The Royal Wedding of Prince Nicolas of Montaigne and Princess Élise of Arendaal
- Thread starter Serenierre
- Start date
(OOC: I'm going to go ahead and RP my representative's arrival in Belmont prior to the wedding)
The night air was cool but humid in Kronstadt as the black limousine made its way down the wet asphalt streets, bathed in fluorescent lights. Two motorcycles, their blue and red lights flashing slowly, drove ahead of the limousine, while a police cruiser followed, its lights flashing as well. Traffic had died down, but at eleven o’clock that Wednesday night, there was still barflies and hipsters walking down the streets.
In the back of the limousine sat Princess Elizabeth, a Royal Brettish Airways boarding pass in her hand. The King’s aide-de-camp, James Sellgren, was tasked with escorting the Princess to Kronstadt International Airport, where she would board the red-eye flight to Paris. On the ticket was her legal name, “Kapet-Thieriot, E. FIRST CLASS, Seat 1B.” She would be traveling by civilian aircraft, with regular people, as Brettish law dictated that RAF-1 is not to leave the country without the sovereign on board. Although RAF-2, codenamed Clipper Regal, was legally able to leave the country, it was still in a half-million pieces, being completely rebuilt in a hangar at Howerton Royal Air Force Base twelve miles from the civilian airport. With that in mind, combined with a growing budget deficit and a struggling airline industry, the King decided it was best to have the Princess travel by civil aircraft as a show of support for Royal Brettish Airways and a means of budgeting during tough economic times.
The airport was practically empty by the time the limousine arrived. The chauffer, dressed in a black suit with a matching cap, opened the door to the limousine, and the twenty-two-year-old Princess’ high heel stepped out onto the wet pavement. The Colonel, dressed in his dress uniform, exited behind the Princess. The chauffer opened the trunk to the limousine as a luggage carrier came over and began stacking up the twelve matching suitcases, each stamped with the trademark “A.B.” of the famed Brettish fashion designer, Alfred Braginski.
Yellow taxis came and went as businessmen, cell phones attached to their ears, walked into the terminal. It was the first time in her life that the Princess had traveled by herself on a civilian aircraft. In many ways, it was an exciting experience for the adventurous young woman. In other ways, it was somewhat unnerving.
The Colonel escorted the Princess to Gate 12-A, where the group of Paris-bound passengers gathered. Young mothers bounced children on their knee, businessmen chatted on their cell or typed on their laptop computers. Yet the airport still seemed quiet, as some gates were completely shut down for the evening, the lights dimmed, and the shops all closed and gated for the night.
“Ahh, Your Highness,” said the ticketing agent, “we’re very happy to see you. We’ve scheduled you to board the aircraft as soon as possible. So when you’re ready, let me know and I’ll open the jetway. You’ll be seated in First Class. You may pick any seat, because there are no other people booked in first class for this flight.”
Elizabeth looked at the Colonel. “His Majesty wants you to call him as soon as you arrive in Paris. He will give you specific instructions. But he also wants me to tell you that he’s incredibly proud of you, taking on a diplomatic trip by yourself at such a young age. The Brettish Ambassador in Paris, Sir Mitchell Linley, will be at the airport to welcome you. He and Lady Linley will escort you around while you are there.”
“Thank you, Colonel Sellgren,” said the Princess.
“Have a safe flight, Your Highness,” the Colonel said.
With that, the Colonel and the Princess parted. The co-pilot took the Princess’ carry-on bag and escorted her down the jetway and onboard the Royal Brettish Airways Flight 801, Clipper Aurora, due to arrive in Paris, Belmont at 8:30 A.M. local time.
Twenty minutes after takeoff, the Princess sat in the cabin, looking out of her window at the moonlit ocean and the thousands of stars that could be seen. The cabin was silent, with the exception of the gentle hum of the engines. The stewardess came by, and asked the Princess if she would care for a drink.
“No thank you,” she said.
“Oh look! A shooting star!” the stewardess said, pointing to a meteorite outside the window. Elizabeth watched as the meteor streaked across the night sky, burning up somewhere over the Great Sea.
“Don’t forget to wish for something, my dear,” said the stewardess.
“I already have,” said the Princess, wishing the right guy would soon sweep her off her feet. The trip to Belmont would be her time to express herself, rather than allowing her father to control everything. With that, she turned out the reading light, reclined her seat, and fell asleep to the gentle hum of the engines.
Belmont, and the Royal Wedding of the Prince of Montaigne and the Princess of Arendaal was just a few hours away.
The night air was cool but humid in Kronstadt as the black limousine made its way down the wet asphalt streets, bathed in fluorescent lights. Two motorcycles, their blue and red lights flashing slowly, drove ahead of the limousine, while a police cruiser followed, its lights flashing as well. Traffic had died down, but at eleven o’clock that Wednesday night, there was still barflies and hipsters walking down the streets.
In the back of the limousine sat Princess Elizabeth, a Royal Brettish Airways boarding pass in her hand. The King’s aide-de-camp, James Sellgren, was tasked with escorting the Princess to Kronstadt International Airport, where she would board the red-eye flight to Paris. On the ticket was her legal name, “Kapet-Thieriot, E. FIRST CLASS, Seat 1B.” She would be traveling by civilian aircraft, with regular people, as Brettish law dictated that RAF-1 is not to leave the country without the sovereign on board. Although RAF-2, codenamed Clipper Regal, was legally able to leave the country, it was still in a half-million pieces, being completely rebuilt in a hangar at Howerton Royal Air Force Base twelve miles from the civilian airport. With that in mind, combined with a growing budget deficit and a struggling airline industry, the King decided it was best to have the Princess travel by civil aircraft as a show of support for Royal Brettish Airways and a means of budgeting during tough economic times.
The airport was practically empty by the time the limousine arrived. The chauffer, dressed in a black suit with a matching cap, opened the door to the limousine, and the twenty-two-year-old Princess’ high heel stepped out onto the wet pavement. The Colonel, dressed in his dress uniform, exited behind the Princess. The chauffer opened the trunk to the limousine as a luggage carrier came over and began stacking up the twelve matching suitcases, each stamped with the trademark “A.B.” of the famed Brettish fashion designer, Alfred Braginski.
Yellow taxis came and went as businessmen, cell phones attached to their ears, walked into the terminal. It was the first time in her life that the Princess had traveled by herself on a civilian aircraft. In many ways, it was an exciting experience for the adventurous young woman. In other ways, it was somewhat unnerving.
The Colonel escorted the Princess to Gate 12-A, where the group of Paris-bound passengers gathered. Young mothers bounced children on their knee, businessmen chatted on their cell or typed on their laptop computers. Yet the airport still seemed quiet, as some gates were completely shut down for the evening, the lights dimmed, and the shops all closed and gated for the night.
“Ahh, Your Highness,” said the ticketing agent, “we’re very happy to see you. We’ve scheduled you to board the aircraft as soon as possible. So when you’re ready, let me know and I’ll open the jetway. You’ll be seated in First Class. You may pick any seat, because there are no other people booked in first class for this flight.”
Elizabeth looked at the Colonel. “His Majesty wants you to call him as soon as you arrive in Paris. He will give you specific instructions. But he also wants me to tell you that he’s incredibly proud of you, taking on a diplomatic trip by yourself at such a young age. The Brettish Ambassador in Paris, Sir Mitchell Linley, will be at the airport to welcome you. He and Lady Linley will escort you around while you are there.”
“Thank you, Colonel Sellgren,” said the Princess.
“Have a safe flight, Your Highness,” the Colonel said.
With that, the Colonel and the Princess parted. The co-pilot took the Princess’ carry-on bag and escorted her down the jetway and onboard the Royal Brettish Airways Flight 801, Clipper Aurora, due to arrive in Paris, Belmont at 8:30 A.M. local time.
Twenty minutes after takeoff, the Princess sat in the cabin, looking out of her window at the moonlit ocean and the thousands of stars that could be seen. The cabin was silent, with the exception of the gentle hum of the engines. The stewardess came by, and asked the Princess if she would care for a drink.
“No thank you,” she said.
“Oh look! A shooting star!” the stewardess said, pointing to a meteorite outside the window. Elizabeth watched as the meteor streaked across the night sky, burning up somewhere over the Great Sea.
“Don’t forget to wish for something, my dear,” said the stewardess.
“I already have,” said the Princess, wishing the right guy would soon sweep her off her feet. The trip to Belmont would be her time to express herself, rather than allowing her father to control everything. With that, she turned out the reading light, reclined her seat, and fell asleep to the gentle hum of the engines.
Belmont, and the Royal Wedding of the Prince of Montaigne and the Princess of Arendaal was just a few hours away.
[WIKI]Crown Prince Soren of Arendaal[/WIKI] sat bemused along side his youngest sister, [WIKI]Princess Adeliza of Arendaal[/WIKI], watching their sister Iselin's final preparations for her wedding. [WIKI]Princess Iselin of Arendaal[/WIKI], or as she was now to be known, Elise, Princess of Montaigne, was adamant: everything must be perfect. A hair out of place, a mistep and, as Soren well knew, his sister would probably have some sort of nervous breakdown. It had been thus since they were children and Iselin would break out in hives if someone mislaid a piece in her toy tea set.
Their mother fussed over Iselin's exquisitely beautiful gown of lace and silk as attendants busily hurried about the apartments. Only an hour to go and they were due at the Parisian Cathedral
"If I tell her that a pearl from her hairclip has come loose, do you think she'd stab or shoot me?" Adeliza mused allowed
Soren suppressed a snort of laughter, which, of course, brought about a violent coughing fit. [WIKI]Queen Laura von Franken of Arendaal [/WIKI]glared at him with such ferocity that he nearly wilted under her gaze.
"I'll just step out for some air," he said quickly, lest his mother's palpable annoyance cause him to laugh any harder.
"I'll come with you", Adeliza offered, happy to be out of the chaos. Of all her sisters, the youngest was the least fussed about appearances and not surprisingly the least interested in taking 7 hours to dress
The two wandered to an adjacent set of rooms being used temporarily as the Aren Royal Chamberlain's office, a kind of home away from home.
"Oh, Prince Soren", said his private Secretary, breathless as he approached the prince. It was a busy day. "Please don't forget Highness that your father has asked you to escort Princess Elisabeth of Brettaine to the ball tonight"
In truth Soren hadn't forgotten, but what he had forgotten was to read up on Elisabeth or ask anyone what she was like. He clapped his Secretary on his shoulder in friendly fashion and smiled warmly, "Of course not, I've been looking forward to it all day"
***
The wedding was a suitably regal affair with everyone in their best silks and just the right number of smiles and tears throughout the ceremony. It was rare and fortunate, Soren reflected, that his sister and Prince Nicolas had found each other. The pool of potential Royal consorts was decidedly small and the chances of falling so deeply in love with a 'suitable' marriage prospect were abysmal. That it had happened for them was remarkable. Like something out of the pages of a fairy tale. Or a soap opera, he thought.
It was with such thoughts in his head that Soren headed for the Palace gardens. The ball was to begin in half an hour and he had some fifteen minutes before he needed to be at Princess Elisabeth's apartments to escort her down.
Come to think of it, Soren mused, that girl in the garden does look strikingly like Brettaine's Princess Royale...
Their mother fussed over Iselin's exquisitely beautiful gown of lace and silk as attendants busily hurried about the apartments. Only an hour to go and they were due at the Parisian Cathedral
"If I tell her that a pearl from her hairclip has come loose, do you think she'd stab or shoot me?" Adeliza mused allowed
Soren suppressed a snort of laughter, which, of course, brought about a violent coughing fit. [WIKI]Queen Laura von Franken of Arendaal [/WIKI]glared at him with such ferocity that he nearly wilted under her gaze.
"I'll just step out for some air," he said quickly, lest his mother's palpable annoyance cause him to laugh any harder.
"I'll come with you", Adeliza offered, happy to be out of the chaos. Of all her sisters, the youngest was the least fussed about appearances and not surprisingly the least interested in taking 7 hours to dress
The two wandered to an adjacent set of rooms being used temporarily as the Aren Royal Chamberlain's office, a kind of home away from home.
"Oh, Prince Soren", said his private Secretary, breathless as he approached the prince. It was a busy day. "Please don't forget Highness that your father has asked you to escort Princess Elisabeth of Brettaine to the ball tonight"
In truth Soren hadn't forgotten, but what he had forgotten was to read up on Elisabeth or ask anyone what she was like. He clapped his Secretary on his shoulder in friendly fashion and smiled warmly, "Of course not, I've been looking forward to it all day"
***
The wedding was a suitably regal affair with everyone in their best silks and just the right number of smiles and tears throughout the ceremony. It was rare and fortunate, Soren reflected, that his sister and Prince Nicolas had found each other. The pool of potential Royal consorts was decidedly small and the chances of falling so deeply in love with a 'suitable' marriage prospect were abysmal. That it had happened for them was remarkable. Like something out of the pages of a fairy tale. Or a soap opera, he thought.
It was with such thoughts in his head that Soren headed for the Palace gardens. The ball was to begin in half an hour and he had some fifteen minutes before he needed to be at Princess Elisabeth's apartments to escort her down.
Come to think of it, Soren mused, that girl in the garden does look strikingly like Brettaine's Princess Royale...
Elizabeth stood by a rose hedge, sniffing the white and red roses as she clasped them in satin-gloved hands. Birds sang gently in the majestic oak trees at the ends of the garden, their song carried like lullabies over the green garden, lined with stone walkways.
The Princess of Brettaine stood in her own world of fantasy. She was the quietest and most reserved of the King's children, but by far the most mature. Of the three girls, Elizabeth most resembled her father. She was tall like her father, standing five feet and ten inches tall, and shared his simple outlook on life. Quiet and reserved, the Princess nonetheless had a caring heart, one that aimed to better the world around her, but also one that longed for companionship.
Today, she looked radiant. Her flowing auburn hair was pulled up in a bun, clipped with a platinum hair clip glittering with sapphires and diamonds. Her hazel-green eyes were framed by her long eyelashes. From her ears dangled platinum and pearl earrings, matching her strapless eggshell-satin gown that cascaded towards the stone walkway beneath her feet.
Elizabeth watched as a mockingbird flew from one of the oak trees onto the stone birdbath next to the rose trellace. The bird cocked it's head to one side as it looked at the Princess before dropping its head into the water and shaking off the water. The Princess giggled as she watched the bird shake the water from its wings. And that's when a voice from behind startled her...
The Princess of Brettaine stood in her own world of fantasy. She was the quietest and most reserved of the King's children, but by far the most mature. Of the three girls, Elizabeth most resembled her father. She was tall like her father, standing five feet and ten inches tall, and shared his simple outlook on life. Quiet and reserved, the Princess nonetheless had a caring heart, one that aimed to better the world around her, but also one that longed for companionship.
Today, she looked radiant. Her flowing auburn hair was pulled up in a bun, clipped with a platinum hair clip glittering with sapphires and diamonds. Her hazel-green eyes were framed by her long eyelashes. From her ears dangled platinum and pearl earrings, matching her strapless eggshell-satin gown that cascaded towards the stone walkway beneath her feet.
Elizabeth watched as a mockingbird flew from one of the oak trees onto the stone birdbath next to the rose trellace. The bird cocked it's head to one side as it looked at the Princess before dropping its head into the water and shaking off the water. The Princess giggled as she watched the bird shake the water from its wings. And that's when a voice from behind startled her...
Crown Prince Soren reeled a little as he watched her.
To most people this would happen because the scene seemed too good to be true. They would doubt its perfection, its idyllic nature, its charm. The setting was too picture perfect, the girl too beautiful, the garden too serene. But Soren's thought process was distinctly different to that of the average person. The latter doubted a beautiful scene because such things didn't occur on an ordinary basis. Soren appreciated a perfect moment without doubting for a second that it was real. Good things happen, he told his sisters, and it was best to appreciate them while they lasted. His sister Princess Sophia had once said that Soren could lead armies with no effort at all. Some people have inspired whole countries to great deeds because of the power of their vision. And so could he. Not because he dreams about marching hordes, or world domination, or an empire of a thousand years. Just because he thinks that everyone's really decent underneath and would get along just fine if only they made an effort, and he believes that strongly it burns like a flame that is bigger than he is.
He cleared his throat and she turned, startled, to look at him.
"Princess Elisabeth?" he asked tentatively, before realizing that he sounded nervous and hopeful and tried laughing off his embarrassment.
"Excuse me, I can't think why I'm so nervous. It's just that I do hope you are Princess Elisabeth. I'm meant to spend the evening with her and I can't think of anyone I'd rather spend it with that you"
To most people this would happen because the scene seemed too good to be true. They would doubt its perfection, its idyllic nature, its charm. The setting was too picture perfect, the girl too beautiful, the garden too serene. But Soren's thought process was distinctly different to that of the average person. The latter doubted a beautiful scene because such things didn't occur on an ordinary basis. Soren appreciated a perfect moment without doubting for a second that it was real. Good things happen, he told his sisters, and it was best to appreciate them while they lasted. His sister Princess Sophia had once said that Soren could lead armies with no effort at all. Some people have inspired whole countries to great deeds because of the power of their vision. And so could he. Not because he dreams about marching hordes, or world domination, or an empire of a thousand years. Just because he thinks that everyone's really decent underneath and would get along just fine if only they made an effort, and he believes that strongly it burns like a flame that is bigger than he is.
He cleared his throat and she turned, startled, to look at him.
"Princess Elisabeth?" he asked tentatively, before realizing that he sounded nervous and hopeful and tried laughing off his embarrassment.
"Excuse me, I can't think why I'm so nervous. It's just that I do hope you are Princess Elisabeth. I'm meant to spend the evening with her and I can't think of anyone I'd rather spend it with that you"
(OOC: I'm soooo sorry I neglected this thread for so long. Been extremely busy with school. I'm actually waiting for class to begin as I write this now...)
The Princess smiled as the nervous Prince offered to escort her. Ambassador Linley had already informed the Princess that Soren would plan to escort her, at the suggestion of the King of Arendaal. She knew very little of the Royal Family of Arendaal, and expected Soren to be yet another arrogant, self-centered suitor - a Prince more preoccupied with his position than with anything else - as she had met so many times before.
But the tall, blonde young man who stood before her seemed anything but the sort. Handsome and charming, the young Prince of Arendaal left a considerably positive impression on the Princess.
"I am the Princess Royal of Brettaine," said Elizabeth with a smile. "May I ask, are you Soren? I very much hope you are," she continued, extending a satin-gloved hand to the Prince.
The Princess smiled as the nervous Prince offered to escort her. Ambassador Linley had already informed the Princess that Soren would plan to escort her, at the suggestion of the King of Arendaal. She knew very little of the Royal Family of Arendaal, and expected Soren to be yet another arrogant, self-centered suitor - a Prince more preoccupied with his position than with anything else - as she had met so many times before.
But the tall, blonde young man who stood before her seemed anything but the sort. Handsome and charming, the young Prince of Arendaal left a considerably positive impression on the Princess.
"I am the Princess Royal of Brettaine," said Elizabeth with a smile. "May I ask, are you Soren? I very much hope you are," she continued, extending a satin-gloved hand to the Prince.
(Should we continue this thread?)
Belmont is no longer on the map, so I would say no.