Page 104 of Consort's Glory
There was only Kaz, who stood behind Theodore with the plain silver box that awaited their marriage ember in his huge hands, and Viktor, who solemnly placed their offering in the fire for them.
There was only Margot and Theodore, their hands clasped, with Glory’s eyes trained upon them.
I love you, he whispered to her, holding her gaze as Petra reached up to burn the marriage sigil between his brows with a fingertip gone pure, blazing white — forever branding him as hers.
I’m yours, she answered, taking the pain of the burning sigil gladly. The smells of burned flesh, smoke, and incense mingled. Always.
The burning of the sigil hurt, of course, but she took the pain with an open heart, knowing that it would tie them together in the eyes of the world forevermore. Her gaze lingered on his mark, on the sigil burning a livid dark blue in his elvish skin. Margot’s heart thumped unevenly in her chest. Tears stung the backs of her eyes.
Depending on how one looked at it, their marriage sigil could be a Healer’s Hand, a rising sun, or a blooming thistle — an amalgam of all that they were, and all that they wished to be.
She didn’t hear Petra confirm with the witnesses that the union was complete. She didn’t feel the silky tug of the ribbon releasing their hands. She didn’t see or hear or feel anything besides him, drawing her in by their clasped hands, until Theodore’s lips covered her own.
We’re married. The thought bubbled up, a sparkling, brilliant thing. I married my bondmate. I’m going to live. I’m going to love.
I married my consort, he smartly replied, kissing her again and again and again, those big hands on her cheeks and his breath in her lungs. Now all the world will know she’s mine and see how proud I am to call myself hers.
Margot broke away, grinning too hard to continue, and pressed her smarting forehead against his own. When their sigils touched, magic popped between them like a burst of fleeting starlight.
“You’re my husband,” she whispered, equal parts awed and shy.
Theodore nudged her nose with his own. There was laughter in his voice when he replied, “You’re my wife.” Finally.
Finally? She skimmed her fingertips over the line of his jaw. You only met me a few days ago, remember?
She expected him to reply privately, his voice clear and strong in her mind, but Theodore surprised her. Straightening, he turned to look into Glory’s eyes, glowing red and yellow with the fire inside her. “No,” he said, voice thick, “Glory made me yours twenty-five years ago and I’m going to thank her every day for it.”
Margot’s throat seized when he turned dark eyes gone shiny with tears back to her. He cupped her cheek, smiling crookedly. “My fierce halfling, I was made to love you.”
Falling in love, Margot thought, was not what she thought it was. A private person by nature and circumstance, she always assumed that the feeling came on in inches, a slow creep of Tempest’s rising tide one didn’t notice until it was too late to escape it.
Standing before Glory’s altar, Margot realized that it wasn’t always like that. Sometimes love was like walking down a dark staircase and missing a step — terrifying, unexpected, with a quick drop and breathless landing. Sometimes love didn’t wait for you to be ready. Sometimes it came into being fully formed, beautiful and new and strong.
Too overcome with feeling to say anything, Margot wordlessly accepted the ornate silver tongs Petra handed to her and knelt with Theodore before the altar to choose the ember they would carry with them for the rest of their lives. His hand was huge and warm and leather-smooth over her own unsteady one; his much bigger body enfolding itself around hers from behind to block out the world.
I don’t get this part, he said, a note of endearing confusion in his inner voice. How are we supposed to choose which one is the right one?
Even the voice in her mind was watery with emotion when she answered, You’re just supposed to go with what feels right.
He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. You choose, then. You’re the blessed one, remember?
Margot had never really considered being a gloriana a blessing, but… I guess I am, she allowed, letting intuition guide their hands toward an ember that burned white-hot beneath several others.
Being a gloriana seemed like a burden and then a curse for most of her life, a designation that did her no good when she couldn’t live up to her full potential and did even less for her when it began to kill her. But without it, she would never have met Theodore. Without the cold breath of Grim on her shoulder, she would not have run off to San Francisco. She would not have their marriage sigil burning the skin of her forehead, nor would she have his arms around her, steadying her, guarding her from all the world.
In that light, it was the greatest blessing of her life.
Margot turned to deposit the crackling ember into the small silver box Kaz held out to her. His expression was deeply grooved with indecipherable emotion, his gaze lowered as she gently lowered the symbol of their union into his hands. Rising from his kneeling position, he offered it to Petra, who covered the open box with both hands.
There was a shift in the air, a sudden warmth like a stifling summer breeze, as the rings of light in her eyes blazed. It only lasted a moment. Almost as soon as it arrived, that foreign warmth disappeared, leaving the incense-heavy air of the cathedral chilly in comparison.
“There,” Petra announced, indicating the couple should rise with an elegant twist of her wrist. She shut the silver box with a definitive clack. “Your sigils are burnt. Your ember will blaze.” A small, genuine smile stole across her beautiful face, transforming it into something heart-stoppingly radiant. “Your marriage is sealed. May you walk forevermore in Glory’s light. Congratulations.”
A howl went up, low but ecstatic, the haunting sound bouncing off the cathedral walls to multiply and transform itself into a melody of celebration. Margot grinned even as a hot blush stole across the skin of her chest and neck.
When she peered at him, she found Viktor with his head back, his sandy hair falling out of its carefully combed position as he let the whole Temple and all of San Francisco know of his approval.
Theodore shook his head, but he couldn’t stop the grin from twisting the corners of his mouth upward. Coyotes, he mentally sighed. The loudest shifters in the world.
