fahye:

“Apologies, Highness,” says the herald wearily. “You muddled the lines about history and lineage.”

“Again,” says Laurent.

Damen sighs, impatient. “This seems needlessly complicated.”

“You have said that,” says Laurent, “four times within the hour.”

“And yet it never stops being true.”

“I know. You wish we could be married in the Akielon style, and be done.”

“We will be married in the Akielon style.”

“A blow to the head and throwing me over your shoulder?”

A hush with the tension of teetering glass falls over the guards and servants in the room. Laurent throws a thin-lipped smile at his betrothed, and feels his skin dance with the knowing heat in the look that Damen throws back at him.

“Oh, it’s different for kings,” Damen says. “We don’t dirty our hands; we get someone else to knock our spouse unconscious. I’ve had ten separate people volunteer for the job.”

Laurent’s face breaks before he can stop it. He’s not entirely on guard, here, surrounded by the activity of two kingdoms and two traditions and one immense, ponderous, all-important ceremony. Someone is trying to fit Damen for some garment or other, and Laurent doesn’t think Damen has noticed yet. His dark eyes are still delighting in Laurent’s laughter.

They will be married in the Akielon style. They will be married in the Veretian style. No head injuries will be involved, but if Laurent has to endure a formal dance that ends with their hands being joined and covered with olive leaves, Damen can put his mind to learning a few lines of recitation.

“Barbarian,” Laurent says lightly.

Damen says, in Akielon, “I wish we could be married today. I am tired of waking up in a world where you aren’t mine. All of this is just…words.”

Laurent’s breath catches. The furtive, curious quiet of the room doubles in intensity.

“Ten minutes,” Laurent says. It’s a dismissal.

When the room has emptied but for the two of them, Laurent goes to the table and flicks through the pages of the Veretian ceremony–along with the added sections for royalty, and a whole new section, the ink barely dry, creatively drawing on a legend of harmony born out of war, to allow for the fact that the King’s intended will not be expected to bring forth heirs in the usual way. He finds what he’s looking for, the call and response, and hands the page to Damen.

“Start at the top,” Laurent says.

Damen raises his eyebrows and reads, “Who walks this path and leaves their shoes behind?”

Laurent says, “I come to you in trust, with the skin of my feet unprotected.”

“Who poured this cup to over-full and spilled water on the floor?”

“I come to you in plenty, and pledge you all that I have.”

“Who stands alone in such a room of souls?”

“I come to you in pride, and give only myself away.”

“Who ground the salt that now sits on your tongue?”

Laurent almost misses the cue. He is remembering one of the few weddings he saw as a child: bare toes beneath the sweep of the bride’s dress, the hem of it wet from stepping willingly across the puddle of water. The groom’s mouth, smiling, open for the white salt.

He says quickly, “I come to you in sorrow, heavy with all the tears yet to come.”

“Who bares their hands of gold and silver, and shows only skin?”

“I come to you in joy, light with my choice.”

“Who.” Damen swallows. “Who holds their heart so still beneath the knife?”

“I come to you in love, with my life’s blood for the taking.”

Damen opens his mouth, looks at the paper, and then lets his hand fall to his side. Awe rims his eyes like bruising fatigue. In the steady light of his expression, Laurent feels unbreakable.

“Just words,” he says.

“You’ve made your point,” Damen says.

“Damen,” Laurent says. “I’m yours already.”