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The music swells around the palace, old violins and dark cellos wrapping the hall in a ballad of love. White roses sit perfectly in vases mounted on marble pillars, catching the light of the sun like mirrors made of silk petals. Chatter fills the rooms as old friends reconnect and new connections are made. Everything is a pristine ivory, clean and pure with the knowledge of a marriage in the making. It is a day of peace, a day of love as two young royals come together under the hand of God.
Their names are on every calling card; Prince Neil of Baltimore and Princess Jordan of Palmetto. The wedding is grand, prepared by hundreds of overworked servants rushing to get it all ready in time. Knights surround the chapel, each one clothed in his finest armour, not a single speck of rust in sight. The stained glass windows project rainbows onto the quartz floor, pops of regal colours in an otherwise white sea. The king sits on his throne, flanked by the queen and facing the archway. He watches his son walk down the aisle—he is proud, of course, to see his boy follow his own footsteps. The queen dabs quickly at her watering eyes as she smiles towards the prince.
He places himself at the altar, fiddling with the buttons of his newly tailored dress garments. They fit him perfectly, but something about them is wrong to him. The collar hugs his neck too tightly, perhaps, though it was adjusted just days ago. His shoes are too narrow, though he has worn the exact same size for years. One of the pins holding his lapels down is pricking him, though he swears he could not feel it moments before. He chalks it up to nerves.
It does not explain the pit of dread building in his gut as he watches the faces of those he loves beam with pride and joy. It does not explain the urge to run that crawls up his legs like ants on a tree. It does not explain the feeling of wrongness that fills his entire body as he sees the doors open to reveal his bride.
Tucked away in a dark corner of the chapel, a knight stands deathly still. His armour glints under the stray rays of sunset, metal creaking quietly as his hands grip the ceremonial sword tightly. Church bells ring over him as he watches the princess of Palmetto walk down the flowered aisle. His heart aches silently beneath his breastplate.
She does not notice him, which he thinks is all for the better.
The violins fade into a softer melody, allowing the officiant’s voice to be heard by all those attending. The knight does not twitch when Jordan’s name is mentioned, though it takes every ounce of his willpower to stay rooted to the spot. He wants to rush up to the altar and stop the ceremony, to bring attention to how wrong this union is. But he is merely a knight, charged with bringing out the sword of the Crown.
He stands on guard where no one can see him. His armour is dull without the light, the sword meaningless in his grip. It’s all he can do to stare ahead and ignore the slow blurring of his vision as the priest delivers the wedding speech.
The prince is motionless at the altar, as though something roots him to the marble stand. Time seems to stand still as Jordan steps closer to him. The knight’s heart aches silently beneath his breastplate.
Neil swears the room is shrinking. Nobody else can see it, but he doesn’t understand why else his vision would be darkening at the edges if that is not the reason. Jordan looks beautiful, blonde hair cascading over white fabric, but he feels his chest constrict as she gets closer. He almost sees concern in her hazel eyes—so similar to the shade he loves but not quite the same—though it’s gone when he smiles at her. Maybe it was never there to begin with.
The funny thing is he’s always wanted to get married. Even as a little boy, Neil dreamed of getting down on one knee to propose to the future love of his life, to make their coupling an official business under the law. Yet here he stands, waiting for the rings his parents so carefully chose, trying to keep the nausea from overtaking him.
Silver flashes at the corner of his eye, and it takes everything not to turn around and bolt. He knows who’s waiting there, in the dark, silent as always. If he wasn’t in the middle of his vows, the tears threatening to flow down Neil’s face would be out of place. He keeps them in, not wanting to disappoint his father in his emotion, but the sweet smile on Jordan’s lips is almost enough to break the dam.
It isn’t his, he thinks, sliding the ring on her dainty finger. It’s not his smile, nor his hand.
He wishes he wasn’t this much of a coward.
The ceremonial sword is unbalanced and unconventional for combat. The pommel is too small for such a blade, and the dulled edges only serve to lower its military value further. It’s by no means ugly, crafted under orders of the king by one of the village’s best blacksmiths, but it’s not a good sword.
The knight weighs the weapon one last time before stepping into the light briefly to hand it over to the king. He’s only visible for a few seconds, but it feels like a lifetime. His eyes scan the crowd, recognizing servants and fellow cavaliers between the rows of royal family and noble folk.
Nobody pays attention to him. He would appreciate it any other day, but it makes the feeling of being watched so poignant that he can only snap his gaze to the one observing.
Jordan curtsies before the queen and steps closer to the king, who slowly lifts the sword. Her eyes are tracked on that golden pommel and the honour it gifts her once it comes back down. She does not see him. He prays it stays that way.
At last, his eyes rest on the prince. Neil, the boy who’d made sure he was fed in the winter all those years ago, the red-haired royal with a smile that could rival the sun, with a touch as soft as trickling water, is staring at him. Like he sees past the armour and knows that his sorrow is mirrored perfectly.
The knight watches the first tear roll down Neil’s cheek as he retreats into his shadowy corner, invisible once more. He watches his love be taken away by two metal bands and the power of God, and all he can do is hope the salt from his own tears won’t rust the metal he wears.