Dreamer

Dreamer

Pale fingers brush over the faded pages, over images as bright and sharp as the day they were taken. Here, a crowd shot, perhaps thirty people standing and talking, champagne glasses in hand. There, the cake, exquisite icing in the form of roses and lace and hearts. And there. The last page.

Two women, smiling at the camera. One is holding the other; arm tucked around her waist proprietarily, the other whispering and placing a light kiss on the taller's cheek before turning a vibrant smile on the viewer.

Both in white, more appropriately than most modern brides, yet utterly different. One, taller, with flame-red hair swept into an elegant coif, wispy tendrils softening her face. A light dusting of freckles only enhance the alabaster of her skin and the sky-blue of her eyes. More modern this one, in a straight gown with a low, scooped back and a tiny pattern of blood red damask roses along the neck and hemline. More roses adorn her hair and the petals are floating in this magically captured scene, eternally fluttering down and then rising. There is a sense of electricity in her, her slender frame almost unable to contain the joy evident on her face.

The smaller is more traditional, choosing a bodice and full skirt, train visible even in this shot. Her blonde hair tumbles wildly, resisting all attempts at styling, giving her a natural, wild look. Petals have gathered in her hair and in her veil, pulled back from her face, flowing from the intricate tiara atop her head. Paler blue eyes, like forget-me-nots, are dreamy but not vague; she is very much in this moment, living every second of her dearest wish. As she gazes at her bride, devotion and love shine from her expressive face; there is no less worship from the other's eyes.

The brides cannot keep their hands from each other, touching face and arm and waist, needing to feel the reality of this day, this conformation of years of struggle against prejudice and hatred. As they do, the light glints from their rings, already seeming as much a part of them as their smiles or love. They have chosen to wear them on their right hands and obviously much time was spent in the choosing of them, for they are more than simple bands. They are a Celtic pattern, intertwining threads of both yellow and red gold, symbolising eternity and the joining of souls, to the point where no separation can be made between the two.

The hand is still, yet pale sunlight still glints from the ring, untarnished and whole. The long hair has long since faded to white, as pure a colour as the dress still hanging in the wardrobe. Perhaps some would say the beauty has faded too, face now lined with experience and woe, figure long since lost to time and the demands of a family. Perhaps some would see the light in her eyes and disagree.

"Still dreaming, Luna?"

A gleam and another hand covers the image, rings clinking softly as they meet. A weight against her back, lips against her cheek and Luna smiles, as dreamily as in her youth so long ago.

"Always of you, love."