vera. (fide) wrote in emillion, @ 2013-12-05 18:15:00 |
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The ceremony was a small, intimate affair. Family, some friends. Vera looked askance at her side of the church. She walked down the aisle and counted faces, bridal veil a milky haze across her vision. One was missing—but, she supposed, his attendance had never been certain. She spared a moment for a dull pang of disappointment, then redirected her attention front and center. She saw her sisters, who stood tall and proud (and Grace already crying, holding her bouquet of calla lilies in one hand, as she wiped away tears with the other). Her nephew, rings balanced on a satin pillow. The priest. And Bram. Her husband-to-be. They reached the end of the aisle. With steady hands, her father lifted the veil, and Vera joined the rest of the wedding party at the altar. Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here today— Heron’s hand alighted, flat against the arched oak door into the cathedral’s great hall, as if feeling for the warmth of a fire on the other side. He was late and then some—not exactly knightly behavior, especially when he lived hardly a ten minute walk away. But then, these were unique circumstances. "Sir, wait!" The attendant Heron had rushed past moments before found his voice and hissed at the knight before he could carefully let himself through the doors. "Sir, the ceremony is in progress!" Heron cursed softly, and withdrew his hand. "Right," he said, already breaking into a brisk walk toward the left of the doors. "I'll just..." He trailed off before the attendant could realize what was happening, and bounded up a narrow stone staircase off the foyer, spiraling off into the darkness. He’d taken this route enough as a squire that his feet fell surely even without a light to guide him; for all his size he was still as light and quick at twenty-three as he'd been as a teenager. Faram, he'd probably been up these stairs with her, not so very long ago. Usually stern and somewhat reserved, Faram knew Vera was not a woman who smiled often. And when she and Bram joined hands as the priest said his opening words, she did not burst into a wide grin, revealing bright teeth between blush pink lips. —if any person can show just cause why they may not be joined together - let them speak now or forever hold their peace. But the corners of her mouth lifted upward into a curved line, and for once, her joy was written openly across her face. The secret passageway spat Heron out into a long antechamber that fed into one of cathedral’s three large balconies. He'd first noticed priests and deacons using the corridor when he was a squire, slipping in at the back of the congregation so as not to disturb the rest of the service after communion was given. The corridor was dark, and narrower than he remembered, with tiny, ornate openings in the stone serving as the only source of illumination. Focused beams of light streamed in through these gaps from the main chamber, thick with dust motes, throwing golden silhouettes of Pharist crosses on the floor, across his chest. Finally, his hand fumbled across the door’s latch, and Heron let himself into the upper gallery of the cathedral. For a moment, his eyes were dazzled. For the first time in her life, Vera wished the priest would be a bit hastier. It seemed he was speaking more slowly than ever. She shifted with impatience. Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy— There were some sour looks as the overgrown warrior made his way down the pews to an empty bench near the front of the balcony, but the elderly woman next to whom he settled looked delighted at her new seatmate. "Bride or groom?" she whispered, leaning in, nearly brushing him with the feathered edge of her elaborate cap. "What?" he said after a moment, already drawn in to the proceedings far below. The wedding party flanked the pair at the altar like the graceful arms of a spinning galaxy. The priest's voice was echoing and distorted by the time it reached their gallery, but it didn't matter; by this time, they'd reached the part of the service where everyone knew the words. And Vera, Vera--she was a column of light at the center of it all. Even the imposing Bram looked vaguely happy there at her side. There, in the eyes of Faram and family, they were choosing each other. "--Both," Heron finally replied, some clenched fist in his chest finally relaxing. He was set to become a Blade in a few short months. He wondered if she knew. “But the bride and I trained together." Someone a few seats over hissed at them to be silent. —for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; from this day forward until death do us part. When Vera Holland was pronounced Vera Thornton, she glowed. The Thorntons canted in for their first kiss, and all at once it felt as though the whole congregation had been holding its breath until that moment, until the music broke out. Applause rippled happily through the congregation. Heron held the lip of the gallery wall in front of him, his knuckles hard little men along the edge. "Well, come on," said his seatmate with a jovial croak, wrapping her bony hand around Heron's bicep. "We'll miss the best food! And you can forget about the wine. Step lively!" “Wait,” he said, allowing himself to be guided up the stairs by the small, birdlike woman, back to the passageway from whence he’d come minutes before. “What side of the family are you?” “Go on,” she said, looking up with a grin when he paused at the entrance to the passage. “Show us your secret way out of this blasted holy place.” Heron put his hand flat against the door. Heron put his free hand flat against the arched oak door. The old wood was cold, and grimed with years despite the regular oilings it was given by the cathedral’s staff. Still, when he leaned his shoulder into the barrier, the hinges complied with minimal protest. Late afternoon sun silhouetted him down the central aisle of the church’s great hall before he shut the door behind him. The room was empty and silent as the grave, although it seemed someone had begun the process of laying out some modest wreaths and sprays of white flowers at the altar. A notable space remained at the center of the dais, with a bare rectangle in the wood where they must have removed the small central pulpit. In preparation. Heron maneuvered his way with some care into a seat on the aisle, somewhere near the center of the house. The wood creaked when he lowered himself into the edge of the pew, and after he settled he balanced his cane between his knees. He told himself he wasn’t certain why he’d come so early. Vera had slept at her sister’s house, the night before. Her own had felt far too empty, without the presence of their youngest. And she couldn’t stand the bleary haze of mornings in her own bed, the familiarity so comforting in the few seconds before she remembered what she had lost. Here, she rose just after sunrise. With Katherine’s family asleep, Vera dressed quickly and silently. She dallied in the kitchen for a few minutes, trying to locate the coffee pot, before giving up and leaving the house. Her breakfast—a croissant and an espresso— were purchased from a street vendor, a few blocks away. Even this early in the morning, Vera could feel the stirrings of warmth, the humidity making her dark, long sleeved mourning attire less than comfortable. She felt half-inclined to return to Katherine’s, to huddle up in the cool darkness of the dining room. But at the thought of her sister’s soft murmuring and her brother-in-law’s well-intentioned, but insufferable, platitudes— she turned toward the park instead, and ate her breakfast in the shade of a cedar tree. She stayed for some time, wandering. Ironically, even this public space held too many memories—Jonah had always enjoyed the park. In the beginning, when he was a wide-eyed toddler, he would crawl along the picnic blanket she and Bram had set out for lunch. Slightly older, he would jump in piles of fallen leaves, and laugh as Vera picked out the twigs that had fallen into the hood of his coat. Even close to the end: sometimes, she would walk by the pond on her way back from work, and catch sight of long, gangly limbs and a head of dark hair. Cigarette in one hand, and the other crumbling up bits of old bread to feed to the ducks. An incongruous image, but that was her Jonah. Vera squeezed her eyes shut, as if the motion could silence the unwanted stream of memories that bombarded her today. Of course, it did nothing of the sort. With a sharp click of her tongue at her own ridiculousness, Vera turned tail and began to head toward the Cathedral. She would be hours early, but perhaps a moment of peace with Faram would do her some good. She ignored the idle voice in her head that said Faram hadn’t been doing her any good, as of late. But when her palms met the heavy oak doors, Vera was shocked to see that she already had company. Unexpected company. “Heron?” A question, even though she was sure it was him. The sound of the door didn't stir him, but he turned at her voice, his large hand coming over the back of the pew before freezing. She was silhouetted in the doorway, tall and dark, her ash blonde hair coldly lambent against her black dress. Only then, all at once, did he feel the burn of insult at the beautiful day, at the fresh smell of grassy summer air drifting in from the outlands, at the merry bustle of Emillion itself, the clatter of carts rolling along the cobblestones beyond the cathedral gates, animals lowing, friends shouting at one another in the streets and children, all the children, running, playing, hiding, laughing. It wasn't even his loss. Bracing against the pew, Heron lifted himself out of his seat and stood in the aisle, back straight, his cane abandoned. “Vera.” Another woman might have rushed forward, might have run to embrace him. Another woman might have broken into sobs, letting the floodgates crash open as the vast emptiness of the church wrapped around her. Vera walked forward slowly. Only the slight trembling of her hands betrayed her emotion, betrayed the fact that this day was different from all other days. A stranger wouldn’t have noticed, but then, Heron was no stranger. She thought about folding her hands in front of her, a quick, neat motion to quiet her thoughts. She abstained. That was different, too. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said, and meant it. Her hands were like mourning doves, just awakened, hardly quavering, quiet. He took two steps of his own, stiff but sure. It was always true there was nothing to say in situations like these, but just then Heron could practically hear the wind whistle through the void in that holy place, funnelling up the high arched walls of the cathedral toward whatever heaven was left to them. “Sorry to be early.” Sorry he needed to be there at all. Like most people, Heron had to be reminded time and again how small Vera was, and he was reminded then, looking down at the restrained signs of emotion on her face, in her shoulders. She was close enough to fold into his arms, but he abstained, still and stoic as an oak on a windless day. He’d planted himself toward the edge of the reception, not moving much from his seat near the bar, and waited his turn to speak to the newlyweds. It was the wedding party of two jewels in the Guild’s crown, so there was no shortage of folks to see and be seen, and even after Heron had divested himself of his grandmotherly admirer he had no shortage of conversation. He and Bram knocked glasses once or twice and shook hands with the kind of nod and half-smile particular to men at these occasions, and even a few of the Blades made it a point to visit their soon-to-be minted member. It smelled of newly cut grass and old wine. His eyes had flicked over to Vera periodically throughout the evening, the bride invariably surrounded by friends and looking taller than he recalled. In the end, somehow, she managed to find her way to an adjacent seat at the bar without him noticing her slip away. She scooted up when his tankard was halfway to his face, near as nimble now as ever despite the delicate wedding gown she still wore. He paused, hardly looking at her. All that slipped through his nonchalance was a smile. “Sorry I was late,” he said, and finished his drink. The bartender slid a glass of red wine across smooth wood, and Vera accepted it with a nod, bringing the glass to her lips. “I didn’t think you would come,” she said, bluntly. She hadn’t seen him at the ceremony, hadn’t even noticed his presence until halfway through the reception, in fact. It had been a surprise, to spot him by the far end of the bar, a silhouette Vera recognized immediately despite the distance between them. “But I’m glad to see you,” she said, and meant it. "Oh no?" he said idly, finally turning his head to study her over a shoulder. Good-natured accusation sparked in his cold eyes, stirred by a few pints, reflecting the small globes of golden lights strung across the pavillion. “Ye of little faith.” His faint smile betrayed the sarcastic bravado, as if he wasn’t the same Knight who’d stood under the shower that very morning and earnestly debated the merits of lobbying his captain for a place on an impromptu weekend mission. As if he wasn’t touched at the revelation his presence wasn’t a scab on the festivities; as if he’d never doubted it at all. The music picked up again, and he let the fledgling conversation drop, eyes casting over her face, taking in the happiness written subtly but clearly across her distinctive features. Silence had always been a state of being for the two of them, almost a state of comfort, even as teenagers. It was different than the gruffish bonhomie he shared with Bram, had shared with the older fighter not ten minutes before in congratulations. Vera and Heron’s shared quiet was talk enough, a warm hollow in time that gave them space to breathe, in and out. He’d never really thought about that, before. Their twin smiles faded in concert, swirls on a lake’s surface smoothing to placidity again. Heron placed his large, callused hand over Vera’s on the bartop and squeezed, gently, just for a moment. Her wedding ring was a band of cool in a pocket of warmth. The bartender came to replace his drink. “Believe congratulations are due,” he said. “First day of the rest of your life and all that.” Her eyebrows arched in surprise as his hand came to rest over hers, in a motion that came just as quickly as it receded. It was something friends did, to be sure, and they—they were friends. But Vera had never deluded herself about the closeness of their friendship. They’d ended things amicably before going their separate ways, but in the afterward, they had always regarded each other with a cool, arms-length respectfulness. She’d even hazard a guess that Heron was now closer with her husband than he was with her. Still, the gesture—much like his appearance at her wedding reception—was not unpleasant, merely unexpected. With the bartender’s arrival, Vera let the moment fade, her expression shifting back to its usual placid neutral. “Oh, no more congratulations,” she said, with good-natured exasperation. “There’s only so many ways to rephrase my thank yous.” He laughed, finally, not bothering to hide his amusement at the ungraciousness now there was no one near enough to hear. There'd always been something grounded about Vera; it was good to know little had changed despite the shift in uniforms, and despite Heron's lukewarm attempt to reproduce the appropriate bromides in honor of the occasion. "Cutting me off at the knees," he said, lifting his fresh pint and turning around to lean backwards against the bar. Much of the wedding party had decamped to the dance floor at the center of the pavillion, though at this point in the evening some had begun to sway out of time. “Still. Imagine you’ve handled every well-wisher with aplomb.” A summery breeze kicked up, pushing a few colorful scraps of paper around the floor. Imagining himself at the center of all this was almost impossible, but some small question still drifted up like smoke: would he miss not having it, in the end? He'd never doubted his calling to the Church since the moment he’d discovered it, as far off the beaten path his career seemed to his family. But no one could know the path they didn’t take. It was harder to ignore the question, sitting here, with Vera-now-Thornton. Heron swept his gaze back to her. He'd always known there'd be sacrifices. "How many people have asked you about kids so far? Rough guess." She chuckled. “Two, three dozen, perhaps?” Another sip from her wine glass. “I’ve declined to comment on that front, much to my mother’s displeasure.” But though she stayed silent on the matter, Vera had made up her mind some time ago. Even as a young adult, she had known she wanted a family of her own, some day in the future. There was training to be completed first, of course, and then settling into her class—but eventually, she knew. One child, for her to raise, and shape, and nurture. Just one. It was an earth-shattering thing, to have one’s child (one’s only child) snatched away. One moment, he was there, and the next, a heavy knock at the door, and a stranger’s voice mingling with her husband’s: Sir, we’ve some bad news. Since that knock, she’d begun to live a half-life, one side turned towards the day, and the other buried in the ground, where the dirt would whisper to her, You failed, you failed, you failed. A gust of wind battered the great oak doors. Vera snapped to. “No.” She reached for Heron’s hand, in what she would later consider to be a moment of weakness. “Don’t be sorry.” His lips parted, as if to lend some words to the entombing silence of the day, but he said nothing, did nothing save grip her small hand. It was a surprise (that uncanny foreign, familiar presence, in that context), but he didn’t flinch. The tremors along her fingers were microscopic, hairline fractures terminating in the steady, enveloping bezel of Heron’s wide, callused palm. The world, just then, and time itself, felt both enormous and as if it had been compressed into a single, infinitely-dense point, all of it impossible to bear. But he looked at her, a Knight of Faram at her son’s funeral, bearing it nonetheless. His thumb moved across the back of Vera’s hand, depressing each bone in turn like a piano key, not quite gently. He was sorry, nonetheless. The heat of his skin against her own, the pressure of his thumb roving across the back of her hand. In the cool, cavernous interior of the Cathedral, this was her anchor. It was a gesture as strange and comforting as an old memory, almost forgotten. Vera’s thoughts skittered back through the years, to the rose-colored glaze of their youth. Even then, this firm pressure against her bones could still her. The whisper of a melancholy smile ghosted across her face. How things had changed. |