Forever and a Thousand Times

Chapter Two

She couldn't sleep, picturing her loveless future, but the morrow would come far too soon no matter how long she stared at the bed canopy above.

***

Before she knew it, the time had come. The day dawned bright in defiance of her wish for thunderous clouds to match her troubled mind. Ismene looked around the room, avoiding her reflection in the mirror. She didn't care how beautiful her red and gold wedding dress looked in the reflected sunlight. If she saw herself again, the tears threatening to spill would do just that, and today she refused to cry.

In the days leading up to her wedding, Ismene struggled with the lingering desire to run away. To her utter disappointment, she realized her pampered life had actually turned her into a sort of prisoner of wealth. She could saddle a horse, had a small savings of coins, could hunt with a bow, and knew how to prepare savory meals, but she had no knowledge of survival in the wilderness or how to make a living. Besides, where could she have gone? Her uncle would only send her home if she went there.

"My Lady, they're ready."

"Thank you, Helein. Is my father outside?"

"No, My Lady. He is waiting for you in the antechamber."

Ismene could hear a hint of sorrow in her voice. She loved Helein like a devoted friend and recognized her compassionate soul.

"Will you . . . ?" Ismene held out her hands. Helein stepped close and gripped them. "We've practically grown up together, and I'm terribly relieved you agreed to come with me to Castle Taisce. I would be lost without you. Life will be so different, but let's try to see it as an adventure."

She watched surprise flicker across Helein's face instead of the comfort she thought to imbue. Had she misinterpreted the sadness she saw?

"Of course. Thank you."

Ismene's smile faltered, but there could be no avoiding the inevitable. "Come. Take me to my father."

The door opened to reveal Lady Victara standing in a resplendent silver and blue gown. "Ah, you're ready, Ismene. Thank you, Helein. You may go watch from the balcony," Victara said, dismissing the maid with a wave.

Helein glanced a Ismene but after seeing her smile, the maid curtsied low. "Yes, Lady Tenbow."

Ismene watched Helein retreat before facing her mother.

"Oh, my dear girl!" Victara exclaimed. "Time has flown by with far too much haste. What am I to do without you and your level head?" She took Ismene's hands in her own and squeezed. "You look magnificent. I know you'll make us proud, and Prince Othniel would be a fool not to fall in love with you at first sight."

Ismene tried to smile, but her mouth remained frozen like stone. Her eyes shimmered, but her cheeks stayed dry. Love was certainly out of the question. There would be time for crying later, and Ismene didn't want to upset her mother.

"Thank you, Mother. You look beautiful as well."

"Yes, well," Victara said, admiring her dress for a brief second, "this day is about you, not me. Come, my sweet."

They walked arm in arm down the hall. Ismene had never before been in attendance at the castle of Taisce. It was old but well-kept and much larger than she imagined. Portraits, spanning hundreds of years and chronicling the lives of Ovlander Greatshield's descendants lined the walls. Someday, my own portrait may hang among these. What an odd thought. She shook off the chilly feeling of losing herself here—of not being who she wanted to be—and glided down the hall with her eyes trained forward.

Outside the great hall, her father stood waiting, regally handsome with hands tucked behind his back. While he appeared serious, Ismene could also see the pride in the august angle of his shoulders and slight upward curve of his lip.

"Drake, look at this little mouse I found hiding in her rooms."

"Little mouse? Oh no, you have found an angel in disguise."

Drake leaned over and kissed his wife's cheek before motioning the guard to open the door for her to be escorted to the front of the great hall which had been decorated in a resplendent display of royal matrimonial celebration. Once alone with Ismene, he turned to her and pulled her close. He leaned forward and placed a soft kiss upon her brow.

"My little dove, you make me proud."

"Please Father, I can't speak now."

He held her at arm's length and looked into her brimming eyes. "Ah, I see. Then we shall not speak, except this one last thing: you are a glorious bride, and someday you will be the most beautiful queen Taisce has ever known. Make me proud, my dove."

On that last sentence, the doors opened. Two manservants dressed in royal finery held them in place, allowing Lord Tenbow and Ismene to slip through. Anything Ismene might have said to her father was stolen away in a rush of overwhelming panic.

She held her breath while her father tucked her arm into the crook of his own. The hall burst with people, all with their eyes on Ismene. The muscles in her throat constricted. She could feel their stares boring into her. Sweat beaded between her shoulder blades.

Breathe!

The walk down the aisle stretched too short and too long. When they arrived at the end she refused to look up. She hadn't let her vision roam to their destination the entire time—a long and agonizing trek—not wanting to come face to face with her future. She'd been holding her breath too much and felt light-headed, but there would be no turning back now, even though her mind screamed for her to run the other way, to plot her own course no matter the cost.

Her father placed her hand on top of the groom's. She stared at hers on his and imagined she was watching someone else's wedding. She knew it was her hand, but how odd to see it pressed into that of a stranger. His was larger than her feminine hand; it looked strong. Was it also tender? The question plagued her mind.

Blood rushed through her veins and made her heart thunder in her ears. Little sparkles of light and dots of dark danced before her eyes, but somehow, she'd moved up the steps to stand before the priest. Odd. She didn't remember moving.

She jumped with a start when a soft, baritone voice whispered to her.

"A pleasure to finally meet you, My Lady Ismene."

She gasped ever so softly and inhaled the fresh scent of pine and lye soap. In an unwelcome lapse of curiosity and confusion, her head snapped around to stare at Prince Othniel. He'd leaned the slightest bit toward her without turning his head away from the priest. His smiling profile and tawny locks revealed his youth and masculinity, and her first invading thought was he's handsome, but he looked at her out of the corner of his eye and winked.

Flustered, Ismene jolted from her stunned state. She turned back to the priest who asked her to repeat after him with a look that implied he'd been forced to repeat himself. In less than ten minutes she stood speechless yet again when the priest uttered the words, "I now pronounce you man and wife."

Still in a strange dream state and full of trepidation, she faced the prince. Her body seemed to sway of its own accord, but Othniel's strong hands gripped her elbows. He stared at her a second, no longer smiling, and Ismene wondered if her expression mirrored his, or if he could see the daunting fear in her eyes. He hesitated until the priest cleared his throat. Othniel lowered his head. Frozen, not able to look away from the intensity of his startling blue-gray eyes, she almost melted in a puddle there in front of everyone when his soft lips touched hers in a fleeting kiss.

"Salut, Ismene. I'm Othniel," he said before moving his face away from hers, his low words almost lost in the cacophony of celebratory clapping.

Everything after that was a blur.