A: Take his hand

There’s no hesitation. You take his hand. As you walk you begin to feel the cool surface of the back of his hand and the oddly soft, leathery palm. You can hear the hesitant steps of your parents behind you. Further behind still, the rest of your family don’t dare move. You make your way through the wedding arch, feeling Cat on your shoulder. She digs her claws in to keep balance and shifts away from your new husband. He is shaped like prey, but much larger than she is used to.

As you reach the door to the long hall the flock of birds that were watching on rooftops swoop inside ahead of you. They are a blur of colours and flapping wings overhead, a rush of wind and oddly joyful. You can’t help but duck down out of the way, one hand on Cat to keep her steady.

When the noise passes and the feathers drift over you are still holding Cat, and your husband’s hand. He watches you through his mask then glances back to your parents. They are now frozen in fear, eyes wide and knuckles white as they clutch at one another. Oddly, there’s a limited sympathy within you for them. You’re not sure what that means.

You ignore them and walk inside, leading your husband this time. You know where the head of the table is, there have been wedding feasts here before. Two seats at the head of the table, covered in thick blankets and carved, high backs are for you and your husband. You had imagined yourself sitting there one day, with a spouse, surrounded by family and good food. Now there are shuffling and screeching birds in the rafters, and your husband is oddly warm but foreign to your eyes. He squeezes your hand as you walk to your seats.

You sit yourselves down and Cat is immediately distracted by the platters of food. Great salmon have been stuffed and baked, there is a keg at each end of the table, and though there is no sign of the boar your husband mentioned you can certainly smell it. The spit is probably too large for the hall. As you stare down the benches either side of the table, you feel the sucking weight of the absence of your half of the wedding party.

“Is this correct?” Your husband asks, and you turn to look at him. He is also staring at the hall, but one hand is gripping the grandly carved arm of his chair. Tense.

A slow scraping from below tells you that his feet are also curling against the floor.

“What?” You look about the hall then nod, realising what he is asking, “This is where we sit.”

“No one is following.”

“No. They’re frightened.”

A trilling noise ruffles the feathers on his chest, something clacks beneath the mask.

“There must be a wedding.” There is a small croak behind his words again.

“That’s what is happening. They brought me here to marry you. This is what you wanted.”

The mask nods, bobbing then turning aside so one eye gets a good look at the door. You stare at the empty benches again. This feels wrong. This is a busy place, it is always full of voices and song and the sounds of eating, belching. Your indignant anger from earlier begins to surface again. They made you do this. He made you do this.

They put you up to be this monster’s wife and they wont even dignify you with a proper send off!?

“Bastards!” You hiss to yourself, pulling an empty plate into your lap. You take a great section of salmon for yourself, piling as much potatoes and sauce as you can manage along with it. It smells wonderful, the lines of thick fat between the bright flesh melt as soon as it hits your tongue.

Cat tries to take some for herself and you make her a plate. You put her on the ground and give her a serving of salmon that she plants herself into with enthusiasm. Her comradery makes you smile and snort a little through your nose, your mouth full of your delicious, lonely wedding feast. Turning to your husband you hand him a plate, “Eat.”

He holds the plate in his hand. It looks laughably small in his long fingers.

“I cannot.” He taps the mask.

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