Lullaby of Discord

Chapter One: Beginning

The air carries a fine mist today, small droplets of water peppering Sara as she makes her way through the town’s market on this, the eve of her wedding day. She’s rather tired, as she arrived at her abode quite late upon the preceding night, escorted home as twilight gave way to the dark of night by her lovely betrothed, her husband-to-be, the knight Leon Belmont, loathe to part ways even with the knowledge that they would meet again to be wed upon the overmorrow.

The merchants of the market are known to vye for the attention of a bride-to-be such as Sara, given to impulsivity driven by eleventh-hour uncertainty, but, daughter of a merchant herself as she was, Sara has the wisdom to avoid such mercantile tactics.

“320 deniers for the flowers, madame.”

…but then, perhaps she does have those things she is weak to.

She needs only to stop near the Butchery in order to assure that the spit of boar for the ceremony tomorrow had been arranged and prepared, though 'tis near enough to her home that she may stop upon her way

Inevitably, however, upon her journey to the Butchery, the mist which once peppered the air grows heavy, giving way to rain, droplets falling upon her face.

It is no matter, however. She will simply return upon the rain’s cessation.

———

Unfortunately, the rain wears on far longer than predicted; it is nearing dusk by the time it finally begins to subside, and in the time it would take for Sara to make her return to the Butchery, 'tis like to have concluded business for the day. She sighs, supposing she must needs tell Leon of this at first opportunity, if the situation is not remedied.

The rain is much needed, if not ill-timed—she yet hopes it will not muddy the earth tomorrow morn. In most cases Sara minds not the rain, even so far as to enjoy the odd misting, yet…

Something about this eve felt foreboding. As though it foretold of tragedy to come.

Surely, 'tis not such a thing to excite herself over. Still, she cannot help the uneasy feeling that builds within her.

———

It is the morn of the day hence, the day Sara is to be wed to Leon. She had been able to secure the roast, thank God above, and now needed only to don her wedding gown and depart for the church.

As a dear friend of hers, Anne, laces the corset of the gown, Sara examines her flowers. They are white lilies, not yet wilting, perhaps somewhat helped by the previous day’s rain. Fascinating, flowers. So beautiful while alive, such a joy to those around them, and beautiful when plucked, though underlay with the tragedy of a being brought to death too soon, resigned to chasing what dredges of precious water they can desperately soak of, clinging to the last threads of life desperate not to leave the fold. A horrid fate to be resigned to, certainly. One must wonder if—

“Sara?”

She makes an affirming sound.

“I’ve finished with your gown. Is something the matter?”

She hesitates for but a moment, before giving a soft smile. “No, dear Anne, I am but filled with excitement for today’s festivities.”

“On such a topic, perhaps 'tis time for us to take our leave for the church.”

Sara smiled widely. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

———

She can hardly wait for the ceremony itself, to gaze upon Leon at the church altar, and know she is to be bound by marriage to the man she loves for the entirety of the rest of their shared lives.

She has been waiting a while, having checked her dress and veil multiple times, and is quite honestly surprised at the length of time it takes for the ceremony to begin. Surely it has been half of an hour by now!

She sits, as half of an hour gives way to an hour, as one hour turns to two. At about two hours and half, she decides that she has waited long enough. She must know what causes this wait. Surely, this cannot be the standard.

As she is about to investigate what may be the cause of the delay, she hears a commotion outside of the room she waits within. She strains at the door to listen, in hopes that such a conversation may enlighten her to the situation.

“…fail to understand. Has he grown craven?”

“The day he grows craven is the day a wild boar flies amongst the birds. More than like he has taken ill.”

“Ill? And told none? Have you taken leave of your senses?”

“And the alternative? Come now, surely you cannot think Leon Belmont of all people has abandoned his honor!”

Leon… would that not mean—

“Whatever the case may be, for one or another reason, Leon Belmont has not appeared for his own wedding. Surely there must be some reason for it.”

So this is what delays the wedding.

Leon is missing.