Briallen chewed her lip nervously as her father spoke once more, this time talking of memories long since tarnished by time. How funny, she thought, that as a baby she hardly cried, but now she was doing her best to not fall apart. If she did, she would never be able to piece herself back together. What would be more disrespectful to a king than for his bride to weep, for she did not want the life he had to offer?

She remained composed when her father first began, memories before she could remember anything at all with her fragile babe's mind. Her father, for the first time in days, sounded truly happy as he mused of her -- of their -- past. She didn't let a tear fall until he brought up her expeditions to the creek. Oh, he had seemed so furious! He chastised her for sullying her dress, for wandering too far, for dragging other children into the fields of tall grass and wild flowers to hold court for childish things. A single tear rolled down her face as Draenir lowered his tone, as he held her hands. 

Draenir the Cunning, Bold, and True suddenly seemed his full size again, holding her hands within his and squeezing them with a father's reassurance. For the first time that morning, she purposefully looked her father in the eyes and made a solemn promise. 
"I will, Daddy. I'll stay safe. And I'll find a way home or..." she trailed off, knowing how unlikely it would be to come back, trembling at the thought of what would happen to someone alone in the faewilds. "I -- I will find a way to be happy. But I will miss you and the family every day while I am gone," she amended, knowing the most likely truth, trying not to allow herself to sob. She quivered with sorrow, like a bowstring after releasing an arrow. Her bottom lip was seeping red from her nervous biting.

The knock on the carriage surprised her. She wanted to say "I love you" one last time, but she couldn't summon the strength to do so. Instead, she pulled her hands from her father's grasp, and indignantly wiped her face, as though angry with the saltwater tears. She hoped her eyes were not too red, lest they reflect her true emotions.

"I'm ready," she called to the coachman outside. He opened the carriage door, sunlight streaming in. [i]Not a cloud in the sky. Good weather for a wedding,[/i] she thought bittersweetly to herself, looking over her shoulder one last time at her father before letting the eager staff lead her away from preparations. 

The ladies in waiting got to work as soon as Briallen entered the room. Usually, there would be happy chatter, but they only whispered amongst themselves. The princess was bathed, her hair plaited back elegantly, her eyelids and lips painted with some vogue cosmetics that must've been exotic, for she did not recognize them. Finally: the dress. It was made of fabric so fine and soft that Briallen knew it wasn't of this world. A gift. The first gift from the King of Elfland. A white dress tinted pink for his new primrose.

It felt unnatural against her skin and it fit strangely, hugging her body. It was luxurious, with jewels encrusted in the top, and it looked as though a million tiny stars had been captured and but within the layers upon layers of the large, lacy skirt. She wanted to protest as the corset was cinched tighter, but she didn't have the breath with which to do it. Most days, she wore one only loosely, and even at past events, she'd never had worn one so tight.

They wouldn't allow her to look in the mirror. Perhaps they sensed her unease. Instead, they moved the mirror out of the room and spun her around as they situated the veil. This led to a small meeting, and they redid her hair, braiding it around her head like a crown, weaving flowers into it, and touched up her lips (the color of which Briallen wasn't sure, the cosmetic looked pink). They seemed to approve of this, and promptly placed the lacy veil back on. 

As the ladies in waiting dispersed to make sure all arrangements for the next step were made, Briallen had nothing to do but glace at herself. The lace, she noticed, was not a traditional pattern. It weaved in and out and she swore she saw trees and spires, man and beast within the fabric. But if she focused too long, it was gone. Was it nerves? Was she wearing some fae enchanted dress? The former made Briallen more comfortable, so she chose it as her answer.

A lady of waiting ducked back inside the tent. "The carriage is here. Your father will meet you in the Glade when you step out of the carriage." She then helped Briallen into her shoes, which reminded her of riding boots, but with a more narrow heel and not nearly so tall.

The carriage she was ushered into was far more regal than the last, painted white with the royal insignia on the back. It was a lonely ride there, despite all the smiling faces she saw through the window. It was like a winter's day, white covering everything: white gossamer hanging on branches, temporary walkways, signs painted white. White was a hopeful color. She supposed it fit well enough. Women and children, even some men, wore flowers in their hair. They were symbolic of a beautiful new life. Which Briallen found ironic, since it was really just a temporary purpose: the flowers would wither and rot without their roots. Like a girl without a family. 

She would have known they were close to the Glade even without the visual cues, the sounds of the river running over stone was slightly relaxing to her. Just a few miles downstream, however, it turned into rapids, crashing and violent. A metaphor for life, almost, she thought to herself. 

The carriage came to a halt. It was silent.

And the door was opened.

Briallen's only thought as she saw the handle move was [i]please let this end quickly.[/i]