Well. She’s nothing like he expected or even remembers her being. It’s hazy and foreign in a way that he isn’t sure he quite likes, having relied on his memory and thoughts for so long that it flexes like a muscle long honed. Something in her trickles in like the beginning of a river, soft and gentle, then it is suddenly overwhelming and washing over him in waves that leave him more drained than before. This emotional whiplash was bound to wrack chaos on his body and he couldn’t imagine the backlash that was going to ripple outwards in the shattered cracks of his relationships. Lacha had only just begun to trust him again and allow him into the frozen mound of her heart without the fear of vulnerability.
Her hands were like ice, delicate and yet hard, the veins in her arm standing out to him in a way that had him curious. He’d been with both men and women before and gender hardly affected the fey in ways he traditionally considered to be important to mortals. Her reminding him of their wedding night had him swallowing thickly, unsure whether to be intrigued or wary. He’d only been with Lacha recently, Malachite having long been occupied by their problems to the point he remained distant, leaving him with little options. Were they expected to jump into bed? Gorta certainly seemed to think so.
If he weren’t surprised then he was certainly more so when she pressed a quick, brutal kiss to his mouth. It was far too much unasked for affection that was spinning his mind into circles that he was unsure how to pull himself out of. Yet Lacha wasn’t his keeper, now was she? She’d denied him her hand, denied him his daughter, denied him a crown or title or anything that would tie them together. He was free to do exactly whatever it was he wished and here was a chance to throw caution to the wind and test her response. Gale allowed himself to give her an awkward smile that settled into something a bit more lax as he slipped an arm around her, surprising even himself. “I don’t know, I’ve never been married before. I might want to give it a shot…never had a chance to see what I might like. If you’re alright with that, of course. A chance to try.”
There seemed to be a hurricane of emotions behind her betrothed’s eyes; the was big for him. This wasn’t a laugh-it-off situation, which is what Gorta had imagined it might be. She’d held no illusions that it meant anything, truly, especially in the fashion they were wed in. The fey kept their vows holy, this she knew: after a year and a day, the wedding was as good as authentic. But until then, in this circumstance, it was little more than a lark: a farce, a party toy, making light of a tradition that left little room for the breaking of vows.
But anyone could break a vow—for the first year.
Gorta thought this would be a broken vow in no time at all, but after whatever gears were turning and machinations were halted, the outcome seemed to be one of: why not? Gale’s awkwardness melted into a relaxed sort of acceptance, which was fine with Gorta. The world and her future was full of possibilities. Why shouldn’t this be one of them? “No, the fey tend not to break their marriages, once they’re confirmed,” meaning after the year and the day, she nodded, “and so this’ll be my first one, too. But we can learn together. What’s the harm in trying? We have a year to hate each other, I suppose,” she addd with a laugh.
She accepted the arm swung around her with an unrehearsed ease, smiling up at him. Two fools in the face of tradition. After the ceremony was done and the rings were exchanged between them—for all their consent mattered in the situation—Gorta smiled at him as they walked off the dais, pushing a bit of his hair behind his ear. “So why don’t you tell me a bit more about yourself, stud? What do you do? What sets those blue eyes ablazing? What do you look for in a partner?” May as well see where they matched up. “I’m a Taurus, okay?” The detail was facetious and meant to make him laugh over ridiculous cosmologies.
