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She hates that this is how she has to think, now. Hates that the memory of Charvel’s bloody body is still so fresh in her mind. Hates that despite the exhaustion that sits heavy in her body, she lays awake at 4am, not thinking about all the fighting that continues after the end of a war, of where she’ll be sent next, of how many of the Camarilla are left lurking in the world, waiting for their chance to strike from the shadows. Instead she thinks about the last Bellweather wedding, of the knife buried in her chest and how that pain was nothing compared to the agony of seeing her cousin lifeless in that bathtub.
Charvel was murdered at her own wedding. Today, another Bellweather gets married. All she can hope is that five years later, in a different world, with the war finished in the often unfinished way that wars are, with the wedding held on the very grounds of Fort Salem…that all of this is enough.
And so she lays there and stares at the dark ceiling and tries to tell herself that it will be alright, because it will be and most of her knows that, accepts that – but there’s a part of her, a tiny little part of her that’s still scared and fearful, that expects the worst. It will be fine, Abigail tells herself, again and again, until her body and mind almost begin to believe it.
The blankets shift, and the warm body beside her moves closer, a lean arm slipping around her waist. Lips brush against her bare shoulder. She interlaces her fingers with her partner’s – and as always marvels in some way at how perfectly their hands fit together – and asks quietly, “Did I wake you?”
“I can hear you thinking,” a sleep-roughened voice replies, lips moving against her skin. “Did you get much sleep?”
“A bit. It’ll be dawn, soon.”
“Mm. Come here.”
With a coaxing tug of their joined hands, Abigail is encouraged to turn over and nestle into the comfort of the other’s embrace. She presses her face against the bare skin of her lover’s neck, eyes fluttering shut at the sensation of a loving kiss placed upon the crown of her head. Sooner than she realises, Abigail drifts off into an uneasy sleep that is only interrupted by the vocalised bells that ring out at dawn.
.
Tally brushes a piece of lint from her back and fusses over her epaulets for a moment. Then, after taking a little step back, her eyes meet Abigail’s in the mirror and she says, with a little smile, “You look very nice, Captain Bellweather."
Abigail considers herself. “We both do,” she murmurs. They always have worn the dress blues well. She supposes that the additions of their new rank and commendations make them look all the more formidable. She straightens her collar and, after glancing out the window, says, “If we leave now we’ll be fashionably early.” She feels too restless to linger in this room any longer.
And so they go.
They don’t need to travel far for this wedding. The ceremony is to be located on the grounds of Fort Salem, in the Birch Garden past the open parkland. It’s a good choice. Tranquil. Open. No buildings, no walls, no fences.
Nowhere for any interlopers to hide.
They make their way out of the building that serves as their current accommodation, the heels of their polished boots clicking against polished floorboards and then thudding against cement. Outside, the day is cool and pleasant, a pale blue sky dotted here and there with soft clouds. A throng of cadets on their way to class salute smartly as Abigail and Tally pass by. They return the gesture, and as they continue on, awed conversation reaches their ears.
“That’s them. Did you hear about the group of Camarilla they took out in March?”
“I heard Captain Bellweather stopped a natural tornado last year. She just waved her hands and it was gone!”
“Well, I heard Captain Craven is the best knower in generations. Apparently, she can look at you and know what you’ve been dreaming about.”
One of the young women – undoubtedly a unit leader – snaps, “Shut-up. You do realise that they can hear you, right?”
The others make hushed sounds of apology that fade as the cadets round the corner of a building. Tally giggles.
“That reminds me of us when we were young," she confides to Abigail.
“What, you rambling on and on?”
“Mhmm, and you telling me to shut-up.”
“You say it like that was a regular occurrence.”
“It kind of was, Abigail. But I guess I did ramble a lot.”
“Still do, Tal.” Her words are soft, though. Tally’s shoulder bumps against hers as they reach the grass.
They can see the Birch Garden now, ribbons of cloth and flowers draped through the tree branches, clusters of glowing witchlights bobbing in the air. Their footfalls are muffled as they cross the sprawling lawn. The closer they get, the tighter Abigail's chest feels and the faster her heart beats. But only laughter reaches her ears, laughter and the serene music the string quartet is playing. She inhales a breath and holds it, exhaling slowly and calmly, just like Colonel Wick had taught her all those years ago. Slowly, the painful thudding in her chest. She thinks of everything that is present and real - the smell of the grass, the sun in the sky, Tally's long steps matching hers, the warm and calloused hand holding hers.
Tally looks at her, a wordless question in her eyes. Her thumb sweeps a reassuring arc across the inside of Abigail's wrist. Abigail says, "It's alright." It's a reminder to herself more than anything else.
Petra’s waiting for them by the wrought-iron archway that serves as an entrance to the function area. They’re early, and so she hasn’t been waiting for them long, a fact that gives Abigail’s body another reason to relax.
The General of the Witch Army inclines her head at their approach. “Captain Bellweather. Captain Craven.”
“General Bellweather. You look incredible.” Tally clasps her mother’s hand, filling the noticeable void of Abigail’s hesitation. “I almost didn’t recognise the Birch Garden," she continues. "It's like stepping into a dream."
“We did well, didn’t we? I have to say, overseeing the wedding planning was a pleasant change from the usual day-to-day duties.” Petra Bellweather gestures down the avenue of birch trees, to where a familiar red-haired woman is guiding the lucky groom towards a cluster of English officers. Cooper, his name is. Abigail’s met him only once before, but he seems like a good sort – and more importantly, a good match for her cousin. “And Berryessa guided me in all of this. I have her to thank.”
“Your touch is visible,” Tally says, and there’s the hint of her eagerness that snaps Abigail back to the present, back to Tally’s hand now cupping her elbow, back to her mother’s own hand on her shoulder. “And it’s beautiful. Truly.”
“Thank you, Tally.”
The years have hardened and softened them in equal measure, she thinks, taking in the way her mother smiles at Tally, a rare and honest expression. Then her mother looks to her and asks, voice pitched lower, “Are you alright?”
“Of course,” she lies, conscious of how easily they can both read her. “Just a bit tired. We got back late yesterday. But it’s good to be here. Good to see Mara so happy.”
“We all deserve happiness,” Petra agrees. “And this is a joyous day. I only hope that we can all find some joy in it.” Her encouragement for them to find some enjoyment in the day is clear. She seems as if she is about to say something else, until something behind them catches her attention.
Abigail and Tally glance over their shoulders. A trio of women wearing the gold epaulets of rank are approaching across the lawn, Nessa Clary walking in the centre.
“Duty calls,” Petra Bellweather remarks with the tone of one who has long since grown used to these things. She takes their hands in her own and says, “I will find you before the ceremony. We are standing together.”
“Oh. You’re not…?”
“Mara asked Edith to participate in the handfasting ceremony.” Petra squeezes their hands. “I’ll have my turn, when you’re ready.”
And with that she departs, moving off to greet the other generals.
They move through the archway and into the garden itself. They linger there to take it all in – Tally was right, it is like stepping into a dream. Even though it is daylight, the witchlights still cast a gentle glow. Flowing streams of flowers and cloth are woven through the tree branches. Music and conversation float gently through the air. Little birds chirp in the trees and dart overhead.
The years have made them older, made their faces leaner, replaced that youthful shine in their eyes with the shrewd gleam of wisdom. They are still amongst the youngest here, though – a handful of lieutenants are mingling by the fountain, two lucky privates giggling at Colonel Holke’s bad jokes, some drill sergeants clearly relishing the chance to be away from their young charges for a few hours – and it’s vastly different from the traditional High Atlantic affairs that Abigail is used to.
“Come,” Tally says. She offers an arm, the picture of chivalry, and says with a dimpled smile, “Let us go and find the bride.”
Mara’s the centre of attention, as she should be. She’s from a branch of the family that serves in the Witch Navy, and is one of the Bellweathers that Abigail had only ever distantly known of, until war and the death of so many other Bellweathers brought them closer. In recent years, they have become good friends. As befitting a naval officer of her rank, she wears a sword at her side, though the blade is hardly ceremonial.
Those congratulating her now step away, and Mara beams to see them waiting their turn to meet with the bride.
“Lieutenant Commander Bellweather,” Abigail greets, smiling for the first time today. “You look incredible.”
“Captain Bellweather. Captain Craven.” She hugs them both. “You must’ve travelled fast to make it back in time. Last I heard yesterday morning, you were…held up.”
“No force on earth can stop a Bellweather when she has somewhere to,” Tally teases. Mara laughs, nodding in agreement. “Abigail got us out handily. A bat was waiting nearby.”
“Well, I’m very glad to see you both here.”
“We wouldn’t have missed this for the world,” Abigail tells her honestly. “It’s your wedding, Mara. Speaking of – where’s the lucky man?”
“Oh, Tansey’s showing him off to some of the guests. I think he’s a hit.” They look for him now, and find him still charming the English officers, Tansey looking quite pleased with it all. “It’s a good match,” Mara continues matter-of-factly, clearly happy with her choice. “The women of his family are strong.”
She remembers Charvel’s voice. “This is what Bellweathers do, when we’re not winning wars.”
They handfast.
They spend a few more minutes with Mara before leaving – it’s her wedding, and she has a multitude of people waiting to speak to her. Abigail hugs her again, tighter this time, and tells Mara how happy she is for her. Afterwards, they mingle with some of the officers. Coral Hallmote wants Tally’s opinion on a particularly promising young knower and Abigail’s presence at a weather work lesson in two days. Colonel Holke, who they’ve worked with on several missions now, greets them warmly before moving on to catch some old comrades. They find Edith and spend a good amount of time with her. Abigail had wondered if it would be hard to see her aunt here today, to witness Charvel’s mother at another Bellweather wedding, but if anything it eases the ache in her heart. It must be so hard for her, she thinks, marvelling at the strength Edith must display today. But Edith’s a Bellweather, they all are – they compose themselves in public, and grieve in private.
Soon enough Edith goes to join Mara, and they go on their way. It doesn’t take them long to find M. Their equal in rank is departing from a group of senior officers, and looks glad to see them.
“Fun chat?” Abigail asks, trying not to sound too stiff. It’s taking her a while to ease into the mingling, the endless greetings and farewells and shrewd looks from those who were at the last Bellweather wedding.
M grimaces. “Ha, no. Brigadier Habergon seems quite taken by the idea of me handfasting one of her children.”
“How many does she have?”
“Three daughters. A son. A good crop to pick from, or so I was told.” M rolls their eyes. “I think Berryessa knows about Habergon’s plan. She’s been giving me these little looks since I’ve gotten here, as if to say – ‘you’re next!’ If she comes over and starts talking about handfasting, please rescue me.”
“But why would we do that?” asks Tally, wide-eyed and grinning. “You’re a catch.”
“And you’re the worst. Don’t encourage this.”
Their good-natured bickering continues. Abigail looks around, wondering if any of other close comrades are amongst those gathered here. The last month has been a strange time, soldiers and officers coming and going from the Fort at all hours of the day and night, dispatched to chase down rumours of rogue Camarilla operatives around the nation. She doesn’t think she’s been in one place for longer than 48 hours since they announced the war was done.
The sight of a familiar woman heading their way interrupts her train of thought. The others have noticed too, Tally beaming, M cracking a broad smile and calling out a welcome.
Anacostia Quartermaine wears the rank of major, now. She’s snagged a tray of champagne glasses and bears them over now. “Captains,” she greets. “Look at you, all handsome and well-dressed. Some nice new medals on your chests.”
She’s talking about the medals for distinguished conduct that they now all wear, same as her, all awarded in a ceremony only a month past. For bringing the Camarilla to their end at long last. Abigail doesn’t doubt that there are remnants of their old enemy in the world still, doesn’t doubt that she and Tally and M will soon be sent off to chase down rumours and whispers half the world away, doesn’t doubt that Nicte and her agents will be helping them along the way.
“I could say the same to you,” M replies smoothly, lifting their glass in a toast. Anacostia and Tally mirror the gesture, Abigail following a second later, and they all drink.
It’s good champagne. Not that it would be anything less at a Bellweather wedding. Birds chirp and sing overhead as they make small talk, commenting on who is present and who came with who, catching each other up on military gossip. Anacostia points out two of her subordinates – one is decent, the other an absolute shit-turkey – and M tells them about a particularly lively fight they saw between two War College cadets outside their mess hall this morning.
“What were you doing in there?” Abigail asks. The officers mess is superior in many ways – better food and beverages, more comfortable chairs, no young adults giggling in the corners or arguing over which cereal is better or crying over advanced strategic studies textbooks.
“Snooping,” M replies, shrugging as if to say, why not? “It seems like a century since we were there, you know? I wanted to see what had changed.”
“And how was it?” Tally asks, before draining her glass of champagne. Abigail moves a bit closer to her and places a hand on the small of her back. It’s a small gesture that brings comfort, being able to reach out and touch her so casually. Years ago she would never have done such a thing, perhaps thinking it a public sign of weakness to show affection.
The passage of time has changed her in some ways. That, and falling in love.
“After I had my fun and yelled at the two who were fighting outside? Weird, I guess. They were…just being cadets. All of them jumped to attention when I came in, so then I had to make an excuse about our coffee being out.”
Abigail snorts. “General Clary gave us the same excuse once, back in basic.” She looks pointedly at Tally, who just laughs unabashedly. “Someone couldn’t stop staring. She just stood there in awe, mouth wide open.”
“I can see that,” Anacostia replies dryly. “Some things don’t change, do they?”
A young cadet comes by to offer refreshments. It had been a very conscious choice made by Edith and Petra to use some of the War College cadets as waiters and servers at the wedding. Officially it was something of a reward – get out of class for the day, and have the chance to mingle with some of the top brass and more renowned officers.
Unofficially it was for safety. Considering what had happened last time.
She sips her second glass of champagne and listens to the others talk. Mara’s chatting to General Clary now, with Edith laughing at something they’ve said. Abigail catches her eye and raises her glass, her aunt mirroring the gesture.
“What’s the food like?” Anacostia asks. “I heard that we used army chefs.”
“Why don’t I show you?” M offers. “The scallops are incredible. Shall we, major?” They gesture towards the long trestle tables that are overflowing with food. Anacostia bows a head in acceptance and off they go, the two of them, M trying to dodge Berryessa Tansey’s eyes all the while.
Tally considers them. With a smirk curling her lips, she glances at Abigail and asks, “You reckon they’ve got a thing for each other? M definitely has a little crush.”
“Maybe,” Abigail murmurs. She shrugs, pulling Tally closer, the redhead nestling happily into her side. “It’s a wedding. ‘Tis the season and all that.”
“Mm.” Tally looks up at her, eyes softening. Voice dropping a pitch, she asks, “How are you feeling?”
If it was anyone else, she would brush the question off. But it’s Tally, Tally who knows her and who Knows, and it’s just the two of them standing here in this private moment, so she admits, “It’s not as hard as I’d thought, but still…” She pauses, not wanting to complete that sentence, and instead says eventually, “Thank you for being here.”
“I wouldn’t be anywhere else,” Tally tells her, reaching up to brush a strand of Abigail’s hair behind her ear. Her eyes shift from Abigail to some point behind her, and with a little smile she confides, "I think your mother is talking about us."
"To who?"
"An admiral. Ah, she's waving - she wants us to come and say hi. You ready?"
And so it continues, this endless mingling. Abigail nods. “Lead the way, my lady.”
This time, Abigail is the one to offer her arm. Off they go into the crowd.
.
The ceremony is the easy part. Berryessa says the words and Edith fasts their hands with that bundle of cords, and everything goes as it should. They kiss, everyone claps, Mara kisses her husband again. Someone cheers. Another person whistles. Normal wedding stuff.
It’s what follows after that has her throat tight, her heart pounding, her stomach twisted into a tight knot. They are dancing now, she and Tally, after the newlyweds have taken their customary turn around the grass square. There are too many people filling the space, and despite the cool autumn air it feels stifling. The skin of her neck prickles. Her back feels tight.
To end this dance prematurely would look amiss. She won’t have that happen at Mara’s day, won’t be the reason that people gossip.
Perhaps her grip around Tally’s waist tightens. Perhaps she makes some indication of disquiet. Tally recognises the tell, whatever it is, and squeezes her hand slowly, comfortingly.
“Hey.” Her cheek brushes against the curve of Abigail’s jaw. She smells nice, like flowers and clean linen and Tally. Abigail presses a nose against her hair and inhales the scent of her shampoo. “Just a few more minutes. When the song finishes, we can go and sit for a while. Want me to distract you?”
“Don’t be inappropriate. Everyone’s watching.”
Her laughter is quiet, shared only between the two of them. “I was only going to talk to you. Nothing inappropriate. I promise.”
“Forgive my assumption. Perhaps I know you too well.”
Tally giggles, at that. It’s working, this talking, this distraction. She can feel her anxiety easing, her mind clearing. Tally turns her head to press a kiss to Abigail’s cheek, before moving her lips back to by Abigail’s ear. “I can see them now, Mara and Cooper. He looks besotted. She looks pleased with herself.”
“Classic Bellweather. Do you think they’ll renew the contract after five years?”
“Maybe,” Tally muses. “We’ll have to wait and see.”
“As with most things, I suppose.” They make a slow turn. Secretly, she loves dancing like this, unhurried and pressed together. Loves that Tally likes when she leads, relaxing happily into Abigail’s arms. “Tell me what you see,” she prompts quietly.
“Well, we’re in the Silver Garden,” she murmurs into Abigail’s ear. “The happy couple are nearby. They look sweet together. He’s crying – oh, she just brushed his tears away with her thumb. That’s cute.”
“She’s a charming woman,” Abigail replies, lips twitching.
“I think it runs in the family. Now, your mom – she is dancing with Colonel Holke, who looks…very satisfied.”
“Mm. She’s had a crush on mom for years. Way back since she left War College, I think. Or before then. How does mom look?”
“I think she’s going to eat Colonel Holke up when all of this is done. Drag her back to her fancy general’s quarters and devour her.”
“Gross.” She can’t restrain the snort of laughter. “Stop it.”
“You asked.” Tally presses another affectionate kiss to her cheek. She lingers there, this time, as if to pour her love into the gesture. Abigail turns her head and captures her lips chastely. When they part, the tension between her shoulders has eased.
They make another slow turn. Tally continues, saying, “Anacostia and M are still eating, but Izadora’s sitting between them now.”
“Tragic. Now they can’t play footsie.”
“Sad, huh? Goddess, Izadora brushes up so well. We rarely get see her in dress blues, which is a bit of a pity.”
“Sounds like you have a little crush.”
A huff of laughter escapes her lips. “Captain Bellweather, haven’t you heard? I’m spoken for.”
“Well, then - she must be a lucky woman.”
One song fades into the beginning of another. It would be acceptable, now, to step away, to go and sit down. Yet her back is relaxing at last, and Tally’s head is a comfortable weight on her shoulder, and after all the fighting and moving around of this last month she finds herself wanting to linger here, to linger in this moment.
“If anything,” Tally tells her, “I’m the lucky one.”
.
The dancing comes to an end. The cadets have brought out round tables and chairs, and they all sit down as lunch is served. There are no less than five courses, and the cadets do well to serve all the guests with food and champagne without missing a beat. Afterwards the cake is brought out. Mara cuts it with her sword and her husband licks frosting from the blade. M hoots with delight.
Anacostia says, “Goddess protect, he is a keen one, isn’t he?”
“That’s how Mara likes them,” Abigail says breezily. Her chest feels light now, as they sit at their table and cadets bring around slices of the cake and more champagne. “But I think this one will last the distance.” Tally’s hand is on her knee, fingers tapping out a gentle rhythm.
Speeches are made. Mara’s military achievements are lauded, Cooper’s loving and empathetic nature praised. With that, and one final kiss, the wedding itself is done. Mara and her husband linger for a while, before they at last attempt to make a sneaky escape to her quarters. The catcalls and hoots of over a hundred witches follow them as they gleefully dash across the lawn, hand in hand.
People begin to drift back to the fort in twos and threes. The cadets work efficiently to clean away the chairs and tables. Abigail, feeling a little weary from the stress of the day, takes a short walk around the garden to clear her mind. When she comes to a stop under one of the birches, her mother joins her.
They stand in silence for a while. Once these silences had been fraught with tension and misunderstandings. Now, after years of working to understand each other and form a better relationship, it feels companiable. Comfortable.
“So,” her mother prompts.
“So?” replies Abigail, lips twitching.
Her mother nods pointedly across the garden. “Captain Craven looks beautiful.”
That she does, with her red hair pulled back into a braided bun, leanly muscled and tall, her movements graceful. The same woman who gets ridiculously clumsy after a few drinks and starts telling everyone how much she loves them. The same woman who, when they needed a distraction to draw Camarilla attention during an operation at the start of this year, drove a tractor into a silo. That’s Tally Craven for you. Full of surprises.
“Are you ever going to ask her?”
“I think she wants to ask,” Abigail says. She can feel herself smiling. “Things are getting a bit quieter now, so she…well, she might do it soon. I assume you’ll know first. She’s going to ask your permission.”
“Surely she knows it’s granted.”
“She wants to do it properly.”
“That she does,” says Petra Bellweather, her face gentling. “That she does.”
Her throat is thick. “And you’ll participate in the ceremony.”
Her mother takes Abigail’s hands in her own and says, firm and fierce, “It would be my honour.”
The years have hardened and softened them in equal measure, she finds herself thinking again. She watches M and Anacostia walk with a group of officers in the direction of the officers mess, where they’ll probably drink bourbon at the long bar and tell war stories until the early morning. She watches as Tally deftly takes three flutes of champagne from a cadet, bringing them over with a smile. Petra thanks her warmly. Abigail slips an arm around her waist and feels happy, truly happy, and thinks that five years ago, she never would have imagined this for herself.
Not on the day of another Bellweather wedding.