the sun. She didn’t hold any flowers. She didn’t have an attendant to take them from her when she reached her groom. She had no one standing there with her.
Her only family was Aden. The reminder of why she was doing this.
Poles were raised along the aisle, white silks wrapped around them, draped between them, blowing in the wind. It was utter perfection in its simplicity, the waves on the shore the only music, with few decorations to mar the natural beauty of the sand and surf.
She raised her eyes and saw Sayid, standing at the head of the aisle, the wind blowing the silks, partially obscuring him from view. But for a moment, their eyes locked and held. Darkness, heat, crackled between them. She looked down. It was traditional for the bride to keep her eyes down anyway. To keep herself from smiling. To not appear too eager.
Which was good, because not-smiley and not-eager, were coming easily at the moment.
She kept going until she saw his shoes, half-buried by sand, come into her field of vision. Then she looked up. He was dressed like she was, simple, not entirely in the Attari tradition, but not entirely Western, either. His shirt was white, loose over his muscular frame, as were his slacks. His shoes were white as well, simple, embroidered with gold thread.
The strength of his masculine beauty, the impact that it had on her, was shocking. She would have thought that after yesterday, after those bold, awful, yes they were totally awful, things he’d said to her, she would despise the sight of him. But she didn’t.
And part of her didn’t think the things he’d said had been so awful, either.
Part of her had been intrigued. And wanted to hear more. Had wanted him to show her just what he’d meant.
It was so not the time to be having those thoughts. Though, there would never be a good time for those thoughts. Ever.
Sayid stood facing her, but not touching her, the distance between them welcome.
The ceremony started in Arabic and Sayid leaned in, her heart stalling out as he drew near to her. Then he began to translate softly, the words husky, smooth. So unlike the way he’d spoken to her yesterday. And no less impacting. These were words of commitment, of caring not of lust or domination. About the meaning of marriage, the soul deep bond of it. A meaning she had never before witnessed, but that something deep within her ached to have.
When it came time for her to say her vows, she repeated them as best she could, with no idea of what she was promising to do before the officiant and all of the witnesses. She knew her Arabic was clumsy and very likely completely unintelligible, and she just hoped that the headline tomorrow wasn’t about the new sheikha who had garbled her vows.
As soon as she spoke the last word, she nearly sagged with relief.
But then it was Sayid’s turn to take his vows. And he chose to repeat them in English.
“I will not leave you, or turn back from you,” he said, his voice strong, his focus somewhere behind her. And for that she was grateful, because she was certain that eye contact was beyond her at this point. He still didn’t touch her, didn’t reach for her hand. “Where you make your home, I shall make mine. For without you there is no home. Your people are now my people, as mine are yours. Where you die I will die. And there they will bury me. May God deal with me severely if anything but death separates us.”
Chloe tried to breathe, the sea air suddenly too harsh, too salty. Her chest ached, ached with a need so fierce she feared it would choke her.
She wished the vows had stayed a mystery. Wished she had never heard the promises they’d made to each other in a way she could understand. Because when they’d been foreign, it hadn’t felt real. Hadn’t truly felt like vows.
Now, though, now she felt the weight of them. It was as if an invisible thread had been wound around them, binding them together. As if they were linked now, in a way that was completely beyond reason or logic.
And as the bond tightened between them, she felt the ties to her old life being cut away, until all that remained was this. Was Attar, and Aden and Sayid. The weight of it, the sadness, the certainty in it, was