Betrothed And Wed

I look at the flowers and I think that I can't be married. Not to her. She is too lowly, she is too common; but for some reason she is all the rage - or spite my soul I am being set up for murder! I rake my nails against my skin. I feel so lost - why her, why such an abomination, for me? Am I not from gods breast himself? Why her? Why she? I look to all the fellows men, knights, kings, they lean away from her like she is something to fear. So I think to myself - why me? Is it because they wish to make me suffer. When at the table she could hardly lift a smile - the surprise of me being chosen for her slapped her in the face. She may be of some innocence but she knows the words which remain unspoken - I am too good for her, and it makes her nervous to have to curtsy before a king. Oh yes I am going to be a king one day, and a god. But I should not be given the bottom of the plate! Oh spite, you return with a knife in my hand - I should cut her throat and make her go away! But it is her fault that I should be given her as my proposal? No it is not. It is my father's fault, it is my mothers fault, it is their parents fault! There is something faulty that makes the world turn so that she should be put on my lap and be told to sit. Who is she? What is she? Has she any wealth. Okay, so her father may have collected rubies from the eastern world, and that he may have helped to defeat a great enemy, but does that mean that she should be give to me? There are angels and saints sitting at either side, and she leans from them as they to her. It is a fitting picture for one circles by everything that they could hate; and yet there is some love. Who is the saint to smile behind his eyes as I take a hand to my mouth to stifle a scream? What is that saint hiding? Does he know who she is? Why should he smile? Is he amused? Is he weak? Is he mocking? What is the hidden truth that I may yet discover? I cough out a 'yes' as bitter as bark in a cup. I drink that sour ale, and then I think to myself 'why me'? I am bright as the sun, and great as a throne of wealth; why is she being given to me? Have the gods blessed her? Have they blessed me? Is he beautiful? She is spiteful? Will she be able to ward off an enemy with a magic spell? I have to lay down to rest my weary mind. I think of her. She is but an argument on the top of my tongue and I wish to be rid of it. So what if my parents want me to marry her? How about I rush to a pagan temple and marry another - then they will have to accept my pagan marriage and give me a crown made of silver. I rub my head. A crown made of silver hurts the mind until angels singing can be heard through my ears, drilling them with their high pitched sound, and drowning me. It is agony to have a crown made of silver. It is what can make a man crawl to his grave, even if he has been made from God. So I swallow my temper, and I look to my princess, and I tell her I could love no other while feeling empty inside of my heart. And I take her hand, I fall in love, and she falls in love with me, and we make love, and the world turns into our union until the whole kingship is made of it. I rake a hand through my hair as I think about the wars I must face. I must hold her heart in my heart as I fight them, and at the moment my heart is broken and I feel low. I shall march on hard feel and fight with an arm made of rage - so much so that the sword of silver may turn red as my fingers burn. I shall lose. I shall lose every battle if I fight that way. How can I win? The wars are supposed to be fought with love, not hate! I purse my lips as I fight a wave of hate and bitter. How could my parents put this nightmare on my plate. I should be in love and taunting my marriage, not being scared by it. But now that a tear has dribbled from my eye I might tell the truth - I cam scared, and I want to flee from it with my soul! The marriage was a lowly affair. I wore the clothes, but I did not wear my heart. As the jester teased me I looked out of eyes wet with desperation. I just wanted to ignore everyone who set me up to be married to such a lowly woman. I look to her. She is hidden behind a vale of white, and she never looked more lovely. I cannot see her face, and I almost want to think of how nice she might be under that vale of white. But the truth is she is not lovely, and if she didn't have that vale to hide her I may well have struck her then and there to shake her and ask her why we should be together? I am not so impolite as to take my anger out on her however. She is but a young woman who also had no word to say after it was exposed who she should marry. She could be shaking under her skin, I just can't feel it. I think of sour thoughts as I turn away from her - I don't want to look at her and so I keep my eyes on a candle and pray to it. The candle flickers - I am being listened to that is a good sign. The bad sign is that I am being told to wait, and so I stand as still as stone waiting for God to stop the marriage when it is something not even He can halt. So I marry the woman. I marry the disgrace. When I take her to her chamber I sit with her and I talk to her. She smiles, she laughs, she even tells me a small story of her life. Then when all the courtship is done I show her the sun setting on the hills and I tell her that I am in love, and she grows warm. She turns into the sun just as the cold settled over the castle, and I stay warm. It is almost a lovely gift. Holding her I think that the world should be alright, and I get used to holding her, I get used to her smell, I get used to being tainted with someone lower then I. Then I kiss her cheek and I tell her I will always be her Lord, and she begins to relax as though the world is going to be safe. I am told to walk from the castle and into battle. It is my first time since I have been married, and I have my new Queen inside my heart as I take to horse. Men look to me. I feel so weak that I could faint, but as I ride with then I gain strength and my weakness floats off my mind. The weakness was a thought, it was a fear, it was a belief that sharing blood with such a Queen as her would make me weaker still. I being to feel as though the world is going to okay - but then the battle starts, and I fight so hard my fingers break! I leave that battle bloodied, bruised, and tortured. A cut on my leg tells me of a hit, but the many dead tells me that I have won. I return to my bride, my Queen, and I tell her of my battle. She looks to me as though I have returned home a monster, but I tell her my bloody tale and how I gained injury and at the end she wipes tears from her eyes. They are tears of fear, of scared, of joy; they are mingled tears and each one I wish to kiss off her face. Then I give her a gift - a necklace made of obsidian I had made as I napped through a night of camp, and she smiles at me and thanks me with a kiss. I forget my hate for my Queen and grow used to her. We share many moments of intimacy, and then at the end of the day we fear that we have fallen in love. The men and women gather to speak to me, to look at me, to watch me train. I become a hero, a knight, a King before them, and they do grow a fondness for me. I grow used to being this person, this demolished person who wished for someone else, and as the years turn so does my hair. Finally I am asked to fight. I leave my Queen, my three kids, and my kingdom to fight. I fight a new enemy who has risen from the earth to fight me with their claim that they have been made from god. They cut the flowers from my heart as they cut my throat. I ask them to look after my Queen, and they nod. They tell me she shall be looked after and then they leave me to die. At night God reaches to me and mends my wound. Then he breathes in life, and I am able to wander back to my kingdom. But when I get there the whole place lays in waste - the people have been killed, the animals stolen, the fields burned, the wells poisoned. I race inside and I look inside my chamber - my bride is missing, she has been taken, she has been granted a new life as a slave. I sigh. I thank God for a moment as a tear falls from my eye. I am glad she has been taken, I am glad she has been accepted. But then I look to a mound of black that lay in charcoal on the hearth. I walk up to it. I inspect it. My heart grows sour as I see the ashes of a child newly born. It has been burned. It was my soul that was unsuitable. I want to protest - they accepted that bastard woman and not me? But then I sigh. I offered a fine battle and the hearts I killed remain buried in the earth beneath where I had been left to die. It might be my fault that I be left to roast on the hearth. I look away. The sight of my child's body makes me sick, and so I pick up a sword and I run. I am in God's hands now, he will tell me what I am to do!