9 Ashan, Arc 719, Night
The afternoon
and evening had been a whirlwind of blissful activity. After deciding they would get married as soon as possible, and after they vibrantly celebrated that decision together, Zarik allowed Alistair to dress him in whatever clothes the nobleman could find that would also fit him. The elegant outfit of red and gold – a tunic that hung a little loose around his narrow waist though tightened with a sash, satin pants, and the softest pair of shoes Zarik had ever worn – felt exceptionally lavish to the biqaj but Alistair assured him that it wasn’t too gaudy. His ice-blond hair had gotten fluffy after being washed, combed back so his brow wasn’t covered by his bangs.
He’d accepted a signet ring that held the Venora mark as well. It felt surreal, dressed in the finery with a ring of power as a symbol of connected belonging to his soon-to-be husband who he hadn't known existed til the dawn of Ashan. Zarik, however, didn’t feel hesitant. He wanted nothing more than to officially commit to the other man in the eyes of an authority that couldn’t allow for the potential of his father, or anything else, to serve as an obstacle in their union.
When they entered the Theocratum church together, he initially felt thrilled and could hardly contain his excitement. Zarik held tightly onto Alistair’s hand, keeping near him, and he whispered, “A-are you sure this is allowed after sunset? The Herald doesn’t mind such short notice?”
The sun had set during their walk to the church and Zarik had begged to pause a moment so he could watch it, but now it was dark outside. Through his excitement, a faint worry scratched at him that maybe something would go wrong – that something might get in their way – or their union might be denied. He was, after all, a commoner and though he wore wealthy clothing borrowed from Alistair, he felt his station was more than obvious. The Herald whose authority had been requested surely was annoyed by their slight delay, though Zarik couldn’t be sure what communication Alistair had sent to the Theocratum. He worried about insulting the required authoritative witness and thus, halting the ceremony that had yet to begin.
The Theocratum generally made Zarik nervous; he tended to be skittish when he first arrived to Quacia and learned of how vast the Wounded God’s devotion was in the city. He’d never become a devotee and this made him nervous when around the symbols of the prominent religion. The very stone floor seemed to resonate with the devotion spilled for its god so frequently. But he suppressed his unease in exchange for his eagerness to marry Alistair. The ceremony was a formality for the record, he understood, so that they would have legal ground written and authorized.
He'd already committed to Alistair in his heart and mind, and he innocently believed such strong feelings could never change, but the official marriage was necessary to get ahead of any possible threat such as his father speaking to the Theocratum… a possibility he wanted to deny, but Zarik knew that his father could see it as the only way to keep Zarik under his thumb and in the household. What Alistair had said about the danger made sense, and he didn’t want to be forced away from the other man under false accusations of coercion or other terrible things. Whatever was required to avoid such a fate, Zarik was willing to follow through with.
As they walked through the church, headed to an altar on the far end, Zarik distracted himself by looking around. The church, one of the main places of worship in The Gleam, was stunning. The wide stone columns were as tall as ancient trees as if in remembrance of timbers that didn’t exist in Quacia. Arches peaked in the ceiling’s center, the stonework perfectly smooth and polished. Impeccable sculptures and vivid paintings adorned the walls between ornate stained-glass windows. Large lanterns hung from the arches, but the only light was the candles set behind and around the altar at the dais.
Zarik moved closer to Alistair, clinging to the nobleman’s arm, when he caught sight of the Herald. He muffled a nervous sound behind his closed lips and looked up to Alistair, in search for assurance and connection. The irises of his eyes flared with ruddy hues flecked with a midnight blue. When he saw the other man's face though, Zarik realized he was acting foolish in his worry. He took a breath, rolled his shoulders back, and fixed his posture. Zarik let go of the nobleman’s hand. He would allow Alistair to approach the Herald first and talk with the man if needed. Zarik hung back and teased at his blond hair, trying to pretend he was nonchalant. He surveyed the magnificent church again, forcing himself to act patient.
He’d accepted a signet ring that held the Venora mark as well. It felt surreal, dressed in the finery with a ring of power as a symbol of connected belonging to his soon-to-be husband who he hadn't known existed til the dawn of Ashan. Zarik, however, didn’t feel hesitant. He wanted nothing more than to officially commit to the other man in the eyes of an authority that couldn’t allow for the potential of his father, or anything else, to serve as an obstacle in their union.
When they entered the Theocratum church together, he initially felt thrilled and could hardly contain his excitement. Zarik held tightly onto Alistair’s hand, keeping near him, and he whispered, “A-are you sure this is allowed after sunset? The Herald doesn’t mind such short notice?”
The sun had set during their walk to the church and Zarik had begged to pause a moment so he could watch it, but now it was dark outside. Through his excitement, a faint worry scratched at him that maybe something would go wrong – that something might get in their way – or their union might be denied. He was, after all, a commoner and though he wore wealthy clothing borrowed from Alistair, he felt his station was more than obvious. The Herald whose authority had been requested surely was annoyed by their slight delay, though Zarik couldn’t be sure what communication Alistair had sent to the Theocratum. He worried about insulting the required authoritative witness and thus, halting the ceremony that had yet to begin.
The Theocratum generally made Zarik nervous; he tended to be skittish when he first arrived to Quacia and learned of how vast the Wounded God’s devotion was in the city. He’d never become a devotee and this made him nervous when around the symbols of the prominent religion. The very stone floor seemed to resonate with the devotion spilled for its god so frequently. But he suppressed his unease in exchange for his eagerness to marry Alistair. The ceremony was a formality for the record, he understood, so that they would have legal ground written and authorized.
He'd already committed to Alistair in his heart and mind, and he innocently believed such strong feelings could never change, but the official marriage was necessary to get ahead of any possible threat such as his father speaking to the Theocratum… a possibility he wanted to deny, but Zarik knew that his father could see it as the only way to keep Zarik under his thumb and in the household. What Alistair had said about the danger made sense, and he didn’t want to be forced away from the other man under false accusations of coercion or other terrible things. Whatever was required to avoid such a fate, Zarik was willing to follow through with.
As they walked through the church, headed to an altar on the far end, Zarik distracted himself by looking around. The church, one of the main places of worship in The Gleam, was stunning. The wide stone columns were as tall as ancient trees as if in remembrance of timbers that didn’t exist in Quacia. Arches peaked in the ceiling’s center, the stonework perfectly smooth and polished. Impeccable sculptures and vivid paintings adorned the walls between ornate stained-glass windows. Large lanterns hung from the arches, but the only light was the candles set behind and around the altar at the dais.
Zarik moved closer to Alistair, clinging to the nobleman’s arm, when he caught sight of the Herald. He muffled a nervous sound behind his closed lips and looked up to Alistair, in search for assurance and connection. The irises of his eyes flared with ruddy hues flecked with a midnight blue. When he saw the other man's face though, Zarik realized he was acting foolish in his worry. He took a breath, rolled his shoulders back, and fixed his posture. Zarik let go of the nobleman’s hand. He would allow Alistair to approach the Herald first and talk with the man if needed. Zarik hung back and teased at his blond hair, trying to pretend he was nonchalant. He surveyed the magnificent church again, forcing himself to act patient.
I Speak ✣ I Am ✣ I Think
