Wedding Thoughts

In the midst of preparation for my wedding
I have scanned my archives for pieces written about weddings.
Most are about an 'invitation to a wedding'
related to the concept of community joining
rather than individuals. Em writes songs to play at weddings;
so I have not been drawn to this before.

I do have one story about a wedding, though --
and quite different too,

enjoy

faucon
...........................................

Blood Quest

He was her father’s age and that would never change; and they had been brothers in arms and comrades of drink and sword and song. It was he who carried back the bloodied armor while the falcon circled overhead. It was he who took the grieving Aldaisa and the swaddled Braides back to the castle of his Lord, and rode his charging steed no more. He was Chandar, Knight of the Duuran and called to field and valor – but he stayed with the child, as would you by right.

His lance became a walking staff and his helm a cooking pot; his shield a fur lines cradle and his sword a guiding cross. His cloak draped long to mask a limp and the hood shadowed vicious scars; and haunting eyes of golden fleck and a dimple when he smiled. Then the mother’s tears crashed to the rocks beneath the parapets and they carried on alone – the guardian in black and the girl in white, both with a mem’ry’s scarlet sash. With a legacy secure in future years as heir to land and sky, she had much need for courage and arm to protect from feckless greed. But she never knew that he was but a friend – a playmate at her side; the strangest pairing you’d ever see of strength and innocence.

She ringed his neck with flower chains and they tumbled in the grass, and pranced ‘cross rocks in laughing streams and caught moonbeams in wooden cups. She grew wise with ancient stories told round pulsing twilight fires, and gentle of heart and spirit ‘neath his ever watching calm. He held her high on his shoulders to claim apples from the clouds, and watched her blossom to womanhood, an Aldaisa yet reborn. He became known as the Knight of Butterflies and the Champion of Thistledown, but he took their jibes in silence and she never knew of pain. And legend held strong, backed by ready staff, for all knew he was forever, of the dread Duuran. “Too bad he knows no love,” they said, “as a girl needs a woman’s hand.” Yet he defied both Bishop and Prince and walked this road alone, though some sensed tears within the songs he sang at every dawn – tiny hand in gnarled fist.

At her wedding she graced her mother, or so the crones did say; and pined that her father was not near to give her hand away. And Chandar just stood in the shadows, his quest fulfilled and done; then he kissed her once and walked away, into the setting sun. For it was mem’ries honor he forbear that day and on –
that she would never know …
from whence were gifts of dimples
and gold flecked loving eyes.