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The day of the wedding soon came. It was supposed to be the happiest day of her life, but Althena felt like a sword was lodged in her heart. She kept reminding herself that she must endure, that this was a battle and not a marriage. She had to fight on.
She supposed it could've been worse. The most likely of her previous suitors was an old man with gout. Nevertheless, she couldn't help but wonder whether gout was better than sacrilege.
Her maids entered nervously. They were unusually quiet as they washed and dressed the princess in the garments that she had ordered. Althena remained still, unmoving, unblinking. She was trapped in her inner turmoil with no escape.
"Are you sure that you wish to wear this one, my lady?" Leofgifu, Althena's closest maid asked.
Slowly, Althena turned to her - the first moevent that she'd made all day - and gave a firm nod. "This is the one."
The final touch was the crown.
Edith was the first one to see her. No matter the customs, traditions, Althena had decided she would not marry if anyone other than Edith gave her away. And so, there they were, stood outside the chapel doors and ready to enter. She wondered why they bothered with a Christian ceremony when the heathens cared little for their faith. Still, she had heard that this son of Ragnar to whom she was betrothed had insisted that Althena decided the wedding. And, of course, she would always be a woman of God above all.
She inhaled a deep breath, staring at the large wooden doors and listening to the sounds from within. Her heart raced in her chest making it hard for her to breath, vision blurry as she began to panic.
"Althena," Edith's voice soothed. "It's going to be alright. You're going to be alright."
"No." The princess returned, wiping away her tears. "None of this is alright." Slowly, Althena straightened herself and removed herself from her friend's loving embrace. There was no time for love. Only for war. And a holy war it was. "But this isn't about me."
With a loud thud, the wide doors opened and Althena raised her chin to balance her crown. All eyes fell on her oncemore and she could see the rage on her brother's face as he looked at her - or more precisely her dress.
It was red. Blood red. Not white or gold or green. No, there was only one colour that it could be.
Red for martyrdom. Red for war.
Mutters emerged from the rows of people as she stepped forwards slowly. Men and women scrambled over to take her hand and gently kiss it. Yells of "bless you, my lady!" Came from somewhere within the chapel. Meanwhile, the heathens shared confused glances with eachother and shrugged all of it off as some stupid Christian tradition. But this was no tradition. It was becoming a martyr in the eyes of her people - who all looked towards Alwin with hate in their eyes.
When she reached the front, Alwin didn't dare look at the Viking.
She didn't move. Staring into the distance, she stood enveloped in her thoughts.
It was a situation that neither of them were comfortable with. But one does what they must for their people. As Ubbe looked over to her, the disgust and fear evident in her face, he wanted to reassure her that she'd be safe and all would be fine. That he wasn't the demon that she seemed to think.
The priest looked to Althena first, a sincere nod and smile present on his withered old face. "Do you, Princess Althena, take-"
"I do." She cut off the priest, earning surprised mutters from the crowd. The old man looked at her in a state of astonished confusion, turning to the King for answers. Alwin, of course, merely gestured for him to proceed.
When the words were said and done, it was over. No longer could Althena stir up a scene. Any hope for help or rebellion against Alwin was gone. quod rosa alba was now a withering flower, her petals dim against the earth below. And, by nightfall, she would never return to her beloved kingdom again.
