fic: Wedding
Title: Wedding
Series: FE10
Character/Pairing: Pelleas/Micaiah
Rating: slightly T
Word Count: working on it
A/N: Micaiah and Pelleas' wedding, post-canon, I think. Idk where Sothe is, but enjoy~
Ever since his youth, Pelleas had not handled anxiety well. The slightest trace of nervousness manifested itself in the form of madly sweating palms, chattering teeth, and a complete loss of articulacy. On his wedding day, of course, he was stricken with one of the worst breakdowns he could remember.
After a sleepless night (he never slept well; the nights following the proposal had been restless at best, and the week preceding the wedding, it had been futile to even get in bedclothes) he had risen early, picked at breakfast, and been dressed in gleaming white ceremonial robes by palace staff. All the while, his heart was pounding, pulse racing, breath short in anticipation, in stark terror, of what he was about to do.
He was ruminating, alone, on a bench somewhere in the maze of the cathedral, the grandest in Daein. It was bad luck to see one's bride on the wedding day, and Pelleas figured he didn't need the extra burden in addition to the misfortune that haunted him on a daily basis. He fiddled with the embroidery - embroidery - on the sleeve of his white robe, ran a hand through his purple hair, prayed he didn't look half as rattled as he felt.
He was going to be married. Married. Wed. He was only twenty himself, Micaiah twenty-one. Orphan to king in less than five years. Not bad, he thought to himself, thinking perhaps a stupid joke to himself would relieve tension. (It didn't.) It was Micaiah, though. Beautiful Micaiah, with shining hair and eyes and heart ,and that laugh, and ever-present sweet scent, those tiny hands, that inexplicable ability to see good in everything...
He would be her husband, he told himself again. Joined with that paragon of beauty and grace forever... What if he failed at even that? She dragged him along in everything, made their decisions, kissed him first - hell, she'd even popped the question. How was he supposed to compare with that? What did it even mean? He realized, sitting there on the bench with growing horror, that he knew next to nothing about what he was heading into. What was expected of him - would he disappoint her - this morning and beyond - beyond, he thought, heat rising in his cheeks -
“Lord Pelleas! Great goddess, you're terribly late!” A servant, red in the face, ran up to him, tugging at his arm (little signs constantly showed that he was an intruder in this house, an addition onto Micaiah).
Pelleas hurried after the small man, who dragged him along and practically shoved him into the great hall.
It was filled with people. Pelleas' knees went weak, the organ began to play majestic, trembling chords, and he couldn't stop now.
With what must have been aid from the goddess, he somehow contrived to make it to the altar without vomiting or fainting. He was naked, exposed for all the people of Daein to see. An impostor king, nothing more than an orphan in love...
And then Micaiah arrived, and began to walk up the aisle, and the people rose to their feet and cheered and clapped, and she was the image of beauty, transcending what he'd thought was possible, and she was going to be his, and... The priest, a slight red-haired man (acquaintance of Micaiah's from the war) began speaking words - words he'd never even heard before, but ones that Micaiah had assured him were beautiful and tradition itself, and her dream since a little girl, and goddess, she was smiling at him - slipping a ring on his finger, where it would stay till he died, and he did the same for her, such tiny hands, he prayed she didn't feel how damp his were...
And she was kissing him and Pelleas realized that he'd somehow missed out on the most sacred part of the ceremony - “you may kiss the bride” - and the bride had taken things into her own hands. Bemused chuckles and applause rang, and she was whispering something into his ear -
“I love you, Pelleas. Forever.” And he realized that everything was going to be all right, and he kissed her, and the next hours were a blur, parades through the city and dancing and dinners and balls and galas...
*
Neither knew what time it was when they swirled their way into Micaiah's - their - vast suites, laughing, dancing... and neither cared; they were young, in love, and newly wed; the world was theirs, and for them, time had ceased to flow.
The idle, joyful banter ran out, and then there was an awkward, dense silence where both knew what tradition dictated should fill the space, and neither made a move; Pelleas was terrified, and Micaiah was wondering how far she was willing to break tradition that night.
“M-Micaiah, I... I love you,” Pelleas stammered (damn it, right now?), breath quickening. But Micaiah's delicate smile and gentle hand stroking his hair were calming, and he knew that he loved her, and she loved him, and nothing really could go wrong now, till the rest of their lives... “forever.”
And he leaned forward and kissed her.
Series: FE10
Character/Pairing: Pelleas/Micaiah
Rating: slightly T
Word Count: working on it
A/N: Micaiah and Pelleas' wedding, post-canon, I think. Idk where Sothe is, but enjoy~
Ever since his youth, Pelleas had not handled anxiety well. The slightest trace of nervousness manifested itself in the form of madly sweating palms, chattering teeth, and a complete loss of articulacy. On his wedding day, of course, he was stricken with one of the worst breakdowns he could remember.
After a sleepless night (he never slept well; the nights following the proposal had been restless at best, and the week preceding the wedding, it had been futile to even get in bedclothes) he had risen early, picked at breakfast, and been dressed in gleaming white ceremonial robes by palace staff. All the while, his heart was pounding, pulse racing, breath short in anticipation, in stark terror, of what he was about to do.
He was ruminating, alone, on a bench somewhere in the maze of the cathedral, the grandest in Daein. It was bad luck to see one's bride on the wedding day, and Pelleas figured he didn't need the extra burden in addition to the misfortune that haunted him on a daily basis. He fiddled with the embroidery - embroidery - on the sleeve of his white robe, ran a hand through his purple hair, prayed he didn't look half as rattled as he felt.
He was going to be married. Married. Wed. He was only twenty himself, Micaiah twenty-one. Orphan to king in less than five years. Not bad, he thought to himself, thinking perhaps a stupid joke to himself would relieve tension. (It didn't.) It was Micaiah, though. Beautiful Micaiah, with shining hair and eyes and heart ,and that laugh, and ever-present sweet scent, those tiny hands, that inexplicable ability to see good in everything...
He would be her husband, he told himself again. Joined with that paragon of beauty and grace forever... What if he failed at even that? She dragged him along in everything, made their decisions, kissed him first - hell, she'd even popped the question. How was he supposed to compare with that? What did it even mean? He realized, sitting there on the bench with growing horror, that he knew next to nothing about what he was heading into. What was expected of him - would he disappoint her - this morning and beyond - beyond, he thought, heat rising in his cheeks -
“Lord Pelleas! Great goddess, you're terribly late!” A servant, red in the face, ran up to him, tugging at his arm (little signs constantly showed that he was an intruder in this house, an addition onto Micaiah).
Pelleas hurried after the small man, who dragged him along and practically shoved him into the great hall.
It was filled with people. Pelleas' knees went weak, the organ began to play majestic, trembling chords, and he couldn't stop now.
With what must have been aid from the goddess, he somehow contrived to make it to the altar without vomiting or fainting. He was naked, exposed for all the people of Daein to see. An impostor king, nothing more than an orphan in love...
And then Micaiah arrived, and began to walk up the aisle, and the people rose to their feet and cheered and clapped, and she was the image of beauty, transcending what he'd thought was possible, and she was going to be his, and... The priest, a slight red-haired man (acquaintance of Micaiah's from the war) began speaking words - words he'd never even heard before, but ones that Micaiah had assured him were beautiful and tradition itself, and her dream since a little girl, and goddess, she was smiling at him - slipping a ring on his finger, where it would stay till he died, and he did the same for her, such tiny hands, he prayed she didn't feel how damp his were...
And she was kissing him and Pelleas realized that he'd somehow missed out on the most sacred part of the ceremony - “you may kiss the bride” - and the bride had taken things into her own hands. Bemused chuckles and applause rang, and she was whispering something into his ear -
“I love you, Pelleas. Forever.” And he realized that everything was going to be all right, and he kissed her, and the next hours were a blur, parades through the city and dancing and dinners and balls and galas...
*
Neither knew what time it was when they swirled their way into Micaiah's - their - vast suites, laughing, dancing... and neither cared; they were young, in love, and newly wed; the world was theirs, and for them, time had ceased to flow.
The idle, joyful banter ran out, and then there was an awkward, dense silence where both knew what tradition dictated should fill the space, and neither made a move; Pelleas was terrified, and Micaiah was wondering how far she was willing to break tradition that night.
“M-Micaiah, I... I love you,” Pelleas stammered (damn it, right now?), breath quickening. But Micaiah's delicate smile and gentle hand stroking his hair were calming, and he knew that he loved her, and she loved him, and nothing really could go wrong now, till the rest of their lives... “forever.”
And he leaned forward and kissed her.