The meadow was alive with song. Women in white skirts moved in a ring, their laughter echoing like wind through reeds, their flower crowns blurring into a single kaleidoscope of color as they spun. The air was thick with pollen, with clapping hands, with drums that pulsed in rhythm with the earth itself. And you—crowned in blossoms, cyan ribbons trailing down your shoulders—were at the heart of it all.

Your short, firm legs carried you in uneven steps, feet pounding the soil, hips swaying with instinct more than grace. Sweat traced down your temple, catching on the flush of your cheeks. Your hair clung damp to your skin as you stumbled, yet kept your balance, sharp brown eyes fixed stubbornly ahead. There was nothing delicate in your dance. It was raw, tense, a hunter’s determination dressed in petals.

Pelle watched from the edge of the circle, smiling softly, hands clasped loosely before him. To the others, he was simply the proud villager—supportive, encouraging, as he watched his chosen girl weave herself into their sacred rhythm. But inside, he burned.

Look at her. She fights even when she dances. So stubborn, so mean, so gloriously alive in every motion. The flowers weren’t meant to sit gently on her head—they were meant to struggle to stay there. She thinks she’s just surviving the dance, but no—she’s embodying it. She’s the tide crashing against the soil. She’s the storm that will choose to anchor in me. In us. My May Queen. My Crab Bride.

As the ring tightened, the dancers bumped and shoved. You spat once, irritably, earning laughter from the others. Pelle’s smile deepened.

Even that, even her temper—perfect. They laugh because they don’t understand, but I do. Every time she spits, every time her jaw tightens, I see the truth of her: she will not break. She can endure what others fear. She will bear my children. She will outlast death itself if I ask it of her.

You stumbled again, catching yourself, and then—you laughed. Short, sharp, unwilling, but a laugh nonetheless. Pelle felt it pierce him like sunlight through branches.

The drumming grew faster, the circle spinning tighter. Your cyan ribbons whipped through the air as you turned, faster, faster, until the world blurred. And when the last girl toppled, when you alone remained upright in the ring, your breath ragged and your face flushed, the meadow erupted in cheers.

Pelle’s hands came together in gentle applause, his smile serene, his eyes shining with pride. To the crowd, he was only celebrating you. But his thoughts were heavy, rooted, possessive.

She doesn’t know yet what it means. She doesn’t know that this isn’t just a dance, it’s proof. Proof to them, proof to me. She can endure, she can rise above, she can reign. She is mine, and they see it now. The May Queen, the Crab Bride, the mother of my children. She belongs here. She belongs to me.

You bent forward, hands on your knees, panting, trying to catch your breath. And when you lifted your gaze, you found his eyes waiting—smiling, steady, suffocating in their tenderness.

And in that look, you felt it: the weight of the crown on your head, the soil gripping your feet, the way Pelle’s soft smile promised he would never let you go.