Obi and Shirayuki's wedding, please <3 modern AU or canonverse - whatever inspires you!
“Alright.” Master scrubs a hand down his face, shoulders slumped wearily. Beside him, Miss shifts uneasily. Obi doubts she’s ever been in this position; he’s suffered Master’s disappointment before, but Miss –
Well, he doubts she’s ever heard a raised voice.
Master lets loose a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Walk me through this again.”
The winch creaks as the lift scrapes up the side of the Ramtops, the village at the bottom growing smaller and smaller with each turn. A wind shudders through, shaking the cage around them, and Miss steps into him, purposeful. Her head ducks down, hiding against his coat.
“It’s so high,” she remarks, voice strained and tight.
“The Hounta have lived in these mountains for generations.” He peers down at her with a grin, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. “You should’ve expected it. Besides, I didn’t think you had a problem with heights, Miss.”
She shivers; he feels every inch of it along his side. “I didn’t.”
He means to tease, but the winch locks as they hit the cliffside, shaking them again. He’s only just gotten Miss back on her feet when their escort heaves open the gate.
“This is it,” he tells them in a hilly Samese. Obi can understand it, just barely. Miss just squints, confusion writ clear across her brow.
Looks like there’s something you can’t learn all from books after all. He’ll have to tease her later.
“We won’t be coming back up until the –” the escort uses a word either Obi doesn’t recognize or is garbled by his accent – “is over. So as to not disturb.”
“Yee-ah!” Shirayuki tries in her enthusiastic yet terrible Samese. “Thanks to you for to bring high yes thing.”
Obi grimaces. “She means thanks for the lift.”
The man smiles, charmed by her attempt. “Go on then. It looks like the elders are waiting for you.”
They are, hidden just around the bend in the path. Shirayuki isn’t quite sure what makes them elders; only one of them seems to be very old, as cantankerous-looking as she’d expect of a man whose lived four score on a mountainside like this. The others are a man hardly older than Izana, his face bright and open, and a woman well into her pregnancy, maybe thirty-and-five with eight or so weeks to go, if she was to take a guess.
“Oh, good!” The younger man comes forward to meet them, carrying a staff taller than he is. The bells on it chime as he moves, making the mountain twilight seem more mystical, more magical than it had been moments before. She likes him already.
He opens his mouth again, and –
And Shirayuki’s paltry Samese fails her. She’s only just begun to learn it, cobbling a curriculum together from what books she’s found in the library and what she can make Obi teach her, and anything beyond simple conversation is…impossible. For now.
She lays a hand on Obi’s arm, giving him a look that she hopes convey how lost she is.
“A minute, Miss,” he huffs out, brows drawn. “This is a different dialect than I’m used to.”
The man hardly begins to speak before the older one interrupts him, which makes the woman snap at him, and – and she does not blame Obi for his grimace.
“The wise man here says that it’s good they sent…two of us?” He shrugged. “He used a word I don’t know. The people who are two? Something like that. And then old man oak back there said they should have sent more – something about an insult? – and now they’re all debating…philosophy.”
The old man shouts something, and Obi coughs with surprise. “Uh, and history, it seems.”
The younger man extricates himself from his companions with an apologetic expression.
“Excuse them,” he says. “Come this way.”
Master stares, mouth flat. “I thought you spoke Samese fluently. That was the whole point of sending you.”
“Yes,” Obi allows, biting back his irritation. “But the Hounta don’t speak Samese, strictly.”
“Oh, yes!” Miss warms now, anxiety melting away in the face of details. “It seems that this tribe of Hounta have remained geographically distinct from the influence of the Samese, and –”
“Right,” Zen sighs, rubbing at his forehead. “Sure. Let’s just…skip to the wedding.”
There is…a lot of wine.
Or at least, some type of liquor. Elejas tries to explain – something about reindeer, or maybe mountain goats? – but Obi can draw a conclusion from how Rafi refuses, hand pressed over her belly, and from how Henddo scoffs, pushing it away with a scowl.
There’s dancing too; a bunch of stomping and hooting and the rattling of bead work all along their boots and belts and collars. They’ve dressed him like one of them, though instead of his gakti being a vibrant blue or red, it’s a deep black, its designs picked out in white and silver. Even the fur of his boots is black; a dappled color that he finds himself growing fond of with every passing cup.
“Wolf,” Elejas tells him with a grin. “For cunning. For quickness.”
“Am I going to need those?” he teases.
His guide laughs. “On the Longest Night, you must be quick to catch the sun.”
Well, that’s….cryptic.
A hand claps his shoulder, and he looks down into the pale, ice-blue eyes of Rafi. Her smile takes the bite from her gaze.
“The sun has risen,” she tells him, even though the evening is black as pitch, creeping towards the dead of of night. A laugh huffs out of her at his confusion, and she sweeps her arm to where the unmarried women bed down, and –
And there is Miss, gakti a blinding white, threaded through with gold. It must be an heirloom, a costume the village has mended a thousand times to fit a thousand girls, but now it is pristine, fitting like it was made for her.
Obi swallows. He shouldn’t have had so much of this wine stuff.
She sees him, smile spreading her lips, and she makes to call out, but –
But her gaze hooks on his body, eyes rounding. Her lip press together, pink rising high on her cheeks. Shyly she weaves toward them, the white fur of her boots melting into the snow.
“Fox,” Rafi tells him with a sly look. “For fleetness of foot. And for luck.”
He should probably read some meaning in that, get some message. He doesn’t though, not when Miss stops just before him, eyes lifting to meet his.
“Obi.” His name forms in the air between them, hardly more than a breath. “You look very handsome.”
His heart gives a treacherous and wholly expected pound.
“Ah, Miss,” he says, a moment late, “you’ve stolen my line.”
Her gaze is steady when she says, “I know.”
“Here.” Rafi shoves an end of a woven belt into each of their hands. “Don’t let go.”
“We can’t let go?” Shirayuki asks dubiously, thumb passing over the cunning weave of the belt. “Not to eat?”
“Not to eat,” Obi tells her, verging on exasperation. He’s spent a quarter of an hour trying to understand the elders’ garbled, and at times, conflicting instructions. “And definitely not to drink.”
“What if…” She flushes. “What if I have to pee?”
Obi grins. “Then I will valiantly try not to peek, Miss.”
She slaps her free hand to her cheek. “Oh my.”
A man and a woman – slightly younger than her or Obi by the look – come to set a wide platter in front of them, as well as a cup that would take at least both of her hands to hold. Elejas and Rafi thank them – she thinks, her Samese is shaky even on that point – and turn to Obi, presumably explaining their purpose.
His brow furrows. Ah, it is more of that Hounta dialect that stymies him.
“Those two were originally going to do…our roles, I guess,” Obi says, his annoyance with his slow translation obvious. “But now they’ll wait a year. For some reason.”
“Oh, should we apologize?” Shirayuki searches the crowd for them, but she had been hardly paying attention when they’d come, and finding one blond head among many is not a skill she excels at.
“No, apparently this is an honorable role too. They’re going to bring us food,” he explains haltingly, “but we have to eat off the same plate? And drink from the same cup? Something like that.”
“And not drop the belt.”
“Oh yeah,” he says, watching with hungry eyes as they fill the goblet between them. “Definitely don’t do that.”
Henddo hobbles up and barks something at the both of them. Obi only blinks, reaching across to wrap his fingers around the stem of the cup. “He says it’s ceremonial wine. We have to help each other drink.”
There’s not enough space for her hand on the stem, and she wraps it half over Obi’s, his warmth bringing back the feeling in her fingers.
“At the same time?” she asks, giving the cup a dubious look.
“No, you first.”
She glances down at the dress they’ve given her, warm and perfect, and sighs. If only they could practice on Obi first; at least the black of his tunic would cover the stains of their mistake. On her, it will be clear as day.
They shakily guide it to her lips, and the sweet tang of the wine washes over her tongue; bog berries and orange rind and something else before the bitter hits. It comes on strong, for just a moment, and she coughs, sending wine down the corners of her mouth.
“Oh, Miss!” Obi helps her set the cup on the table, raising his thumb to swipe at the escaped wine, and he –
He licks it, right off the the pad of his thumb, slowing as he realizes what he’s done. He does not drop her gaze, their breaths mingling, and she can’t help but think of when she saw him in these ritual clothes, looking every inch like he belonged, like he was used to hauling a ram over one shoulder and an axe on the other, meant to marry the prettiest girl in the village.
A catch, they would call him.
“Now you,” she says, more breathless than she expects, wine sloshing over the rim as she shoves it toward him.
His hand wraps oh so slowly over hers, each knuckle lingering before it winds with hers.
When he drinks, his eyes meet hers over the rim, and all she sees is amber.
Master scoffs. “That can’t be legally binding.”
“Oh, absolutely it is.” His Highness crosses his legs at the knee, lounging in one of Master’s chairs like it was the throne of Clarines itself. “We are allies with Sama and the Hounta both, don’t you remember, brother? Their marriages are legally binding within and without our borders.”
A grin curls across his mouth. “But please, go on. I’m intrigued.”
It’s only once they’ve finished the cup, cheeks flushed, that Henddo hobbles up to them and says, “Now kiss.”
Obi nearly spits out his venison. “What?”
Henddo’s Samese is the worst out of all of them, but Obi gets the gist of what the man spits back at him: you heard what I said, boy.
A hand presses delicately against his sleeve. He turns, staring down into the endless green of Miss’s gaze. “What is he saying?”
“It’s…” He darts a look at the old man, who looks like he won’t be moving until he gets his way. “It’s not anything, Miss.”
“Obi.” Her voice takes a harder tone. “It’s important to Clarines that we do this right.”
“I –”
“Kiss,” Henddo shouts, in unmistakable Clarinese, and Miss goes red all over.
“Oh,” she murmurs, hand pressed to her chest. “Oh.”
“Miss.” His heart flutters sickeningly beneath his ribs. “We don’t have to.”
“No.” Her gaze meets his then, determined. “Obi, kiss me.”
He swallows his groan, leaning in. From one of the other tables, he hears cheering, hears, the sun yields to the moon on longest night!
Their lips meet, the air disappears from his lungs, and all he feels is the moment stretched between them as they touch.
He pulls away, gasping, though they’ve done nothing more than press mouths to one another.
It’s enough.
“Really.” Izana lifts a brow, skeptical.
He turned his chin just so, gaze catching on Shirayuki. She squirms. “Is that what you remember, too?”
Henddo’s words rise and fall in sing-song as he speaks, soothing to her unknowing ear, but Obi’s hand grows pale on the goblet, mouth pulling thin.
Her hand slips from beneath his, coming to lay on his tunic. It’s soft beneath her fingers; she can’t help but stroke the fabric, just slightly, drawing his attention to her. She feels dizzy when their eyes meet, like she needs only take a step and she’d drown in amber, like a fly on a branch.
Ah, maybe she shouldn’t have had so much of that wine.
“What is he saying?” she asks, pressing closer. They’re seated nearest the fire – a place of honor, so Rafi and Elejas have both assured them – but she’s still so cold, and Obi emits heat like a burner, drawing her like a moth to a flame.
“It’s…” His eyes dart away, cutting toward Henddo. The elder only thumps his cane on the stone, impatient. “It’s not anything, Miss.”
She frowns, annoyance creeping up her throat. They’ve come here to face this mission together, a test before Izana sends them out to the Northern Lords. He shouldn’t be – be protecting her.
“Obi.” She locates her sternest tone, the one she uses on her more wayward students. “It’s important to Clarines that we do this right.”
He looks trapped, caged between her questions and the elders’ demanded. “I –”
Henddo, in a single, crystal clear bout of Clarinese, shouts, “Kiss.”
Oh. Oh.
“Miss.”
She meets Obi’s gaze, so concerned, and she realizes she’s spoken out loud. “We don’t have to.”
But she wants to.
The realization hits her softly, like falling to a mattress after a long day on her feet. It’s not shocking, or difficult, but – expected. A relief.
“No.” She draws herself up, meeting his eyes. She sees the hesitance there, but also – also –
The hope.
She tugs on the belt, nearly yanking him off his seat. He just barely catches himself on the table. Their breaths mingle between their lips, so close.
“Obi,” she breathes, “kiss me.”
His mouth presses against her, gentle yet firm, and for a whole second her mind blanks; it tries to compare this against the ones she has shared with Zen and just – fails. She can’t do anything more than sit, lips slotted against his, and feel her stomach flip, feel the way his touch is like wildfire under her skin.
He starts to stiffen, to retreat, and that – that is what moves her, what brings her free hand to cup his cheek, to bring him back down to her –
As soon as she moves her mouth, he groans.
Oh, she wants to make him sound like that again.
The wanting sets her ablaze, dragging him closer, mouth opening beneath his when his tongue traces her lip. Distantly, she’s aware the Hounta are catcalling, but it’s all just music in the back of her mind, meaningless words that only urge her toward him, letting him consume –
Someone clears their throat. When they disentangle themselves, Rafi is giving them a thoughtful look, rubbing at the round of her belly.
She says something to Obi, and he blushes from forehead to collar. Clearing his throat, he says, “I didn’t quite get all of that, but apparently it’s time for all good ritual couples to go to bed.”
“Oh.” Her heart skips its beat. “That sounds nice.”
Master pinches at the bridge of his nose, eyes screwed shut. “It’s – fine. You may be married, but without…c-consummation, we can just…get an annulment. It will be like it never –”
“Ah.” Obi feels sweat prickle over the whole of his body. He can safely say, this is the most nervous he has ever been. “About that…”
Henddo has not stopped yelling since Rafi marched them from their hut, clothed in their undergarments.
Obi barely understands any of the argument that follows – he’s distracted, already thinking about how they’ll have to present this – this marriage to master – but a few salient points seem to present themselves.
“They’re, um…” He coughs, turning his head from Miss’s intent gaze. “They’re upset we didn’t….act out the whole ritual.”
“Whole…ritual…?” Her eyes widen. “You don’t mean…?”
“Have sex, yes.” He holds up the belt. “The moon is supposed to, er, catch the sun.”
She eyes the cloth dubiously.
“Don’t worry, Miss.” He waves a hand. “I’ll explain this was all a misunder –”
“Obi.” Miss looks worryingly thoughtful, hand tracing down the beading of the belt. “Would it appease their gods if the ritual was completed a night late?”
His mind tumbles back to the night before, shrieking and cheering outside the hut as the villagers fought off evil spirits – other masked Hounta – that would try to keep the sun from rising. He could pick out a word or two, silly things, but his mind is occupied – and his hands, as Miss squirms against him, humming pleasantly against his lips as he kisses her again and again, soft and pliant beneath him –
He cough, heat riding high on his cheeks. “I’ll ask.”
