Flashes go off, and cameras pan in on me. The photographers press against the velvet rope they’re prohibited from crossing.
All I need to do is march down this hallway, then the aisle.
Easy, I tell myself.
I’m a horrible liar. I might as well be walking the plank. I’m just as frightened as I would be if my life were on the line. I have no one to hold my arm, and even though I don’t believe in giving someone away (my current situation case in point), it’d be nice to not face this alone. That thought makes me think of my father and how unhappy he’d be if he could see me now.
Time’s up, regardless. I turn the corner and stare at two large oak doors guarded by two of the king’s men. Inside is the royal chapel, where hundreds of guests and dozens of camera crews eagerly wait. I can hear music softly playing from inside.
When the tune abruptly changes, the guard at my side nods to the two men in front of me, and they grasp the door handles. “Congratulations,” he says, stepping aside as the doors swing open.
I stand there blinking as I take in the foreign faces that watch me from the pews. I’m too terrified to smile, so I simply stare straight ahead. My eyes meet the king’s, and strangely, in this moment, the sight of him grounds me.
He stands with his hands clasped, smiling at me. I can’t help it, between my nerves and his smile, my mouth curves up. I don’t look away as I walk towards him; ironically, he’s the only thing that’s keeping me from running out of here screaming. And I don’t want that—not if this is somehow supposed to symbolize future peace and unity.
It seems like an eternity before I get to him. Once I do, relief washes over me that I’m no longer doing this alone. I pass my flowers to someone standing nearby, and the king takes my hands. I know he can feel them shaking by the way he squeezes them reassuringly.
The priest officiating drones on in Latin, and my pulse calms down a bit. At some point he reverts to English and asks King Lazuli to present me with the token of his commitment.
Montes reaches into his breast pocket and procures a ring. Giving me a soft smile, he slides it onto the finger where the engagement band already rests.
The stone of this new ring is dark blue, and flecks of gold are caught in its matrix. It looks for all the world like I’m wearing the night sky on my finger. Because what I love most about the sky are the stars.
He remembered.
It’s also not lost on me that the stone is lapis lazuli; I’m wearing the king’s namesake on my finger.
Someone passes me a ring, and with trembling hands I slip it onto the king’s finger.
I gaze into his eyes as the priest speaks. They shine, and right then I feel beloved—by the man in front of me and the world that’s looking to me.
Then I remember my father, and why it is that I’m up here. The lives the king has taken because of his selfishness. The fa?ade is gone just as the priest says, “You may now kiss the bride.”
My movements are jerky and automated. I kiss the king, but I’m not really present. My skin crawls as his lips caress mine. When he pulls away he smiles, but I can see something like uncertainty there. I want to laugh that I can make someone like the king feel vulnerable, but I’m too consumed by my own personal pain.
The priest announces us to the chapel, and I feel a tear drip down my cheek. I just married the monster under the bed.
The king and I stand outside the palace, on the grassy lawn that overlooks the water. From the ice sculptures to the overabundance of flowers, it’s clear the king’s spared no expense on our reception. It had to cost a fortune of money better spent elsewhere.
A constant stream of people approaches us and congratulates the king and me on our union. I give most of them flinty looks. I know it’s not fair of me to be hostile to people I don’t know, but I’m insulted that anyone could assume I’m happy about what’s happening to me.
“Congratulations my friend. You deserve all the happiness in the world,” says the politician in front of us. He looks frighteningly similar to a walrus, and he eyes me like the object I’m supposed to be.
Montes nods and shakes his hand, “Thank you,” he murmurs.
When the man reaches for my hand, I level a glare at him. He gets it.
Bowing, he says, “Congratulations again,” and backs away.
The king watches him as he leaves. “I don’t like the way he looked at you,” he says quietly.
“That makes two of us.”
The king nods to himself. “Then I’ll take care of the situation.”
I blink a few times. “Are you psychotic?” I hiss at him under my breath. “You can’t just punish everyone who slights you.”
“Of course I can,” he says.
Before I can respond, the next guest approaches, this one a crusty old man who spews praise at the king. Once he moves along, I lean into the king. “Brownnoser, that one.”
The king snickers, and I cringe that, at the moment, we are coconspirators. For the king, this seems to elicit the opposite reaction. He wraps a hand around my waist and rubs my side affectionately. I think I’m going to be sick.
A couple approaches us, and thankfully King Lazuli has to drop his hand from my side in order to greet them.
“We are so happy for you,” the woman says, “and we hope that this union brings prosperity to your home—and lots of children,” she throws in, flashing me a sly smile. Like what every woman wants is a snotty baby.
I sway on my feet at the thought. “That won’t ever happen,” I say before I can help it. The idea of carrying the king’s child is just too much for me to process at the moment.
The woman glances at me sharply, and the king stiffens at my side. “Er … I can’t have children.” It’s not even necessarily a lie, considering all the radiation I’ve been exposed to.
“You poor thing,” the woman says.
“The queen doesn’t know what she’s saying,” King Lazuli says. “She can have children.”