#sword proposal

Raven shook her head and took her hand rather than continue talking, studying the thin strand of tungsten that wrapped around her finger. Her pale fingers traced the edge of the band, eyes narrowing in thought.

“Kory?”

At the older woman’s hum, Raven asked, “How well does this hold up with your powers?” She lifted their hands to stare at the ring in the light, a tinge of concern in her voice, “This is entirely too beautiful to be accidentally melted.”

“I don’t wear it when we fight.” Raven’s gaze flicked to her face in surprise. “It’s far too valuable to me.” Kory looked down at the ring, her smile widening, “Besides, on Tamaran we don’t wear jewelry on our fingers; it invites misfortune.”

The teen nodded, “I’d imagine a degloved finger isn’t considered lucky.”

Kory chuckled, pulling Raven up with her as she made her way to the elevator, “It really isn’t.” She motioned to the doors, hitting the call button, “How about we go flying before patrol?” Raven smiled and nodded, gliding next to her.

A few minutes later they flew in comfortable silence, taking in the flickering lights and homebound birds from the clouds. Raven felt the older woman’s curiosity and turned to look at her, one brow raising under the shadow of her hood.

Kory smiled clumsily. She hesitated for a moment, then questioned, “Do Azarathians have any marriage customs? I know you were raised by monks, so marrying wasn’t too important to your education. But…”

The redhead trailed off, the curl of her shoulders inviting the younger girl to answer. Raven ran her tongue over her teeth in thought, diving a few feet lower until her cloak nearly skimmed the rooftops. Kory followed patiently, giddy at the consideration in her teammate’s form.

“Rings are sacred on Azarath,” The teen’s voice was low as she spoke, her tone fond and distant. Kory watched as the goth fiddled with the twin bands that constantly adorned her middle fingers before flicking back to her hooded face. “The monks were abstinent, yes, but the alcolates married and had children, had families…” Her amethyst eyes shut for a long second before sliding back open, “We had betrothal necklaces and, after four circuits of the moons, the matrimonial strands were presented and tied during the ceremony. Although the women were often the ones to carve the necklaces.”

Her pale fingers flexed once, twice. The goth continued, “Rings were only for monks. My unique nature allowed myself to actually have rings of my own, whether or not I forever planned to stay a monk.”

She was quiet after that, lost in her memories (as she often was whenever she talked about her home dimension) and Kory didn’t bother speaking, filing that information away for later. She briefly thought of Damian and his budding relationship with the goth but threw the idea aside, not wanting to jinx her wishes.

As it turned out, ‘later’ wasn’t for another four years, eight months, three weeks, and six days.

Dick had burst into their apartment, a giddy grin on his face as he peppered kisses onto his daughter’s cheek and spun her around. He beamed at his wife, nearly vibrating with excitement, “Dami’s thinking about proposing!”

Kory had paused in preparing the toddler’s snack, her head tilting to the side in thought. She hummed, making up her mind, then flew over to plant a quick peck on her daughter’s forehead, then kissed her husband (X’hal, nearly five years and she still wasn’t over how amazing that sounded). “I need to talk to Damian. He hasn’t bought a ring yet?”

Dick shook his head, “No, he’s still looking around. Why? Have some ideas?” He waggled his eyebrows at her, spurring Mar’i into another fit of giggles and Kory to place an exaggerated smooch to his cheek. “I have some advice. I’ll be back soon. Have fun you two!”

Damian wasn’t all too hard to find, all things considered. The Batman-to-be was brooding next to a gargoyle, staring at her in annoyance as she appeared. She knew why, if the silent zip of his notepad being placed in his utility belt meant anything.

The Tamaranean sat next to him, looking over downtown Blüdhaven as businesses prepared to close for the night. After a moment the young man relaxed (as much as he would allow. He was still on patrol, after all.) and considered her from the corner of his mask.

“Grayson told you.”

Kory hummed, choosing not to answer. Instead she leaned back on her palms, “She loves you so she’ll say yes. Just don’t buy her a ring. They’re religiously sacred on Azarath.”

He didn’t seem phased by her words, although his back got just a bit straighter at Kory’s positive conviction of his future, “I know.”

“Oh?” Kory felt a smile slide on her lips, of course he knew already. “Any idea what you’ll ask her with, then?” Damian's shoulders drooped again and he ran a palm over his face, a heavy sigh finally escaping.

He cracked his jaw, eyes narrowing in consideration, “I have a few ideas.”

Kory stared at him for all of ten seconds before she spoke, “Well? Tell me.”

The hero clicked his tongue, “Superman gave me a fragment of that meteor he destroyed -- the one that would’ve leveled downtown Shanghai -- and I was going to carve her a necklace.”

The alien perked up at that, her head tilting to the side in thought. Before she could comment, Damian added, “I’ve seen manuscripts of her favorite Azarathian poems and I’m nearly fluent in reading the script...I’ll find a way to incorporate them, somehow.”

He leaned back against the gargoyle’s wings, biting the inside of his cheek, “Jon’s offered to let me propose in the Fortress of Solitude and both Pennyworth and Grayson promise they’ll find a way to ensure the library at the Manor is empty.”

Kory chuckled, running a hand through her hair, “She would like both, maybe the library more than the Fortress.”

“That’s what I was leaning towards.” Damian reached behind him and felt the scaffold on his back, picking at the palms of his gloves. He looked at Kory as she put a hand on his shoulder, smiling softly at him, “I meant what I said earlier, Damian. Necklace or not, library or not, she’s going to say yes.”

A tanned finger affectionately poked his cheek, “Just get to it before Dick slips up and tells her himself. As much as I love Cass and Steph I do want another sister, you know.”

Damian nodded, his mind racing as he thought about his soon-to-be maybe (probably) fiancée.

Nearly nine weeks to the day from his conversation with Kory, Damian found himself watching Raven in a mix of awe and love as she floated around, her eyes and hands engulfed with her power as she set about fixing the tattered remains of Gotham Park.

Ted Dymer lay sobbing in the back of a police cruiser already headed to the station, the Mad Bomber once again foiled despite his partly successful efforts. The rest of GCPD’s night crew had sectioned off the whole park, assured by the heroine that she would fix the playgrounds and patches of grass as much as she could.

She landed in front of him, a bit winded as she shakily stood. Her violet hair was illuminated by the lazy haze of the streetlights through the bombs’ smoke and her tired eyes shined as she took in her boyfriend’s flutter of emotions.

At the spike of anxiety, she leaned in worriedly, murmuring against his ear, “Habibi? Is everything okay?”

Damian blinked at her then turned around and motioned for the closest officer that still lingered to leave. Raven placed a hand on his shoulder as the squad car drove off, jumping a bit as Damian threw five smoke bombs, surrounding them from prying eyes.

“Damian…?”

He tore off his mask and grabbed her hands, kissing her bare knuckles as his mask fell to the dirt. His emerald gaze was as intense as his emotions and the empath paused, holding his gaze. 

“Marry me.”

Her eyes widened in surprise, too stunned to speak.

Damian slid his gloves off and kissed her knuckles again, peering up at her over his lashes. He took out his sword, his most prized possession besides the half-demon’s love, and knelt before her, his determined, lovestruck gaze never leaving her own.

“Raven Roth, I love you with everything that I am. You’re my life, my soul, my angel. And I don’t-- I don’t have a ring and I don’t have a necklace, but would you accept this sword as dowry? Will you be my wife?”

Still stunned, she couldn’t breathe as his words repeated over and over in her mind, even as tears began to form and she blinked, feeling them threaten to spill over. A trembling hand rose to cover her heart and she somehow found her voice, “Yes, Damian. Yes! Of course -- of course I will! Yes I’ll marry you!”

Damian just barely moved the sword out of the way when the demoness all but tackled him, covering his lips with her own. He wrapped his arms around her -- his fiancée -- and felt the wetness of her tears (if he was being honest, their tears) against his cheeks.

Her pale fingers intertwined with his along the sword’s hilt.

She giggled happily into their kiss, her dazzling smile as wide as his as they separated and laid their foreheads together. “I love you, Damian Wayne.”

He hummed low in his chest and stole another quick kiss, feeling drunk and giddy and ever in love, “And I love you, Raven Roth.”

Damian tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, watching as she brought the hilt up to kiss his knuckles. She grinned against his skin, “You’re my fiancé.” He watched, breathless, as she kissed up his wrist, skipping up to his elbow then jumping to his shoulder. He softly answered her, “I am your fiancé.”

Raven sighed happily as he pulled her up for another kiss. “And I am your fiancée,” she murmured into their embrace. Damian grinned as he hugged her flush against him, “You are my fiancée.”

He kissed her hairline, hearing her coo as she settled down in the crook of his neck, “And soon you shall be my wife, Mrs. Wayne.”

Her lips peppered along the curve of his jaw, “And soon you shall be my husband, Mr. Wayne.”

Even under the slowly dissipating shroud of smoke, their happiness was not invisible. Not a hundred yards away from them, Nightwing crouched on an apartment’s rooftop, his excited squeals smothered by a leather jacket. Unphased, the older of the two shook his brother’s shoulders in excitement, his cheek pressed against the crimson helmet.