"May I?"

You are not alone. There is no one.

You are loved. As an object.

Do not be afraid of kindness. Do not lie to me

She cannot crush the stems of the white rose bouquet in her hands. Nor can she free her braided blonde crown from her scalp. Queen Serinus, ever obedient, expected to march her emerald gown down the aisle. Its glittering starlight and climbing flowers seek only to blind and choke her. Angry tears are not allowed here, not even as a feint of matrimonial joy. Mustn’t let the makeup run, after all.

The large wooden doors creak open before her, presenting a gilded hall of ivory and gold inlay. With the Queen Bride’s approach, the assembled royals and dignitaries rise, showering her with fawning admiration. Her daggered ears do not miss the whispers and comments rising in quiet whispers over the audience. Striking. Gorgeous. A porcelain doll.

Among many of the more affable remarks. Serinus fights the urge to sneer at their imprudent stares. All the while, the King, Lucius, awaits her. She cannot discern the unusual crease in his brow. The man does not even bother to smile.

This occasion has called for him to tie his black hair into a tight ponytail, bundled together, the length touches his shoulders. His beard, worn short, framing his jaw up to his ears. His black crushed velvet cape lends to the illusion of a galaxy, swirling and milky with its ample star designs. His black vest, a stark contrast of the white blouse underneath with black trousers and boots.

Her mother, positioned in the back row seating of the audience, a crooked smile awaits. This gives her a front row seat to Serinus’s approach. An icy rake claws at her shoulders as mother’s eyes pierce into her. Her mother curls a single finger, commanding Serinus forward, with a threatening nail. Long enough to puncture a deep artery, she notes.

Serinus takes her first step into her wedding day. Her bridal march, more suited to a funeral procession as her heels click over the stone floor. Each step, a death knell of Serinus. Her soul, lowering into the vacant earth, cut to welcome it. While the Queen strides ever closer to her only destiny. To her new husband.

Scream. Toss these heels at someone. Run. Anything. Nothing. She blinks away a stinging sensation creeping up from under her eyes. Counting the steps she needs to take before she pivots towards her place on the stage. Awaiting her are her bridesmaids, nameless elven maidens. Hand selected by Mummy dearest, to ensure she and her people appear incandescent in the eyes of the Realm of Men. Their seafoam dresses act as an accent to her shimmering emerald wedding gown.

Serinus comes to a stop before one bridesmaid and in scrupulous disdain turns over the flowers. As the maiden receives them, she mouths a quiet compliment. She waits for the bridesmaid’s nagging placation to cease before she rolls her eyes and turns to stand opposed to Lucius. He appears large in stature, a whole head taller than her. His frame, imposing, though his hands fold in front of him suggest he’s attending a wake. Paws of a petulant, entitled child king.

“Let those blessed by the gods, bear witness to this union be seated and rejoice,” the bishop announces, glancing at the bride and groom.

The shuffling of pews and shifting cloth occupies the air as the attendees settle into their seats. The hall, quiet again, as though taking a careful breath. Lucius holds his hands out to Serinus, ready to catch her in his. A dead, slow blink. A soft breath drawn. Resigned, she places her hands in his.

“Throughout my years,” the bishop speaks to the nobles first, “I have never envisioned seeing the bridging of worlds as we witness on this momentous occasion. A King in the Realms of Men. Protector of the Western Provinces.” Lucius offers a brief smile to the bishop, though it fades in the distance of Serinus’s indifference. Her eyes, absconded away, transfixed by some obscure thread on Lucius’s coat. However, dreams dare to draw her from her predicament. The respite in wrenching these men’s windpipes from them with hellish fervor, or perhaps her own. Anything to pull herself from the bishop’s incessant blathering.

“And the Maiden of the Vale, now Queen Serinus,” the bishop’s speech has ripped her from her macabre holiday. “Gracious in her love. An altruistic heart who sees beyond the finite volatility of Men and seeks to unite the peoples.”

Poetic enough.

How long has this King Lucius been gawking at her? He certainly doesn’t look like someone who appreciates being betrothed to an Elvish noblewoman. Do try to smile, Human King. You have won your golden bride through the grace of a raptor’s talon. No doubt a good laugh and good wine shared at the committee that put this arrangement together.

The bishop’s speech draws to a close “Grace us now in the eyes of the divine, and seal unto thee the sanctity of matrimony.”

Lucius dares a small smile, enough to pull at the corner of his lip before it falls again. “May I?” He does not speak the words, so much as he mouths them to her. Her long blink sets her eyes off his and moves past his shoulder. She draws another heavy sigh. Lucius’s brow furrows. Hesitant as he lowers his face down to hers and pecks her unmoving mouth. His black beard causes her upper lip to flash a brief grimace. Her eyelids tremble at the next blink while he pulls away.

When her eyes open, she can see his lips finishing the word ‘sorry’. He lets go of one of her hands to lead her to face the attendees, who rise to their feet as the bishop announces,

“Hail the King and Queen.”

She crafts a delicate smile, a sufficient smile to warm the egos of the applauding chorus.

“Are you ready?” Lucius whispers to her. She does nothing more than raise her eyebrows in acknowledgment. The wake has ended. Condolences, grieving, all will have to wait for when it is convenient. Leave the dead ideals where they lie. The newlyweds amble down the aisle whence they came under the union of two different nations. They share with them a unity of those divided. Of Elves, of Men. Yet, amongst the adoring, nameless faces around them.

Her own mother, who sits haunting the shadows. Or her husband, who stands as a stranger to her still. She wades, aimless. Unmoored and adrift. Drowning in front of the eyes of what appears to be hundreds of gathered. Not a hand to pull her topside to the surface.

The reception banquet offers no intermission for the star attraction which places the bride and groom center stage. The pair mount themselves in seats at the center of a long, garish table. On the flanks are two similar tables set perpendicular, establishing a boxed arch centered in among the festivities.

Many older-looking couples, adorned with gorgeous matching fastenings and coordinated embellishments, approach the newlyweds within the center of the tables. Each represents an interested kingdom or involved party within the realm and each offering a gift and the trappings of a well-meaning congratulation.

“Ha ha!” a duke approaches their table with teetering vigor, “A charming occasion King Lucius, well done sir!” The duke’s wife does as she can to keep his dodgy swaying in check as he slurs through his words. “And Ka-ween Serinus, gorgeous, really,” he snickers as he wraps an unsteady arm around his duchess.

Serinus stifles a fabricated giggle with delicate fingers over her lips. Ingrate. “Duke! You are too kind!” She smiles at Lucius, who sits planted against the high-back of the chair. Lucius nods at her,

“You have our gratitude.” The platitude carries like a statement. Less of a pleasantry, and more like a fact. Serinus keeps the couple in her periphery, as she bores a resentful hole into Lucius’s temple. How court etiquette manages to escape him is insufferable. He does not have the decency to offer a smile to the well-wishers. Stone faced upon their arrival. The duchess taps her husband’s shoulder, as he cannot determine their deficit welcome on his own. Stone-faced upon their departure.

“Enjoy the festivities,” Serinus calls, a feeble wave to follow. Her skin simmers as her knuckles whiten beneath her silk gloves. As much as he behaves like a quiet combatant to the process that is royalty, she does not want to have to placate him along with hundreds of people too. Working the nerve, she, in polite deliberate measure, addresses Lucius. Through a gritted smile, “What are you doing?”

His blink shifts his attention away from the encroaching line of royals onto Serinus. He says nothing. A vacant response to her inquiry. The bridge of her nose crinkles as she fights her warping smile. His cold lack of concern, stoking her mounting fury on more. A brooding, petulant child. Throwing a tantrum. Pacify him and pray he does not make a mess. She pats his forearm and slides an empty glass in front of him.

“Have a drink, Lucius.” she whispers the command.

He does not ignore her hand on his arm, or the glass, or her pained smile. Behave. Listen. Be good. He’s not saying anything. Fine. Be quiet then. Her eyes grow weary as she turns to pour the wine in the glass for him. This is only day one of the rest of their life after all. The wine does not have time to touch the bottom of the wineglass bowl before the groan of his chair moving back startles her.

“I’ve some business to attend to,” he stands, smiling, “I’ll come back for you.”

“What—?” she contests, albeit more frantic than she cares to offer. She has yet to have her wits about her before he turns to leave. Her shoulders rise as her chest heaves. Breaths hissing through her nostrils. Her blinking does little to temper her flitting eyes. “What the f—” from the corner of her eye, she catches the Earl and his wife approaching to offer well wishes. “Friends!” she swoons. “You’ll have to excuse the King, he’s a touch... indisposed”

The wife bats a playful hand “A bit late for wedding jitters, no?”

She and Serinus share an incessant laugh together. The cadence, while synchronized, pounds against Serinus’s sharp ears. “Oh, you are too clever,” Serinus remarks.

The line of dignitaries continues to greet Serinus, welcoming her to the Realm. She exchanges gracious—albeit vacant—conversation with each approaching fraud. The men arrive, drunk, tripping over chivalrous words. Many of them flirt with her more than their own wives who accompany them almost a pace away. The more boisterous of the women, on the other hand, offer dated anecdotes to which Serinus has no genuine interest in. She placates them regardless and never shies from a compliant laugh at the husband’s expense.

The lonesome bride reaches for the wine glass Lucius had left behind. Less than half full. Which is far more than what she has floating in her stomach. A pittance compared to the agony of these people. There is only a moment when she does not have her eyes on the glass. So when she lifts it, she hears a soft clink followed by a weight guiding it back down onto the table. Atop the rim of the glass, a menacing nail sits, like a cat’s needle eye over a deep violet sclera. Serinus’s breathing shudders as her hand retreats, careful not to invite a hunt.

She smiles, folding her hands into one another, dispelling any notions of returning to the glass. “Mother, H-how are you enjoying the feast?” Her mother steals Lucius’s seat without so much as a word. Their eyes have yet to meet and somehow the absence is as dreadful as having Mother’s cold stare chasing her down.

The gown, a striking evergreen to capture complimenting tones such as her daughter and her bridesmaids. A color to demonstrate solidarity. Her bare shoulders, cloaked only by a short white cape. An accoutrement rests at the top of the cape’s seam by her shoulder, a gilded arrow pointing up wrapped by the feather of a quill.

Her mother swirls the wine in the glass, watching the legs trickle down back into the main body of liquid. She takes a cursory scent in before she pulls it away with a grimace. “Not very complex, is it?” She swings the stem up and gulps the contents. With a click of her tongue, she looks back at Serinus. Who has found herself staring. As the realization comes, she greets and thanks another well-wisher. “In answer to your question, Sweet Girl, I am... satisfied with events thus far.” Serinus cannot help but watch the glass land back on the table empty.

“I’m so glad Mother.” She smiles, addressing another noble. “You’re so kind”

“I will say I certainly am enjoying myself far more than you are, dear,” her mother glides her nail over the rim of the glass. “Tell me dear,” mother has turned her attention from the glass to the side of Serinus’s face. Serinus does not dare to meet Mother’s eyes. Though, perhaps, imprudent not to make eye contact? The dignitaries. They can serve as a viable excuse. “Is this not your fairy tale wedding? Perhaps you are displeased with your husband?” Mother prods the side of the glass, tipping it into a precarious lean, atop an almost imperceptible corner of the base’s circumference.

“No no,” Serinus looks at her, “I have,” she fights to find the words; however, another pair of courtiers set her off balance. When she has a breath of her own, she circles around to her thought, “I’ve only met King Lucius, Mother.” Her mother’s chilling grin falls, waiting in tepid indignation for Serinus’s explanation. “We only need—” she stops to mouth ‘Thank you.’ to a baron and baroness “We only need to get to know each other...” a chill runs the length of her spine as she catches her mother’s haunting gaze and continues with the nobles' greetings. “Mummy,” Serinus whimpers, swallowing a lump in her throat .

“What an auspicious occasion this is. Wouldn’t you agree?” Mother leans back to reach for a full bottle of wine. She tips it so the mouth of the bottle hangs over Serinus’s empty glass.

“Yes, quite the celebration,” Serinus whispers. Her mouth, watering, waiting for the wine to give and spill into the glass.

“Are you aware of the implications this union has, Sweet Girl?” Mummy dearest tilts the glass, enough for a slow trickle. “The kings and other nobles, they haven’t the ambition to see what this could entail,” She turns her gaze on Serinus, who cannot decide where to keep her focus. The glass? The wine? Mother? “All they want,” the bottle tips further, churning more wine into the glass. “Is a fairy tale. The dream wedding,” bubbles are emerging from the choppy waves “and at the center of it: a golden-haired bride.” The bottle is almost vertical as air gulps into it, sloshing crimson ichor.

“Wait!” Serinus cannot determine how loud her voice is. The wine is only a hair’s width from the brim. Her eyes flutter, try as she might as Mummy draws closer to her ear.

“Time, dear child, is against you.” Mother clutches at Serinus’s bodice, at the abdomen. Which draws from her a sharp inhale through her nose. “And as we know, men do not last the way Elves do,” she whispers.

Ice flashes against Serinus’s spine, which sends a crackling sensation of prickles up her neck and over her head. She shuts her eyes against the biting sting within them. Her eyelids tremble. The folded hands in her lap wring against her abdomen. An acrid taste bubbles from her throat.

“But do smile dear,” her mother stands, the double cadence of her heels fading away behind her. “It is your wedding day after all.”

The kiss at the wedding flashes over her mind. Reminding her of the inherent requirement she has as a wife in this arrangement. She wants to cover her chest with her arms. To hide her bare shoulders. To slip and crawl beneath the table.

There is no one.

She reaches for the filled glass as a courtier and his wife come forward in line. “Queen Serinus? Is everything alright?” the wife asks.

“Hmm?” She glances wide-eyed at the two as her grip on the wine glass dangles in a precarious tilt near her lips. Their creased brows set and mirror one another. What had they seen? How much of it can she salvage? Their station is no greater than hers, so she can skirt the details. “Oh! That?” she plants a gentle hand to her chest. “My mother passed on a beautiful sentiment in Elvish.” At least the brimming tears are real.

“How wonderful the bond of a mother to a child,” the courtier beams.

Serinus nods. “You are both so kind for attending.”

As they turn to leave, another dignitary steps forward. Serinus smiles, holding a finger up, gesturing for the man to wait. “Beg your pardon, good sir. I’m so parched.” The man smiles and bows with both arms spread wide. Deferring the exchange to her.

She places the rim to her mouth, wetting only the top lip when she feels strong hands on her shoulders.

“Serinus?”

Lucius.

His touch, unwelcome, unannounced, threatening to deepen the growing fissure between them. Her first moment of selfish indulgence, stolen. Her jaw clenches, her lips purse. Skin, growing hot. Too long. Too long has he been gone and now he thinks it pertinent to disrupt her. She moves the wineglass enough so she can speak, but he interrupts her with a soft whisper.

“I’ve finished preparing your chambers for you.” Her eyes almost jump at him except for his gentle order, “Easy, easy,” she focuses her attention on the line of people across the table. “So, when you are ready, feel free to retire.” Serinus’s brow creases, lost but curious. She turns her head to him, while keeping her eyes on their audience for as long as she can before meeting his smile. “I can take care of our guests.”

Why is he so joyous? So warm? He’s borderline exuberant. What has he to gain? What happened to the stoic monarch, ready to rend a man with a stare? His eyes, they are missing something. Or is there something? His smile. It is the first time she has seen it. That too is missing something, but what? “Where?” she lets slip.

He leans over, his cheek a breath from hers as he whispers, “Follow the hall behind me until you reach the central stairway. At the top, yours is the last door on the left. It’s unlocked for you, and I’ve left the keys on the end of the bed so you can find them.”

She cranes her head back and looks into his eyes again. Her brow furrows as he nods. She tracks him as he stands up straight. Releasing her shoulders, he takes one step back, and another. Soon, he reaches the end of the table and makes his way around the arched tables.

“Come here!” He shouts to the dignitaries in line, “That’s no way to congratulate a king on his wedding day!” His boisterous laugh harkens a ripple effect, in and among the other lesser patriarchs. In quick succession and even in tandem, he exchanges hardy handshakes and rowdy embraces. Often with loud slaps against each other’s backs.

He glances back at her, and it is only at this moment, she realizes he has positioned himself so most of the crowd has their backs turned to her. He has developed a smoke screen. A distraction. She wastes no time seizing the opportunity.

Serinus rises from her seat, sure to take her wine glass with her. Her strides delicate as she retreats from the banquet hall, padding the double tap of her heels as much as possible. As some weight rises from her shoulders, she takes her first sip of wine. Swill at best, but rich enough for her at this moment.

Passing through the doors, she makes eye contact with smattering groups of people. All engaged in their own conversations of triumphs or trade. Given her lack of conspicuousness as the bride, many are quick to offer a brief greeting or congratulations. Whether or not they have been through the line in the main hall or not. She waves back as needed and defers back to her glass. The more dignitaries she greets, the more her pace quickens. Every passing set of eyes feels like another gaze tracking her down the hallway. Smiling is as much a defense against these people as it is a beacon for their gawking.

How many? How many eyes are trailing behind her? She stops a moment ready to turn back, she should be playing her role. She continues down her path anyway, trying to hush the lapse in her resolve with another sip. Her pace quickens again. Look away. Please look away. Hide. Get to the stairs. The halls and chambers seem to tower and bend over her, the eyes of the people stretching to the ceiling with unblinking stares.

When she reaches the stairwell, in her haste, she almost rolls her ankles from her lofty heels. Once. Twice. A third time almost sends her into a tumble. With a glance over her shoulder, she can only see the beginnings of the winding stone stairwell. Which means no one can see her. She sets her glass on the ground, plants a hand against a wall and peels off each shoe. With her glass in one hand and heels in the other, she flies up the stairs. Panting and heaving all the way with her dress shifting and shimmering with her every step.

A tug from her stepping on the skirt warns her she may fall. She stops, looks at the shoes in her hand, the skirt, and the glass in her other hand. The brim to her lips, she sends the foot of her drink towards the ceiling. Rushing large gulps down her throat. With a shake, she loosens as many droplets as she can onto her tongue and picks her skirt up, continuing up the stairs until she makes it topside.

Two doors side by side. The last door on the left awaits her, as he said. She does not stop. Hands full, chest tight, her stockings slipping. She does not relent. The fleeting breath, an ocean breeze away from the staring. Her eyes water and her throat dries up as she almost crashes into the wall by the door. Fumbling with the knob, she all but forces her way in. Dropping her heels, she shuts the door and spots the keyhole. The bed. Where’s the bed? There! She spots the key.

A tear rolls down her cheek as she belts a single sob. When she grabs the key, she looks out of the corner of her eye. Another door. This must join their rooms. She runs to one first and grabs the handle. Already locked. She sighs with relief. No time. She covers her mouth as more tears fall. She runs to the entry door and, with haste, locks it. Slamming her back against the door, the sobs cascade from her. Each rattles her chest as she slides down to the floor. Dropping the key first, she wipes her tears with a glittering sleeve. She draws her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, and burying her face within.

Sobbing. Sniffling. All go unheard. Muffled. Alone.

A cloud parts and welcomes the moonlight into the space from the entryway of the balcony. The wine glass sits on its side next to her, cradling a meager drop of blood violet. She shudders, sobs again, a loud solitary belt. Three doors and nowhere to go.

“There is no one”