A Splatter of Other #Wattys2015

XVIII

Wednesday I get a surprising visit from a couple of women shrouded in layers and layers of cumin orange and yellow silks. The only parts of their bodies visible were their hands and eyes, calloused and dark. "Can I help you?" I ask uncertainly, eyes flicking past to the open doorway, contemplating whether or not I could get past all three of them.

"You have got it all wrong," the middle one purred...or was it the left?

"We are here to help you," another one whispers, approaching.

I take a step back, "Um...with what?" They converge on me, metal clad fingers reaching for me. They begin pulling me out of my room, and despite my struggles they seemed to have more strength than three women should possess. "Hey, where are you taking me?"

"To our private rooms," I couldn't tell if one or all three spoke.

"What, why?"

"It is time you looked like one of us." That silenced me, and I began to panic. Of course, of course they would finally decide to do something days before I intended to get away.

"What are you going to do?" We are moving through the flea market, and people are staring openly, until I glare at them at least.

"Make you one of us." After that, they wouldn't answer any of my questions, or demands, so I had to assume Archer had some part in this. My chest aches at the thought of Archer, but I push it away, to the far recesses of my mind as we push through a door of fabric into a den of silk. Reds and oranges are draped from every surface, creating a tent in the middle of the room where a mountain of pillows and sheets created a luxurious bed. Tall candles drips wax down the walls and bubbles in hanging incense bowls. The smell is strong, of rosemary and mint, and overpowers every other cave smell. The immediately set to stripping me, and jab me with their metal claws every time I try to stop them. The hiss and click at my fading bruises, inspecting every inch of my body. Next the lay me out and rub my entire body raw with what feels like sand paper, cutting and shaping my nails. While this is going on one of the women removes her claws and promptly sticks a finger inside of me. I jolt and cry out in disgust and fury. "We check that you are intact."

"You could have asked!" I snap as the stand me up, pull me through into another room, this one occupied by a large porcelain bathtub. The whole wall was covered in red candles, a little over the top in my opinion, but they set me in the steaming water, filled with all kinds of herbs and oils, and went about scrubbing me pink. They raked combs through my hair, clean my teeth, and even plucked my eyebrows. I scowl, feeling as though I am being prepared for a wedding or something stupid. One pricks my finger with her nail and puts it in her mouth, 'tasting my heritage' apparently. I have to wonder if perhaps they weren't totally out of it from opium. Once I was done they rub me with floral scented oils that are heavenly on my skin. Their hands are hard but gentle, and I feel myself relaxing, that is, until one turns up with a small hammer, pots and several needle implements. "Okay, what are those for?" I demand, feeling panic rising up in my chest.

"You will get your Marks now."

"Tattoos?" I squeak, "Oh, no I don't think that's necessary."

"It is part of our orders, lie still or lose an eye." I stiffen on the table and screw up my eyes, until they force me to smooth out my brow. The first strike makes me hiss, the second cry, and the third I stay silent as the needle is hammered into the skin of my forehead again and again. It goes on for a long time, tears silently dripping down my cheeks as I am mutilated beyond repair. When they are done, they dab away the blood and apply a salve. "Now sleep, sweet girl, you will not get any tonight." And just like that they leave me, sobbing underneath a thin blanket.

I do sleep, surprisingly, and when I wake up it's to see a mirror in my face. I don't know whether to smile or cry. The marking is beautiful with its bone white swirls, the centre a teardrop with a white dot in the middle. My hands tremble as I reach up to touch the mark, then his as it burns.

"The teardrop is for empathy, and the colour is that of the Berserk," the woman behind the mirror informs me. I look up at her, my eyes puffy from crying, and she tsks. "There, there, sweet girl, no bride should cry on her wedding night. Especially when she is marrying the most desired and powerful male in all the Tribes, a prince. Only less than Enoch himself, naturally."

"Wedding night?" I sob, pinning her with terrified eyes.

"Not like any wedding you would understand, considering it is not spoken in English," she dabs my eyes with a cool cloth, which doesn't help much considering I am crying again. "It will be in front of the entire Tribe, and there you will receive your other paints, red for Kostenlos."

"Archer planned this?"

She gazes down at me with pity, "No, his Father did. Archer has spent the last half day trying to talk him out of it, or at least to push the date forward a few months, but," she sighs as the others approach, ready to pretty her up. "Word got out, and now the whole Tribe is anticipating the union, it would be impossible to stop now."

"What-what if I just left? What if you let me get away right now, while everyone was preparing?" But they were already shaking their heads in unison.

"We like you, Outside girl, but he is our Prince, and we are ever loyal Sunkemp servants." I flop back, resigned to my fate. At least I wouldn't be going into this union alone in my feelings. Whatever Archer felt for me, and I for him, it certainly wasn't a marriage-worthy feeling. After that I let them rub me, prune me and dress me in whatever they wanted. As it turns out, other than some cream to hide the puffy redness, they left me natural, with my pale gold hair flowing down to tickle the bottom of my ribs. Before dressing me in a lovely, soft white bleached doeskin shift that reached my knees, they painted swirls all over my body in white. When they were done, I was the cleanest and prettiest I'd been in months, and it felt good, despite the circumstances.

"Are we going then?" I ask, my voice thick in my throat.

"Yes," the whisper, and lead me out.

The dining room had been transformed, with walls painted and candles dripping. The tables had been shifted into two rows and piled with food. Curious and wary eyes follow me as I shuffle behind the three women down the centre, chilled by the strange hum emitting from the throat of every individual. Where the head table usually is there now sits a low table, behind which a severely tattooed dark man knelt, a curved bone like a minute bull horn through his nose. Enoch and Estelle sat in thrones to my right, and Archer knelt before the low table on one of two plush cushions, head bowed and shoulders sagged in defeat. I move towards him, hardly able to hear over the dull roaring in my head. I was ushered into a kneeling positon next to him and hardly dared to look sideways at his face. His head turned a fraction and I saw how sorry he was, how much it hurt him to force me into this. With a trembling hand I reached out, took his and squeezed. Reassuring, telling him I didn't blame him or hate him. And I didn't, all that was directed at the monster that was his Father, a man I couldn't even look at. The relief on Archer's face at my silent assurance did little to ease the guilt clearly written into every line of his tired face. The humming was getting louder, the ground trembles and my teeth chatter. Just when I think my head will explode, the strange man in front of us raises his hands sharply, and they cut off the sound immediately, leaving my ears ringing in this silence. The silence doesn't last long though, because he started booming out all these words I didn't understand, addressing hundreds if not thousands of people I did not know, and only Archer's trembling hand, wrapped around mine, kept me tethered to this Earth.

I didn't understand any of the ceremony, not that it mattered, considering I took no real part in it. Archer did all the talking, his voice strong and clear, despite the paleness of his face, and the tightness of his grip. There came a pause in which he turns to me with a pot of red paint in his hands. With fingers so delicate, he paints red lines alongside and mirroring each of my own white ones. The way he touches me, it's as if I am so delicate I might break, makes my insides flutter. I stare at him with wide eyes as he finishes and offers me his hands palm up. I take them confused. "Kiss them," he breathes, and I know he hates saying that to me, I can see the self-loathing in his eyes. But I do it, kissing one upturned palm after the other, with as much gentleness as he had showed me, and when I meet his eyes again, I let him see that it's okay, we are okay. And that was it, just like that, we were married. I, Franceska Bellemore of Arrow, was married to Prince Archer of the Tribe of Burnt Ashes.