under the bed

The grand cathedral is reserved for royal weddings and events sponsored by the royal family; as such, your wedding to the Lord Marshal Nabil is considered to be of high enough standing that the polished steps would be graced by you and yours on the day of the formal ceremony.

Standing by Nabil, you find yourself holding his arm tightly, fingers curled around the thick muscle of his forearm as the attendant speaks with your grandparents, laying out the nature of the event and the structure that will be followed on the day. Each word and dedication that will be required of the two of you grows more and more daunting, the ceremony at the grand gates, the mass in the main hall, and a smaller more ritual calling of blessings for the marriage with only the families of both the betrothed, the whole affair will last from early morning well into the evening, only to be followed by a feast at the newlyweds home to close the event.

There are names, families, stations, and select groups being mentioned, delegated, or declined for your wedding right before your very eyes.

The most you can offer is a smile and nod before the conversation swims past you; only partway through do you catch that your mother and father will come to the capital to give you away in proper fashion, drawing a small smile from Nabil as he feels your grip relax slightly, clearly the idea of having your parents by your side is more comforting than you'd expected.

Nabil cuts through the chatter with the ease of a man who had done so many times before, gently requesting to tour the grounds of the cathedral with you, promising to only walk the gardens and not disturb the old guard or the angel knights that may be tending to their duties inside.

Every step away from your grandparents feels lighter; the weight of your grandmother's gaze eases as the attendant of the cathedral calls for her to decide on the flowers to be present on the steps. Walking slowly as Nabil guides you, the talon caps he wears today match the pearls beaded onto the hairpiece you wear; the slow rhythmic brush of them along your arm is comforting, drawing you out of the nervous spiral this looming wedding was drawing you into.

"Not even in the moments we first shared alone have I seen you so shaken, nest mate mine. Does this event truly scare you so?" The feathers along Nabil's face ruffle and twitch as he leans down to speak to you; the soft brush of them draws a small burst of laughter from you. "I want this day to be about you and how I adore you. Not some useless show for the capital. Say the word, and I will end this now."

You can't help the fluster his words cause in you, the idea that he would exert his position and power to stop you from having to attend a wedding your grandparents had been planning, that he would act in defiance of his own family and cut the human tradition from this union. It warms you in a way you can only express through a longing gaze up at him; the gentle moment is met with a soft trill, like this single action would tide him over come hunger or thirst.

His voice is softer this time, a sweet whisper much like the way he had spoken to you the night he first kissed you, "Oh, what a kind nest mate I have; she braves the worries and woes of the social world for me…"

Standing amidst the cathedral gardens, shaded by trees grown for saints long since passed, he slips his talons under the edge of the lace gloves you wear. Dainty things that are all decoration, thin white material that casts interesting patterns against your skin; the glove he slips free is tucked into the breast pocket of his vest, kept safe as he presses delicate kisses to your knuckles, cooing to himself as he looks to you, violet eyes warm and bewitched.

"The things that I want for you, my sweet, and the things I am permitted are only so kept so far by this wedding-" pulling back, he slips the taken glove back into place, talons tracing the intricate details with such gentle attention, "-once the social world has been satisfied, I will keep you for a week and a day in my nest. Not a soul will take you from my attentions."

Such words being a heat to your face, and shamefully to your cunt.

The preparation for this human part of your betrothal is painfully delicate.

Each invite is a social test, a dance of words that paints you to certain types of nobles in one light but shadows you to another. Gifts are sent and received; your wrists ache as you pen thank you after thank you to those sending well wishes and small gifts for your coming wedding day.

Most curious is the small collection of preserves and wines from the same area as your parents' land titles come from; the bottles are neatly labelled and the jars sealed tight. The note tucked inside was all the same as the others on the surface, but reading the small addition hidden under the usual platitudes, you find yourself smiling. The sender was the spouse of the Treasury Guard Knight Commander; they had written about a taste of home and remembering the world outside of the capital. You remember a card coming from their estate not long after your marriage was announced, something that had the Knight Commander's signature on it; the card was on the mantle in your grandfather's study, something about a moment of great honour coming from such a card arriving.

The note you pen back is more personal, a true thank you and an open offer for tea if the sender was ever seeking company or if they ever held a curiosity about the flavours of your home territory through the gifts they had given.

Once the slew of thank-you notes and invitation cards were dealt with, came the dress fitting, a gift from Nabil's grandmother and matriarch of his family; she was adamant about the dress colour and the jewels that would be sewn onto the dress. Leaving your own grandmother to scramble to find ways to worm into the booking, trying to sneak peeks at the dress being tailored to flatter and flaunt your full figure.

The dress was far from human tradition in the capital: the usual white with an accessory to match the couple's new family heraldry was ignored in favour of dressing you in the same beautiful deep blue, violet colour Nabil's feathers take. Across the lines of the bodice sit pearls, beautiful deep grey and black patterns that draw the eye and flatter the colours you wear; the hem is strewn with lace, hand-woven into feather patterns that drag up the full skirts and end at the same place the pearls begin.

In all the dresses and outfits you have worn in the capital, none had made you feel quite as beautiful as this gown had.

Nabil's grandmother was very pleased with the way the fabric settled and clung to your body, making sure to cut off the attempts to add a corset or needless tightening to the dress. She knew her grandson loved you and your plush figure; he'd waxed on about it to her as they selected the small stones and pearls for your dress months before the gown was even done being designed. She'd make sure you looked as perfect as she could for her little bird.

Your grandmother had other ideas; she laid eyes on the gown and nearly fainted, screaming as if her words could change the already completed gown and magically change it into something she deemed appropriate for you to marry in.

The tailor who oversaw your dress was not impressed; even with the social standing your grandmother had, there was little she could do in the way of changing the dress colour, or attempting to add a corset to the gown so late into the preparation. Never mind the difference in power between her and Nabil's grandmother; the two women would simply have to disagree on the matter of your dress and the delicate crystal-lined veil that was made to match the gown you have come to love.

The day your parents arrived in the capital, you had been amidst the slow and arduous task of planning your vows, meaning that the moment you caught wind of their carriage arriving, you made quick work of crossing the estate and hurrying to the grand doors.

Stepping out onto the gravel of the carriage way, you almost cry at the sight of your parents; the warmth of your mother and father embracing you is long-missed. The afternoon is filled with chatter and laughter between you and your mother; the piece you couldn't write in the letter home is spoken between sips of sweet tea and huffs from your father as the two important women in his life chat away in the fading sunlight.

The evening meal would be the first time your parents were formally introduced to the harpy you were to be wed to, so you can't help but feel the immense rush of nerves take you as the dinner table is set with the finer porcelain pieces your grandparents own. The gold leaf sparkles under the lamplight, casting glittering shadows as the scattered candles on the table burn steadily; you'd not even eaten on these plates the night of your social debut; truly, your parents' impression of Lord Nabil is important to your grandparents; they had put much work into the appearance of aiding your relationship.

His entrance was announced by the head butler, the full calling of his title and name followed by that now familiar click of his talons on polished marble floors. Looking up from where you stand by your seat at the table, you can't help but smile.

Dressed in the same formal wear of your social debut, the moonstone-capped covers of hair talons extend gracefully as he greets your father first, then, with all the humility and honour one with the title of Lord Marshal should have, he bows to your mother, thanking her for blessing him with the chance of finding such a perfect partner in her daughter. The laughter that leaves your mother is joyful and blessed; she approves of his affectionate words about you, stepping to the side and letting him walk around the long dining table to your side for your own greeting.

The kiss to the back of your gloved hand hides the sharp look that crosses his face as he notes the set you are wearing, the same thin ones he had gifted to you and had you wear the day he feasted on you in the carriage to the tea house. This choice seems to pull a trill that you'd never heard from him before, a deeper rumbling sound that barely reaches any other ears than your own before he speaks.

"My nest mate bears my gifts well, a blessing indeed on this particular evening." Another gentle kiss is pressed to your fingertips before he pulls back, pulling your chair out and acting every bit the gentleman he was told to be.

You have high hopes for this first meeting. If the way your parents chat kindly with Nabil is anything to go by, hopefully the knot of tension that had settled behind your ribs should ease soon enough.