Cyrus

I see you come into the large golden entry hall, your pale winter fae form a stark contrast to the summer palace…I can’t help but wondering if you’ll melt. I look at you coldly, I never wanted this, to marry someone I just met, but you still continue into the hall…and the wedding is still happening. I bow my head politely to you My name is Cyrus…and I suppose we’re getting married at the end of the week. That sentence sounds strange in my mouth, and unwelcome