arranged marriage gwyndoloki au pt. 2 (wedding!)

itsAlana - Last Sunday at 1:23 AM
Loki has been a little soothed by his excursion to Anor Londo, and as the day approaches, he... well, his mother is there, and she seems quite satisfied that he's soothed after her trip away, though doubts still gnaw at him. He's unsure of how this... everything will go, the longer he spends among those from Anor Londo, their stiff manners suiting his temperment poorly; he's unsure of what, exactly, is so terrible about his bride that it cannot be spoken of; he wonders, if he had said no at the very beginning, if his father would have listened; he doubts that he will be a good husband to any woman, and struggles to hide his resentment when his father implies he wants some legitimate grandchildren.

Maybe, if things go poorly, Loki can seduce Gwynfor and have his children; that would be a union of their families, would it not?

Still, the day comes, with or without his worries, and Loki finds himself dressed in green and gold, a gold belt cinched around his waist, gold boots fitted to his feet and boosting him some inches-- he can't help but wonder if Odin wishes him to measure up better to the towering gods of Lordran-- and a cream cloak draped around his shoulders, topped with a wrap of golden-glimmering feathers and an elaborate brooch of looping snakes. Everything has tiny, delicate embroidery in golden thread, except the gloves, which have floral and snake designs winding up the backs of his forearms in green and cream against their golden leather, and his customary horned helmet is replaced by a simple golden circlet that drapes golden chains against his dark hair.

Standing before the mirror, watching servants dab makeup onto his face to bring out his eyes and lengthen his lashes and pink his cheeks after their paint sucks the color from them, he thinks he looks... like some strange, beautiful version of himself, some alien Loki about to be wed instead of the real Loki. At least, he supposes, he will not be repulsive to his bride, even if she may be repulsive to him.

Then it is time, and he's swept into the throne room of Asgard, the nobility of two worlds watching him step from behind thick curtains to await his bride at the foot of his father's throne, a ring for her pressed into his hand, heart nervously fluttering in his chest as he waits for the woman he's about to marry and who he knows barely two things about.

Potente Byrd Mæmes - Last Sunday at 2:23 AM
It is finally time. No more waiting, no more twisting his fingers, no more of his snakes winding around each other and tying themselves into knots out of nerves. It's all ready to bloom out of his chest, but is held in place by a small golden corset, binding the waist of his gown and beaded with inlays of silvery pearls, and bordered with delicate jeweled butterflies and intricate vinelike designs. It also extends a bit over his hips, from which is attached an overskirt of the sheerest silk with delicate lace embroidery that glitters with tiny gems and laced trimming, draping over the main body of the gown, and training a few feet behind him.

The main body of the dress itself is a proper moon-white silk brocade, embroidered with flowering patterns, gently loose about his legs, trimmed with more lace, and trailing behind just short of the overskirt. The sleeves of the dress are massive and sheer, the same material as the overskirt, draping delicately to trail and flutter gently at his sides. Though his pale shoulders are bare, a jeweled collar bearing a crescent surrounding a large moonstone set at his throat is attached to the dress, and dangling from it, looping around from the front of his neck to dangle around to his back, is a small, delicate, lacey cape, over which dangle delicate gold chains and dangling strips of gold reminiscient of little wings- and suspended between it all, between his shoulderblades, another jeweled crescent.

But on his head lays an intricate circlet of delicately shaped butterfly wings and engravings, ornamented at each temple with gently glowing, pure white lilies with pale, silver-sheened leaves and draping jeweled chains. Another jeweled crescent rests over his forehead, and attached to the circlet are veils only the divine royalty of Anor Londo are permitted to wear, of a material that can only be described as lace and silk made of the aurora itself, gently opalescent and near-weightless, trimmed in the thinnest, most delicate lace, and fluttering and trailing behind him as the longest of his trains, and a few extra short length of it pulled over his face, to obscure it until his husband-to-be can have the privilege to pull them from his moonlight eyes. His long, silvery hair pulled into a braid inlaid with more lilies and leafy vines and pearls, loose hair left to drape over his ears as usual.

He's never felt so beautiful, nor quite so incorrect.

Finally, he's ushered into place, escorted by flowering handmaidens to the doors of the throne room, beyond which are gathered the greatest and brightest of both kingdoms. At the head of the host from Anor Londo is his father, his brother and sister, and the four knights of Gwyn, all in their full garb, although Artorias and Ornstein both have their helms removed, held under their arms. Gwyndolin's family is in their finest clothing, Gwynfor himself wearing sandals and with his usually wild, gravity-defying hair tamed into a braid, and looking quite pleased with himself.

At long last, minstrels begin to play appropriate music, and the bride enters, 'her' head held down, her lace-gloved hands bearing a bouquet of glowing moonwhite lilies and sprigs of white barked branches, dangling silvery vines and lace ribbon, laced trains trailing behind her in delicate flutters. There may be soft gasps first at the beauty of such a maiden and such a gown... but they are swiftly replaced with more shocked gasps at the strange shapes that slither beneath the trains, the slips of long, scaled bodies that cannot stay beneath the skirts as they must carry their master to the throne, forked tongues flitting in the air whenever the scaled, slit-pupil-eyed heads push Gwyndolin forward on their scaley bellies.

The bride has huge snakes coming out of her gown!!!! And they appear to be... a part of her!!

The bride seems to take no notice of the effect her strange feet have on everyone that sees them, making her way instead diligently to the side of her groom, only lifting her head when she finally reaches him, her face slightly shrouded and difficult to make out the details of under the veils. Gwyndolin himself has a bit of difficulty seeing through them, in fact, but he can see just enough to fail to resist the urge to finally lay eyes on his betrothed, and think, oh... his brother wasn't wrong to say he's pleasant to look at.

itsAlana - Last Sunday at 2:32 AM
Loki feels almost plain when his bride appears-- there must be more material in her gown than on all the rest of her family combined!-- and almost a little envious. Why doesn't he get such glorious garments, Dad? Ugh.

He would have to be deaf, of course, to not hear the surprised gasps from both sides of the throne room, though the flicker around the hem of his bride's skirt doesn't draw his eye down until she's halfway down the aisle-- and there, that must be this much-proclaimed deformity and monstrousness, a... a cute snake poking its head out from under Gwyndolin's skirt from time to time as she shuffles slowly forward.

Thor, standing closer to Loki than most, looks frankly delighted when he spots the snakes, and Loki resents him immediately.

And then she's there, standing before him, absolutely resplendent in all her silk and veils and lace, and he offers her a small smile, though he's not sure she can see it through the veils-- her face is certainly hidden enough from him that he's not sure he'd be able to see her smile back. "Nice day to get married, isn't it?" he murmurs, very quietly, a thread of magic wrapped around the words to keep them for her ears only, as Odin starts speaking of their union bringing their peoples together.

Potente Byrd Mæmes - Last Sunday at 2:43 AM
Gwyndolin had glanced away to Odin as the ceremony began proper, but then his attention is regained by Loki's voice- and especially by the trace of magic that Gwyndolin can sense within it. It only slightly surprises him, as the fact that Loki is a gifted sorcerer is one of the few things Gwyndolin even knows about him! But still, somehow, he didn't expect it to show itself quite like this, here and now.

Gwyndolin isn't confident enough to talk back, however, so instead, he merely offers a nervous smile, barely visible through the shrouds of veils, as Odin carries on. And then, as he was coached to, at Odin's prompting he takes a lace-gloved hand from his bouquet, to lift it between himself and Loki, so that Loki may take it, as Gwyn is given the opportunity to take his turn to step in beside his fellow godking, and speak of the joining of their families, of giving his *beloved* daughter to Odin's son, their children hand-in-hand.

They probably drag on a bit while poor Gwyndolin and Loki stand there looking pretty amongst all the pomp and circumstance, Gwyndolin's snakes doing their best to stay under his skirt, winding around themselves and only hissing softly once or twice. But finally, comes the time for vows, and for the exchanging of rings, Gwyndolin turning at last to face Loki fully, albeit still shrouded in veils... Don't worry, Loki, the lifting of the veils and kissing of the bride isn't so long off!

itsAlana - Last Sunday at 2:52 AM
What if that does worry Loki? What if Loki is quite rightfully afraid he'll lift the veils and feel nothing for this stranger he's to spend the rest of his life with?

Still, Loki holds Gwyndolin's hand with only a slight nervous tremble of his own fingers, his face calm but his pulse a little faster than it really needs to be, leather and lace between their skin but Loki's mild warmth soaking through to Gwyndolin slowly, until it is time for their vows.

Then, Loki lifts his voice, magic pushing it to each corner of the room, and says that he will value his new wife and his new blood as if they were his own, and that he will protect her as Asgard will protect Anor Londo, and never shall they part, et cetera and so on. When he's done, he murmurs to Gwyndolin, "Would you like me to raise your voice for the crowd, so that they may hear your vows clearly?"

Potente Byrd Mæmes - Last Sunday at 3:14 AM
If it comforts Loki at all, even if only in a commiserating way, his fingers aren't the only ones trembling- in fact, Gwyndolin's entire hand trembles in Loki's gentle grip. While Loki's hands give off a warmth, Gwyndolin's gives off not even a slip of heat, as if he's as chilly-blooded as the snakes beneath his skirts.

He listens silently to the vows, obligate as they are, caring more about the magic Loki uses to amplify them than the rehearsed words themselves. Then it's Gwyndolin's turn, and he smiles just a bit through his veils, and murmurs softly, "My thanks, but there is no need."

The lilies in his free hand seem to glow just a smidge brighter for a moment, and then, when Gwyndolin begins to speak his vows, they are as loud and clear to the entire room as Loki's were. His voice still is gentle, feminine and prim, and with only the slightest tremble of nerves to it as he, too, speaks of their holy union and the honor of joining their families together, of staying loyally ever by Loki's side.

And then, he takes his hand from Loki's, to flick his gloved fingers- and suddenly there is a silver ring held in them, engraved with intricate designs with accents of gold, and a single inlaid emerald. It's not extravagant or ostentatious, but it is plenty lovely, and definitely a small work of art from some jeweler who is probably very proud of themself. He holds it carefully in his right hand, and holds his bouquet in the crook of the other arm's elbow as he holds out his left hand, so that Loki may begin the exchanging of rings...

Gwyndolin's left hand, relatedly, though gloved, also already bears a gold ring with two loose ends that sit beside each other, delicatedly engraved, entwined around one of his fingers, though the ring finger itself is bare and awaiting his wedding ring.

itsAlana - Last Sunday at 3:16 AM
Loki distracts himself with looking at the lilies, wondering who cast their clever enchantment on them-- was it Gwyndolin herself? Some magic-using scholar? He might ask, later-- and considers her voice, which is really very pretty, he supposes-- instead of the words binding them together, until, almost before he knows it, it's time to give Gwyndolin her ring, and he slips it carefully onto her ring finger, a small golden band with intricate knots flanking a silver crescent, a small moonstone cabochon nestled in the moon's embrace. "Almost done now," he murmurs to her, and tugs off his own left glove, baring a slim, pale hand for her to put his ring upon.

Potente Byrd Mæmes - Last Sunday at 3:33 AM
Gwyndolin takes a breath, and lets it out slow as the ring is slipped onto a delicate, feminine finger, binding him to Loki as his other ring binds him as Gwyn's daughter. Then Loki bares his hand, and Gwyndolin can't help but notice the warmth of it as his almost chilly fingertips brush against the bare, pale skin, as he pushes the ring onto Loki's ring finger. With that, one of their fathers probably says how these rings symbolize their eternal bond, as they mirror the forged bond between Asgard and Anor Londo.

But, at long last, the prompting is given that it's time for the veils to be lifted, and for Loki to finally lay his eyes on his bride's unobscured face, and seal their promise of holy matrimony with a nuptial kiss... Is Loki prepared for an elegantly beautiful, moon-pale face with a hint of youthfully girlish cuteness, with a soft-lined jaw and small nose and pretty lips touched with a hint of pearly pink, with big, pretty eyes that look like tiny, shining moons just as how his brother's eyes hold suns, pupiless and shimmering with moonlight, framed in pale silvery lashes like the most delicate slivers of metal or curved icicles, and hung with hints of clinging wetness...?

itsAlana - Last Sunday at 3:39 AM
Loki is not ready, but he takes a breath and lifts the shimmering veils all the same--

"Oh," he says, softly, "you have very pretty eyes."

He is not necessarily taken with the rest of Gwyndolin's face-- he knows she's beautiful, but it's... it's girlish and Asgardian and nothing to make his heart soar, but her eyes... even he could be lost in her eyes, and he admires them a moment, his own green ones bright, as his hands catch hers, his glove caught between their fingers. Then he kisses her, a soft, light brush of his lips against hers, and the room erupts into cheers.

Potente Byrd Mæmes - Last Sunday at 3:47 AM
Gwyndolin almost smiles, a small twitch at the corners of his lips, his chinks tinting pink not from the blush of the modest makeup that had been applied to his pale face... But his hands tremble in Loki's, and his lower lip quivers just barely in the moment of anticipation, before at last, Loki's lips brush his own, and Gwyndolin freezes up, before making himself push his lips into Loki's just lightly out of obligation in return, all to the ovation of the crowd around them.

Doves are released, white flower petals and feathers flutter through the air around them, the throne room is all abustle with energy and delight, despite both members of the couple being generally unfavored by both their peoples. Weddings are still pretty exciting, and so are political alliances. And now, Loki is free to escort his bride from the throne room, show her off, while the wedding party filters to wherever the reception is to take place.

Time to celebrate! And try not to cry!