Survive

by Vera Nazarian

  I must walk the long path toward them upon the Imperial red carpet.

  I pause for one instant, taking in the sight before me, and try to judge the distance of the entire path. I visually mark three spots along the path for reference points. . . .

  And I begin to walk.

  My veil and train float behind me as I move, with my hands held on both sides in a light dancer stance, as I’ve been instructed, to create the illusion of floating above the ground as if by magic.

  As I pass, people smile and watch me with excited faces full of amazement and approval.

  My heart beats so loudly in my chest that I can almost hear it, and I feel the racing pulse in my temples, even as I hear the rhythmic chime of bells sounding every few steps I take.

  Aeson is waiting for me.

  I am not sure which of the waiting figures he is—not yet, but soon I will see him.

  I reach the first point that I’ve visually marked for myself, and very gracefully raise one hand to my waist. I depress the control button then lower my arms with one smooth, quick move, opening them slightly. . . .

  At once I feel a tiny whisper-soft tug and rip, as the outer layer of my dress suddenly comes apart at the invisible seams. The shimmering red fabric blows off me like a scarlet flame, and floats to the floor far behind me to lie in a pile of cobweb silk, revealing the next Dress layer underneath, in glorious lapis lazuli blue.

  The crowd gasps and exclaims in reaction, seeing me suddenly transform before their eyes.

  I keep my arms held aloft, so that I appear to be flying, and continue walking, with my blue Dress shimmering and streaming around me.

  Long moments flow by, accompanied by chiming bells.

  When I come to the second spot along the path, I raise my hand again and press the button at my waist, then open my arms in flight. . . .

  The blue outer layer of my Dress comes apart at the seams, flying from me like an ocean wave, to sink on the carpet, while my Dress is now a brilliant metallic gold.

  This time the crowd cries out and there are claps scattered all around, as the guests have trouble holding back their outburst.

  I spread my arms lightly and continue to soar forward, completely clad in gold.

  Aeson!

  At last, I can see him now, standing next to other familiar figures, including my father and my brothers, and the Imperator and—

  I come to the third and final spot and press the button at my waist one last time.

  This time the shimmering metallic gold fabric layer flies from me, leaving only the solid sheath underneath, which is in fact a sophisticated form-fitting Dress of pure white.

  It is my real Wedding Dress.

  How did I get away with breaking the color tradition? I haven’t. My perfectly legitimate contemporary Earth-style dazzling-white dress is considered an under-layer sheath by Atlantean standards, so technically I haven’t broken any nuptial traditions or rules at all.

  After all, no Atlantean rule says I couldn’t divest some of the layers in public.

  Let the media, the fashion critics, and the traditionalists analyze that, at their own leisure.

  All I care about now is the man I’ve come to marry, the perfect, glorious man who stands waiting for me as I approach the Sanctum.

  Chapter 62

  With a pounding heart, I walk the last few steps until I reach the Sanctum area and the group of people who stand waiting for me.

  I admit, those moments are surreal. . . . With one secondary, peripheral part of me I notice that all of my family is here, all my friends . . . and then details blur . . . are seared on me, in sharp, brief, disjointed impressions that might come to me later, days later, when I think back—there’s my Dad with an endearing, exultant expression on his face and wearing the Atlantean equivalent of a tux, there’s Gracie, wide-eyed and crazy with happiness, George with a proud smile for me, Gordie looking sharp but goofy and bemused, then my friends, the astra daimon, the Imperatris smiling like an angel—

  Everything and everyone else blurs. . . .

  Because in that moment all I see is him.

  Aeson stands slightly off to the right side, watching me with a gaze of impossible wonder.

  He is wearing his Fleet Dress Uniform, white and gold—oh my God, with his Fleet Whites, our colors—we match! On second glance, it’s a slightly different white uniform, more intricate and formal, with gold threaded designs on the jacket top, and a heavy golden collar with a multitude of ornate insignias. I recognize some of the rank-designating combinations of four-point stars, and the eight-point star which I know is the symbol of the high command of the Star Pilot Corps.

  Oh wow, this is his SPC Commander Uniform!

  Over his uniform Aeson wears a magnificent floor-length cloak of deep lapis lazuli blue, which is his future Court colors. On his forehead rests the coiled spiral serpent emblem wrought in gold of the Lesser Uraeus symbol of Secondary Imperial Power of the Imperial Crown Prince. And on his left bicep, I see the black armband.

  It’s hard to describe the complexity of his expression as he sees me. . . . His lips part slightly and there’s awe, heart-melting warmth, mischievous humor, worship, focused intensity, vulnerability, raw need, unabashed admiration—

  What am I saying? It’s simple, really.

  Love.

  Aeson’s loving gaze shines over me like the sun. I can tell his approval solidifies as he observes the entirety of me—my simple white dress, my ethereal golden veil, my flower crown and my face—because a deep, growing smile of joy comes to his lips and he slowly nods at me.

  Having seen me as I am, he raises his hands to the clasp of his blue cloak at his throat and undoes it, removing the cloak altogether. He hands it off, without looking, to the person standing just behind him to his right—who happens to be Keruvat, also clad in a White Dress Uniform of the Fleet. Ker takes the cloak and passes it behind him to whoever is there—no matter. Now Aeson and I both match each other perfectly, wearing only white and gold.

  I approach the last few feet between us and step onto the marble floor of the octagon that is the temple Sanctum, an eight-sided geometric space that connects to the long end of the rectangular hall—a grand circular chamber with seven walls, the eighth being the opening between the two areas.

  The ceiling of the Sanctum sweeps upward in a Gothic flight of several hundred feet—so high overhead that I cannot clearly see it. The floor has a mosaic design of an eight-point star, with four dominant points and four lesser ones, like a compass rose. In the center stands a stone altar topped by a grand ceremonial chalice—or a grail. Four lesser altars are placed at each of the four dominant corners of the star.

  People stand all around this sacred space in a semi-circle—people I know, our family and friends in the front, and solemn dark-robed priests in the back, along the walls. The Bride’s family and friends are on the left, and the Bridegroom’s family and friends on the right.

  In the forefront is Aeson.

  I approach him and stop about five feet to the left of him, so that now the two of us stand in symmetry, facing each other, with all others and the star altar behind us.

  “Aeson . . .” I whisper across the short space between us, barely mouthing his name, smiling with all my being at him.

  “Gwen . . .” he whispers back, warming me with his own glorious smile.

  We may not speak any more, because now the Marriage Ceremony begins.

  The chiming of bells that has accompanied my procession, ends. In the new silence, deep male voices of the priests start to chant softly, echoing in the grand space around us. “Kassiopei . . . Kassiopei . . .”

  Then one large shape emerges from the row of robed figures along the shadowed walls. The First Priest Shirahtet Kuruam in a floor-length black robe trimmed with gold steps forward and into the center of the octagon, just behind the altar.

  “Kassiopei! Archaeon Imperator!” Shirahtet speaks loudly, turning to the Bridegroom’s side and bows in the direct
ion of Romhutat Kassiopei, clad in his formal Imperial red colors, who happens to be standing in the very forefront of the group on the right, just behind Aeson. “Permission to cede your Sanctum?”

  “I grant permission,” the Imperator replies softly, and even in softness his voice slithers with leashed power.

  Shirahtet raises his hands and suddenly casts his own voice—which by now I’m used to hearing in soft, conversational speech—into a resonant mode of power: “From this moment until completion, Kassiopei withdraws and grants ritual dominion to Amrevet-Ra!”

  Saying that, he leaves the altar and returns to the back of the Sanctum.

  In the same moment, two new figures step forward, even as the priests in black and gold part around them. The Venerable Therutat and the Venerable Darumet wear black robes trimmed with white, and they solemnly approach the central altar.

  The tiny old woman raises her hands and calls out in an unexpected powerful alto voice, without a trace of age or tremors: “The Sanctum now belongs to Amrevet-Ra!”

  At once, from the back, comes the sound of sublime female voices . . . and Priestesses in black and white robes step forward, chanting “Amrevet-Ra! Amrevet-Ra!”

  Their chant echoes resound, inducing chills of awe. . . .

  Then, comes a moment of silence.

  The Venerable Darumet raises his hands and speaks: “The blessings of Amrevet-Ra be upon you! Witness the Marriage of the Imperial Crown Prince and his Imperial Consort!”

  And the priestesses resume chanting. Their voices continue to ring with purity while the First Priestess and First Priest of Amrevet-Ra walk to the four lesser altars that mark each of the four major points of the star and light the small chalices topping each altar.

  The Venerable Therutat takes the side of the Bride and lights the two altars on the left. The flames that spring forth from the chalices are not ordinary fire but contain color—golden yellow in the chalice closest to the front and green in the chalice near the rear of the octagon chamber.

  Darumet does the same on the right side for the Bridegroom, except his flames are red in the front chalice and blue in the rear one.

  The four Quadrant flames burn bright, flickering with radiance, sending strange dancing shadows toward the remote, lofty ceiling.

  The Priestess and Priest return to the central altar, carrying their long, lit tapers, and then simultaneously lower them into the central chalice, igniting it to burn with a white flame.

  While this is all happening, Aeson and I glance at each other eagerly, nervous with anticipation.

  Therutat places her burning taper upright into a holder on the left of the central chalice, and Darumet does the same on his side. Looking closer, the rim of the chalice itself has eight small wicks, presently unlit.

  Lighting them will be our task, soon. . . .

  The First Priestess walks around the altar and nears me, stopping just beyond reach.

  “Imperial Bride!” she addresses me loudly. “Lift your veil! Name yourself!”

  My pulse speeds up. . . . With trembling fingers, I carefully lift the front edges of my veil and sweep it back over my head. My face, my flower-and-crystal crown hairdo is revealed for Aeson and for all the world to see clearly, at last. After all, it is the moment of truth.

  “Gwenevere . . . Athena . . . Lark.”

  Yes, my middle name is indeed Athena. Mom wasn’t just using hyperbole when she called me so in the video. It’s seriously oddball, and I’m a little ashamed of it, and yes, it’s all Dad’s fault. He gave all of us these antiquated middle names from Classical Greek mythology—supposedly in a compromise with Mom who took it upon herself to give us our normal-person first names. That’s how we ended up with . . . drumroll . . . Grace Hera, Gordon Perseus, and George Nestor Lark. We don’t really talk about it. Okay, moving on—my thoughts spin out of control, returning to the moment in my wedding.

  “Gwenevere . . . Athena . . . Lark,” I say in a clear voice, with only a tiniest pause between each name.

  The First Priest now steps forward, approaching Aeson. “Imperial Bridegroom! Name yourself!”

  Aeson blinks, as though roused from a blissful daydream of staring at me. “Aeson Kassiopei,” he says in his clear, measured baritone.

  On Atlantis, there’s no general custom for plural names. More so in the case of ancient royalty, where one name suffices, followed by the name of the Dynasty.

  Thus, Aeson has no middle name.

  Meanwhile, Therutat speaks again. “Who gives the Bride?”

  My heart really starts pounding.

  Because in that moment my Dad steps forward from my family group right behind me, and gently takes me by the left arm. “I give the Bride,” he says—speaking accented Atlanteo, probably for the first time in his life—a little softly, but well enough that his voice is heard down the hall. He then leads me three steps closer to the center, toward Aeson, and remains standing at my side, holding me with his comfortable, reassuring grip.

  Oh, Dad. . . . My heart swells with gratitude.

  Darumet now speaks. “Who anoints the Bridegroom?”

  As I watch, the Imperator nears Aeson, and takes his son by his arm, with a solemn blank expression. “I anoint the Bridegroom,” he says, then leads Aeson three steps toward me.

  Aeson and I now face each other, standing close enough to touch. We look into each other’s eyes.

  “Fathers! Surrender your children to Amrevet-Ra!” The command is spoken by the Priest and Priestess in unison. They are using a form of command voice, because the urge to obey is powerful.

  At once, both the Imperator and my own father relinquish their hold on our arms and step back, returning to the semicircle of families on our respective sides.

  Aeson and I remain standing together in the middle.

  With my peripheral vision I see both the Venerable Ones approach us, and stand just behind us and slightly between. Therutat’s tiny height is curiously in contrast to the rest of us who tower over her. And to be honest, Darumet is not all that much taller either.

  But there is nothing diminutive about the power the First Priestess projects, as she places her warm, wrinkled hand over one of mine. Meanwhile, Darumet covers Aeson’s large hand with his.

  Suddenly our hands are turned upright, both the right and left hand captured and then forcibly joined together, Aeson’s to mine, by the Priest and Priestess, so that our palms press against each other firmly.

  I feel a moment of sweet shock at Aeson’s touch. . . . Where our hands come together, skin to skin, the space feels like it’s on fire with wild, new energy.

  “Feel the Fire of Amrevet-Ra!”

  It’s as if the Priestess and Priest have read our minds, as they intone in unison.

  The life force awakens between our palms, and we stand and burn, palm-to-palm, not even noticing how Therutat and Darumet have both let go of our hands and released us to ourselves. . . .

  “Bride, you must channel the Fire and Sing to him!” the First Priestess exclaims.

  This is my moment.

  I pause, and take a deep breath. And then I begin to sing a song that Aeson has loved since childhood.

  The skies above

  Are filled with love . . .

  As soon as I sing the first stanza, from somewhere in the octagon chamber comes an instrumental accompaniment of strings and flute, as hidden musicians play along with me. Their sound evokes a natural wilderness.

  Aeson’s eyes widen slightly and his brows rise, as he continues to look at me in amazement.

  I continue to sing, smiling at him with my eyes. My voice soars in the simple folk melody, and the words cascade like silver rain.

  The light of day

  Comes out to play

  Your holy fire

  Consumes the night

  Sacred desire

  Burning bright

  I am your spark,

  I light the way.

  I am your lark,

  With song I pray.

/>   When I fall silent, and the last instrument fades into the distance, surprisingly, Aeson’s eyes glisten with liquid. He says nothing, only nods once, and his palms press tighter against mine.

  Giving us only a sweet moment of pause, the First Priest calls out: “Bridegroom, you must channel the Fire and Sing to her!”

  I watch with a melting smile as Aeson straightens slightly and takes a breath to steady himself.

  And then . . .

  The first rhythmic, soft, smooth, oh-so-familiar twangs of guitar, piano, and drums start streaming from an invisible source, as the musicians pick up the beat. So familiar, what is it? Oh. . . .

  Aeson begins to sing in his deep, rich baritone, like velvet . . . and at once I recognize the song “Can’t Help Falling in Love”—it’s the Elvis Presley version of an old French classic “Plaisir d’amour.”

  Oh . . . my . . . God!

  My jaw drops, and I actually break contact and let go of one of his hands by reflex, because I must respond by putting one hand over my mouth to hold back my emotional outburst.

  Meanwhile, Aeson is singing, perfectly—the maudlin, sentimental, ridiculous, wonderful Elvis song which is so overplayed on Earth, and I don’t even like it all that much (well okay, I do, but jeez), but here, now, across the universe—it’s the best thing in the world.

  I continue to listen, holding one hand over my mouth and trying not to giggle and cry at the same time. I even briefly glance behind me once at my family who are watching with similar impressed awe and amazement. The only difference is, my family and friends aren’t crying, are they—while I am (no, wait, they are, too). . . . And so, I devour Aeson with my gaze, struggling to keep myself together.