Ink & Quill

Epilogue

 ~ Sylas ~

Three months later I stand, itching with nerves, dressed in a very expensive suit, about to do something I never thought I would do: walk my sister down the aisle, and 'give her away' to a man I despise.

"You sure I can't talk you out of it?" I ask for the hundredth time. "You know 'giving the bride away' is a relic of the Mundane patriarchy, right?"

She just smiles and elbows me in the ribs.

She looks like a dream – or at least like the dream of every girl who dreams of being a bride one day. She's flawless and gorgeous – the brilliant centerpiece of a glorious event.

At least, that's how the press describes her.

Her wedding to Marcus is the event of the season, and there are at least five-hundred guests in attendance, packing the grand cathedral wall to wall. Marcus spared no expense, and I don't even want to imagine what everything cost, all told. Lyssa's dress alone is worth a fortune.

There's only one thing I care about, though, and that's how happy she looks.

She's been eighteen for two weeks now. The press had got wind of her age about a month ago, and it caused a minor uproar among more prudish circles, but she'd handled it like a pro. She and Marcus were waiting, she'd said in an interview, to 'consummate their love' at the perfect hour.

I didn't believe it; I knew for a fact (unfortunately) that Lyssa had left virginity in the dust some years ago, but social opinion was satisfied.

Now, as I help her straighten her veil, I wonder if my own opinion has any weight at all.

She reads something of my thoughts on my face.

"Hey – I love you, Sy," she says. "You know that, right?"

"Yeah, yeah," I sigh, carefully adjusting a jeweled flower pin in her hair.

She takes my hands, halting my last-minute ministrations, and meets my eyes. "I mean it. I know I don't always express it very well, but... I love you. You've been the best brother I could hope for. You took care of me, and you gave up so much for me. And I—"

She sniffed, and I smiled.

"Hey, stop that. You'll ruin your make-up."

"No, I won't," she laughed tearfully. "It's waterproof. And it's Spelled."

"Ah. I see."

"Sylas..."

I sigh, defeated. I'd done my best to talk her out of this, to convince her to wait; to let things settle and see if she really wanted the life Marcus offered her; but nothing I'd said had any effect. She was determined, and I had to accept her choice, and let her make it.

"Lyssa, I just want you to be happy. I wish you'd waited, but..."

"Waiting's not my style," she says, crying as she smiles.

"I know."

She hugs me tight, squeezing me so hard I worry she'll wrinkle her dress; then again, that's probably Spelled, too.

Finally, she lets me go, and we dry our eyes, and study each other in thoughtful silence for a moment more.

"Ready?" Lyssa asks.

"You're the one getting married," I remind her.

She kisses my cheek. "I was born ready. You're the one I worry for."

I offer her my arm, and she takes it; the doors open, and together, we step through.

Marcus stands at the altar, a priest of the sacred pantheon at his side. He looks as stunning as Lyssa, in his own way, and beams with pure adoration as we approach. I deliver my sister to his hands, and then, my duty complete, I gladly retreat from the spotlight, and take my seat.