A Tale Of Brides

Fyn.

Built over centuries ago, the metal concave mirror in the middle of the town of Gashea, had always been used to light the torch with the sun's rays. The fire from the torch acted as a reminder of the struggles and sacrifices of the women who the townsfolk had chosen as the bride of the demon. It had been a constant reminder of how easily life can turn for the worst, as it has for the people in the past.

Traditionally, the choosing would happen in the morning. In the village square, the townsfolk would adorn the hair of the next demon's bride with white baby's breath flowers. They would have the bride walk from up the wooden platform where the metal concave mirror was placed and have them light the torch. When the flame lights, the bride holds the torch up high for all to see, to symbolize her bravery in facing the demon for the betterment of everyone.

When night falls, the townsfolk would place a brown cloak on the demon's bride. They would accompany her all the way to the edge of the forest and watch her walk the well-worn path most brides usually took as they entered the chilling woods. Once the townsfolk could no longer see her, once the dense trees and shrubs swallowed her whole, the townsfolk would return to their beds, sleep on their minds.

Fyn had been one of those townsfolk.

The ones who would turn their back once the bride had disappeared from his line of sight. Not once had he considered the fear that was running inside the bride's mind when she walked along the dark path, towards a future she knew she would never be alive to see.

And now, as tears streamed down his cheeks, he tried to wriggle his wrists away once more.

They had placed him inside the chief's station. Fyn remembered the place just fine. The large, square room had matching wooden furniture. Varied animal furs served as the room's carpet, and the chief had papered the walls with light hues. Inside, various lanterns and table lamps served as the source of light. In the center of it all was a dark wooden table, where the chief would calculate all the taxes and decided where to spend everything.

"This is wrong," Fyn cried, "The demon would kill me, sir! He would expect a beautiful woman as a bride. Once he sees my face... he would kill me on the spot. Sir, please! Have mercy. Please."

The village chief didn't even raise his head to look at Fyn, who had his hands tied behind his back. He assumed the men that the chief had asked to kidnap him threw him haphazardly on the floor. Various parts of his body had hurt, and he could only imagine how they brought him here if he felt much pain.

And then, Fyn jolted in place. Slowly, he whispered, "There's a list, is there not, sir?"

That was the only time the village chief lifted his eyes away from the paper he was reading. Now, his full attention is at Fyn. Fyn didn't miss the way the village chief's eyes narrowed in his direction. He didn't miss the way the chief's lips curled in anger. Veins popped on the chief's forehead and his hands scrunched the paper he was holding.

There had always been a list. Ever since the choosing had begun, townsfolk hid their daughters and their wives. To make sure that everything was fair, they had made a list. Even though Fyn had been a recluse and lived far away from the village, he knew about this.

And he also knew the chief had a daughter.

"Your daughter, she was supposed to be the demon's bride," Fyn stated matter-of-factly. "Sir, it is supposed to be her. A man as a bride doesn't even make any sense. After all the lives that we had lost because of this, now is not the right time to become unfair."

Fyn didn't even know where he got the sudden bravery to talk back to the chief this way. He just knew that there would be no way that he would allow the chief to throw him to his death without even fighting back. As much as he could, he furrowed his brows and inched himself closer to the chief's table, glaring at him.

"Let me go," He demanded, wriggling his wrists again. "This is unfair, sir, and you know it. Plenty of women had died. I see it every day where I live. Just because she's your daughter doesn't mean she gets placed on a pedestal. Untie me and I would turn a blind eye on everything that had happened."

There, Fyn thought. That was terrifying, wasn't it?

Except, instead of shivering in fear and running quickly to untie him, the chief chuckled darkly. Fyn felt shivers run along his back. He gulped, trying to wriggle himself free again. His wrist was burning, and he knew it was probably bruised and bleeding now. Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself up to his knees. He tried again, "Please, sir. Untie me now, this is hardly fair!"

"What do you know by fair?" the chief sneered, tossing the paper he was holding moments ago down on his table. He stood up slowly, stalking towards Fyn. He crouched down when he was near enough, pulling Fyn's chin, forcing him to meet his eyes. "I'm not dumb, Fyn. You have skipped tax payments for months."

Fyn blanched, "A few unpaid taxes shouldn't equate to death, sir."

"But is it really just a few?" The chief hissed. His breath felt hot on Fyn's face, the scent was foul. "I don't remember your parents ever paying. Do you?"

Fyn bit his tongue.

The chief's face turned sinister, "You don't even remember how they look like, don't you?"

Despite himself, Fyn felt traitorous tears prick the corner of his eyes. Some of the most traitorous ones falling freely on his cheeks. The chief saw this, and immediately he boomed into more maniacal laughter. His grip on Fyn's chin turned hard and cruel. Fyn knew this would bruise.

"It's such a shame," The chief muttered low on his breath. So low, that Fyn thought the chief didn't want others to hear what he was about to say at all. "You have your mother's delicate features. The same soft, black eyes. The same long lashes that touched your cheek each time you blink. Those messy arrays of freckles across your cheeks and nose. The same golden skin. If your black hair had been longer, I would think you are her."

The chief's gaze turned lustful in a few minutes, and Fyn wanted to vomit on himself. Just so that he would let him go. He had always hated having to look like a shadow of a woman that he barely even knew. And yet he hated it more whenever people looked at him like how the chief was looking at him.

He wasn't ashamed of how he looked like. He was angry that it was what his mother had given him. He would have loved it if instead of delicate features, she would have given him a memory of his parents. That would have given him something to think about whenever he felt sad and lonely. Instead of some stupid rhyme.

The chief's eyes fall on Fyn's lips, and his breath hitched. No!

Struggling, he started pulling himself away from the man. How long had he been far away from the village that everyone had turned into monsters? Those men that kidnapped him and teased him, the man holding him now, face inching closer to his. And here he thought the only demon that was in Gashea was the one within the woods. Apparently, there were monsters inside the town too.

There was a knock on the door.

Surprise flickers on the chief's face. Like someone had hypnotized him, he suddenly backed away. There was confusion in his eyes. It didn't last. The confusion quickly turned into anger and before Fyn could process it, his cheeks had stung and he was down on the floor. When he lifted his eyes, he saw the chief's hand up in the air.

The chief had just slapped him. Hard. So hard that he could taste blood.

The door opened ajar and peeking through it was a face that Fyn could always remember. Her hair was no longer in braids, her baby fat had gone. She was no longer the awkward teen that he once saw before. She was now a full-grown woman.

The chief's daughter, Hana.

"H-hana," Fyn muttered from the floor. "Untie me, please."

Hana barely glanced at him. Instead, she skipped towards her father, kissing his cheek. Twirling her long brown hair on her forefinger, she tilted her head. It almost made her look innocent, "The townsfolk were asking about what the plans were today. The flower crown's ready, so are the torches. The only thing left is..."

She drawled, her eyes falling on Fyn. "The bride."

Fyn watched as Hana watched him. He watched how her face seemed to melt as she smiled mischievously down at him. He could only look up and watch as her once beautiful brown hair turned greasy to reveal her bony, horrendous face. This had always been Hana's true colors, a true opportunist among the townsfolk. She stands towering among others, bullying her way to the top.

Fyn's gaze falls on her father, the chief.

There's something terrifying about the both of them. Fyn couldn't help but sag on the floor. Why did he even try to fight it when it already seemed like no one would help him? There were only a few villagers who even knew who he was. He closed his eyes a fraction, pondering about his fate. He understood that this was probably karma.

There had been dozens of women who had become the demon's bride. Those women he, together with the other townsfolk, once accompanied towards the edge of the forest. Watched them walk shakily inside only to walk towards their death. Not once had he offered to help, not once had he thought that it was wrong. He simply cared about being safe, about getting home in one piece.

He had only cared about himself. And this was his karma.

"Call the men," Fyn heard the chief order loudly, "It's time to dress up the bride. We wouldn't want him looking ugly on his big day, won't we?"

Hana's giggle that once sounded melodic to Fyn, now sounded like a witch's cackle.

"Anything for you, father!"