this word is far too short for us
Five weeks, five days after Lughnasadh, 1017 II Age
A group of horses rode under Mosciren’s high, imposing gates, two ancient slabs of stone that seemed to be carved out of the mantle of the mountain itself. The city gleamed pale and silver under the moonlight, already half-asleep. Yet as the riders climbed steadily up the city’s steep, cobblestone roads and came to a stop at the gates of the alcazar, ironworks that barred entry to the palace, they began to yawn open — seemingly in expectation of their arrival. There, behind the open gates, a cluster of figures stood waiting in a semi-circle, and in spite of his weariness, having decided to press on long into the night for the last stretch of the pass, the High Prince dismounted in a swift leap to charge towards one of the lot; a young halfling, leaning some of his weight on his sister’s shoulder, trying and failing to blink away exhaustion.
Yuuri, too, darted forward into this collision of figures, found himself swept under the warmth of Viktor’s cloak, twisted up into his arms. Behind them, Mila dismounted and gathered the lead of Viktor’s horse, and looked back at Yuri, holding a hand out. Caught watching his brother and his intended, Yuri let his eyes narrow, but Mila’s words caught him off guard, prevented the eye roll he’d had prepared for just this exact situation. “You too,” she said, and left the rest of the suggestion unspoken. Go find him.
Yuri found, for once, that no retort was easily, readily available. Instead he dismounted slowly, and handed off the reins. Beka was around here somewhere, and had no doubt been putting up with Yakov for days. Mila’s suggestion wasn’t a bad one. Viktor glanced up only briefly as he passed by, a hand lifted in half-farewell, and Yuri ignored the way Vitya’s subtle half-smile seemed to follow him, knowing.
Go kiss your halfling in private, idiot.
Is that what you’re off to go do?
Tch.
“Cold?” Viktor asked, sweeping Yuuri closer, because he was already certain of the answer, mystery though it was: awash in this fondness that Yuuri had for him, and the relief of seeing him again, he was nearly sure he’d never be cold again a day in his life.
And Yuuri hadn’t been cold for months; had always felt warm, almost feverishly so, except for this. Now he wavered, volatile as wildfire, crashing between burning and ice. “A little,” Yuuri admitted, cheek turned against his tunic, and Vitya leaned down to kiss his forehead, to sweep his fingers through tousled, dark curls.
“Let’s go inside.”
Though Georgi had taken rear guard for the entire duration of their travels, it was Seung-gil and Lilia who passed through the gates last, each of them watching the pair of brothers, intent, serious.
Both for different reasons.
- - -
Six weeks after Lughnasadh, 1017 II Age: Morning
Jean-Jacques drew his horse up to a halt, looking up the last part of the King’s Road to measure the final half-mile that would lead them into Mosciren. The city’s famous gates loomed in the distance, and he glanced sidelong at Isabella as she rode closer, and laid a hand on his shoulder, conveying everything without saying anything at all.
“Wow,” Kenjirou offered, giving a brief whistle as he pulled alongside. Even Yuuko, who’d been to Mosciren before, during her trip on the wheel, lifted a hand to gaze up at the impressive sight.
Christophe pretended like he, too, wasn’t phased, did what he could to dispel Jean-Jacque’s unease without relying on his magic to do so. “Well,” he quipped, spurring his horse onwards, “Whatever else anyone has to say about Yakov, there’s no denying the man knows how to make a statement.”
How many years had it been since he’d last traveled this path? Back then he’d admired Mosciren for what it was; an architectural marvel, a work of genius slung up into the mountain, an unconquerable fortress crawling up the hillside. All over were the signatures of Yakov’s work; the arches that nobody but a stone-mage could sculpt, glittering with ores that must’ve followed his command.
Too long. It’s been too long.
Now he saw it differently, from the viewpoint of the vanquished, and it wouldn’t do to disrupt Jean-Jacques fragile hope that someday he might be able to stand on equal footing with the family he’d so long despised, recognized as a leader in his own right.
“Do you ever take anything seriously?”
“I take everything seriously,” Christophe replied, humming subtly. He let his thoughts drift to the plains, smiled to himself, reassured by a distant heartbeat that was all his, whatever else Yakov tried to rule. “But that’s no reason to not have fun along the way. Come on, I’d love to get cleaned up before the bear brings us in for a good shouting at.”
“Us?”
“You’re right. Mostly me. Probably.” It was not especially reassuring.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” said Kenjirou cheerfully, which wasn’t reassuring at all.
In the end, getting cleaned up had been a wish that went unfulfilled: the summons came for them almost as soon as they rode through the gates. “No rest for the weary,” Christophe joked, and he pointedly ignored his own familiarity with the alcazar as they retraced the steps he’d once been able to make freely, as a welcome guest, burdened with nothing other than expectation.
Even that had proved far too much back when he’d been young and stupid.
Led through the archways into the council chambers, Christophe stopped at the threshold and performed the bow he hadn’t needed to make in over a century, isolated at the oasis, and chose to ignore the fact that it wasn’t just Jean-Jacques who burned with resentment for it. He’d pretended to be unaffected for decades, a technique which had served him well, and so he leaned into that habit, moved by rote. Viktor and Yuri stood nearby; the real surprise was Lilia, watching him with those eyes that always seemed to know everything.
“Your majesties,” he said, and began to summon his python familiar for reassurance alone until a slight tilt of Viktor’s head seemed to suggest that wasn’t the best of ideas. Yakov hadn’t moved, fixing the entire group of Western travelers with a stern glare.
“Steward,” said Lilia, instead, which was something, though for the life of him Christophe couldn’t figure out if it was a compliment or an insult. Yakov snorted, and looked at Viktor, jerking his chin in Jean-Jacques’ direction.
“Is this him?”
“Yes.”
“Go on, Vitya.” Yakov’s voice was hard, stern. “Give us your recommendation.”
“Jean-Jacques is the son of the stewards of Vaux Romandith, who have been primarily responsible for managing the affairs of the Western Kingdom in the absence of its heir. Their son is ideally placed to continue that work, and young enough that he never swore fealty to Christophe and was therefore never complicit in any …” Viktor paused, considering his words carefully, “… insults to the crown.”
Christophe glanced sidelong at Jean-Jacques, who folded his arms, mouth drawn into a thin line of displeasure. We talked about this, Jean-Jacques. They’d spoken about it at length, in fact, riding up the King’s road from Vaux Romandith. Christophe had one simple plan for how to survive this precise moment: Just shut up and let Vitya and I do most of the talking.
“… Furthermore,” Viktor continued, “In spite of an ill-advised legacy of hostility between our two courts, for which I am principally to blame …” That was a touch unexpected; Yakov didn’t seem to believe it but Christophe knew Viktor wasn’t particularly in the habit of saying things he didn’t mean. “ … he rode to the border to ensure our passage across the sunset road was completed safely, and in the short time I’ve had to observe him I’ve become convinced that he isn’t lacking in courage, that he genuinely wishes to see his people prosper, and that he holds honor in high esteem.”
Well. They had been doing so well. Yakov’s feelings sharpened on the last phrase and Christophe nearly winced. “Does he?” Yakov asked, and turned to look towards Jean-Jacques. “Is that true, boy?”
“Jean-Jacques.” Here we go. Christophe glanced at the young elf Viktor had seen fit to crown, eyes narrowing sharply in swift warning. It was better, generally speaking, to not bother with correcting Yakov. He’d learned that the hardest way, and now here Jean-Jacques was, trying to recover from that original mistake. Don’t be proud, you idiot.
“Do you hold honor in high esteem?”
“I do.”
Christophe saw the trap coming, frowned deeply, and said nothing. “Is it honorable to deny your King, do you think?”
Jean-Jacques blinked, realizing the situation he’d walked into, and he looked between Yakov and Viktor; the former waiting with a subtle, expectant smile; the latter’s expression schooled into neutrality, though a certain worry hung in his eyes. Perhaps tellingly, they all turned to look at Christophe.
“Only when the King himself is dishonorable,” Jean-Jacques replied, because he couldn’t not tell the truth. Christophe opened his mouth to speak, torn between the urge to try to soothe the remark over somehow and to simply plant his face in his hands because they’d had a plan for this, and that plan had not involved Jean-Jacques simply doing things his own way.
It didn’t matter.
“Insolence!” Thundered Yakov, whose words bounced off of the stone walls and shook them, ominously. “The Southrons throw tradition in the face of the winds and even they have a better sense of etiquette and place.”
“Father —“
“Shut up, Vitya. Your judgment is presently highlysuspect.” Viktor’s eyes narrowed sharply and he must’ve taken the argument elsewhere, because Yuri had to reach out to pat his arm. “It’s been a century and the West still hasn’t learned to respect the order that’s been in place for a thousand years —“
Lilia coughed into one hand, her expression unchanged. “What the King is saying,” she murmured coolly, “albeit rather poorly, as is his wont —“
“Woman, you are in my house —“
“— is that you will never be acceptable to him without a promise of fealty.”
“Great,” cheered Christophe, putting up a smile that even he thought felt forced. “Just what we came here to do. Go ahead, Jean-Jacques.” Get it over with.
“I won’t swear fealty to him,” said Jean-Jacques, and Christophe finally gave into that original urge, immediately dropped his forehead into a waiting palm. We talked about this. We did. He missed what Jean-Jacques did next, pointing to a startled Viktor.
“… but I will promise it to your son.”
Christophe looked up just in time to catch the joy that was Viktor’s face, the rare expression he showed when taken completely and utterly by surprise. “Sorry, what?”
“Good,” Lilia decided, before Yakov could speak. “That settles it.”
“You don’t rule in this house,” Yakov interrupted, only to be stopped by Lilia turning to fix him with a cold stare and a single, perfectly raised eyebrow:
“Don’t I?”
- - -
Later, Viktor cornered Jean-Jacques on the walk back to the guest quarters, ignoring Christophe as he strolled along behind. “You hated me when we met,” he recalled pointedly. “Insulted me, if memory serves…”
“You’ve changed,” Jean-Jacques replied, without the same assertiveness he’d shown standing in front of the King just a short while before. “You went and fetched Christophe, you reinstalled order, you … Nobody who looks at someone the way you look at that halfling could be intentionally cruel.”
“That’s dangerous thinking,” Christophe murmured, because, after all, Lilia and Yakov had loved each other once. Actually, as he could see plainly, even amidst the collision of their two egos, too big and too ancient for this earth now: they still did.
“I could be worse,” Viktor said, certain of it. He had the potential. Christophe knew that. “I could be selfish.”
“Maybe.” Jean-Jacques shrugged. “But not if you want him to keep looking at you the way that he does.”
- - -
Six weeks after Lughnasadh, 1017 II Age: Mid-Morning
Later, long after the Westerners had been escorted to the guest wing of the palace and after Yuri made the wise decision to accompany their father on a hunt while he cooled off, mother and son strolled through the castle together. “Are you sure about this, Vitya?”
“I am.”
“He will want a spectacle.”
“I know,” Viktor murmured, with a slight, subtle smile. “But Yuuri won’t.”
Do I have your permission, Mother?
“You have always had my permission.” Lilia didn’t smile but her gaze was softer, somehow, when she turned to look at Viktor, her son, the boy who was someday going to be a King to rival all of the ancients. Swept into a sudden hug by her son, she slowly twined her long, graceful arms around his shoulders. “But tell your father yourself. I’ve done you enough favors for one morning.”
- - -
Six weeks after Lughnasadh, 1017 II Age: Mid-Day
“Prince Viktor?” Hiroko looked surprised to see him standing there, outside the guest suite that had been arranged for her family. “Yuuri isn’t here; Mila came by this morning, I think —“
“I know.” Viktor had been the author of that diversion; something to keep Yuuri’s spirits up while he sat in the throne room and listened to Yakov shout while they re-established the rights of the new Prince of the West. “… I was looking for you, actually.” He glanced over her shoulder, saw Mari and Toshiya sitting in the background on one of the chaises, playing some sort of card game. “All of you.”
So accustomed to helping, so used to their years of service at Hasetsuil, nearly all of the Katsuki clan sprang into action:
Hiroko: “What is it?”
“How can we help?” Toshiya.
Mari’s reaction was a little less warm; she didn’t stand, the way her father had, and her brow furrowed in worry, in care. “Is this about Yuuri?”
“Yes.” Nearly everything was about Yuuri, now. Yuuri whose mere existence now permeated his life, saturated his thoughts. “But it’s not like that. May I come in?”
Hiroko held the door open and Viktor glanced around the suite. It was probably best to sit, but he felt compelled by nervous energy not to do so; only just resisted the urge to pace. “It occurred to me that I’ve been … I’ve been …” Wildly and terribly in love at the same time, panicked by impending winter. Not thinking clearly.
He still wasn’t thinking clearly. That was what love did; it came in and moved everything around and sometimes he only still recognized himself because he was more fully himself than he’d been in years. As though the past decades had been like looking at some stylized, flat version of Viktor, the kind that made up Lilia’s tapestries, and now things were becoming real again for the first time. “Your son is amazing,” he said, changing tactics, and watched as Hiroko and Toshiya glanced between each other and shared a fond smile. “Your son is amazing and I had you summoned to Ast Petyriel without thinking, and you just accepted me and I never once asked —“
“Asked?” Mari asked, blinking slowly at this wonder that was the High Prince, looking as though he might sometime soon burst apart at the seams.
“Hiroko, Toshiya.” Viktor took in a deep breath, looked between Yuuri’s parents, steadied himself. “May I court your son?”
Hiroko gave out a short, warm laugh, and then covered her mouth, because the appearance of laughing at the Prince was no doubt the worst sort of etiquette breach, even if she’d really been laughing with him. It was Toshiya who stepped forward and clapped him on the shoulder. “Of course.”
“Great,” Viktor cheered, and took a breath again. “Great,” he echoed, and then he reached up and touched Toshiya’s hand, patting it slowly. “That’s great,” he repeated uselessly. Then, because he’d been charging headlong into this without restraint he asked the question he’d really come here to ask:
“May I handfast him?”
Both parents blinked at him and Mari finally stood up, shaking her head. “You really love him, don’t you?”
“Madly,” Viktor assured her, and he reached out, taking Mari’s hands in his own. Please. “May I?”
- - -
On his tour of the castle with Mila, Yuuri stopped suddenly, and turned his head to look back towards the Keep. “Yuuri?” She asked gently, flashing a curious, crooked smile. It was playful, electric. Someday someone was going to see that smile, the way Yuuri had seen Viktor on the Ardor, and plunge.
Yuuri laid a hand over his heart, listening to something, or perhaps, more aptly, feeling the things that she could not. “I need to find Vitya,” he murmured, and then he tilted his head with a soft and wondrous smile, like he’d been presented with a puzzle. “Vitya and my family.”
Mila had long since stopped questioning these flashes of insight that could flicker across people’s bonds. Instead she offered an understanding nod. “This way, then.”
He resisted the urge to run; it was the wrong season for it, and instead walked at a quick pace, faster than they’d gone all morning. Every so often his head spun with the effort of it, but Yuuri refused to let dizziness get the better of him, not with weeks to go to Samhain, and so he reached out to steady himself on the wall periodically, blinked away the world’s threatening tilt. When they arrived back at the guest quarters, Yuuri helped himself back inside his family suite, leaving Mila outside with a short, breathless hum of thanks. He froze as he stepped over the threshold, surprised to see Viktor hugging his sister with an unbridled grin, though Viktor’s gaze snapped to him immediately.
It was the sort of look that Yuuri never knew what to do with, so completely adored, so utterly cared for. Viktor carried whole oceans in his gaze; there was no containing them, no putting that into something neat and small and easier to hold onto.
It took his breath away every time.
“Yuuri,” Viktor murmured, and Yuuri’s breath caught in his throat as Viktor stepped forward, cupped his face in both of his hands, stroking his thumbs fondly over the sweep of Yuuri’s blush, unusually brilliant against the uncharacteristic pale of his cheeks. “Yuuri,” he whispered, and leaned forward, let his lips brush the edge of Yuuri’s ear.
A lifetime of simply listening to Viktor say his name might have been a life well spent, Yuuri thought, and he was so distracted by this that he nearly missed what came next:
“Yuuri,” Viktor repeated, softly, just for him: “Marry me.”
Viktor was as crazy as the seas, too; shifting and changing: never the same one day to the next and yet the same, the same, the same.
“Yuuri?”
He’d forgotten to speak, forgotten to breathe. “Y-yes,” Yuuri said, and then it was a struggle to repeat this against Viktor’s mouth or from within the crush of his family, though he understood now, that surging of warmth and happiness he’d felt from outside. It radiated through him in waves, warm and bracing as tongues of flame.
Yes. Yes. Yes.
He broke away to breathe, leaning into the Prince’s strength, held up on his feet by the anchors of Viktor’s arms. You’ll break him, warned a voice that sounded like Yuuri’s own, the one he’d been listening for far too long. You’ll ruin him when you go.
How could someone not love the sea, though?
Please, just let me have this.
- - -
Mabon (Autumn Equinox), 1017 II Age
It was Viktor who woke in the early light of the morning, who gently shook Yuuri awake, reminded him. Viktor who brought Yuuri to the Katsuki clan, and then left in search of his brother, his father.
It was Lilia who came knocking, who’d left a package in their care without an explanation (“something I’ve been working on”) before insisting she had other things to attend to in preparation for the ceremony. The gathering itself was small, far less attended than Yakov would have preferred, far more attended than Viktor would have preferred, consisting of the Northern Court, their two families, and the early revelers who’d answered Yakov’s summons and were due to stay here until Samhain. In the end compromise had been struck: this, for now; something formal later, something that would acknowledge the prestige of the family Yuuri was joining in the way that tradition suggested was appropriate.
Lilia had arranged their guests around the stone circle of the council room, set up altars to each of the four directions at its cardinal points, stood in the center of the circle, awaiting the arrival of each groom. The queen wore a heavy circlet of golden vines set over the severe bun at the top of her head, interlaid with gemstones that shone in various shades of green and white. Her gown featured these greens and bronze colors, and her cloak — finely embroidered like Viktor’s, like Yuri’s, no doubt of her own make — was a deep evergreen, all of the colors of Ast Petyriel and a better reminder of her wild nature magic. Yakov, who looked displeased but resigned, remained at the Northern point, dressed in dark shades of charcoal. He, too, bore one of Lilia’s magic cloaks, perhaps the first of its kind; the color of stone with a great black bear emblazoned across the back.
Viktor arrived first, walking alongside his brother, cloaked and crowned and in the formal attire which best emphasized that they were each royalty, lest anyone dared to forget the fact in Yakov’s own house. Yuri, glancing around the room, made one of his tch sounds, rather half-heartedly, and then pushed Viktor towards the center of the circle before walking over to the Northerners, where he lingered near Otabek; comfortable in the banshee’s shadow without needing to give into the urge to touch him.
Yuuri walked in second, and for the first time Viktor realized what Lilia’s project had been, started all those weeks ago, back in Ast Petyriel: unlike the time Christophe had seen fit to style the halfling, Yuuri wore his own clothes now; or rather, his new clothes, fashioned by Lilia: his tunic and pants, still in the Eastern style, softer than anything a Northerner would wear but more carefully embroidered with hints of scarlet and, subtly, navy too.
It was the cloak that caught his eye, the sort that was certainly of his mother’s make, scarlet as blood but bearing the emblazoned phoenix on the back, lifting skyward amidst a swirl of golden flames.
Yuuri’s cheeks flushed almost as red as his hood as he met Viktor’s gaze, and Viktor, in a subtle daze of his own, reached somewhat belatedly for his hand, held it as they both turned to look at Lilia.
Mother, how did you —
— it doesn’t take any particular genius to see how you look at him, Vitya, and to realize you've never looked at anyone before and will never look at anyone hence that way.
“Are you crying?” Jean-Jacques hissed lowly to Christophe, from where they stood near the Western part of the Circle.
“I love weddings,” Christophe whispered back, laying a hand on the python coiled over his shoulders, his eyes soft. To be in the presence of such a tangible love was to be awash in a magic not of his own making and it was impossible not to simply bask in that glory. It reminded him of his own, promises made in front of a group of the rangers, in a place that was far from here. “When’s yours going to be?”
Jean-Jacques looked surprised and then glanced over his shoulder at Isabella; Isabella who’d tolerated all of his flaws, all of his bravado, and still chosen him. He managed a wry smile. “Maybe you’ll officiate,” he declared, and then Lilia was speaking, and he waited to watch.
“Yuuri and Viktor, know you this before you go further: the twining of your lives will form eternal and sacred bonds. With full awareness, know that within this circle, you are not only declaring your intent to be hand fasted before your families and your witnesses, but you speak that intent to the ancients and to the gods. The promises you exchange today and the ties made here will greatly strengthen your union, and will forever mark your souls as you grow. Do you still seek to enter the ceremony?”
“Yes,” said Viktor, resolute, and Yuuri, inspired by his example, his willingness, echoed the same.
“It is our custom that all things share a spark of original divinity,” Lilia murmured. “We align ourselves with the four elements, each of which carries an original blessing of the gods for your union. Blessed be this union with the gifts of the East, bearing openness and breath, communication of the heart, and purity of the mind and body.” She gestured to the Easterlings, standing around the Eastern altar, and then laid a hand on Yuuri’s shoulder. “From the east you receive the gift of a new beginning with the rising of each Sun, and the understanding that each day is a new opportunity for growth.” Slowly Lilia turned to regard Seung-gil, standing alone to represent the Southrons. “Blessed be this union with the gifts of the South, for energy, creativity, and summer’s warmth. From the passion inside, may you generate light, strong enough to share with another in your darkest hours.”
Looking West, Lilia pointedly ignored Christophe as he gave a whistle, grinning through the sparkle of his eyes. “Blessed be this union with the gifts of the West, for your capacity to feel emotion. In marriage you offer absolute trust to one another, and vow to keep your hearts open in sorrow and in joy, in strength and in weakness.” Finally, her hand moved to Viktor’s cheek, and Lilia offered a slight smile, her first. “Blessed be this union with the gifts of the North, which provides safety and security. May the earth feed and enrich you, and give to you a stable home to which you may always return.”
Always return took on new meaning, now, and Yuuri looked away from Lilia to Viktor, letting those words sink in against the reality of coming cold:
Always, he thought. I will always come back for you.
“I’m supposed to bid you look into each other’s eyes,” Lilia murmured, “but I see that I won’t have to do so.” She glanced over her shoulder, back towards Yakov and Yuri. “Yura, please?”
Yuri came forward carrying four cords, and he looked at Viktor for a brief moment, then handed the first one to his mother. “Will you honor each other as equals in this union, and respect another, and seek to never break that honor?”
Equals. Yuuri had never dreamt of the word, not relative to the High Prince, and here they stood, Vitya convinced of the truth of it, accepting and encouraging. Viktor’s silver magic trickled over Yuuri’s fingers in sweeping waves; Yuuri’s moved slowly up Viktor’s arm, soft and pale as golden sand. Blue eyes met his in understanding and Viktor waited until they both spoke together:
“We will,” they agreed, as Lilia tied the first knot.
“And so the binding is made,” she said, and accepted the second cord from Yuri. “Will you share each other’s pain and seek to alleviate it?”
I will, thought Viktor, determined. He was going to find a way somehow. I will, thought Yuuri, who somehow was going to ensure that Viktor might wake up and know he was cherished, even in his absence. Ocean blue and vermillion red spiraled delicately around their fingers, delicate and purposeful: lest the flames sear the sea, or the water extinguish the fire. “We will.”
“And so the binding is made,” Lilia confirmed, and tied the knot, taking the third cord. “Will you share the burdens of each so that your spirits may grow in this union?”
“We will.” Yuuri’s heartbeat hammered in Viktor’s ears, rabbit-rapid; he smiled broadly, fondly, and watched the same expression blossom on the halfling’s face. Yuuri’s magic was warm; not quite so fierce as he remembered, now, but comfortable and careful as hearth and home, and he could feel it starting to seep into his skin, sense the nervous flush that made up the fire mage, closer than it had ever been before.
“And so the binding is made,” repeated Lilia. “Will you share each other’s laughter, and look for the brightness in life and the positive in each other?”
Somehow it was Yuuri who laughed first, astonished, and Viktor who followed him. “We will.”
Lilia tied the fourth knot. “So the binding is made,” she said, and reached up to clasp both of their shoulders. “Will the families of these two here come forth?”
The Katsukis stepped forward, and Mari bumped her brother’s shoulder before moving behind Viktor, where Toshiya, Hiroko, and Mari each laid a hand on his shoulders. Yuri glanced back at the King and then tilted his head towards Yuuri, as they both moved forward afterwards.
This won’t work without you.
I know, grumbled Yakov, who fixed Viktor with one more stern look. You’re still an idiot.
A tremendously happy, married idiot, Vitya shot back, flashing his heart-shaped smile and the full brilliance of his joy. Even Yakov gave an amused snort, and clapped his heavy hand on Yuuri’s shoulder. Lilia and Yuri did the same. “Let’s get this over with,” he said, and around Yuuri washed subtle waves of green, white, and the gray of stone. Over Viktor, Mari and her parents cast their magic, and for a moment they all stood in silence as these new bonds sank in.
“Will you share in each other’s hopes and dreams?”
Dreams too big to bear alone.
“We will.”
Viktor felt the warmth and familiarity of Yuuri’s parents; Hiroko’s kindness, Toshiya’s cheer, Mari’s laid-back ease. He understood suddenly how these influences had forged all of Yuuri's cares, had crafted his gentle heart. Yuuri felt Yakov, protective as the mountains themselves; Lilia’s keen insight; the unexpected brightness of Yuri, sharp as starlight, and knew, suddenly, that these forces, fierce and brilliant, had been slowly turning Viktor into diamond for decades, had forged him and then made him shine.
“And so the binding is made. Yuuri and Viktor, as your hands are bound together now, so your lives and spirits are joined in a union of love and trust. The bond of marriage is not formed by these cords alone, but rather by the vows you have just made. For the fate of this union is held in your own hands. Above you are the stars and below you is the earth. Like the stars your love should be a constant source of light, and like the earth, a firm foundation from which to grow.” Lilia moved back around to the front of them as Yuri and Yakov stepped back to the Northern altar, as Yuuri’s family moved back to the East.
“May these hands be blessed this day,” she said. “May these hands be blessed this day. May they always hold each other. May they have the strength to hang on during the storms of stress and the dark of disillusionment. May they remain tender and gentle as they nurture each other in their wondrous love. May they build a relationship founded in love, and rich in caring. May these hands be healer, protector, shelter, and guide for each other. On behalf of all those present, and by the strength of your own love, I pronounce you married.”
Even if the assembly was small, there was a chorus of cheers, and then Yuri beat his mother to it:
“Kiss him, you idiot.”
Viktor did. Yuuri did.
Hearts and minds sang out the same tune: I love you, I love you, I love you.