A hazy dawn, rich with the memory of salt and sea and burning bronze, had filled her with serene resolve, a desire to bear the chaos of this monstrous wedding without flinching. It had seemed easy to promise, touched by that breathy morning glow.

The serenity and poise she meant to channel evaporated the moment grasping hands dragged her to the baths. Despite her protests to bathe herself, the proceedings were eerily similar to Valen's attempt to drown her those weeks ago. Scrubbed and perfumed, those fingers tugged combs across her scalp, lamenting at the wavy tangles.

In the brief pause to let her mass of dark hair dry, Rishi shooed away the army of handmaidens and high-born mothers to bring a breakfast of sweet cakes and wine.

You'll need it, she had promised before leaving, eager to bathe and dress herself for the event.

A bite and a mouthful of wine before the chaos returned, forcing her hair into long braids, twisting bronze wire through their circuits, and sewing them into place. Hands brushed powder across her cheeks, gold onto her eyelids, berry on her lip. Wrapped in layer after layer of ivory silks. The cool, smooth fabric against her skin could not save her from the rising heat of the summer day.

The screams of the cicadas, the growing anticipation from the city below, rose to her windows.

Longing blossomed in her chest for Antalis—the soft hands of her priestesses, the tutting perfectionism of the elders—and she forced it to that same secret place beneath her bed. All of Antalis, the good and bad, would remain safely tucked away until she was ready to revisit it.

But any nostalgia, any familiarity, that might have breathed itself into that room dissolved into mist the moment Yalira caught her reflection.

In the silver surface of the mirror, a priestess did not look back at her. Ivory, the color of healing, but in lavish cut and style. Its artful drape would never be found in Antala's temple. The legacy that had once decorated her spine had faded into copper skin. The hands once stained with dulcamara now only bore fragrance and bright gold. And yet, her dark eyes, rimmed with kohl, were deep with knowing.

Endure, they whispered.

The call sang with a strength and sorrow that threatened to muss hours of careful labor.

So like a bride! The servants laughed, dragging her away from the mirror.

We'll be late, they chided.

Hands that had grabbed and pulled now pushed her from her rooms and toward the words that would bind her to Andar of Tyr.

"I can escort her from here." Oristos stood against the doorway, his mismatched eyes solemn in the face of joyful tittering. The cheerful flock disappeared in his presence, leaving the pair in the spent chaos of the morning.

Dressed for ceremony, Yalira prickled with discomfort beneath her friend's brown and blue gaze. Bound in her gown, painted in gold, she was not the Yalira she knew. Oristos, draped in Temia's crimson, also seemed a stranger. And in the habit of new acquaintances, the awkwardness between held in brittle pauses.

"You look exquisite," he said. The whisper of his voice thundered in the empty room.

Yalira's fingers itched to tuck away a piece of hair, to smooth a wrinkle, to rub her face—but practiced patience burned her restlessness into the serenity she'd chased all morning.

"But you're missing something."

Under the heavy layers—the skirts she could barely walk in, the paint that covered her skin—Yalira couldn't imagine what might have been missed in her bridal costume. Her eyes flicked at Oristos in confusion, at his half-smile.

With careful hands, he unwrapped a crown. For all the extravagance and pomp that had been forced upon her, Yalira expected a heavy symbol to sit at her brow. She imagined pearls from Crosao, lapis from Lytvia, gold from Orvalle. Surely, she would not walk into this wedding without a reminder of Andar's conquests.

The circlet Oristos hold was no such object. Simple windflowers carved from ivory.

The same she had worn through her first steps in the city.

Yalira bent her head so he could place it over the intricate braids and twists that had been done and redone all morning.

"Perfect."

"I hardly seem myself," Yalira murmured, taking the arm he offered her.

"You look like a queen."

The words rang discordant, a flat note, as he led her toward the palace entrance. She meant to ask why, to pursue that false song that burrowed in bitterness, but the roar of a crowd interrupted her thought.

Servants and low-born cheered as Oristos gestured her to a waiting chariot. Their hands reached for her hem, their voices begged blessings. A priestess, a queen—it did not matter—they cheered her passing with joyful tears.

At the end of their cries waited Andar of Tyr.

Where Yalira had been entangled into luxury, Andar's perfection screamed from its lack of adornment. It was not taut skin over honed strength, not eyes bright with cunning. He was golden without gold. Glowing without light. A world apart from mere men.

Happy blessings fell upon them as she was pushed beside the man, the monster.

"Are you ready?" he asked, a soft rumble. A phantom breath of salt and sea flooded her senses.

Yalira focused on the curve of her mouth and threaded her fingers through his. She willed warmth into her icy hands.

"It is inevitable," she breathed.

Andar smiled and set the horses in motion, pulling away from the joy and blessings.

The descent from the high city did not echo with the same fervor. Though the crowds followed, the high-born faces did not shine with hope or wishes. The women that had shadowed Yalira's steps, scrambling for favor, called out and waved, but the mood that trailed the chariot echoed in half-hearted cheers.

Like crossing the boundaries of war, the flocks of people at the base of the high city roared with a single breath that rippled across the city. Tear-streaked traders cried happiness, flanked by song from young and old. The streets to the temples were marked and measured, blanketed with flowers, lined with joy and hope.

Andar's hand under hers did not flinch. Its warm strength pulsed beneath her skin, sweat beading between them. Their path to the temple of Imris baked under the summer sun.

The holy steps, crowded with onlookers, were adorned with laurel and windflowers. Each ascending footfall was met with the chanting of priests, the singing of priestesses. Antala's own—the last of her people, pushed far behind the temple columns—shouted in greeting and praise.

"We stand today to celebrate this union!"

The priest of Imris called across the vast audience, his voice a river's breath beneath a waterfall. Buried in the noise, the words did not seem to matter. They had been spoken so many times, unchanged in inflection or cadence, that the crowd did not need them. Mirrors of ivory and gold—a spindle in her hand, a distaff in his—words only threatened to sully the crafted image. For their posture, their gestures, their smiles had been sculpted so. Rehearsed and trained, a masterpiece from any angle.

Streaming sunlight poured onto Yalira with a furious heat that sent sweat trickling down her spine. She silently begged for that breath of sea air to find them in the crowd. Their stolen afternoon at the sea's edge felt like miles and years ago.

"Its foundation will be truth—"

"The promised ninth queen," Andar answered, floating in the water. Wet hair slick against his skull, his face lost all softness, severe and brutal. "It will be the largest celebration of the century."

With only her toes in the shallow tide, Yalira felt safe on the shore—an ocean between them. "To carve your divinity into stone?"

"What do I care for divinity?" he scoffed, full of arrogance. "Everything I have I earned."

Though she itched to contradict him, Yalira swallowed her spite for a question. She swallowed her doubt for an answer.

"Then why choose a goddess-touched bride?"

He had not asked, did not counter her words, but seemed to realize that Yalira had discovered that unwelcome truth of Antalis. She could not bear to ask if he also knew its sordid details. There was peace in keeping that treachery locked with herself, refusing the it until she was ready.

Even in water, Andar moved with discomforting ease. Sea, sand, dirt, mountains—he could not be stopped, he could not be slowed.

"I couldn't have you sitting at the end of the world, choosing who wins and loses."

Yalira only tasted sea salt, but it burned with honest intent. She could not find her voice to refute him.

"I did not know that you were uninvolved in those schemes."

She looked to the horizon, unwilling to see him.

"I'm sorry."

Truth.

"—its spirit will heal sorrow—"

"Do think that because you feel regret, you deserve peace?"

The words tore from her with such sharpness that Andar paused. Watching him in the surf, Yalira hated that he was beautiful, that he was strong, that he was powerful. She wanted to scratch out his eyes, to topple his empire, to wound him as he had wounded her. The wildfire of her anger had burnt her away into bitterness.

"You will never have peace from me," she vowed.

Bronze flashed with amusement.

"—its blood will bear the fruit of motherhood—"

"I don't want peace from you."

Andar smiled. The long scar on his arm, the evidence of their blood promise, flashed silver in the sunlight. "You promised me a legacy."

"I promised you a year."

The waves crashed on the shore, threatened to drown out his words.

"Yalira, do you really think I'll let you go?"

"—god of life and light, send your daughters to lay blessings on this union."

The end of the ceremony reached towards divinity and fell flat in Yalira's ears. Andar pressed his lips to her forehead, brow brushing the crown tucked into her hair.

But Semyra roared in approval, burning dulcamara and chanting to Imris, to Antala, to Temis, to Olia. Voices carrying in shouts and song, the crowd rippled to let Andar and Yalira return to the chariot. Their hands reached for them, eager for the gift of Andar's smile, the brush of Yalira's trailing hem.

After helping her to his side, Andar gifted more than simple gesture. With a curt nod, a group of following warriors, shining in oiled bronze, threw handfuls of gleaming light into the masses.

Not light, Yalira realized, watching the rainfall of silver. Coins.

Silver stamped with his face.

"And everyone says you aren't ostentatious," Yalira breathed in his ear, twisting her fingers into his. Eyes would follow him and they would see her instead. The mantra kept her from flinching.

With a crooked smile, he thrust their joined hands into the air. The roar that followed was deafening, and yet his voice somehow found her through the wall of sound.

"I am whatever I need to be."

His encouragement to the horses, the joyful screams of the people, cut her thoughts to shreds. This chaos, this insanity, it was as if the gods themselves had descended to the mortal realm.

Laurel and windflower gave way to palm and pine, sea spray and soil. Life and light shifted to earthiness. Farmers from the far edges from Semyra threw grain before them, sailors from the harbor poured wine into their street. Blessings lined their path to the temple of Yther, God of Change.

His priests had bickered and recited ancient texts: Yalira had no father to pass her to Andar and the priests had refused to acknowledge the ownership of her self. She smiled wryly as they chanted the glory of the goddesses—Kiendra and Cena and Brethys—who needed no master. The irony was as pretty as a boundless blue sky in answer to a prayer for rain.

"May this divine union weather all hardships—"

"Would you waste a lifetime chasing me?" Yalira asked, her voice as mild as the sea foam at her ankles. The renege on his promise would have once driven her spirit in fire and madness, but in the soft golden light it seemed unimportant, expected. She was not a porcelain teacup. The temptation of flight, dangled by Valen, had presented the crux of her dilemma. There was no haven to which to run, no stronghold, no escape. Not until Andar could not follow. Not unless she could make Semyra into one.

He entered the shallows of the shoreline to stand before her, to tower over her. The shape of him blacked out the sun.

"Do you plan to keep running?"

"—a fertile soil to grow and change—"

Yalira's heartbeat paused with a cold flood of understanding: she stood at the edge of a cliff. At her back ruins and despair, below her unknown sea. She jumped.

"No."

Eclipsed, his smile was a hard flash across his darkened face.

"Are you playing with truth, Yalira? Another game? You won't run today, but tomorrow would not be a lie?"

Faint victory trilled in her chest. She had not beaten him, but there was triumph on this empty shore.

"I won't run. Ever."

Andar paused, bronze eyes careful. An eagle, a wolf, a wary hunter. Every inch of his body waited for the trap, the trick, but it could not loose for nothing came. That current of energy that existed between them pulsed in the taut silence that followed.

Yalira paused. The truth would settle, sand caught in the surf.

"—for in Yther there is strength to bear all things."

Their flight from the steps of Yther reflected the pattern of the first. Andar waved and smiled, he gestured for his men to shower the streets with his shining effigies. In the chaos, there was no violence, and Yalira marveled at the sight of it. Blessings followed them to the chariot, a windfall of well wishes and joy, but Yalira did not let him take the reins. Filled with purpose, she intertwined their fingers once more and brought his hands to her lips.

The responding shouts rang in joyous echo until the path gave way to the final temple, its dark facade. On Carthas's steps, eight queens stood. Avalyn of Arden, trembling, in bright dyes and freshwater pearls. Valen beside her glowed in Prynian sapphires, the contrast brilliant against her copper skin. Sasha was wan and pale, shivering despite the heat and her fox-trimmed dress. Dezma held her arm, serene and expressionless in deep blues. Edyt and Xaisha could have been sisters, their dark hair shining against gleaming silk. On their other side, Alleta threatened to blind the sun, flashing gold threads in each layer of her dress. Rishi waited last, smiling in black cloth cut into Lytvian fashion, eyes lined with sharp kohl.

It had been Rishi who suggested her wedding gown should match Andar's ivory, her arms only encircled with simple gold. The queen had played it as an easy answer—a way to escape the badgering and questions—but as Yalira and Andar ascended the final steps, she wondered if it had been more. Each of the queens were lovely statues, adorned in the vestiges of their homelands.

Yalira nodded her head as she passed, gifting the crowd below with the profile of her smile. She could be a statue too—an enamored bride draped in the same fine cloth as worn by her adored king.

Cheers followed their steps into the shadowed temple. The cool interior, painted in navy and night, echoed with the sound until their feet met the central courtyard. Two shallow graves had been dug in fresh earth.

Carthas's priests, solemn and stained in black woad, nodded as Andar and Yalira stepped into the loam. An acolyte brought forth a length of silvery cloth to lie across their open palms. His fingers trembled as they swept over Yalira's skin, twisting the knot to bind them as the priest's low intonation began.

"Two spirits bound—"

A ringing note, a strike of lightening, that force that pulled at her surged with Andar's smile. He was breathtaking in victory. He glistened in the sun, in the sea's spray, a newborn god. A temperate monster, once sated.

"I will make the preparations to send your priestesses back to Antalis. I will rebuild the temple and restore the city. It will stand as an immortal testament to Tyr's strength."

The low words, a breath louder than the sea, were unwavering and firm when she had expected gilt and guile. Soft surprise fell across her face and she forced her hand to reach towards Andar's forearm. The warmth of it burned with promise.

Yalira promised herself to thank Oristos. He had given her an early wedding present disguised as a sprint into madness: Andar of Tyr was not battled head-on, but in softness and disguise.

Her pride was not so high a price.

"—they stand until death."

It was over. Three ceremonies under three gods. Three gods that Andar did not worship, that he did not sacrifice to, that he did not believe in. That perhaps she was losing faith in too.

Yalira smiled, hoping it would be received as fervent joy instead of wry self-deprecation. Divine-touched and divine-doubting.

"Yalira?"

Her eyes darted to the voice, to Andar of Tyr. He had cut the bound fabric at their wrists and meant to lead her back to Semyra and the masses that waited. In the dying light that poured through the temple's columns, he glowed bright and sure. He was strength and violence, steadiness and fire. The laurel at his brow, simple and green, burned with victory.

In the eyes of gods and men, she was his. Yalira nu Andar, Queen of Tyr.

A/N

I'm on call for the next 28 hours so a day early on this update! 

Let me know what you think of the ceremonies (loosely based on a few ancient wedding customs) and my experiment with the flashback structure.