#ellorgast

It’s late, but Byleth knows that Edelgard is likely to still be awake. Running a new empire is call for many late nights, and Edelgard does not sleep well even in the best of times. Byleth walks through the halls unbothered, and Edelgard’s personal guard lets her pass without incident. She’ll have to remember to tell Hubert about that - even she shouldn’t be able to get past the Empress’ guards without being questioned. They have to keep El safe, above all else.

She knocks on the door to Edelgard’s quarters, and after a brief pause, the Empress opens the doors. Edelgard’s hair is down, and she looks almost like the girl Byleth once knew back at the academy, although time has hardened them both.

“Byleth?” Edelgard says, standing perfectly straight, even at this hour. Empress is a mantle Edelgard can never put down, even when she is resting. “Is everything alright?”

“You have the Crest of Flames,” Byleth says.

“I- yes.”

“You could wield the Sword of the Creator,” Byleth replies. She feels a tiny coil of what she thinks must be envy, but she turns away from it. Envy is useless. Envy cannot bring back what she’s lost.

“I could,” Edelgard agrees. She’s uncomfortable with this conversation, Byleth thinks, but she needs to do something to alleviate this feeling.

“You should,” Byleth says. “I will teach you in the morning.”

Her dress is spotless white satin glimmering with seed pearls and a flowing overlay of chiffon embroidered with rosebuds. Angela has just finished dressing, and makeup, and had kicked out the well-meaning army of her mother and future mother-in-law and bridesmaids and photographer after the requisite pictures and champagne, just to take a moment for herself. The woman in the mirror glows with excitement and the flush of love, but there’s always a hint of nerves, of the finality of tying oneself to another person for the rest of one’s life. She knows, more than most, anything can happen. Countless tragedies spring from a single blink-of-the-eye catastrophe, or one bad decision. 

A knock, a harmonious, familiar voice at the other side of the door. “It’s Jay. Are you decent?”

He looks exceedingly handsome and somehow a bit stately, dressed in pale grey linen with a sprig of sage and ivy— silvery and lush green— pinned to his lapel. It’s not a typical choice for a suit or boutonniere, but it suits more than black-tie would, and he’s holding something in his hands— gleaming silver. 

It’s a delicate tiara, wrought branches of metal so intricately worked as to look like the slender stems of living flowers and vines twisted together. Drops of clear crystal like dew glitter against the silver, along with fantastical flowers carved out of jewels— blue irises, pink rosebuds, yellow daisies and red poppies— an effect which should’ve been crass, but when he places it on her head, over the filmy lace veil, she looks like a fairy princess. The metal feels slightly warm and almost alive against her hair, and she smiles up at this surrogate brother, this forever friend. “How did you know I’d looked in every single boutique in this city and couldn’t find anything?”

He grins, and the stately, somewhat remote look vanishes. “Well. For one thing, this is super old. But I am firmly of the belief that it will bring you good luck, you little ball of sunshine. I brought it out of storage.”

She thinks art nouveau, circa 1920’s, perhaps out of a safety deposit box somewhere in a bank. He knows, but doesn’t say, that it had been wrought by the masterful hands of his clan’s greatest artisans, in moonlit smithies high up in mist-shrouded mountains back before the first ships had ever even crossed the ocean, blessed by starshine and magic and centuries’ worth of romantic hopes and dreams. She just knows that it fits perfectly, and her eyes shine a bit brighter in the reflection, and she reaches up, impulsively, to give him a hug. “Something old, right? Thank you.”

“I wish you all the best and brightest of this world’s blessings, my friend.” He presses a brief, grave kiss to her forehead, right under where the metal meets skin, and it feels like the strangest of benedictions, almost solemn and formal. But then he steps back, and he’s Jay again, and he makes a cheeky comment about how beautiful she looks and how Adam is going to swallow his tongue when he sees her, and he leaves as quickly as he’d come on quick and silent feet.

**

Something New…

The blind date with Jareth’s friend had gone surprisingly well. Zhen, with his indolent green eyes and roguish smile, is well-spoken and courteous, with an almost-dangerous way of looking and listening to a woman as though he’d been waiting all his life for what she had to say at any given moment. Raina considers herself immune to such foolishness for the most part, but that Jareth considers him a friend is a point in his favour. It’s unspoken, but not unknown, that she and Jareth are both a bit out of the realm of the ordinary mortals who surround them.

When she’d mentioned the wedding, he’d cheerfully agreed to go as her date. “I love weddings. Such an optimistic sort of atmosphere, no? Whatever storms the happy couple may face in the future, for today they are deeply in love, heads and hearts full of rose-coloured dreams and hopes. And then they almost always have fabulous food and delicious cake. That cannot be overstated.”

She’s not as optimistic, perhaps, about the concept of marriage. But she rather likes Adam King, out of her colleagues at the hospital. He’s intelligent and capable, as is expected for his profession and academic record, but furthermore, there’s a soul-deep, untarnished light of compassion and empathy in the blue of his eyes. He had not become a healer because it was his birthright, like her, but because he genuinely, in his quiet, mortal way, felt and wanted to heal the pain of his fellow humans. It stirs a long-dormant feeling of fond protectiveness in her, and when she and her date go to wish the happy couple well at the start of the reception, she means it genuinely.

Zhen looks keenly interested in the proceedings, and though she’s quite sure that neither the bride nor groom had ever met him before, he greets them both with the cordiality of a socially-adroit man intent on befriending them both. He had not brought a gift-- (she had picked a popular programmable coffee and espresso machine out of the online registry, knowing Adam’s fondness for mochas)-- but he’d brought a card, and tucked in a scratch-off lottery ticket. He hands it to Adam, in person, rather than adding it to a pile left somewhere, and the groom opens it, reads the message aloud.

“Best of luck with your love and your lives together. Blessings upon you both.” It’s a nice enough message, and written in exuberant flourishes of looping script. Good-humouredly, Adam claps Zhen on the shoulder, and scratches off the silver wax on the lottery ticket, then his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline as he scans the ticket again.

“Did you win something?” Zhen inquires pleasantly, his lazy smile playing across his lips.

“Three matched sevens across, and then these two numbers mean…” Adam furrows his brow, and glances around before lowering his voice. “I’m not much for playing the lottery. But if I’m reading this correctly, did I just win $5000?!”

“Well, well.” Zhen’s voice is low and pleased as an animal’s purr. “How lucky for you, my friend. I do think that is a fantastic beginning to your new life together, wouldn’t you say?”

Raina hears pleasure and something close to triumph in her companion’s voice, but not even a little bit of surprise. This man, with his scintillating gaze and effortless charm, is much more than he seemed. She’d have to keep an eye on him.

**

Something Borrowed…

Linden Thorne does not often work in the role of caterer, but on impulse, she had accepted to provide both the cake and food for this wedding, and she had found herself pleasantly surprised at how much she’d enjoyed it. 

The bride and groom were perhaps two of the most pure-hearted, genuinely good mortals that she had ever come across. A doctor and a social worker, both working tirelessly to help and heal the physical and emotional damage of any of their fellows that crossed their paths-- and humans are a fragile lot, indeed. They had been pleasant, easygoing, not at all demanding, and so deeply in love that both of them all but glowed with it. The bride especially, with her boundless energy and equally irrepressible sweet tooth, took particularly well to any and every thing that Linden had her sample.

So, she’s not entirely surprised when Angela-- who had been Angela King for all of perhaps an hour-- peeks into the kitchen area where the wedding reception is taking place. Linden has a half-dozen sous chefs and assistants putting together delicate canapés with the efficiency of a battalion following the directives of their commanding officer: a lanky young man is on top of a step-stool putting the finishing touches on the top tier of the wedding cake-- translucently thin slivers of gold leaf, velvety rosebuds in shell pink and scarlet, a woman with a severely pinned bun is garnishing exquisite smoked salmon toast rounds with glossy black caviar and eyelash-thin fronds of fresh dill. The bride, still in her gown though sans veil, grins at her with a good-humoured yet half-embarrassed look that Linden interprets in an instant.

“You’re starving, aren’t you?”

“A bit, yeah. I had a salad last night for dinner. Then it was my fault this morning because I was too excited to eat. But now I’m shamelessly begging in here like I have no sense. You can totally tell me to buzz off.”

Linden finds herself laughing, unoffended. “It’s your wedding, so it would not make much sense for me to tell you to buzz off, wouldn’t you agree?”

“But you’re busy, and this is probably rude of me, so…”

“I will forgive it this time.” Linden steps away from the buzz of activity, digs through the pantry and fridge. The bride is a silly, bright-eyed slip of a girl, sweet and pure as vanilla buttercream, and if the world has yet to break her spirit, who was Linden to take that onerous task into her hands. She cuts two slices of rye bread, then adds Dijon mustard, peppery arugula leaves, generous slices of red tomatoes and sharp cheddar and cold chicken breast. A sandwich is probably the least glamorous meal that she could have put together in that moment, but the girl’s eyes light up like stars nonetheless. 

Linden, with an indulgent smile, slips her own chef’s apron off of her neck, and carefully ties it over the bride’s flowing white gown. “Okay. Eat up.”

“Oh, God, this is the best thing I’ve ever had, and I know I’ll be saying that again like twenty times tonight after everything else you’ve made, too,” Angela says in between bites, looking like a mischievous fairy princess who’d snuck down to the palace kitchens in that borrowed apron. She finishes the sandwich with rather unladylike haste, but then gets up, with her usual endless energy, and reaches up to give Linden a hug. It’s such a human gesture-- warm and impulsive and sweet and unexpected, and Linden pauses awkwardly before returning it.

“Feel better now?”

“Oh yes. Thanks for the apron. And the sandwich. And everything.” Angela slips the apron off, mussing her hair just the faintest bit, then beams up at Linden again. “I really hope that you’re as happy as I am today. Forever. Does that sound silly?”

Forever is a long time, far beyond the scope of what this silly mortal bride could fathom, but Linden knows that the bright-eyed, perhaps foolish girl means it with every beat of her kind and affectionate heart. And so she lets the genuine goodwill of the wish warm her spirit, like a borrowed candle shining valiantly on a dark night, far after the party is over and the bride is well on her way to her honeymoon. 

**

Something Blue…

The late September breeze filters through the tall, slim boles of a tall aspen decked in autumnal gold outside on the grounds of a Manhattan church, the sound soft and gentle as whispered prayers. Inside, a wedding ceremony is taking place, a young man and woman exchanging their vows to their God and each other to live the rest of their lives together in love and unity and devotion. 

Contrary to popular belief, Kafziel does not spend the majority of his time on the premises of churches in the city. But this morning finds him on the rooftop of this particular building, a stalwart sentinel visible only in the fleeting, ever-changing reflections of the panes of the intricate rose window in the facade of the building. Of course, there is no one around to see him-- all the visitors to the church are well enough inside to watch the happy couple getting married. 

Kafziel knows, of course, the history of the bride and groom, as he knows the history of every other man, woman and child currently living in that great city, and even by his exacting standards, both of them live decent, upstanding lives above reproach. Neither of them were born here; indeed, the young man in particular had been the product of a most unpromising beginning. And yet, they had found their way here, and to each other, and flourished in love and light and goodness despite everything which might conspire to tarnish the kindness of two such spotless souls.

The pane of leaded glass reflects, at that moment, a face of stark, stern beauty and foreboding. “Let love be genuine. Abhor what is evil; hold fast to what is good.” The words are familiar and easy, but Kafziel knows, more than any, of the way great darkness follows great light with dogged, demoniacal tenacity. There is a chill in the air; winter is coming, and with the frost portents sharp strife, perhaps even great trouble. Those who would engender all which he abhors would feed, frenzied, upon the darkest, basest impulses and sins and actions. The happy couple who are even now enjoying their first kiss as man and wife have no idea that their union portends any number of potential catastrophes of a dark and sinful world rebelling against their very radiance. Kafziel’s reflection squares its shoulders, firms its grip on the mighty, fire-tipped sword that throws jewel-like beams of light through the stained glass into the building.