It Occured in England
What did she do? Hushed her mouth, didn't sigh or pout. Didn't yell or scream. Instead, she daydreamed on her wedding day.
Walking down the aisle, the beautiful young bride fiddled with the bouquet of red roses in her soft grip. The sheer white veil covered her porcelain-like face, failing to hide her star-like radiance. A million thoughts ran wild through her child-like mind. He father sold her; she knew it, damned to be wedded to a fat blob of a man for all of eternity. Suffering was a woman's job, she thought, masking their strength with elegance and their fear with pride.
She stepped up to the altar, before the priest. She sighed a long, shaky breath, repeating the ornate words which flowed like a stream from the mouth of the plainly-clothed God's servant. She didn't believe for a second that he was God's servant, but a poor soul to be damned in hell. She was a Catholic, after all, and getting married to an Anglican- one that practically popularized the term 'divorce.'
A flock of crows cawed at the sound of the church bells.
The bride laughed silently.
It wasn't a flock of crows.
It was a murder of crows. Maybe that is what would happen to her; a murder most foul.
The priest blessed the newlywed couple and the congregation. Turning to leave, a sickening feeling over took the bride. She fell to the ground, her porcelain face cracking on the hard grey stone of the un-adorned chapel.
Voices surrounded her, as her world plunged into darkness.
When the bride awoke, she found herself in a bed. Her husband's bed.
A large, intimidating figure loomed over her, staring down at her with hungry, lecherous eyes.
Deep in her heart she knew what was to happen. Marriage was never meant for love. It was meant for power, and power alone. Wives were a special breed, she convinced herself, to put up with vile beings called husbands.
Her marriage, however, was not to produce an heir. It was to give the King land. And just like the land which she once owned, she was how his property. No longer a daughter, but a wife. No longer was she a child, but a woman. She wasn't even a woman now- oh, no. She was the cursed one, the one to be sold to the highest bidder.
The one who was born to die at the hands of the King.
She told her nerves to calm, and her heart to weep not. She was doing the correct thing. The right thing. The moral thing.
She prayed a silent prayer to the Lord almighty that he may raise her soul from perdition after her timely death.
With the last ounce of courage in her tiny body, she spoke the words of a Queen.
"When I am dead, I will remember that I was wed. When my body shall rot in the hills of un-blessed' graves, I shall hold my head high, for marriage I did brave."
The King grinned back at her, beaming a smile worthy of Satan himself.
"Doubt truth to be a liar." The King said.
And with that, she came to the late realization that truth was, in fact, a filthy liar.
Xoxo End oxoX
Inspired by a very useful assignment in Creative Writing class...and King Henry the Eighth.