The Executioner's Wife

The Royal Wedding

Her second wedding, of course, was not nearly as humble or exciting as her first.

As she walked down the aisle, she took notice of everything except the king waiting for her at the end. From behind her veil, she felt the eyes of the attending nobles and lords standing to watch her, and heard their confused whispers to each other as they questioned, "That's her?" The shimmering colors of the large glass-stained windows danced on the stone floor like fish flickering underwater. Music wheezed out of an old organ, serenading her slow walk to the altar with a sick, off-key tune. Guards stood attentively at the edges of the church, staring out at nothing with firm discipline and blank dedication. Flowers and ribbons, imported from every corner of the kingdom, colonized the rafters and the rows with no real coordination of color or type. It seemed the king had thrown all of his resources into making the event as spectacular as possible, to compensate for the fact that it didn't make any sense. But Lily didn't question things anymore. She thought, as she found herself just a few feet away from the altar, and the maids carrying the end of her dress bowed and walked off, and the king extended his impatient hand for her, that the best thing she could do for now, and perhaps for the rest of her life, would be to begin accepting all that she could not control. That would make everything easier.

The bishop, an old, bald man with a gummy smile, offered her a small nod as she stood beside the king. She tried not to look at him. The music stopped with a trembling chord, and the guests took their seats as the priest began, "Thank you all again for coming. We are gathered here today to-"

"We know why we're here," the king interjected. Lily allowed a small glimpse at him. He was wearing his traditional royal garb, sashes and medals marching up and down his chest, his grey hair finally combed into a semblance of style and grace. Surprisingly, he did not seem as off-center as before. Lily found in the king's features that he shared the same relief the late queen had exuded on the scaffold.

"Of course," the bishop nodded apologetically. "Shall we go right to the point then, your Majesty?"

"Yes, yes," the king waved his hand, annoyed, and the bishop cleared his throat to begin.

Lily had felt butterflies at the courthouse as a tempest of feelings battled within her; a poisonous mix of love and anxiety that only Alois' warm, confident hands could calm. But now the butterflies had amassed into a hellstorm inside her. Her heart pounded as the bishop asked the king if he would take Lily as his wife. This was her chance. Could she really accept things the way they were? It was a test she realized she was not prepared for. The truth was, she could not. She could run, now. She could fall to her knees and claim sanctuary from the king. The bishop was there, and they were in a church after all. He could help her, couldn't he? But a cold hand gripped her arm tightly, and Lily nearly jumped out of her skin as she realized the bishop was looking at her. He had asked her something, that final, fatal question, and the king's hand on her arm was enough to convince her that there was only one answer.

"Yes," she said quietly, and the bishop proudly declared them husband and wife. The king, keeping up with the mad schedule in his mind, reached into his pocket and introduced a small knife about the size of his thumb. He sliced the pad of his palm, then took Lily's hand and pried open the skin there. Lily bit her lip and held her breath as the king crashed his wound into hers, mixing the blood.

"There," he spat. "We are one. My blood is yours, and yours is mine. Officially."

He humphed, satisfied, then set the knife on the pulpit before gesturing to the bishop to grab something. The bishop scoffed- it was the only time Lily had seen anyone openly show frustration to the king, and the black-robed man settled a hand on Lily's shoulder to kneel.