Chapter Text
Pomni couldn’t breathe.
As her ribs caved in her torso, she was certain a piece of bone would snap and pierce her right lung. Blood would surely fill her organs, and she would be dead faster than a day-old fly.
A part of her hoped that would be the outcome.
“Pull the corset tighter. My son deserves only the most beautiful bride.” The voice of Pomni’s new ferryman rang from behind the collection of ladies’ maids that were cinching her soul away into a corset.
Well, Ferryman is what she named the woman. With specks of bonbons above her crimson-painted lips, the woman’s actual title was Queen Mother Octavia. From a kingdom crossing over the west sea, the rumors about her particularity were not an exaggeration.
Squeeeeeze!
Pomni gasped, gripping the edges of the small round table in front of her. Just a little tighter and she’d avoid the upcoming misalignment entirely.
“Deepest apologies, Ma’am.”
Pomni’s knuckles whitened, her voice forced out between her teeth, “It is fine, Livia.” She tried to pay her maid a good-natured smile, since hurting the bride on her wedding day would be considered treason.
Livia nodded, a bead of sweat rolled down her temple as she expertly fastened the strings to her corset.
A dubious thought crossed Pomni’s mind, instead of torture, perhaps criminals should be subjected to going through the processes of marriage readiment. Surely a petty thief would learn their lesson strapped from within an inch of their life in this thing.
Once the corset debacle was finished—with the queen consort’s approval—the maids draped the collection of white fabrics over Pomni’s body. Silk, lace, and cotton. All mixed together to create the most gaudiest of gowns Pomni had ever seen.
Her skirt jutted out like a cloud, trimmed with intricate lace details that were painstakingly worked on for months. Her neckline was heartshaped but underneath had lace panels that extended around her shoulders and throat.
“Is this… necessary?” Pomni asked, balancing on the balls of her feet as the maid beneath her slipped on matching heels. “Don’t you think it’s too much?”
Octavia laughed as if Pomni had just recounted the world’s most hilarious joke. “During my wedding, I wore something not too dissimilar, and I tell you, I was hailed a fashionable icon for my tastes.”
A part of her seriously doubted that. She was dressed like those fancy cakes she’d sneak under tables during balls. But without any of the benefits of a delicious pastry.
Pomni spanned the plane of her stomach, feeling the beadwork and growing more unsettled. She never wanted to marry, and she avoided it for a considerable amount of time, but maybe the process would be more bearable if she wore something more to her tastes.
Octavia surveyed Pomni like a shark circling its prey, her eyes landing on ever out of place detail, and snapping for a maid to adjust it accordingly. She stopped, and her mouth popped open in a gasp. “Now what is that?”
She grabbed Pomni’s left hand and pinched her eyes towards the mark on her ring finger. “When did this ghastly thing appear?”
Pomni bit her tongue, immediately recognizing what the woman was referring to. “That was a scar from my time in leading strings, your grace.”
A scar traced the perimeter of her ring finger. Besides the fact that she got it when she was very young, Pomni was unable to recall the exact cause. Her father used to say it was a gift that marked how very special she was. A guardian angel gave it to her.
While she was too old to believe in such tales, she took comfort in the stories spun by her father.
Octavia curled her lip and barked an order out for a glove to hide the eyesore. While she crossed back to the tray of bonbons, Pomni overheard her mumbling about needing a thicker ring band.
She plucked a bonbon off the tray and popped it in her painted mouth, smacking her lips loudly. “These are dreadful,” She said and plucked a second one. “Our chefs back home have way more wonderful pastries. I’d offer you some, but we must be on a strict diet for a healthy babe to arrive.”
Pomni’s fingers tensed, and she was seconds away from tearing this dress off her own body and throwing those stupid bonbons out the window.
Livia, who must have noticed her poorly concealed frustrations, stood up and informed the Queen Mother that there were some concerns in the chapel and that her attention may be required elsewhere.
“Very well. Must make sure the seating arrangements are proper. We do have a lot of our extended family arriving for the festivities.” Octavia waved Livia off and sauntered over to the wooden oak door, stopping only to say, “You look almost as lovely as I did when I got married.”
Pomni knew very little of the Queen Mother, but somehow she got an inkling that that was considered a genuine compliment.
The maids bowed low as the woman exited the room. When the door shut, Pomni dropped her shoulders and exhaled loudly.
“That woman is a demon,” Pomni muttered. “A sadist.”
The maids didn’t verbally agree, but the slight twitch of Livia’s lip was proof enough of their opinion.
“And this dress! If anyone were to be in too high spirits, they might mistake me for the cake,” She pulled at the scratchy collar as if it were a chain around her neck. “I’d rather walk down the aisle naked than wear this!”
“You look beautiful in whatever you wear, Ma’am,” Livia said.
“While I do not believe you, thank you.”
The door opened. Pomni feared another lecture on ‘watching her figure’ was about to come, but when all her maids stood up and bowed their heads deeply like puppets, she knew it wasn’t Octavia.
“Sister.” Her brother Siban, the king of their wonderful nation, waltzed in with his kingsmen carrying bouquets nearly twice the size of them. “You look—” His eyes flickered up and down her attire, momentarily stunned but quickly schooled into polite admiration, “Beautiful.”
“Do not mock me, brother.” Pomni moved the fabric of her skirt around, hoping to make the attire look less like a cloud. “And while I appreciate the flowers, I believe white lilies are the customary choice.”
“White lilies? Are those not for funerals?”
Pomni smiled, allowing the silence to answer whether she knew that or not.
“It is marriage, Pomni.”
The kingsmen finished placing several colorful bouquets around the dressing room, all excusing themselves with a bow to both the king and his sister.
“It is not just—” Pomni yelped in pain as a needle pricked her side—“May I please have a moment with my bro- with the king? Alone.”
The maids shifted glances, and only when Siban nodded his head did they leave. Not that Pomni blamed them, but it irked her the power he so casually wielded.
When the room was just with them, Pomni turned around and gestured to her umbre curls all done in intricate tangles. “This is all your fault, you know.”
A smile reached his red and blue eyes, the trait Pomni shared with him, a mix of their mother’s and father’s hue. “I do not believe I was involved in any of the dressing decisions.”
“It’s not just the hair. It’s the marriage, the whole thing is entirely your doing.”
“Pomni, we have talked about this.”
“We did. Which need I remind you how clearly against the idea I was. You’re shipping me off with a man I know nothing about!”
Pomni stepped towards the cushioned chair in front of the window and sat down. Here she could see the bouquets up close, the bright orange petals mocking her with their loudness.
“You are marrying a prince,” Siban informed her. “Does not get much better than that.”
“A prince I have been kept in the dark about. He could very well be a troll. Or cruel. Or simple-minded, considering he needed to sail across a sea to get married.”
“I can assure you his reputation is spotless.”
Pomni rolled her eyes. “A smart man with that power could easily hide his true nature.”
Siban sighed. “It pains me to think you do not believe I made this decision with your best interests in mind.”
“If my interests were concerned, you would have let me attend a university as I asked.”
“Women do not go to university.”
“Ridiculous, considering the fact that I have always been more proficient in arithmetic than all our siblings.” Pomni squished her powdered cheeks against her hand and stared out the window. An act of defiance against the king that’d normally meant a sentence of imprisonment.
Not that she wasn’t a prisoner already.
“You are intelligent, Pomni. But you are five and twenty. A match of this caliber would be unheard of for other ladies your age. To a prince nonetheless.”
“You’re king. Why can’t you change the rules?”
That got a chuckle out of him. “I am king, but such a change would surely get parliament rallying for my removal. It is not an easy thing.”
“Change isn’t easy. Doesn’t make it any less worthy of attempting.”
Siban pressed his lips together and carefully tucked an out-of-place strand behind her ear. “You would make a wonderful queen, Pomni. Do not let doubt cloud your mind.”
It wasn’t a doubt. It was an acknowledgement that Pomni was upset at everything. Even if the man was as godly as a saint, it did not mean they would work out.
Her mother and father were in love. Real love. She wanted something similar. But to love a man forced upon her? That was impossible.
If only she had been more proactive in her younger years. It was just difficult to find a man capable of interesting conversation. As a princess, the ones you want never dare to approach, and those who do have a bigger ego than their britches can contain.
“Pomni,” Siban whispered, noting her silence. “Do you… Do you remember the stories Father used to read you? The one about the cursed fae prince?”
She did remember.
A prince who led his family to their ruin and cursed his court into eternal darkness. But that story was hard to remember. Her head always pulsed when trying to recall her father’s voice recounting the details.
“It was a story to scare children to not go out at night in case they were to be sequestered by the prince. But you used to always cry for the prince, never once fearing him. When I asked you why you wept, you would always say, ‘he must be so lonely.’”
“I was young,” Pomni rebutted. “Either way. Why does it matter if I felt empathy for made-up folktales about creatures we are hardly sure exist or not?”
“It matters because you will find the good in your husband. Because you care for the most outcast of outcasts. Not many people share that trait. Not many ladies found spiders as adorable as you did.”
Pomni cracked a tiny smile at that. Spiders were pretty cute.
“I see what you are trying to say. But it won’t work. The naive belief that I had as a kid means nothing in the face of reality. I will be kept as a vessel for an heir, and a decorative piece for my husband to do many great things in front of me. Whilst I have nothing.”
“I cannot change the agreement, Pomni. You know that.”
Pomni bit down on her lip, looking at her brother with glassy eyes. “Then you leave me with no choice.”
As he opened his mouth, Pomni stood up on the cushions and stepped onto the windowsill, and pushed the panels open. The breeze hit her face first, and the sounds of chirping birds called to her like a freedom bell.
Just as she was about to leap onto the roof, Siban hugged her midsection and tugged at her to get back inside.
“Are you mad?! Do not jump out of that window, Pomni!”
A king playing tug of war with his sister. And losing? The people would never believe it without seeing it.
Her knuckles whitened, and she kept trying to push her body out, but eventually Siban pinched her side, causing her to release and be dragged back to the seat. “Let me go, Siban!”
“No!” He released her and fixed his tousled hair and wrinkled jacket. “You are staying in this room. You are marrying the prince. And you are going to stay pleasant, do not take further advantage of your position with me, because if you do not marry, you will be sent to live out the rest of your days as a nun, so help me!”
It was the tone of voice Siban used when he had reached his tipping point. There was no way around him. No way out for Pomni.
“Fine,” She muttered, dropping her head down, turning to stone. “Will that be all, your grace?”
“I–” Siban stopped himself. “This is for your own good.”
Pomni exercised silence, waiting until the moment he left the room.
“For your own good,” She mocked minutes after he exited. “You have not bested me yet, brother.”
The corridor of past kings and their royal families was all documented in portrait form.
Pomni’s father used to take her down these halls by the hand and explain in extensive detail how their family came to be. She used to think it was an honor to be part of such a dynasty.
Naive. Ignorant. Unaware.
That would soon be the name she’d give her portrait hung in an unfamiliar castle.
Pomni stared at the portrait of her mother and father. Beside them was her eldest brother, Siban. Her two older brothers and the twin girls were born four years ahead of her.
The child at the bottom of the painting was none other than Pomni. Reflecting a smile Pomni had long since forgotten.
I wonder what that little girl would say if she saw me now.
Pomni tore away from the portrait, sounds of approaching footsteps alerting her flight responses as she continued down the hall. She hurried around the corner before whoever was responsible was able to catch sight of her.
A fleeing bride was not easily allowed to leave the castle.
She trailed down hallway to hallway, trying to find a reasonable exit point when she turned a corner and—
Smack!
Pomni stumbled back, holding a reddening nose.
“Miss, are you okay?”
Her eyes popped open as she faced the owner of the voice. An older man with blonde hair and a thick mustache covering an upper lip. His eyes were a brilliant blue, the kind she remembered her father having.
“I–” Pomni stammered several vowel sounds. “I am doing great!”
“Are you sure? Because if I’m not mistaken, that is a wedding dress, and I am not sure the bride would appreciate having her appearance replicated on such an occasion.”
Pomni blinked.
Is he joking?
On further inspection, she concluded the man was serious.
“Oh- Yes! That is exactly why I was on my way to change! Please forgive me, sir.” She curtseyed and hurried around him, not wanting to blow her cover.
“Wait, miss!”
Pomni froze. “Yes?” she asked, slowly looking over her shoulder.
“Your hair. May I fix it?”
Pomni looked up, unable to see the mess he referred to. “I don’t know if I should—”
More footsteps.
She may have gotten lucky once, but twice would be a miracle.
Pomni grabbed the man’s wrist and dragged him into the nearest room.
One of the many drawing rooms. Several seats and a piano forte were stationed near a large window. The rugs were imported from regions Pomni might get to visit if she were able to make her escape.
“Miss, why did you drag me in here?”
“Oh, uh… To fix my hair, of course. Just over here, and quietly please.” She waved him over to the window where she could spy on the guests in the courtyard. Far too many, but each of them was too invested in mindless chatter to potentially notice a bride scaling the roof.
The elder man approached Pomni’s back and gently adjusted the nest of hair crafted by too many maids. “Is there something bothering you, miss? You seem… panicked.”
Pomni scoffed, still surveying through the window. “Panicked? No. Not panicked at all. Just taking the reins of my life for the first time.”
“Is that so? Forgive my assumptions then, but you seem to look more distressed for such a thing.”
“It’s just… The ki- My brother… He disagrees with my method of seeing things.”
“I’m sure your brother is doing what he thinks is best.”
“Thinking and knowing are two very different things.”
The man chuckled. “You have a point there. Why do you think he is incorrect in his assessment then?”
“He is blinded by duty,” She blurted out. The words spilled out of her before she even thought to conceal them from this man. Was it because he shared her late father’s eyes? “Does not take into account what I want and then starts going off about some children’s story about a cursed prince! He’s the mad one, that is for certain.”
“Cursed prince?”
“An old fae tale told to me when I was in mere leading strings.”
“I think I’ve heard that one.”
”Somehow, my reaction was justification for thrusting me into this ma– predicament.”
“And what was your reaction?”
“Apparently, my ‘fondness’ for the prince in the story was abnormal.” She went to look back, but fingers fiddling with her hair were still at work. “Ridiculous.”
“Do you not have any more fondness for this prince?”
Pomni frowned, confusion knitting at her brows. Was that really the important part of her story? “I mean… If you were to ask, my guess is that I would still have a sliver of sympathy. Hypothetically, I mean.”
He hummed thoughtfully. “Do you not think he deserved his fate?”
“No one deserves an eternity of loneliness.”
“You think he is lonely?”
Pomni nodded. “I think I would be if I were him.” Images of the girl in the portrait flickered past her mind. What would that little girl say?
“Isn’t the worst thing one can experience to feel unwanted or unloved?”
The work on her hair stopped, and the fingers slipped away.
When Pomni turned around, she felt the black strands of hair cascade just over her shoulders, and the tension in her head had lessened. The man smiled with closed eyes and pointed her towards one of the mirrors on the wall.
In her reflection, she saw her hair relaxed. No longer a nest suited for birds, but a look suited for Pomni.
Simple.
“I… Uh… Thank you.” She breathed out.
“No. Thank you.” He reached his hand out for.
She allowed her hand to be held, sliding into a gloved palm. The skin underneath was harder than she imagined for such a delicate man, but the surprised laid in the bare skin between his glove and sleeve.
The markings on his wrist appeared almost… wood-like?
“Princess!”
Pomni whirled her head to the group of the king's guards piling out of the door. She opened her mouth in preemptive defense of her situation.
To be found in a secluded room with a man—even if he were to appear thrice her age—was not an excusable predicament.
“This is not what it appears to be!”
When she went to gesture to the older man, she found herself waving towards the empty air beside her.
The man was gone. Vanished like spun sugar dropped in a pond.
“What the…?”
The window behind her swung on its hinges, opened by a mysterious force.
The man… There is no way…
The chapel doors opened, and a kaleidoscope of colors shone through the towering stained glass window at the end of the chancel. Drowning the attendees in a sea of colors, Pomni could only fixate on each of the guests' faces.
They were joyous. Elated, even.
The attention that had rarely ever been on her was suddenly all she could think about.
Dukes and lords. Ladies and Vicountesses.
They all reminded her of one very obvious fact. That this wasn’t just any wedding of nobility, this was a royal wedding.
Her hand trembled on her brother’s arm, not with excitement at the fact, but with the urge to turn around and run.
Don’t look at me! She wanted to scream it outloud, but all her thoughts had to be concealed behind a porcelain mask. A mask that would surely shatter if she allowed the heavy fabric at her feet to catch beneath her heel.
The organ started to play, and the cue to start walking had Pomni being led by her brother. She was a half-step behind, but who would notice?
Everyone. Everyone would notice.
The colors danced their way up her white dress, and she clutched the bouquet of roses and baby breaths like they could hide the movement of her chest. Her heart was about to burst right out, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
Then she looked at the man waiting beside the priest. Her soon-to-be husband.
Not a troll, going solely off of height. But he was still considerably tall. He had sandy colored hair that caught the emerald light, sort of like one of those jellies Pomni used to covet from her brother’s trips to foreign nations.
He wore a formal suit of white and gold, and with enough regalia upon his shoulders to signify contributions to his country.
Perhaps he fought with his people…
With those shoulders, it would be plausible.
“You will make a wonderful queen.”
Pomni glanced up at her brother. That despite their disagreements today, shared a look of pride. All for what? Because she was to be wed?
Pomni looked back at the prince.
He caught her glance. He didn’t look her up and down to assess if she was of good breeding. He merely gazed upon her eyes and smiled.
Words a lady should never say in public blared in her mind.
The journey to the altar finally ended.
Everyone took their bows, and the guests took their seats. Pomni’s fingers lingered on her brother’s arm, but even she couldn’t delay the proceedings any longer. With careful steps, she reached the spot across from the prince and kept her eyes just out of direct contact.
“You look… beautiful.”
His voice had an accent. One Pomni had never heard of. Even Octavia did not speak as such, but perhaps it was because Octavia was also a betrothed queen from another country.
“Thank you, your grace.” She whispered.
“Please. Call me Gideon.”
Was that the voice of a cruel prince? Maybe it was just a guise, but this prince spoke with such softness that Pomni had never expected. Clearly, he was trying to provide some levity to their situation. She was not the only one arranged to marry.
The corner of her mouth twitched upward, and she gave a curt nod. It wasn’t out of rudeness, just that his radiance was overbearing. For better and especially for worse.
When the priest started talking, Pomni allowed her shoulders to relax. Allowed the prince’s gaze not to be intimidating, and observe the man in his entirety. Was Pomni really so shallow that his mere appearance and pleasant smile were enough to have her not hate the idea of marriage so much?
“You may take each other's hands.”
Pomni listened, resting her hands in his palms. There were slight callouses, but they were warm. Easy to sink into.
She was practically a sunken ship by the time the priest addressed her.
“Huh?” Pomni gawked, taking the priest by surprise.
He cleared his throat and repeated his question, “Wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded Husband...?”
Oh. Yes. This part.
Marriage. Duty. Pride.
Pomni had to sacrifice her personal ambitions and her dreams just to please those around her. And then she thought— perhaps his lips touching hers would not be so unpleasant. Would falling in love truly be possible? Maybe—just maybe, she’d be the amazing queen her brother praised her to be.
“I will.”
The priest asked the prince the same question.
“I will.” He responded.
The golden bands were presented on a red velvet pillow. As was customary, the husband would pick up the band first, deglove the left hand of his bride, and put the ring over her vena amoris.
The vein ran along the fourth finger and was believed to be connected to the heart. With a ring over the vein, it was believed the connection between the pair would beat just as strongly.
But when Gideon went to slide the ring, he stopped.
Pomni lifted her head to check on him, fearing he might have realized how preposterous the whole affair was when she noticed his tensed brows. His jawline ticked, and she swore she heard him mutter a grunt.
“Your grace?” She croaked out, hoping the crowd did not yet notice the difficulties occurring. “Is everything alright?”
“Yes–” He let out a tired exhale. “Just trying to get this on.”
Pomni blinked and looked back down. The ring was hardly scraping her skin, but she noticed the tension in his fingers as the ring hovered just above her knuckle. Like an invisible force was blocking the band entirely.
“Do you need me to try—”
CRASH!
Shards of colored glass launched through the altar out to the middle of the nave. Pomni, with the sudden cannon of wind barreling at her, dropped to the floor, covering her head as tiny cuts nicked the back of her exposed hand.
Cries of panic echoed across the chapel, and Pomni feared that an attack may have been launched on the wedding. Then leather shoes thudded calmly against the wooden floorboards, occasionally crunching glass beneath their soles.
Pomni lifted her head, and behind a cowering priest was a man in all black.
It was like he materialized from black smoke that dusted his feet, and the smell of embers leaked and burned the tip of Pomni’s nose. He wore a tailored doublet of black velvet. It was so dark it seemed to drink in the light from the few pieces of stained glass still hanging on and strip it of its luster.
His shoulders were tall, but the man was lean. Moved with all the grace expected from a feline, but with the arrogance of a peacock as he looked over the crowd. Everything was black—except for his mask.
An ornate mask carved from purple porcelain, framing eyes that burned like a fire’s core, and stretching out into two distinct bunny ears.
Pomni was instantly reminded of the play masks she would wear as a child. Although she was a personal fan of the lion’s mask, seeing a grown adult in the form of a bunny was almost comical.
But laughing at a time like this was more than improper.
This man of shadow was not as innocent as the mask would make one think. Pomni noticed a black-gloved hand on top of the handle of the rapier at his hip and how his burning gaze surveyed the crowd.
People gasped, while guards raced to the altar, only to be stopped when he raised a hand. Tendrils of black smoke worked out of the ground and formed a barrier between the crowd and the four at the altar.
What in the hell?
Pomni clutched the skirt of her dress and tried to scoot back when his head snapped towards her. He inched closer. And closer. And closer.
Pomni squeezed her eyes as the man knelt on the scarlet rug and reached for the lace around her neck, tracing the details with his knuckles.
He’s going to hurt me!
He was like a fire looming towards her, filling her lungs with black smoke, burning her throat and eyes.
“What an ugly dress.”
His voice was low, with a flicker of amusement Pomni would assume was more taunting than not.
“What…?” She asked, eyes blinking open.
He stood back up to his towering height, leaving her confusion unsolved, and approached the center of the altar.
“I believe there has been a great misunderstanding,” He said, his voice carrying through the sanctioned walls. He reached the base of the altar steps. “This wedding has been nullified.”
Siban, on the other side of the barrier, turned red. “What is the meaning of this? This is not allowed—”
“I was not speaking to you,” The man snapped, eyes flashing a violet hue. “I’ve simply come to collect my bride.”
Pomni's breath hitched as the man turned towards her. The confusion spiked with anger as he gazed upon her like a prey ready to be consumed. As if his ridiculous claim was not just a claim but an undeniable truth.
She looked towards her brother, who seemed just as confused, and then to Gideon, who was even more perplexed.
“Pomni, was it?” The man of shadows asked. “To think you could simply replace me with a man who wears such gaudy clothing.” He gave her a rakish tilt of his head.
“I have never met you before,” Pomni said, furrowing her brows at the casual usage of her name.
He let out a breathy chuckle, checking the back of his gloves with a flippant rhythm. “I am hurt. Truly. But worry not, for I will jog that feeble memory of yours.”
In the next three seconds, a burning pain pierced through her temple, threatening to split her head in two. Pomni’s throat stung as screams of pain were ripped out of her. It was a pain unlike any she had ever experienced.
What is happening to me?!
