His Lost Piece

HELLA

I chose to walk down the aisle alone.

With father gone, there was no one else I wanted to do it. Freya would but it was preposterous. She offered for her husband to do it, but it was even more preposterous to have the man father betrayed walk me down the aisle to wed another who would take father's place.

So I walked alone down the path of white in a gown that was too small, and a watching crowd with fake smiles.

My groom took my hand when I reached him. And it was strange.

I was repeating vows. “To love and to hold, until death do us part.” My body followed every command, my mind struggling and failing to catch up.

My golden-haired companion smiled kindly down at me.

“You may kiss the bride.” The preacher said, his voice echoing in the vast emptiness of the autumn coloured field.

Mechanically, I tilted my face upward, and closed my eyes, waiting for the kiss that never came. I felt a light peck on my cheeks and the crowd erupted in shouts.

He wasn't looking at me, he barely had. He faced the crowd, brandishing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. The hand holding mine felt warm, but I had never been farther from another person before.

I whipped up one of my own bright smiles, not one to be left behind for long. He led me into the crowd, and they swarmed upon us, greetings of congratulations filling the air. Like his smile, their greetings were shallow. And for good reason too.

The daughter of the traitor didn't always get the chance to marry someone who was now far above her station.

So why was Ishmael marrying me?

I wouldn't dwell on the thought, like I barely dwelled on other thoughts. He was handsome, easily the most handsome man in the room. He was tall, taller than I was, and he made me feel small, which was a feat on its own. I wasn't as short as my sister Freya nor was I as dainty. But this man made me feel so. With broad shoulders, hair the colour of the afternoon sun, and a smile with the shade to match. I'd nurtured a crush on this demon for the longest time and now he was my husband. Even if he didn't feel like mine.

After numerous greetings, he led me to our seat. The ceremony was held at my father's house, or rather, it was now Ishmael's house. When Freya said I would be marrying, I never imagined it would happen so fast, or that I would be back here.

It was early autumn, and the field behind the house had been used for the ceremony. Round tables fitted with chairs dotted the field, creating space in a straight line to the makeshift stage as an aisle. Thankfully, it was past noon and the sun had retired early today.

A small but charming ceremony.

I'd wanted Helena to be here. Then the tables wouldn't have the plain covers. I imagined she'd have whipped out something with hand embroidered flowers, and silverware that left the guests awed and talking for a long time. The guest list wouldn't be so small either. She would have gone all out and celebrated like this wasn't a hushed affair, and I'd have enjoyed every moment of it.

But her husband was gone. I couldn't ask anything of her anymore no matter how badly I wanted to. I briefly wondered if I'd ever see her again.

Our table was for family members. On my right was Freya, her husband, Adrien, who was the King, and then my nephew, Crown Prince Killian. He paid deliberate interest to his plate of oranges than anything else, though. And on my left hand side was Ishmael and to his side was a woman I didn't recognize.

“Congratulations, Ishmael.” The king greeted him in his deep voice. He wasn't very approachable before, but now even that voice put me on edge.

Killian eyed me disapprovingly. “You shouldn't have married him, Aunt Hella.”

“Do you know what a marriage is?” I asked, grateful for the conversation with a pure child. I needed to escape from the world of adults for a moment.

“Yes, you should have married me,” he said simply.

Laughter broke around the table, easing some of the tension.

“Stop trying to steal my wife, you rake.” Ishmael laughed.

His wife. He was speaking about me. The possessive word had me tingling in something.

Freya grabbed my hand under the table, squeezing it in support.

“My son isn't a rake,” she admonished Ishmael.

Killian stuck his tongue out at Ishmael, and the older man stuck his out too. Adrien's fingers went to his temple to rub at it in exasperation, while the woman I didn't recognize muttered something I didn't catch. Ishmael replied to her, and the conversation started to flow around the table. Only I still felt somewhat lost.

Freya tugging on my hand snapped me back from the land of thoughts. “You look lost,” she murmured, scooting closer to me.

“I am married,” I breathed, wonder in my voice.

She eyed me thoughtfully. “I thought you'd be pleased to be married to him.”

“I am.” And I would probably realize that when this haze cleared.

Freya nodded, seemingly satisfied with my answer and rejoined the conversation. It was more her family than mine. I was like the guest that no one had planned for.

I pushed the contents of my plate around, my usual appetite taking a break.

“Is the food not to your liking?” Ishmael asked, his mouth close to my ear.

I almost jumped out of my chair. His warm breath tickled my ear in a way that felt foreign and quite forbidden.

The music started before I could think of a befitting reply. Thankfully.

“Oh look, it's time for our dance,” he said gently and helped me out of my chair.

He led me to the makeshift stage, pressing me closer than we'd ever been but still very careful to put space between us. I followed his lead, easily falling into the simple dance routine.

“It's a lovely day, don't you think?” He asked.

I looked up at him, and for the first time since the announcement of our wedding, he looked right at me instead of past me like he'd been doing. His gaze was the same as his voice; kind, formal, plain. Devoid of the longing mine had carried for so long. The kind of voice you used for a sibling. I was quickly realizing that was all he saw me as.

“It is,” I muttered, looking away.

“When you pout, your face becomes even lovelier.”

My head whipped up fast at those words.

“Your face has remained the same over the years, as though it never caught up with your body.”

I understood what he meant, and flushed slightly. I had the body of a woman but not the face of one.

“I think I'll call you babydoll.”

“Do you make a habit of naming people before asking them about it?” I retorted before I could cull the words.

It surprised me as much as it did him. Good. I preferred that flash of something, other than the dullness his eyes carried when he looked at me.

“And here I was thinking that pretty mouth was only good at being pretty,” he drawled in a way that had me almost looking away. I didn't. “We have a long time ahead of us, babydoll.”

A commotion in the small crowd had us breaking apart. Only for a second until Ishmael pulled me securely to his side. I tried and failed to ignore the warmth I felt at the small gesture. He led me back to our table and left me with the women while he and Adrien went to investigate.

Curiosity had my feet moving, and I followed behind my husband.

There was a person holding a wooden box. I advanced further to the scene.

The messenger's hands had been nailed to the small box, each of his ten fingers carrying a nail. My empty stomach roiled at the sight of blood, lots of it. It covered the entire wooden object, and inside lay a small dagger. It looked like nothing much to me, but with the way blood drained out of both my husband's and Adrien's faces, I knew it was everything.

ISHMAEL

I looked up from the gruesome sight and my gaze bumped into Hella's. Irritation flared, and I counted down in my head to force it back. She wasn't very good at doing what she was told. Usually, feisty women were interesting, exciting even but this one was my wife. I needed her to be a certain way and this wasn't it. I sighed internally.

Why didn't I force the no when Freya asked?

Hella looked unperturbed at the scene, like she wasn't new to seeing bloodied men—it was an uncomfortable thing to acknowledge. Her pouty lips just turned down at the edges in annoyance and worry. I would be in real trouble if I kept looking at those lips, since my body was quite insistent on reminding me that all of her now belonged to me.

I shook the thoughts off, bringing myself back to the present. Hard but doable.

Sadly, the messenger would not be able to save any of his fingers. The metal nails had smashed through the tips of each one. This was done to cau