Post by Cass on Apr 25, 2010 1:20:12 GMT 10
Title: Chained
Summary: It's just a dress, or it should be just a dress.
Rating: G
Words: 289
A/N: This is kind of a precursor to Tarnished Crowns.
-
It's only fabric, simply draped around her: hugging her breasts, waist, and hips, bands on the sleeves clasping her halfway to her elbow, and stiff petticoats shaping the fall of the dress, but it feels like it weighs fifty pounds, like it's what she's drowning in. She takes a wobbly step and feels the fabric drag behind her, her own version of a ball and chain.
The dress is high-necked and scoops below her collarbones. Her hair is braided down her back, strings of pearls woven into its bright red. It all feels so stiff, so formal. She can move easier in armor.
"Milady," one of her ladies- Margareta? Larine?- ducks into the room. "They're ready for you now."
"Of course." She steps forward, and she still can't walk in these shoes, and Margareta-Larine darts to lift the train, looking entirely too reverent.
And she steps into the hall. The guards open the huge doors for her, and she strides into the chamber, trying to remember to not walk like a man and failing.
There he is, straight ahead, dressed in a black tunic with a blue shirt and hose, his eyes so bright she can see them as she walks down the aisle to take his hand.
And then they're bound, and she kneels in front of the priest, who places a crown on her head.
Her shoulders drop, her head tilts up, she places her hand in her husband's and gets to her feet. Purple eyes meet dark, smoky blue.
She grasps onto his arm so that she doesn't trip.
"Please rise," the Mithran priest says, as the new-crowned queen turns her head away from her husband's, "for Their Majesties King Roger and Queen Alanna of Conte."
Summary: It's just a dress, or it should be just a dress.
Rating: G
Words: 289
A/N: This is kind of a precursor to Tarnished Crowns.
-
It's only fabric, simply draped around her: hugging her breasts, waist, and hips, bands on the sleeves clasping her halfway to her elbow, and stiff petticoats shaping the fall of the dress, but it feels like it weighs fifty pounds, like it's what she's drowning in. She takes a wobbly step and feels the fabric drag behind her, her own version of a ball and chain.
The dress is high-necked and scoops below her collarbones. Her hair is braided down her back, strings of pearls woven into its bright red. It all feels so stiff, so formal. She can move easier in armor.
"Milady," one of her ladies- Margareta? Larine?- ducks into the room. "They're ready for you now."
"Of course." She steps forward, and she still can't walk in these shoes, and Margareta-Larine darts to lift the train, looking entirely too reverent.
And she steps into the hall. The guards open the huge doors for her, and she strides into the chamber, trying to remember to not walk like a man and failing.
There he is, straight ahead, dressed in a black tunic with a blue shirt and hose, his eyes so bright she can see them as she walks down the aisle to take his hand.
And then they're bound, and she kneels in front of the priest, who places a crown on her head.
Her shoulders drop, her head tilts up, she places her hand in her husband's and gets to her feet. Purple eyes meet dark, smoky blue.
She grasps onto his arm so that she doesn't trip.
"Please rise," the Mithran priest says, as the new-crowned queen turns her head away from her husband's, "for Their Majesties King Roger and Queen Alanna of Conte."