reaches into his satchel and pulls out two apples, one for Hades and one for me. “For the girl who fears fish,” he says, stuffing a green apple into my grasp, “you would make a terrible pirate. Perhaps you should give up on that little dream of yours.”
I close my eyes and scarf down the juicy, delectable treat, which tastes heavenly. In between bites, I say, “I’d make an excellent pirate, if you must know. But instead of eating fish, I’d eat the hearts of men. You’d be my first victim.”
“My heart is far too cold for you to eat.” He smirks. "After all, you are quite picky."
“Tell me what you were doing in Windspire last night, and perhaps I’ll spare your heart,” I offer between finger licks, curiosity getting the better of me.
“It’s a small town. I know all the locals, and you are not one of them.
” I finish off the apple, then toss its core into the forest before adding, “And you don’t strike me as the kind of man who ventures into farm towns for sightseeing purposes. ”
Something rustles from the bushes, but I hardly pay it any heed. My attention is too focused on him as he snorts, “Oh yeah? And what kind of man do you take me for?”
Silence falls between us as I contemplate this, tongue in cheek. “The kind of man who barters things in the black market, if I’m being entirely honest. Spleens of the innocent, perhaps?” His bursts with laughter, and I roll my eyes. “Have my jokes brought you to tears? I was being quite serious.”
“You ask far too many questions for someone who has so many secrets herself,” he says.
“Secrets?” My voice is tinged with hysteria. “How could I possibly keep any secrets from you with how often you eavesdrop on my conversations?” I watch him between narrow eyes. “You overheard my conversation about becoming a pirate, right? Which means you were following me back there, weren’t you?”
“It’s not my fault that you talk to yourself so loudly,” he points out, pausing only to acknowledge the glare that I hurl in his direction.
I should’ve really thrown that apple at his head instead.
“Fine,” he adds, holding up his hands in surrender.
“I promise to stop eavesdropping on your conversations, so long as you promise to allow me a bit of discretion as well. Do we have a deal?”
Why are his eyes prettier than all the stars in the sky? It’s so damn distracting.
“No deal.” I fold my arms over my chest tightly.
“In fact, now that we’re on the topic of transparency, I must admit, I find it mildly convenient that you stumbled across a damsel in distress on the exact same day that the queen declared everyone must get married or face the penalty of death. Do you want to know what I think?”
“I’m sure you’re about to tell me,” he concludes, dropping his hands at his sides.
Snarling, I stand up and stroll toward him, stuffing a finger against his big, broad chest. “I think you’re helping me because you intend on marrying me. Did you really believe that a warm fire and some food in my belly would make me comply so willingly?”
A flicker of delight erupts in his eyes just as a baby ember sparks from the dampened fire. “Do I look like the kind of person who obeys the gods or their ridiculous laws?” He staggers backward, hands still raised in surrender, stomping the flame out with the heel of his boot.
“No,” I admit. “Which is why I find it so strange that you’ve given me no authentic answer regarding where we’re going, or why you’re offering to take me with you.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “What if I told you to trust me?”
I close my eyes tightly and think of what Solara had said, about how I should trust this brute of a man despite how much I hate him. No. Absolutely not. I can’t do this. Especially not if it involves marrying him.
“Which is the way back to Windspire?” I ask. “I don’t mind walking.”
The smug bastard points left. Hades flicks a bug away from his tail in agreement.
Heathens. The both of them.
I stomp away, leaving the muddy glade far behind me, which is dripping in butterscotch sunlight, and is fissured by a freshwater stream crawling with cattails and reeds.
Truthfully, it feels like an entire vast ocean of very scary fish is filling up the expanse between us, considering how I know nothing about the infuriating bastard other than how he’s mysteriously agreed to help me.
But I’m not na?ve. No one does anything for free.
“Enjoy being eaten by wolves,” Augustine shouts.
“I’m beginning to think they don’t exist!” I bark over my shoulder at him.