[It's hours before they return. Long enough that night has turned to day, and it's Astarion's laughter that rouses Fenris from his dozing slumber. And then—
And then it begins.
Not the ceremony itself, but oh, there are endless preparations to be made. They're dressed in their finest, silk and satin dyed black and stitched together with the most delicate silver threads. Kohl lines their eyes, eyeshadow and accessories added to their personal tastes. Jewelry adorns their ears and throats (though not their fingers), all of it tastefully placed and obscenely expensive. Witnesses are introduced; outside, the crowds are slowly prodded into gathering. And in that way hours somehow pass, though to Fenris' mind it all goes by far too quickly.
They head into the main hall, standing before Vakares in front of what feels like the entire population of Baldur's Gate. Eyes dart between Astarion and Fenris, whispers filling the hall as people place their final bets, and gods, but Fenris hates it. He has never done well in the spotlight, and today is no different: his eyes go shuttered, his expression turning to stone as he stands next to his—
Well. Not fiancé, not really. And yet perhaps Fenris is still too tied to morality, even a century later, to not think of all this in terms of a wedding.
Thank you for your patience these past three days, Vakares says, and just like that, it's begun. Fenris' stomach pitches, but it's too late to protest. Too late to do anything but fixate on a vantage point in the distance and try not to glance over at Astarion, lest he look too much like an anxious bride. And I hope the celebrations were to your liking. It is not often I have cause to revel for so long, but the announcement of one's heir is cause for celebration, I think.
It goes on. He speaks of his family, his followers, and how loyal they all have been; he speaks of the joy of partnership, and how it was not reclusiveness but unity that made him a stronger politician and better person. He emphasizes community and teamwork over isolation, and Fenris wonders if the brighter ones in the audience have picked up where he's going with this. Certainly they all know this isn't normal; there's whispers here and there, a susurrus that only grows as Vakares sets his hands on both their shoulders.
But I digress. You are all here to see me choose my heir, and I have done so. A pause, and more than anything Fenris wishes he would just get on with it. I have chosen both of them. Both Astarion and Fenris will share command, joining together in a ceremony more ancient than even I.
And there are other words, of course. More introduction, because ceremony is nothing but talking, but Fenris is too busy scanning the crowd. Most are shocked. Some are pleased, though whether that's a good thing or not remains to be seen. The whispers grow louder— and then, just loud enough to be heard, there's a giggle. It's brief and swiftly hushed, but it's there.
Vakares ignores it. So does most of the crowd, to be fair: their whispers settling as Vakares urges them both to face one another. Join hands, he commands, and Fenris extends his own, not daring to tear his gaze away for a single second.
Do you, Fenris, swear your fealty and loyal to Astarion? Vakares' voice is low and rolling, his confidence absolute as he utters the first part of their oaths. Fenris' stomach feels like lead, his tongue numb— and yet the words slip past his lips nonetheless, for all that he stares warily as he utters them.]
no subject
And then it begins.
Not the ceremony itself, but oh, there are endless preparations to be made. They're dressed in their finest, silk and satin dyed black and stitched together with the most delicate silver threads. Kohl lines their eyes, eyeshadow and accessories added to their personal tastes. Jewelry adorns their ears and throats (though not their fingers), all of it tastefully placed and obscenely expensive. Witnesses are introduced; outside, the crowds are slowly prodded into gathering. And in that way hours somehow pass, though to Fenris' mind it all goes by far too quickly.
They head into the main hall, standing before Vakares in front of what feels like the entire population of Baldur's Gate. Eyes dart between Astarion and Fenris, whispers filling the hall as people place their final bets, and gods, but Fenris hates it. He has never done well in the spotlight, and today is no different: his eyes go shuttered, his expression turning to stone as he stands next to his—
Well. Not fiancé, not really. And yet perhaps Fenris is still too tied to morality, even a century later, to not think of all this in terms of a wedding.
Thank you for your patience these past three days, Vakares says, and just like that, it's begun. Fenris' stomach pitches, but it's too late to protest. Too late to do anything but fixate on a vantage point in the distance and try not to glance over at Astarion, lest he look too much like an anxious bride. And I hope the celebrations were to your liking. It is not often I have cause to revel for so long, but the announcement of one's heir is cause for celebration, I think.
It goes on. He speaks of his family, his followers, and how loyal they all have been; he speaks of the joy of partnership, and how it was not reclusiveness but unity that made him a stronger politician and better person. He emphasizes community and teamwork over isolation, and Fenris wonders if the brighter ones in the audience have picked up where he's going with this. Certainly they all know this isn't normal; there's whispers here and there, a susurrus that only grows as Vakares sets his hands on both their shoulders.
But I digress. You are all here to see me choose my heir, and I have done so. A pause, and more than anything Fenris wishes he would just get on with it. I have chosen both of them. Both Astarion and Fenris will share command, joining together in a ceremony more ancient than even I.
And there are other words, of course. More introduction, because ceremony is nothing but talking, but Fenris is too busy scanning the crowd. Most are shocked. Some are pleased, though whether that's a good thing or not remains to be seen. The whispers grow louder— and then, just loud enough to be heard, there's a giggle. It's brief and swiftly hushed, but it's there.
Vakares ignores it. So does most of the crowd, to be fair: their whispers settling as Vakares urges them both to face one another. Join hands, he commands, and Fenris extends his own, not daring to tear his gaze away for a single second.
Do you, Fenris, swear your fealty and loyal to Astarion? Vakares' voice is low and rolling, his confidence absolute as he utters the first part of their oaths. Fenris' stomach feels like lead, his tongue numb— and yet the words slip past his lips nonetheless, for all that he stares warily as he utters them.]
I do so swear.
[There's no going back now.]