Rodan's Embrace

Forego History-Preserve the Present

Jonah

Powder. It's... prominent. I must hold my breath as I kiss Ella. Perhaps I would not draw a single lungful of air even without the powder on her face, in her hair. The stiff corset beneath her silky dress simply makes me ponder the skin beneath it, and for this I feel guilty. Wrong. All of this feels absolutely perfect and perfectly awful. The realization that Ella and I will be imprisoned—in some fashion—until Stravos returns from war saddens me. But the orange glow of the candles, the moonlight shining through the open night, Ella's scent, our embrace; these ground me in the present. A terrible thing to ask of an historian. But I'll be damned if the present isn't the only real thing my mind wanders to.

I've never been so brazen as to kiss a woman in a public arena. I've only been so brazen as to kiss a woman once before this, and that hardly counts as a kiss because poor Madeline Beauregard wanted nothing to do with a lad like myself. But how I loved her! My ten-year-old little heart erupted each time she drew near (which was not frequently).

Madeline. Another lady. I delivered milk to her homestead. She would play in the vast yard of that enormous home. I sat next to her one day. She smiled, as any polite member of society would, but I noted in her posture that she was taken aback. That didn't quell my roiling young lust; however. I dove in and stole a quick peck. Madeline blushed, and that blush set my heart alight. I tried to steal another kiss from the fair girl, but she quickly resorted to beating me with her dolls to keep me away. One of the dolls broke, and a piece of its porcelain had lodged into my forehead. To this day, I tend to keep my hair long to conceal it.

But kissing Ella resembles nothing of my stolen youthful kiss (except that I suppose it is still stolen, in a way). It is difficult to keep my composure because the primal side of myself, having rested dormant for nearly a decade, consumes me.

Yes, I decide. The only way to move through this challenge is to preserve the present as earnestly as I'm able.

The crowd claps and roars their approval. The priest whistles. The room goes still. I tilt my lips from Ella's but I rest my forehead against hers, stare into her eyes which reflect shock, but also enticement; there may even be a touch of lust in them. I'm unsure. I am not knowledgeable in such matters. Before I can become terrified over what will occur in Stravos' bedchamber later this eve, the priest declares us wed. When he recites our collective married name, I notice the emphasis he places on "Stravos."

The priest brings a magnifying glass to his eye and scrutinizes me. No one finds this odd. No one would. Not many still utilize the practices of stand-ins as the practice has largely fallen out of favor. He does not know. But Stravos' family, friends, and everyone in the crowd—oh, they know. The man removes the glass from his eye. Hands me the gilded ring to place upon Ella's finger. I do not wish to break away from her, and I do so with trepidation.

Already, I know that the final rip from one another will not only tear us apart physically. I wish to grow white-haired and toothless with this woman. The pain of a certain but unrealized future is my burden.

History is vindictive. Sure, she maps out cycles, hidden warnings, and often helps us build upon the knowledge humanity has gained. But for the individual, history drops us into a chaotic void and demands we navigate it, regardless the consequences—known or otherwise.

Holding the ring as if it were as fragile as our marriage, I take Ella's hand with my thumb on her palm, my index finger near the base of her ring finger. I look at her. Her small brown eyes are delightful and alight with what I believe to be the same ignited flame reflected in my own.

The crowd files out of the Pavilion. The reception will be held at the Burke Homestead. Ella's mother gives me a small nod.

"She is yours now, Stravos. You must care for her. You must care for her appearance in public. She has an awful tendency to slouch. And might I ask why you did not know better than to make your grand entrance with soiled hose? I cannot fathom—"