Astraea

Till Death Do Us Part

If an injury must be done to a man, it should be so severe that his vengeance should not be feared.
~Niccolo Machiavelli

* * *

Camilla's heart was beating furiously, and as always, she knew it was not because of the handsome boy beside her. Her fingers itched to reach into the bouquet of yellow flowers Melody had sent her the morning of the wedding and pull out Astraea's sword which she had hidden in them. They were really rather pretty blossoms--Lotus creticus, Melody had said they were.

Camilla echoed the words the priest spoke to her automatically, trying to keep the smile pulling at her lips from tearing apart her face. She was so close. Her brother would be avenged and Cassius' family would finally pay for their crimes. She wondered whether seeking retribution by killing a man was the right path to take, but it was too late to second-guess herself now. Besides, there was a certain pleasure to be derived from completely flipping someone's world upside down, whether in love or requisite spite.

"You may kiss the bride."

At long last, her time had come. Marcellus turned to her, eyes shining, his arms outstretched, expecting to embrace his new wife. He did not, however, expect the sword thrust straight through his chest, and neither did his few loyal subjects. Camilla raised the sword high, the silver blade glinting keenly in the sunlight refracted through the stained glass windows of the chapel, and once more it disappeared into Marcellus' chest, hilt deep.

Silence. Then . . .

Screams erupted among the guests as they registered what had happened. Marcellus stood, a shocked expression painted over his face as he stood staring at Camilla. For a few split seconds, it was as if the world stopped turning and it was just her and Marcellus, alone once more. Camilla laughed, delighted, feeling as if a great burden had been lifted from her soul. Then he collapsed, and chaos once again erupted. The altar was slick with blood. Many guests had run outside in screaming masses, while the few remaining gathered together and stood, stock still, rooted in pure terror.

Camilla smiled, cold to any sympathies she might feel, as she slipped her husband's wedding ring from his finger with ease. The blood made her hands sticky, but she did not care; retribution had come as a cleanse to her brother, and to herself. She slipped the wedding band onto her own finger and held her hand out, admiring the shine.

Camilla had showered the entire court with her radiant charm and rapier-sharp wit, outlined in the shimmering brilliance of her beauty itself. Camilla had won their love and devotion, and now she had won their respect. Machiavelli once said that the way to keep the people under your sovereignty as a prince was to give them a spectacle of your power so great and shocking it would leave them both satisfied and stupefied. Camilla believed she had fulfilled that requirement.

"I--I had hope you would learn to . . . to love me," Marcellus choked out.

Camilla thought she had never seen anything more pitiable than he, collapsed by the altar, still gazing up at his bride with adoration and pained betrayal both etched across his face. She stared at him, cold and triumphant, amid the screams of his few loyal subjects muted in the background of her own rejoicing heartbeat.

He licked his lips, and Camilla forced herself to look away, a painful sensation flaming up in her chest, as if she were being burned at the stake she found suddenly being pounded into her heart. What is this? She asked herself, scowling at her emotions' betrayal. Are you not content in knowing your brother lies in peace? This boy should mean nothing to you.