Chapter Text
She was a vision.
Lilies adorned her hair, nestled among soft curls that rested near her ears. The gown she wore had been made for her by Tataru—their blessed friend, indefatigable seamstress, and now self-appointed architect of bridal perfection. Soft ruffles traced its edges, lace trimmed the skirt, and every line of it had been cut with such care that it flattered Siv without ever overwhelming her. She looked not disguised by finery, but revealed through it, as though all the grace and strength that had always been hers had simply been given their proper setting at last.
His Song was breathtaking to behold.
And though Tataru had outfitted him as splendidly as any bridegroom could reasonably hope to be arrayed, Urianger could not help but feel himself a poor thing beside her radiance.
Their illustrious seamstress, of course, had thought nothing of such protests. She had taken one look at the occasion before them and tasked herself—and no small number of assistants—with decking them both in a manner she deemed worthy of the day. His own raiment was nothing short of magnificent, touched with chains, charms, and small gleaming baubles at his waist and chest. Stars and precious stones rested against the dark fabric, each chosen not merely for beauty, but for meaning: garnet for virtue, agate for longevity, topaz for fidelity. Tokens set upon him as blessing and benediction both, that he and his bride might be granted a marriage long, joyful, and richly kept.
The ceremony itself was blessedly simple.
Siv had wanted it so.
There would be a larger celebration afterward, with friends, food, and enough merriment to satisfy even those who believed love ought always be shouted in company. But for the ceremony itself, she had wished for intimacy. Something quiet. Something true. A wise choice indeed, for they had endured enough spectacle and adventure to last several lifetimes.
He heard the low murmur of their gathered friends as Siv came to stand beside him before the Padjal officiant.
Long before she had ever taken up a bow, she had first set her feet upon the path of a conjurer. Though that road had not remained her own for long, it had nonetheless left its mark upon her life, and so the Conjurers’ Guildmaster had granted them the blessing of the guild in honor of her service, her friendship with the Seedseer, and the woman she had become beyond any single discipline.
The officiant shifted then and motioned for those assembled to bear witness.
They had traveled just beyond the Lavender Beds to a secluded place beneath the trees, where lights hung from the boughs above like captive stars. The air was soft with the scent of leaves and blossom, and the whole of the place seemed wrapped in a hush both sacred and tender. Nothing about it was grand in the way courts or cities might call grand. It was something better. Quiet. Familial. Rooted. Exactly as Siv had wished.
Urianger knew why she had chosen it.
Knew, too, why she had desired the ceremony kept small.
After all they had endured, after Ultima Thule and the long cruel mending that followed, there was wisdom in choosing intimacy over spectacle, witness over display. Yet there was something more to it than that, and he knew it well enough to feel the ache of it as she came to stand beside him.
Would that her family might have stood with her on this day.
The father and mother she had spoken of with such abiding love. One brother lost to the Calamity. And the other—still living, yet held at such distance that his absence carried its own quieter sorrow. The shape of family was not always erased by death alone. Sometimes it was thinned by time, silence, and all the old hurts no ceremony could mend in a day.
The knowledge of it pressed at the edges of the moment, not enough to diminish its joy, but enough to make that joy feel all the more precious for what it carried alongside it.
And in that tightening came resolve.
If she could not have all who should by rights have stood beside her, then she would at least feel the fullness of those who had come. The love of her found family. The devotion of friends who had crossed worlds and sorrow with her. And above all else, his own love, given without reservation and with all the steadiness he possessed.
So he stood there, heart fit almost to burst, his whole world narrowed to the woman beside him.
He breathed in the floral sweetness of her perfume, soft and heady and wholly right upon her. She turned her face up to him then and smiled—that knowing little smile of hers, touched always with warmth and a hint of mischief as if she alone could see the exact state of his poor unraveling composure. He smiled in return and clasped her hand in his, marveling yet again at the simple mercy of being allowed to do so openly, before all the world and under the blessing of those gathered.
The officiant spoke then of the old ways and bade them place their hands in one another’s.
Urianger obeyed at once, setting his palm against Siv’s as though no act in all his life had ever been simpler or more solemn. Her fingers curled into his with quiet certainty, and the touch of them there—warm, living, beloved—seemed to steady every wild and grateful beat of his heart.
Thrice, a single red ribbon was wound about their joined hands, binding them together in ceremonial turns both old and intimate. With each pass, the officiant spoke again, this time in an older tongue, the cadence of it low and musical beneath the hush of the trees. The words themselves Urianger caught only in fragments—blessings of longevity, of tenderness, of fidelity and shared fortune—but their meaning needed no true translation. It lived in the ribbon, in the witness of those gathered, in the pressure of Siv’s hands against his own.
He gave her fingers the gentlest of squeezes.
She squeezed back.
When at last the ribbon was unwound and lifted away, they did not part. Their hands remained clasped fully, not by ritual now, but by choice.
The officiant raised their voice one final time.
“May the loving protection of the Twelve embrace you. May the light of the Crystal shine upon you. May the memories of this day remain forever.”
Urianger felt those words settle into him like blessing and vow alike.
Then came the last line.
“You may kiss—”
The officiant did not finish it.
Urianger, who had withstood gods, grief, and the end of the universe with greater restraint than this moment now asked of him, swept Siv into his arms before the final syllable had wholly left their mouth and kissed her with delighted abandon.
Cheers rose at once from those gathered beneath the lights and branches above—laughter, applause, the bright sound of joy no longer held politely in check—but Urianger paid them no mind whatever.
He was far too occupied with his wife.