Chapter Text
Sunny flinched as a trio of pixies tugged and pinched at the garment he wore in attempt to force the fairy-styled garb to fit an elf. He stared at his miserable reflection in one of the three mirrors set before the dais he stood upon. The tunic and hose were both made from red rose petals, the waxy texture chafing his skin. The high collar twisted up to brush his ears, and the trousers constricted his legs. Gold thread sketched patterns along every hem and edge, a symbol of his new rank.
“I look ridiculous,” he muttered. Sunny gave his own clothes, made from plain, soft-spun plant fibers, a longing look.
When the heir to the throne cancelled her wedding, no one had thought much of it. Lovers had spats all the time.
Except she proceeded to broker a new arrangement with the king of the Dark Forest. Aside from the scandal of arranging her own engagement, her chosen consort was a goblin.
Rumors spread like Spring pollen. Wild tales of a sacrificial dowry, elves and brownies being left at the edge of the fields to sate goblin bloodlust. The practical souls who scoffed at such ideas still watched the fairies with wary eyes, curious if the needs of the flightless would be overlooked to nurture this new alliance.
The proposed solution was a rational one. Just as a goblin would join the Royal Family through marriage, so would one of the villagers. An elf elected by the people would be wed to the younger princess and, as a prince consort, would represent the interests of the lower fields within the Counsel.
Sunny had been selected by virtue of not being much use elsewhere.
A veritable runt, he had been deemed too small to work the fields or assist with the herds long before reaching his majority. His hands lacked the aptitude to earn an apprenticeship with one of the tradesfolk. While skilled at dancing and singing, a songmaker was not as useful as a smith. Sunny was packed off to the palace so productive hands could continue their work.
One of the pixies pulled the hat of Sunny’s head. “Hey!” His hair, so carefully coated with beeswax that morning, fell open like a thistle. He pointed a stern finger at the pixie. “I am not going without a hat.” He might have to wear this foolish outfit, but they could not make him go around bareheaded.
The pixie sighed at his stubborn demand but chittered something that sounded like agreement and flew off. Sunny shook his head and wondered if his bride had to deal with fussy pixies each day.
Sunny’s feet, shod in rose petals far too flimsy to last any real distance, shifted. What did his bride think of all this? He had seen Princess Dawn from afar from time to time, her wings bright against the blue sky, but she kept to the palace for the most part. Whether this was her decision or responsibilities kept her occupied, he had never been in a position to know. Sunny blew a strand of hair out of his eyes. “I guess I can ask her now.”
The pixie returned with a new hat styled after his own. A red rose petal with long thorns to reinforce his hair, and embroidered with gold. The ties were gold as well. He groaned as his tailors secured it to his head and put his hair back in order, the wiry threads digging into his scalp.
He hoped Princess Dawn was having an easier time than him.
* * * * *
Dawn stood before her mirrors on a dais and let her handmaidens fuss with her elf-fashioned gown. The fine-woven linen draped over layer upon layer of cotton petticoats, plumping the skirt like an overturned campanula. The bodice had clear beads, heirlooms from when her betrothed’s family lived among the giants, stitched into crisscrossing lines. Large ruffles at the hem of the skirt matched those at her shoulders, with sleeves tapering down to her wrists. A gauzy veil, also made from cotton, was held in place by flowers in soft shades of pink and peach, the only natural part of her outfit. The veil partially covered her wings, stark against so much white, and mingled with a long train of the same fabric.
“I look ridiculous.”
Marianne shrugged, not quite disagreeing. Dawn frowned at her reflection and shifted her feet, testing her range of motion. It was like having four extra pairs of wings strapped to her waist. “I feel as heavy as Dad,” she complained.
“It’s just one day,” her sister responded without sympathy. “You can make it through one day.”
Dawn stepped carefully off the stand, uncertain if her wings were strong enough to heft her and the dress. The material scratched at her skin with every motion. “Any idea what he’s like?” she asked without clarification.
Marianne shrugged. “I never got to meet him. The Council arranged everything.”
Dawn sighed and tried not to flit her wings and ruin the line of her train. Tradition might demand marriages be negotiated between a parents and third-parties, but Dawn always assumed she would choose her spouse. She had no need to social climb, and had no higher position to climb to. Under normal circumstances, she would have had her pick among any son from every family in the kingdom.
Still, she could not begrudge her sister for finding a love match, even if it had started as a political deal.
Her maids fluttered over with a nosegay to match the blossoms in her hair and cradled in more scratchy gauze. Dawn took it and gave herself one last look in the mirror.
“You’ll punch anyone who laughs at me?” she asked in a plaintive tone.
Marianne squeezed her arm as the doors opened to the guards waiting to escort them to the chapel. “That’s a promise.”