La Rivière Martille

A ceremony. A wedding, a sister, Julia, and her highschool sweetheart, Hanke. They decided on a small chapel outside of Saint-Seire, neighbored by an Eldrefleur field, and the blossom's sweet and mellow scent reminded him of the liquor made from its nectar.

Trelawney watched his sister waltz down the aisle of the cramped chapel, their family on the left, Hanke's on the right. His smokey Grey eyes watched with a pang of want and envy, and his eyes flicked to a tall, vulnerable groom, watching mistily as his bride drew closer. Trelawney watched the frailing body of his father guide her down the plush red carpet. He inhaled and caught the scent of old wood and cologne--a halting combination.

Everyone had brought someone with them--family friends brought their spouses and children, naturally wives brought their husbands, and he could count the boyfriends and girlfriends of his cousins two rows ahead.

He could still hear the sweet voice of his mother ask "Tre, who are you bringing?" While folding the invitations into envelopes, her arthritic fingers slightly misshapen. He saw her now, sitting next to her and greying.

When he told her "No one, maman" she deflated, and his father's aging eyes squinted in disappointment, a look he was more than used to. Now he sat one over from the edge of the pew, the officiator began his royal spiel, and this was when Trelawney began to tune out. He was the oddball, the middle child, the black sheep.

Of course, Trelawney wasn't without his muse: a smooth-talking fellow factory worker from Trebert, a friend of his aunt's. He worked at a different facility than he, but they saw each other often enough, such that Trelawney often used his lunch hour to meet him at a café on highway 20 to eat and horse around on the cliffs overlooking the Martille further north.

Trelawney wasn't much for the dramatics, but Frederic Letreau had captured his heart. wholely, truly, and without resignation, Trelawney felt something for him, and it was a tragedy. Throughout his time sitting in the chapel he did well not to let his eyes linger, but like a child sneaking a glimpse at the gifts in the wee Christmas morning, he couldn't help but steal glances at his perfectly cut Red hair.

He tried to distract himself, by the reminder of how beautiful his sister looked in her gown of flowing lace and crinoline, pearls adorning the bodice and the veil concealing her fair skin. He wished it was he and Frederic on that altar, and Julia was happily beaming from his spot among the attendees.

The mirage faded, and so did the murky smile that had formed on his troubled face.

-

The ceremony was cute, Julia and Hanke wholeheartedly saying "I do" and kissing beneath a flowered trestle, and the sound of applause and gratitude echoing off of the rustic church walls. Flutes of sweet white were served as the congregation chatted and the newlyweds took their pictures among the field.

Trelawney watched, distant and endearing, as family and friends filed out, elated and giddy with reminiscence, into the parking lot to depart to the reception on Lake Toulouser, some minutes away.

His eyes glazed over the program, reading the names and the cursive font typed on rugged cardstock. His hands faintly tingled with the ghost of the cuts he had attained printing them for the wedding.

The soft white light was then blocked by a shadow, Trelawney hit with the scent of sandalwood and distant tang of machine oil. He looked up, and into the swimming Brown eyes of Frederic Letreau.

"So, did you like the ceremony?" Trelawney asked, and slinked to his feet. A brief read of the room found they were alone. Frederic tilted his head in affirmation, his hands tucked into his pockets.