I hope you guys enjoy this story. It's very different and unusual. It's based heavily on Ibsen's A Doll's House, and it resembles Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale as well. Be patient in waiting for our favorite character, and don't hesitate to leave a comment!

The Oligarchy

Scarlet Wedding

The darkness was surrounding her, drowning her, making it impossible to do anything but struggle fruitlessly. Her legs would not work. They were exhausted by all the effort, as was the rest of her body trying to get some movement. Suffocation was near; she could feel it.

A shade of gray peered down at her. It was not white; it was gray. It was lighter, and she would take it if she must. She tried to reach for it, but the closer she came, the farther away it went, until all she wanted to do was not to exist, or feel, or struggle, or think….The little control she had was slipping away.

But perhaps she never had it in the first place.

"Christine! Stop staring and do something useful."

I jump out of my daydream and look around quickly. But there isn't anything to do. However, I have several years of practice at pretending to do something, so I put this into use. Nothing is coming with me; the clothes on my back will be thrown out. It is a cleansing process, a sign of my complete surrender.

A few minutes pass, and then my mother grabs my wrist.

"Come. We cannot be late."

When we reach the door, I turn for a last look at the bedroom I have hated for years. The impersonal frills and laces of the room stare back at me. My bed, however, looks forlorn. That piece of furniture has been my comfort. Countless tears have satiated the pillows. Before I can think further, the door snaps shut.

My mother and I hurry down the stairs onto the main floor. As we cross the great room, my father jerks from his doze in his chair, grumbles something unintelligible, and goes back to his nap. The soft smile on my lips is unseen to him. It is very likely that I shall never see my father again. But perhaps he is used to his children leaving and now thinks nothing of it.

The wide carriage waits for us in the small courtyard. My mother climbs in first, and I follow. As soon as I am seated, the carriage jerks off noisily, rattling its way out of the property. I cannot bring myself to look out the window, but it isn't as if there will be anything interesting out there. Nobody will be out on the streets.

My mother begins to criticize. She pulls my dress and hair and pinches my cheeks, all the while a steady stream of commands coming.

"Don't twist your hands like that! Whoever did your hair? It hardly looks proper. Your face is pale. Be sure to pinch it whenever you can. And stop staring! You are so unnatural, child, so much stranger than your siblings. How did you ever become picked when you are some kind of wicked spirit? Well, make sure to lower your eyes, at the very least. Draw as much attention to your other features as possible."

She continues for some time, but I sit silently and say nothing. There was a time when I drank in all that she says, but, after some years, I no longer care nor listen. I do all that I can, but it is not enough, and I do not care anymore.

The carriage lurches to a halt, sending my heart somewhere to my throat. I am too nervous to say anything. Air greets me, hot and dry, when I step out of the carriage. The courtyard is massive, a huge bare slab of stone, with no signs of life except our little coach. The Capitol spreads before us. Its many spires and towers reach toward the sky, hoping to match the beauty of the vast blue, but it is nothing more than huge pile of rock on the beautiful, green earth, and it is a scar on Earth's surface. Mother, however, eyes it with an appreciative eye.

We are not allowed to linger. A small man dressed in black hurries out of a door, and he ushers us inside with a wave of his hand. Not a word is spoken as we enter the cold building. The lower walls are bare, prison-like, but the higher we climb, the more lavish the decorations. When we climb the umpteenth flight of stairs, the little man leaves us outside a large door.

"You have one hour," is his farewell.

Without further ado, my mother pushes the door open and strides into the room. I follow tentatively. It is a room that obviously serves no purpose but to serve no purpose. There are some tables piled in the corner, and a square window leaks in just a little light. Three vast mirrors, however, dominate the far wall. The middle one is huge and overpowers the other two. A small, spindly table has a box placed on it, and Mother walks over and opens it, pulling out sheets of velvet material. I cannot breathe at the sight.

"Well, child?" she demands. "Hurry! We have only an hour."

Blushing slightly, I begin to peel of the gown I am wearing. When I am ready, she begins to help me pull on layer after layer of the deepest scarlet. It is a heavy, dense fabric, and I can feel my skin perspire already from the folds of cloth. Mother redoes my hair, muttering to herself. After pinching my cheeks again, she places the soft veil around my shoulders and pulls it over my face. I can see out of it, but she cannot see me.

For an awkward while, there is silence.

"You know what is expected of you," she says. It is not a question. "I have prepared you too long to mess up this opportunity. Again, why they should choose you is a mystery. But the Oligarchy knows best, and it will make sure that you perform what is required."

I nod silently, and for a few minutes it looks as if she is having an inner battle to say something. However, there is a slight knock on the door before she can say anything else. The same man enters and gestures for me to follow. Shuffling under the weight of the gown, I make my way toward the door before turning to look once more at my mother. It is unlikely we shall ever see each other again. I wish to say something, but what would I say? I hardly know my mother. The most time we have spent together was these last few months before I learned to whom I was to be wed.

"Well?" she hisses. "Hurry up!"

The door shuts when I exit. That part of my life is gone, vanished, and now the only path I see is literally ahead of me, a long, straight hallway. Timidly, I follow the man, who walks and turn to his left to enter through a door. Straight through a room, the second door in the next hallway, up two flights of stairs, and through the first door on the left.

We arrive at a huge door that dominates a wall. It is carved with painstaking detail, and the knob gleams brightly under the lamps in the hallway. The man dressed in black points to it. My stomach is heaving, and I cannot breathe well. Raising a shaky hand, I turn the doorknob and push it open before entering quietly.

The room is so lavish my eyes ache. The walls and ceiling are lined with gold, and couches litter the room. A painting hangs on the wall opposite a large fireplace. In the painting are six men, all stern-looking with dark hair and sharp eyes. They seem to stare at me as I walk farther into the room. Seated on the couches are eight men, all dressed in dark suits except one, who is dressed in the purest white. A heavy veil covers his face, also. It is to him that my eyes are drawn. Is he looking at me, I wonder? Could he have the same tortured thoughts running through his head?

When I enter, the room falls hushed at once, and all eyes are on me. I squirm under their stares, but I do not move. Obediently, I stand, waiting to be commanded.

"You are the woman sent for?" one of the men seated demands.

"Yes." I am surprised they can hear me. I cannot hear myself.

"You are the one chosen?"

Again, "Yes."

"I shall check," says a tall, gangly man. He approaches and peers down at me. His face is heart-shaped but his nose is flat and wide, and his jaw is high defined. Shoulder-length, thin white hair hangs down and frames his face. Placing a claw-like hand on my shoulder, he turns me around so my back faces the room. Quickly, he lifts my veil. I can only hope that my face does not betray my true feelings. The veil is replaced and he returns to his spot.

"It is she."

There is another moment of silence as I turn to face them once more. Most of the men there look…bored, unconcerned. One man rises, and the others follow. The first man is stout and dark, with a broad chest and thick brows. His nose is straight and his mouth shapely, but he looks harsh. Without a word, he leads the procession into an adjoining room. I take it I am to follow and do so.

It is much darker in here. There are only two pieces of furniture, and nothing adorns the ceiling or walls. A low table sits in the middle, and on one side is a low, cushioned chair. The man garbed in white sits at that chair.

"Kneel," says the white-haired man.

I do so, across the small table from the man seated in the chair. My heart is thumping horribly against my chest. I have never been so nervous, so afraid, and I can hardly hear as someone begins to speak in low, gravelly tones.

"It is with supreme delicacy that the Oligarchy has chosen this union. Under the befitting excellence of the families chosen, it is only natural to combine. We see this union as something beneficial to all and bestow upon you the responsibility of the…"

It is hard for me to focus upon his words. My stomach seems to have disappeared, and my heart is racing. I focus my gaze on the veiled man, wondering, always wondering but never knowing. My knees begin to ache slightly on the cold marble floor.

The man in white moves. He pulls off a shawl-like piece of clothing that is draped around his shoulders, leans over, and places it over mine. It is a hard contrast, the snow-white against the blood-red. For another minute, silence stretches into a century. In pairs, the men file out, some whispering quietly, others still silent. Only two men remain; the dark one that led us in here, and the man in white. They move to a corner and talk quietly. Snatches float over to me.

"….long?"

"One or two….Capitol?"

"….plan."

"Good luck."

The darkly-dressed man exists, and the other turns to me. I feel my hands begin to shake.

"Come," he says.

Again, I am following someone through the strange building. We meet no one on the way to…wherever we are going. It does not take long to reach our destination. The door we stop at is much plainer than the others and much less eye-catching. It is through this door that he enters and beckons for me to follow. I do so, my body numb and my brain dead.

The door clicks shut behind us.