Lord Vane

1. A Dubious Beginning

Medieval Europe
1300 A.D.

My father is marrying me to a dead man. I cannot offer any explanation why he is able to kneel before me, dark eyes blinking, but I assure you the man is as alive as the dried fish I ate for breakfast! God above, help this lowly girl.

I lower my eyes but his face of contradictions has burned itself into my sight—so white, so pale he could almost be translucent, and yet so inexplicably dark. A blackness thick as kohl rims the curve of his lips and eyes, swallowing their spark of life.

Before me is a ghost tale, given breath and flesh. And I am about to wed it.

My legs are numb, though I can't blame this entirely on fear. Our longstanding tradition bade me to kneel most of the morn upon a brightly woven marriage mat, awaiting my intended's arrival. So I have been here for hours, bent upon my knees in stiff wedding clothes like a doll on display, shifting awkwardly beneath the scrutiny of the villagers and fuming at the graves of our ancestors for their odd predilection for suffering.

But I believe I now found the purpose to this painful age-old practice: so frightened brides can't run.

His joining me on the marriage mat signals the crowd to hush and the priest to step forward and begin.

I slip another glance from beneath my lowered lashes and am in awe at how still he kneels. There isn't a soul alive that can find comfort in this position. And yet he sits as though carved from stone.

I note a faint violet hue to his slender, snowy hands and wonder if he is cold. I change my mind. He sits as though carved from ice.

It reminds me of the chilly, damp day and I shiver. I hold my breath just to hear his, though this fails and I resort to stealing glances again.

Heavy-lidded eyes meet mine, deeply sunk in a face of sharp contours, and I feel sure if he were to close them at this moment that they'd never open again. 

I hear little of the wedding ceremony. How can I when my thoughts chatter on like the old brown squirrel my young cousins tease with pelted pebbles.

The priest speaks of musical instruments being different yet sounding better together and something else about the seasons, although I miss hearing the connection this has to a marriage.

He asks us to join hands in another ancient rite, symbolic of knitting two souls. It is our final act, signaling that this wedding played beneath a dark and pregnant sky is at an end.

I worry for myself during this solemn shift of rights and responsibilities. Not a childlike horror from clasping those bony, icy fingers–although I have that too–but I fear he'd not be able to care for any wife in this invalid state.

I fear most he will not live to see past this coming night, an ill omen for a bride. One of the worst to be had.

I suppose my eyes betray me. A wrinkle furrows his ashen brow. His eyes beseech mine with questions that I cannot answer without offense. I see in them the same plague of emotion I am feeling: worry. And yet his, being coupled with what I can only see as pity, is for my sake.

Hot fire known as shame flames through me. Had I foolishly been caught with revulsion on my face? I suddenly find tremendous interest in the fibers of the mat, combing the fray with my fingers nervously. It takes great effort to lift my face again to his, but that I do.

And I tell you, dear reader, I find myself face to face with one of life's strange mysteries, ushered in like a storm yet with the subtleness of a stream. An emotion sudden, yet gentle.

Impossible, you say. Well, yes. I can explain, but I must beg for a later audience. I am being motioned to stand now and as I have been on bent knees for the better part of the day, I am not certain I can do so without falling on my face.

Chapter 1 End

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