The mist twirled prettily, occasionally getting its skirts caught and having to linger there accordingly, before darting back to resume its position as leader of the dance. Secrets were of a lighter tread, intertwining in amongst the bodies adorned with startling scarlet and dulcet purples, as they twisted and conjured the necessary relish for their ritual: paranoia. Eyes flitted in all directions, circling and swooping down on the carcasses of enemies, yet if any pair became stuck on another, they were knocked off their perch swiftly with the aid of the canon of glances shooting forward.
She arrived under a sheet of gold that flickered in the gloom of the day, twinkling like the eyes of a fraud who could taste the touch of coin. The pale, translucent glow of her skin was in fact of a concoction of festering venom- yet that wouldn't be what would make her body rot and her soul expire. Pearls and stones embellished her head from where they had been wrenched from the gummy, slime-slathered depths of oysters or consumed by the thrashing flames of the Earth's inferno, regarding the event with the austere viewpoint of the only certainty in life is change. Violent change if applicable.
Snorts of laughter and vindictive smirks met her arrival, shoving their way into the procession. Zooming around her clenched jaw and pulsing pregnant belly, they made their presence no secret, before ricocheting off of buttresses and stained glass windows to fragment, thus multiplying by the second. One particular raucous chortle reverberated inside a mead belly, before being let loose like an onager aimed at the head of a brand that had discontinued a favourite chocolate bar. Despite the onslaught, her head remained high, presiding over her straight back and contributing to the assured strides that showed that she knew- that everyone knew- her dreams were now a reality.
Her tread, past the foundation stone and onward, was a scrawl of a signature on her own death warrant. Mountains had been swept away, cast aside, for the tide of his yearning, ever-expanding love, which had seen England become not only physically, but ecclesiastically adrift from Europe. Rome had been the epicentre of the tremors of change. Yet what could a change in the tide- his disappointment, his resentment -mean for her? She had been the muse, the inspiration, for this cataclysmic cave-in of relations. Unfortunately the muse can never live up to expectation; the muse can never be the perfection projected upon it. It can never survive the cold light of morning or the cold light of marriage either.
Her mind rejected the humiliating, blush-inducing sting of the crowd. It decided instead to reflect upon the uncomfortable ride from Greenwich and this mantra of compliant stayed with her, embedding into her core- just as her fingernails clenched into her palm- as the crown was fitted onto her head and the sceptre was thrust into her clammy paws. Mass, though no longer required, was done and said and all the while her head was spinning at a speed most would wish their washing machines could achieve.