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Garreg Mach was chosen for the wedding because it was more-or-less equidistant between Almyra and Brigid, and Claude and Petra had met there while students, so it made sense on a number of levels. Everyone who survived the war was invited, which Lorenz expected; what he did not expect was for Claude to request he serve as Best Man. True, they had grown close over the course of the war and the reconstruction that had come after, and met for tea at Fodlan’s Locket multiple times once things had quieted down--Lorenz had even spent more than a few afternoons with Claude crafting love poems to send to Petra and had frequently served as their go-between contact in Fodlan--but he had thought Claude would give such an honor to someone who hadn’t once actively hated him.
Claude had assured him that all he would have to do was look pretty and make sure he (Claude) didn’t drop the ring, which Lorenz was quite capable of doing.
While the wedding was to be held in the Cathedral, it was to be officiated by an Almyran cleric and invoke the Almyran gods and Brigish Spirits to bless the marriage, albeit underneath the benevolent gaze of a restored Sothis, painted to brilliant life by Ignatz. The Cathedral hummed with more languages than Lorenz had ever heard in his life: Brigish, Fodlanese, Almyran, and Dagdan all intertwined into a kind of miraculous music, a hymn to Claude’s dream of making a large world smaller.
“I feel like I’m going to puke,” Claude muttered to Lorenz as they waited near the makeshift Almyran-style altar that had been prepared.
“No, you won’t,” Lorenz said and swatted Claude’s hand away from tugging at a sash that was already straight and wrinkle-free. The man looked handsome in a tunic of gold and billowing, ivory-colored pants; his waist/shoulder sash brilliant red with wyvern, deer, doves, and rabbits embroidered in gold on the delicate cloth; the kingly diadem that rested on his brow, hair ruthlessly tamed through an hour’s effort on Lorenz’s part completed the stunning image.
“Something on my face?” Claude only half-joked.
“Just your poor excuse for a beard.”
Claude snorted, but did crack a smile, although his eyes always drifted back to the closed front doors of the Cathedral.
“You should be proud,” Lorenz said, looking out on the gathered crowd as well. “Between you, Petra, and the Professor, you’re on the road to realizing your dream of a world where borders are meaningless is coming to fruition. Are you really planning on alternating between each other’s countries with the seasons?”
“Well, no one else wants to hold the Brigish throne besides Petra and power in Almyra is fairly decentralized, so I can be away for a few months at a time. They also agree that having Petra out of the way of seasonal storms would be good, so she’ll be staying with me during typhoon season and I’ll be living with her during the other half of the year.”
“You two will have to make sure to visit,” Lorenz said.
“Of course,” Claude said. “We have to travel through Gloucester territory to get to each other, after all, and I wouldn’t miss your rose-tea cakes. Who knew you would be such a good baker when you’re such a horrid cook?”
“I find your compliments lacking.”
Claude chuckled.
The sound of the main Cathedral doors cracking open immediately hushed the crowd, but that silence was quickly replaced by the sound of drums, tambourines, and a rather peculiarly shaped kind of horn as the bridal parade--and it was a parade--came almost bursting through the doors.
Petra’s youngest cousins were first, trailing ribbons and flower petals, tiny bells tied around their wrists and ankles on ribbons. They criss-crossed the aisle on light feet, making plenty of noise and almost chucking the petals and ribbon-pieces as hard as their little arms could manage; it was considered good luck, apparently, to catch a petal or ribbon. The children were remarkably well-trained, however, and took up their positions flanking the altar, after placing the baskets that held the dredges of ribbons and petals at the base. They were to help the Almyran cleric with various smaller tasks throughout the ceremony.
After them came the bridal party, all of whom were either playing instruments--some more expertly than others--while some held large fans of feathers that concealed the woman who strode in the center. No one could see anything beyond the bejeweled sandals and expertly painted toes that belonged to the bride, save for perhaps a hint or two of ritual temporary tattoos in silver pigment on her tanned skin. They sang a traditional song in Brigish that Lorenz had no hope of translating, but it was apparently half-celebration, half-taunt to the groom. The bridal party was keeping him from her, he would have to prove his worth before they would reveal her. Those carrying the feather fans would occasionally ‘slip up’, allowing the briefest glimpse of gold, purple, and green--the colors of wealth, royalty, and health--and flowers.
They stopped a small walk away, and the music changed to a call-and-response between Claude and Dorothea, whom Petra had chosen as her Maid of Honor. It was all in Brigish, but Lorenz had been given a small pamphlet with the words in Brigish, then their translation. He had read it out of curiosity, and found it delightfully romantic. To him, the words read as a sort of vows-before-vows, Dorothea challenging Claude and making him affirm that he intended to be a partner worthy of the Queen of Brigid. They were, apparently, ritual words, and Claude had a better singing voice than Lorenz anticipated, even if his voice did break a little bit due to emotion; not that anyone noticed or cared. Not when, upon one final vow to never grow complacent, the bridal party all removed themselves in a surprisingly coordinated motion to reveal Petra.
A susssurus of whispered approval and admiration floated through the quiet left in the wake of the song, Petra resplendent in her bridal clothes, flowers braided in her hair and hanging around her neck, the diadem of the Brigish monarch barely peeking out from her luxurious hair. Her makeup was exquisitely done, her large, golden tier earrings flashing in the candlelight, the floral embroidery on her dress enhanced with precious jewels. Her eyes were alight with joy as she drank in the sight of her husband-to-be--apparently both Brigid and Almyran thought it bad luck for the spouses to see each other before the ceremony on the day of the wedding--as the bridal party redistributed itself on Petra’s side of the altar.
The grooms’ party had quietly filed in while Claude was engaging in the ritual back-and-forth with Dorothea; since the rest of the ceremony was Almyran in nature, they had wanted to keep the Brigish tradition front-and-center, so to speak.
Eventually, Petra stepped forward and Claude seemed to be drawn to her, leaving his post to take her hands in his and press delicate kisses to the back of each hand. He whispered something to her that made her actually giggle before they faced the Almyran cleric; the woman was, apparently, one of the few people who had seen beyond Claude’s Fodlanese blood and had served as a protector and supporter for him amongst the Almyran clergy, and in spite of eyes dimmed with age, she looked almost as joyful as the couple to be wed.
Lorenz was used to Fodlanese weddings, which were generally solemn affairs, so he did not expect one of the first things to say was to be a mild jab at Claude’s expense; admittedly, such made Claude laugh and Lorenz was relieved to see the tension drain out of his friend’s shoulders.
The ceremony was performed in Almyran, although vastly abridged due to not everyone speaking the language. Lorenz had, again, been given a pamphlet with everything the cleric, Claude, and Petra would say--he even had a few lines that he had drilled until he caught himself saying them in his sleep. He was also called upon to actually help put the ring on Petra’s finger, as Dorothea was required to help put on Claude’s--afterall, the bride and groom’s hands were conjoined in a tangle of ribbon in the traditional colors of Brigid and Almyra, the weave specifically and carefully woven by the cleric as the bride and groom promised themselves to each other before the Almyran gods. Thus, they didn’t have the ability to do much else--it was, apparently, a way to emphasize that a couple had a community to rely on as well as each other, and that their lives would be intertwined with not only each other, but the friends and family they also held dear.
After the rings were settled on the newlywed’s fingers, the cleric--in Fodlanese--pronounced them husband and wife. A cheer went up in the church as the couple kissed, there seeming to be a kind of competition between the Almyran and Brigish delegates as to whom could cheer the loudest. Dorothea and Lorenz helped stabilize the weave of ribbons so Claude and Petra could remove their hands without disturbing the overall pattern, and the bundle was handed to the cleric--for safekeeping, since Petra immediately grabbed her husband’s hand and started to dance with him in the Cathedral itself; Claude’s hand went up to his head to stabilize his daidem as he laughed and followed along as they danced their way down the aisle and towards the Dining Hall, where the reception was to be held. The bridal party and attendees all filed out after them, laughing and singing in all the languages present, music following the clearly deliriously happy couple.
Lorenz stayed behind until the rest of the attendees had cleared out of the church, and looked up to Sothis--who had the Professor’s eyes and secretive, mysterious smile--feeling surprisingly at ease. For the first time in years--since he had learned the Sothis existed in the body of his teacher and that two people he personally knew were Saints of lore--he bowed his head and prayed--for Claude and Petra’s happiness, for ambitions fulfilled, and for lasting peace.
His revere was cut short by the Almyran cleric touching his shoulder, and he gave the older woman a smile. “Would you like me to escort you to the festivities?”
“If you’d be so kind,” she replied in thickly-accented Fodlanese.
Lorenz offered his arm to the cleric, and together they made their way towards the feast the Claude had meticulously, obsessively, gleefully planned.