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“Do I pass muster?” I ask.
He nods. “Now I must attend to your hair.”
I wince, because I know it’s going to dry all frizzy and huge, and totally ruin the bridal look he’s working so hard to create.
But he seems undaunted, carefully squeezing the water out of my curls and reshaping them. He doesn’t ask me about the streaks in my hair; this month they’re the same green as my eyes. He sections off a few areas and begins braiding them, working wildflowers into the plaits as he goes. By the time he’s finished, my hair is still wet, but a check in the mirror shows that the curls are tamed and the flowers frame my face prettily.
“Now for your dress,” he says. He pulls a simple, rough dress from a carved chest. It’s sage green, and obviously meant for a troll female, because when he slips it over me, it’s huge. It bags at the waist, the long sleeves swallow my hands, and the hem pools around my feet.
“Uh, it doesn’t really fit,” I point out.
He chuckles. “No, but it does not matter. It will suffice for the ceremony, and then you will take it off again.”
“I will?”
“Of course. After we wed, we will feast and then return here to celebrate our union.”
“And exactly how do we celebrate?”
A smile teases his lips. “I will show you when the time comes.”
He steps back and removes his own clothes, once again surprising me with how comfortable he is getting naked in front of a virtual stranger, even if I am about to become his wife. He climbs into the tub and bathes himself as thoroughly as he did me, then dries off and pulls his own wedding attire out of the chest.
It’s as simple as mine, a loose tunic and another version of the hide trousers he always wears.
“Do you wish to help me with my hair?”
“Sure,” I say. “If you sit down so I can reach it, that is.” He sits on a wooden chair and I stand behind him, uncertain of how to handle his hair, which is thickety-thick and reaches nearly to his waist. “What do I do?”
He explains the appropriate style, and I do my best to create it. I French braid a chunk down the center of his head, and then plait all the remaining pieces on the sides.
Once those are done, I pull them back and affix them to the main braid, so his hair is all swept back from his face, really emphasizing his high cheekbones and strong jaw.
While I prefer his wilder, more casual look, I have to admit, Formal Bradoc is quite a sight. “You look amazing,” I tell him.
“All the credit goes to you,” he says, which is gallant but laughable. All I did was braid his hair. Everything else—the groom attire, the chiseled features, the stubble, the muscles—it’s all him.
“Come,” he says. “We must go.”
I expect to return the dais/stage thing in the middle of the village, but we don’t. Instead, he leads me to a building off to one side, larger than the others. There are rough benches outside, and he sits on one.
“We wait here for our turn,” he explains, so I sit next to him.
After a few minutes, a couple—one of the captive troll women and the male who claimed her—exits the building, dressed similarly to the way we are, although the female’s dress fits her better. Hers is also a dark gray, in contrast to my light green one.
The male says something to Bradoc, who stands with a nod. “It is our turn,” he says to me, extending a hand to help me up.
I swallow hard. This whole time, I’ve just been going with the flow to keep myself from focusing on what was about to happen. But I can’t pretend anymore. There’s no way out of this, and in a few minutes, I’m going to be married.
Married.
United forever in matrimony.
To a troll.
A freaking, non-human, has-horns-and-tuskstroll.
What is my life?
