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The ceremony is surreal, like an out of body experience. She walks up a makeshift aisle, the crowd parting to watch her, to take her measure. She’s aware a priest of some sort says words that hush the crowd, but she can’t understand them. She throws a glance over her shoulder, where her mother is bleary eyed but stone faced. She shakes her head almost imperceptibly but she doesn’t interrupt or object. She knows their survival hinges on this.
She turns back to the priest, barely glancing at the man next to her, but his presence feels overwhelming. His breathing is even, he doesn’t fidget like she suddenly realises she is. He smells a bit spicy, a little heavy. Foreign. She nearly jumps when he shifts on his feet and brushes against her arm, the heat of him searing her skin.
Her eyes are firmly fixed ahead as the priest starts proceedings, as he chants prayers that she can’t decipher. She can only pick out certain words, and they all make her blood still in her veins. Death, fight, blood. If there is a word for love in trigedasleng she doesn't know it.
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