My bride sits beside me. Her face hidden under a layer of paint, the scent of jasmine tickling my nose and the sparkling diamonds in her crown guarding her raven black hair blinding my vision. Slightly blurred, I notice movement beside me, my father heralding the start of the Paggih ceremony. He hands us rolled-up siri leaves, which I throw at my bride and she at me. On the one hand, it is a sign of stolen hearts and obedience. On the other hand, the one-sided hitting of the leaves is supposed to illustrate dominance or equality when both hit. I miss, throw deliberately and hear a discontented growl close behind me.

Words come softly to my ear, hurtful and not true. But once said, they burn themselves deep into my memory. I rise heavily and step on a raw egg. Another custom, number two of eight. With a seriousness and dedication that is almost laughable, the bride washes my feet. I sigh, for this custom symbolises the hope of children. An absolutely unimaginable scenario. For me. For my bride knows nothing of my way of life, she is bought, not my choice and never would have been.

Suddenly I am sitting on my father's lap. I feel his arms protectively around my body, feel the warmth of the hero of my childhood. He rocks me back and forth, confirming to my father-in-law that I am the same weight as his daughter. He confirms that we are both equally loved. I feel dizzy, my father moves faster and faster, the gentle rocking turns to shaking. Everything spins and my father laughs derisively as he whispers 'Dia tidak mencintaimu' in his deep voice.

She really is beautiful. Young, with almond-shaped brown eyes, cherry-red lips, hair as black as the night he left me and skin as white as the snow that fell on our heads one fateful day in the New York winter. A silky shawl covers her delicate little hands. I pour rice, flowers and money into it as a sign of wealth, beauty and fertility.

More little rituals are performed, everything rushing past me at the speed of light. I hardly notice anything and exhale in relief as I stand alone on the podium. Below me, a hustle and bustle of people. They are laughing and eating, talking happily to each other and I just stand there letting silent tears run down my skin. They have been my best friend for what seems like an eternity, and especially after a night of aching realisations, a constant companion.

My heart tightens convulsively. I have been standing here for hours, my wife beside me, and new people keep coming, shaking hands, congratulating and wanting photos. A marathon begins and somehow there is no finish line in sight. The glare hurts my eyes, the tears have dried up for the moment and are only waiting for the darkness of the night and my tormenting memories.

So many people. I don't know them. Their faces are in shadow, some of them contorted into ugly grimaces. The image of the gods of my childhood, the anchor in a world full of darkness and pain. For years I begged for redemption. I never wanted to live like this. Forced into a marriage, with a bride who was not my choice, but what was best for my family. If she knew who she married. A man who left the love of his life miles behind. But in my heart he is always there and once again my mind plays tricks on me. The music stops and so does the laughter of the guests. I no longer perceive anything, only him, the melody of his words, the sound of despair, the tone of pain in my imagination. Often at night I lay in my small room in my parents' house and thought of our time together. Brief, intense, full of love, devotion and bliss.

And again I hear that sensual voice, cry hot tears and listen to the sweet melody of his deep bass. The memory sends goose bumps down my trembling body and I sob aloud as I lift my head and look into the face of an angel. So beautiful he stands there, dressed all in white and standing out against the colourful iridescent robes of the wedding guests. Purple and gold dominate, but I only have eyes for him. His blue eyes shine brightly, begging me to reach for his outstretched hand. His skin appears almost transparent, as thin as parchment, glittering like the stars in the firmament.

"Pegang tanganku," he whispers, and I just stand there, looking into his beautiful pale face, feeling like I'm falling. Very slowly and deeply and no one is there to catch me. I fall deeper and deeper and he moves further and further away from me.
"Tidak," I beg. "Tidak, Alexander." But he does not hear me. Sliding deeper into the mist that surrounds him, I slump to the ground screaming. Everything is cold and I feel dead inside. Broken, desperate, without a shred of hope for a future.

☃️🎄🌟

What Asmodeus says to Magnus:

"Dia tidak mencintaimu."
He does not love you.

What Alec says to Magnus:

"Pegang tanganku"
Take my hand.

What Magnus says to Alec:

"Tidak."
No.