A Tent on the Border of an Unnamed Kingdom

Another step and she will no longer be home. It is tempting to freeze, but her fears would not be honored in any case. It is better to choose than be chosen for. At least that is what she tells herself.

The tent is lavish. Unsurprisingly. Tub, dresses, furniture, rugs. The finest there is to offer. Ornate and frilled, a show of power and wealth that is out of place in the desolation surrounding them. Outside, snow drifts to the branches of barren trees, the sky beyond them a bleak shade of grey. Inside the tent, erected for the sole purpose of this exchange, the plush of the rugs almost masks the bite of frozen earth below.

Almost.

Her garments are removed unceremoniously. Odd for a people who are so formal. Nothing of her home may remain. She will leave this tent as something new.

She was told this is their custom. That their customs defined them as a people. Now their customs must define her. She must bend to fit their molds. It is a wonder they did not pick a woman who already did. Not that they ever have.

She cannot remember the woman in charge’s name. Perhaps she was not told. The woman speaks in a dry tone that matches her wrinkled lips, watching her expectantly. The language sounds muddy and dull compared to her native tongue. It is a language she has studied her whole life, yet at this moment, she cannot decipher the meaning of the words. The woman in charge looks exasperated.

She is ushered towards a tub, hurried in as though they are on borrowed time. Perhaps she was late. There is little way of knowing. The water is tepid at best. One might think they would do better for their grand duchess. Not yet. Future. Soon. No, grand duchess. The marriage has been sealed by proxy.

Twice.

Hot water douses her head. Almost too hot, enough to fry the edges of her nerves. The tepid water now feels cold.

Next is soap on a cloth so rough it may scratch the first layer of her skin clean off. It certainly seems to be their goal. Perhaps they believe that even her skin belongs to her homeland. Nothing of it may come with her. The soap smells of rosewater and sharp herbs. Medicinal. Purifying. Purging.

Hot. Cold. Hot. Cold. Scrub. Cold. Scrub. Cold. Hot. Hot. Staring, staring, staring. Waiting, waiting, waiting. Tugged, scrubbed, teeth, nails, folds. Finished.

Their linen is scratchy. Unworn and stiff. No familiar scent of her perfumes. No softness from wear. New. Clean. Nothing from her home may come with her.

At home, her underlayers were cotton. Not too dissimilar in design, but softer and somehow warmer. There is no quilting to these layers, no interface of down or wool. Just layers of starched linen to keep out the cold.

A shiver ripples down her back. She was handed no towel, the chemise sticks to her still damp skin. Warm candles are no match for the chill just beyond fabric flaps. The wind howls around them.

Winter was an insistence she didn’t understand. It was the reason for the proxy. The bride could not enter, nor be retrieved in the springtime when the match was decided. However, her mother had insisted on some assurance. Sealed by proxy, on two separate occasions. Sent by her mother to fortify this alliance. It did not seem particularly secure.

In the morning, they would stand before God. At least that is what she has been told. She has not met the gentleman, this man who is their grand duke. She was told his father was the king. That the king is very poorly. The son of a king is a prince. This place carries a different tradition. They hold their traditions very dear. She must become one of them.

A small portrait travelled to her, to show her this duke, this prince, this would be king. She was already his wife at that time. By way of the first proxy who carried with him a portrait so small she needed a glass to see its details. She assumed they have many gifted artists, who are able to capture a likeness so small.

They turn her away from the glass to do her face. In the attendant she faces, she looks for him. Are his features typical of his people, or has their nobility held themselves above? Is that why they take foreign brides? Are their traditions born of legacy or of politick? Is this convergence or conquest?

Their customs carry on around her, as one tugs at her hair to pin it to her crown. Dresses dusted with perfumed powders, more candles to keep out the chill. Voices overlapping in that same muddied language. The noise and the scent and the light and her head is spinning.

Many have come before her, delivered to tents like this one to be prepared. Stripped of all that made them, and emerging something new and ancient all at once. She wonders if any of them are left. Scattered along the countryside in decaying manor homes that once were splendid. Wondering what became of all the luxury and reverence when she arrived.

It is luxurious. That she cannot deny and wouldn’t hope to. The opulence hangs from her neck, weighted and cold, adding to the chill in the air. Just as she begins to warm, another piece is added, dripping from her ears, clasping around her wrists. Each piece delicate to the eye yet carrying the weight of something far more precious.

Finally, a pair of stays. Familiarity and warmth wrapped in its boning. Despite their differences, some fashions are a global occurrence. The fabric hugs her ribs, warding off the chill. It strikes her as ridiculous. She had dozens of perfectly good dresses, undergarments, shoes at home. Yet, none that may come with her.

The dress completes her transformation. She doesn’t feel any different. Only slightly cleaner. To be expected after days on the road. An attendant pricks her with a pin and she thinks to strike them. The watchful eye of the woman in charge stays her hand. She is new. There will be a time and place.

Smoke. The scent of burning. Her clothes, everything that entered this tent with her. Tossed into flames. A prick of mourning so brief she wonders if she truly feels it or if the pin has simply shifted again.

The flaps on the opposite side of where she entered open. They finally bow. They have not seen her as their future queen until now. She is something new, something worthy of their attention and reverence. When she steps through, she will be something shiny and new.

Until the next comes along and nothing from her home may come with her.