Dear Husband, Thy Name is Enemy

Song of Solomon 2:16

"My beloved is mine and I am his; he feedeth among the lilies."

Volume 1

𓂃𓈒𓍼ོ𓂃𓈒

The first time Lysander sees Hesper, the great statue of the divine Matron, her beautiful marble face barely discernible under the diaphanous veil that covers her from head to toe, stares back at him as if she knows all the malicious things wandering his mind. There is a little figure kneeled by her feet, emerald and pearl-hued robes fluttering behind like agitated wings.

The church smells of frankincense, sanctified oil and the slight odour of olives. All the parishioners have gone home leaving behind prayers and regrets that will be forgiven in no time by their so-beloved priest, their veil between eternal damnation and salvation.

They murmur through the fervor of zealous discussion that the fourth prince was a man whose scarred face scared even the bravest of fairytale knights seeking to whisk a prince off his feet away. But the fourth prince is anything less than stunning.

Doe-eyed, fair-haired, the perfect face for a cult. A heavenly being depicted by painters instead of the thousand eyed horror. His eyes, though—gold, the one molten for crowns adorning dead monarchs under the basilicas, their golden rimmed, jewel encrusted tombs. They pierce him like fire—for he reveals his genuine emotions for a second only.

"May I help you?" The angel speaks as a more appealing and compassionate version of the pastor—quiet and alluring.

Lysander watches how the angel's hair becomes silver under the light of the fire, pale gold when reflected on the sublime stained glass above them with the remaining sun rays. He wants to know how the hair would feel in his hands, between his fingers, and how it would look when he grabs a fistful of opalescent threads and pulls. He wants to see if the blood shines as beautifully, too.

"You're Hesperus, right?" He knows he is right, but what kind of gentleman would he be if he didn't smooth his way into the angel's trust? "The fourth prince. They call you Cygnus the fair-voiced for your time in the choir."

"A wanderer, then." Hesperus huffs, hands clasped together. The ivory rosary on his neck and the altar behind him plays with the simulacrum of a halo. Hesperus is going to be the death of him. "Did you accidentally stumble in here?"

"My actions are unfortunately deliberate, father." says Lysander, this time not containing the smirk that makes its way up to his lips.

The fire in his gaze brightens, livid. But he hides it under the veil of confidence and seraphic presence. Untouchable, it would seem. "Then please leave."

"No can do." When Lysander finds himself standing on the same level as the priest, he scoffs, humouring himself without a word—the priest is lucky to have such a pretty face and voice to lure people into the cult, for his height and size are sorely lacking. "I was sent to retrieve you, your highness."

Hesperus blinks and it is sufficiently cute to make up for the rest, but the honey-sweet eyes narrow, and he presses his lips together. The corner of his eye trembles. "...So you're his new hire."

Lysander smiles in comfort. "Help me a little, will you, your highness?"

That is how Lysander meets and finds his future spouse for the first time.

The last time he sees Hesperus, his golden hair is soaked with blood, there is dirt underneath his fingernails and he is holding a blade to his throat; blood spreads like petals of a blooming flower.