So, scenario: What if Marius got married to Pandora or Bianca or, heck, even both! And he would hire you for his wedding pictures. What would you do or tell him? Will there be a "red wedding" as you fight for your man?
Oh, I have thoughts. And, crucially, I have professional qualifications for this hypothetical.
First of all: I can share. I am an adult. I am evolved. I am emotionally secure. Marius may marry Pandora. Marius may marry Bianca. Marius may marry Pandora and Bianca. I will be fine.
Will I be standing behind my camera muttering, “that should be me” whilst adjusting my ISO? Perhaps. That is between me and God.
Also, for anyone new here who does not know this particular piece of lore about me: I am actually a working international artist mostly in the wedding industry. So unfortunately, anon, you have asked the one person deranged enough to approach this as though Marius has just filled out my enquiry form.
There will be no Red Wedding. I have insurance.
Now. Venue.
We are staying in Scotland because I said so, and because I think Scotland actually gives us several venues extravagant enough that Marius would not spend the entire ceremony looking around with the expression of a Roman aristocrat being forced to eat dinner in a Premier Inn.
My shortlist:
Mansfield Traquair, Edinburgh. This might be the winner purely because it is literally nicknamed Edinburgh’s “Sistine Chapel”. It is a former church with enormous Phoebe Anna Traquair murals, stained glass, soaring ceilings and a bloody baldacchino. I would show Marius approximately three photographs, say, “They call it the Sistine Chapel of Edinburgh”, and then simply wait for the inevitable: Yes. This one.
Gosford House, East Lothian. If he wants something more palatial, this is going on the list immediately. It has this ridiculous two-storey Marble Hall with sweeping staircases, columns and galleries, and the house only takes a limited number of weddings. It has exactly the sort of architectural drama required for a man who considers “subtle” a personal failing.
Hopetoun House. Grand stately home, classical architecture, enormous grounds, very formal, very yes, obviously the groom has commissioned a string quartet. It currently hosts bespoke weddings near Edinburgh and can accommodate celebrations of up to 200.
And then there is Mount Stuart on the Isle of Bute, which aesthetically might actually kill him a second time. Neo-Gothic insanity, marble, art, design, astronomical symbolism, enormous rooms. It is an actual wedding venue and can host up to 200 guests.
Unfortunately, if we are having the reception in Edinburgh, I would have to explain that Mount Stuart involves an island and therefore CalMac.
Marius has survived two thousand years. I will not be the woman who finally kills him by introducing him to Scottish ferry logistics.
So I am probably putting my professional foot down and choosing Mansfield Traquair or Gosford House.
Then, after dinner, everyone is being transported into Edinburgh because the proper debauchery is happening at House of Gods.
If you know, you know.
If you don't know, House of Gods describes itself as maximalist, decadent luxury, and the Edinburgh hotel has dark oak panelling, opulent fabrics, marble bathrooms, four-poster beds and rooms they quite literally describe as “Versailles reimagined”. The lounge is all dark wood, tufted leather, deep red upholstery, heavy curtains, little fringed lamps and low lighting.
Basically imagine that a Roman bacchanal, a Victorian gentlemen’s club, the Orient Express and a vampire brothel had a very expensive baby. That is where we are drinking until an irresponsible hour.
And yes, I am absolutely booking Marius and whichever wife/wives have survived my schedule into the biggest suite afterwards. Four-poster bed. Roll-top bath. Cocktail bar. Butler bringing drinks. Completely unnecessary decadence. In other words, an environment in which Marius should feel extremely normal.
Now. THE CLOTHES.
Because this is where I become unbearable.
I think his ceremony look would be exactly what everyone expects. Tailored Italian suit, probably Armani because he would rather walk directly into the sun than wear something off the rack. And I am thinking monochrome burgundy.
Not bright red. Absolutely not. Deep wine. Oxblood. Almost-black burgundy. Different textures rather than different colours. Silk shirt, tailored trousers, perhaps velvet somewhere because apparently I have been given an unlimited imaginary budget and intend to abuse it.
Gold cufflinks. Gold watch. Gold detailing. No silver.
However. At some point during the reception, I am taking him aside and saying: Marius. I need you to trust me. Which I imagine would immediately make him suspicious. Because we are doing an outfit change.
Sir. You are in Scotland. You are putting on the kilt.
And no, I am not pulling some random clan tartan off a rental rail. Absolutely fucking not. Do you know who we are dressing? I am commissioning a custom tartan woven specifically for him. Deep burgundy as the base, darker blood reds running through it, black or very dark brown for structure, and fine gold lines through the sett. Rich enough that from across the room it reads almost entirely wine-red, but when the light catches it you start seeing all the different colours.
Full formal Highland dress. Kilt. Burgundy hose. Italian leather brogues in very dark brown. A matching fly plaid, which, for anyone unfamiliar with Highland dress, is the large piece of matching tartan worn over the shoulder and fastened with a brooch. Basically: dramatic Scottish groom cape. Which means Marius gets to swish. This is important.
Gold brooch. Gold kilt pin. Again: NO SILVER. And then the sporran. For the non-Scots: the sporran is the pouch worn at the front because traditional kilts do not have pockets. Sometimes I call it the cock bag. We are giving Marius a bespoke ceremonial cock bag. But I am vetoing the enormous hairy sporrans because I simply cannot see him tolerating one. His would be beautifully worked dark-brown Italian leather matching the brogues, probably tooled by hand, with subtle gold beading and fittings.
Since it's evening at this point, he would need a Prince Charlie jacket and waistcoat. For anyone unfamiliar with Highland dress, the Prince Charlie is essentially the formal evening option. It is cut short at the front to sit properly with the kilt, has little tails at the back, and is traditionally worn for weddings, formal dinners and black-tie occasions. Crucially, you wear it with a bow tie, rather than the ordinary necktie you might wear with something like an Argyll jacket during the day. Naturally, Marius's would not be the standard black barathea number everyone hires for their cousin's wedding. Absolutely not. We are having it made to measure in velvet, in one of the secondary reds from his custom tartan. Not the dominant burgundy because I want contrast, perhaps that darker garnet or oxblood running through the sett, with the waistcoat in the same fabric and antique-gold buttons rather than silver. Then I want a custom bow tie, probably silk, incorporating either a very restrained fragment of the tartan or some tiny woven Roman motif that you only notice when you are standing close enough to be in danger.
And then, finally, we arrive at the part of Highland dress where I think I might actually lose him:
The sgian-dubh.
For those who don't know, the sgian-dubh is the small knife traditionally worn tucked into the top of the kilt hose, with the hilt visible. And there is a slightly complicated bit of history here, because I am not going to tell Tumblr the neat romantic version when the actual story is messier. After the Jacobite rising, the British government passed legislation specifically intended to break Highland military and clan power. From 1746 onwards, Highland dress was restricted and the bearing of arms in the Highlands was forbidden as part of a wider campaign to dismantle the clan system. So I suspect Marius, who has benefited from imperialism (rather we want to talk about that or not), might have opinions about the cultural history attached to this particular accessory.
There is also a traditional explanation for why the little knife eventually came to be displayed in the stocking. The sgian-dubh literally has associations with the idea of a “black” or concealed knife, and one long-standing account is that Highland etiquette required concealed weapons to be revealed when entering another person's home in peace. Rather than remaining hidden, the knife could therefore be placed visibly in the top of the hose as a gesture that you were not secretly armed. The precise evolution is debated, and the recognisable sock-worn sgian-dubh really becomes visually established later, so I would absolutely describe that as tradition rather than uncontested historical fact.
Which means I would explain all of this to him and then immediately ruin my scholarly credibility by saying:
Anyway, Marius, would you like your ceremonial Scottish murder knife now?
His would not look like something I bought from the tourist shop on the Royal Mile. No plastic faux-Celtic handle. No enormous fake gemstone. No shiny silver thistles.
I want antiqued brass fittings, darkened enough that they look genuinely old, with extremely fine engraved vine-work curling across the mountings. Not generic celtic knotwork either. I want something almost Roman in the design, acanthus and grapevine motifs subtly worked into something recognisably Scottish. The handle should be dark wood, perhaps bog oak or ebony, and the blade would be proper hand-forged Damascus steel, so when he draws it you get those beautiful rippling patterns through the metal. Which is admittedly an absurd amount of craftsmanship for a knife whose primary modern function is to sit decoratively in a man's sock.
But this is Marius de Romanus. Of course his sock knife is bespoke. Of course it is an artwork. Of course I have somehow commissioned a bladesmith.
I think there is something deeply funny about me standing there going:
No, no. This one is culturally appropriate. Put it in your sock.
The outfit would cost more than I make in a year.
And when he inevitably looks at me as though I have suggested dressing him as a Highland cow, I already know exactly how I am selling this.
Marius. Come on. You're in Scotland.
Nothing.
It's formal Highland dress.
Still nothing.
And before you object, I know it isn't as elegant as a toga.
Immediate eyebrow movement. I have him.
But the principle isn't entirely dissimilar. Wool. Draping. Freedom of movement. Freedom from.. undergarments if you want to be a true scotsman. Considerably more leg. Fewer folds, admittedly.
And then I would hit him directly in the ego:
Besides, if anyone here can wear several metres of fabric and make everyone else in the room look underdressed, surely it's you.
Sold. Man has worn a toga. Man can handle a kilt.
Frankly, I suspect the problem afterwards would be convincing him to change back.
As for whether I would “fight for my man”? Please.
I am a professional.
I would smile beautifully at Pandora and Bianca, work the ceremony, cry during the vows, make sure everyone has a beautiful time, bustle the dress, fix somebody's buttonhole, bully Marius into golden-hour images, and deliver them the most disgustingly beautiful product of my entire career.
