001 - Sposati Recentemente
[Inspired by this pic]
The entire day has seemed unreal. Distant. Strange, as if it was someone else’s life and he was merely observing from afar. His memory is normally perfect, but everything since waking up that morning has collapsed in his mind into a blur, peppered with instances he can remember with perfect clarity as if they’d been cast in bronze. And they’re moments of little importance.
He can’t, for instance, remember what it was he was saying on the altar. He can’t remember the sound of the music. But he can remember the catch of light on her hair on the steps of the church as they left, the quality of light that seemed somehow richer, turning his bride’s normally meticulously cared for dark curls into a halo of auburn. He can remember how tightly he’d clenched his fists as he’d said his vows, how terrified he was, the pain of his fingernails digging into his palms.
The ceremony was quiet. Humble. He was wearing clothes that once belonged to his father. Slightly too small, for Iago was a tall man, he could feel a tightness at his shoulders, feel them riding up at his wrists and ankles. And Emilia was wearing a faded dress that had been lent to her by an aunt. This was their wedding - cobbled together from borrowed bits and pieces. Even the newest thing was purchased with borrowed money. But the bride and groom themselves could not have been happier had they married in silk, under the gaze of the gilded saints in the Basilica.
He can remember the slosh of water against the gondola, feeling so light, thinking that every pitch and toss might send him reeling into the canal. He can remember how tightly they’d held each other, like two drowning in a storm, clinging as if the tiniest release would wrench them apart, sending them spiraling down into empty depths.
Here, sometime in the small hours of the morning, he’s finally woken up from the dream; the fever has broken. By now, the fire has died down to little more than a reddish glow, but it’s enough light for Iago to make out the shape of Emilia pressed up against him, asleep. He can count the beats between each breath and imagines he can feel the pulse of her heart - his wife’s heart, and it still gives him a small thrill to think that. His wife. Emilia is his wife.
For a moment, he toys with a lock of her hair, brushes it out of her face gently, so as not to wake her.
He can remember taking her hand in his and kissing the tips of her fingers. He remembers the small smile that tugged at the corners of her lips and the sigh of contentment she’d breathed and the feel of her weight on him. He can remember, as he held her, pressing his lips to her ear:
“None shall ever hurt you.”
It’s the best lie he’s ever told, in pitch and delivery, in the sincerity of his voice and the timing… all perfect.
He’s even got himself believing it.
The entire day has seemed unreal. Distant. Strange, as if it was someone else’s life and he was merely observing from afar. His memory is normally perfect, but everything since waking up that morning has collapsed in his mind into a blur, peppered with instances he can remember with perfect clarity as if they’d been cast in bronze. And they’re moments of little importance.
He can’t, for instance, remember what it was he was saying on the altar. He can’t remember the sound of the music. But he can remember the catch of light on her hair on the steps of the church as they left, the quality of light that seemed somehow richer, turning his bride’s normally meticulously cared for dark curls into a halo of auburn. He can remember how tightly he’d clenched his fists as he’d said his vows, how terrified he was, the pain of his fingernails digging into his palms.
The ceremony was quiet. Humble. He was wearing clothes that once belonged to his father. Slightly too small, for Iago was a tall man, he could feel a tightness at his shoulders, feel them riding up at his wrists and ankles. And Emilia was wearing a faded dress that had been lent to her by an aunt. This was their wedding - cobbled together from borrowed bits and pieces. Even the newest thing was purchased with borrowed money. But the bride and groom themselves could not have been happier had they married in silk, under the gaze of the gilded saints in the Basilica.
He can remember the slosh of water against the gondola, feeling so light, thinking that every pitch and toss might send him reeling into the canal. He can remember how tightly they’d held each other, like two drowning in a storm, clinging as if the tiniest release would wrench them apart, sending them spiraling down into empty depths.
Here, sometime in the small hours of the morning, he’s finally woken up from the dream; the fever has broken. By now, the fire has died down to little more than a reddish glow, but it’s enough light for Iago to make out the shape of Emilia pressed up against him, asleep. He can count the beats between each breath and imagines he can feel the pulse of her heart - his wife’s heart, and it still gives him a small thrill to think that. His wife. Emilia is his wife.
For a moment, he toys with a lock of her hair, brushes it out of her face gently, so as not to wake her.
He can remember taking her hand in his and kissing the tips of her fingers. He remembers the small smile that tugged at the corners of her lips and the sigh of contentment she’d breathed and the feel of her weight on him. He can remember, as he held her, pressing his lips to her ear:
“None shall ever hurt you.”
It’s the best lie he’s ever told, in pitch and delivery, in the sincerity of his voice and the timing… all perfect.
He’s even got himself believing it.