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It was Mare’s idea. Kelsier can appreciate the sentiment of it all, even if he doesn’t see the logic. She was always thoughtful in ways he could never be, but forgave him for anyway. To him, marriage is little more than a contract bound by the Obligators, and he’s certainly never placed any significance in abiding by their laws. It’s a nobility ritual, not something the Skaa observe, at least not in any official sanction.
They’ve already pledged their hearts and shared their bed, married together in every bit of the traditional sense. It’d be easier just to go ahead and call each other husband and wife. They’d done it enough, even before becoming romantically linked, posing at balls as a wealthy noble couple fresh to both their nuptials and the Luthadel social scene. After playing the role for so long, the terms would come easy, natural.
But he can tell this is important to her, and to the faith that she keeps, so when she rolls over one night, brushes the hair off his face, and asks him to wed her in the Larsta tradition, he gets up the next morning and asks Dockson in turn how soon he can procure a ceremony.
The answer is, of course, quickly and efficiently, because this is Dox he’s talking to and he’s already working through the logistics before Kelsier can finish asking, gem of a man.
Three days later, Kelsier is tugging at the cinch of his finest vest in the mirror, an ensemble he usually throws on for cons in high society, but figures will suit his wedding just fine. Mare comes up behind him in a simple dress, made elegant by her usual propensity for trousers, watching him coyly in the reflection. She likes to tease him for his vanity and he takes it in stride. There’s always an underlying appreciation for the way he takes care of himself.
“We’ll be late, stop fussing. I’m the only one who’ll care what you look like and I’ve already seen you,” she says, even as she wraps her arms around his middle, slipping her hands beneath his shirt and refusing to let him budge. “Now hold still, so I can see more.”
He grins back and surrenders to her eager touch. “When Dox chews me out, it won’t be my fault for once, and I want you to corroborate that.”
And oh, that gets a rise out of her and he thinks maybe this whole wedding thing is a good idea, if he can reframe it as a promise to make her laugh just like that for the rest of their lives.
***
Marsh knows that he’s here as an afterthought. Or rather, at Kelsier’s reluctance and Mare’s insistence. She’d sought him out and asked him to be here personally, and so he came against his better judgement. There isn’t any more nuance to it than that.
At least there’s wine. Marsh isn’t much of a drinker, not after he’d seen the temper a bottle would stir in his father, but tonight, he is grateful for something to white knuckle around and disappear behind when he catches sight of Mare across the room. When she laughs easily and loudly, like she always does, and accepts the press of Kelsier’s mouth against her jaw. She looks beautiful, of course, her dark curls tied back at the nape of her neck, a few still framing her round, flushed face. At least there’s wine.
He searches desperately for something else to fixate on and finds a less distracting sight in Dockson, the sturdy-set Skaa who’d roped Kelsier into the brawling scene during their early days in Luthadel. A fop like Kelsier hadn’t known how to fight like a laborer from the countryside, but he damn well knew how to bet on one. They’d made a lucrative pair, from what Marsh has heard, and now they’re inseparable and running ventures together with Mare that he hardly wants the details of.
Like Marsh, Dockson is stood against the wall on the outskirts of the revelry. However, he’s watching in a manner that speaks to satisfaction with a job well done as opposed to any intentional distance. Marsh isn’t overly familiar with Kelsier’s right hand man, but it seems he’s a diligent planner and his skills stretch from ledgers to parties. What a waste, Marsh thinks, if only he’d harness his skill for the good of the rebellion instead of wiling away on his little brother’s schemes to get rich. Or wedding ceremonies. How much had all this cost, how many boxings could have been poured into helping the downtrodden Skaa the lot of them profess to care so much about?
There’s a table lined with food, and a space set aside for dancing to the music wafting from a lone fiddler. It’s a modest affair, a small collection of people who’ve rubbed elbows with the happy couple in the Skaa underground, gathered in one of the crew hideouts large enough to accommodate them. Marsh doesn’t cavort with the thieves and vagrants that Kelsier chooses to waste his days with, so he makes no attempt to mingle.
He watches in silence more akin to a wake than a wedding, and acknowledges the few looks thrown in his direction, no doubt regarding his resemblance to the groom; who in question, is regaling the group like he’s holding court, poised at the head of a table he's draped his legs across. The brothers had made the customary acknowledgement of each other’s presence at the beginning of the night, curt nods and the like, but had ignored each other otherwise, and that was probably the best for them and everyone around them.
Marsh is contemplating a discreet second trip to the bar when he notices a third man out from the crowd, and wonders how he’d missed him in the first place - a Terrisman is hard to overlook. The Larsta ceremony performed by Sazed had been a brief one. Simplicity was something emphasized by the religion, (he remembers Mare telling him that once). But it was obvious that Sazed had reveled in every second of it, thrilled to partake in a long dead ritual he’d only ever learned for theory. The tall man catches eyes with him and begins to head in his direction before Marsh can duck away. Sighing heavily, he resigns himself to conversation.
“The first Larsta ceremony performed in over a century. I am glad it was for them,” Sazed says by way of greeting. When Marsh grunts without comment, he continues. “It is a surprise to see you here Master Marsh. In truth, I did not expect you to come, but I know what it must mean to them. How important it is to have you here.”
“I didn’t do it for them.”
Sazed looks towards Mare without even needing to follow Marsh’s gaze. Her back is turned as she claps along to a jaunty tune from the fiddler. “No, I expect not. All the same.”
Drink still in hand, Marsh folds his arms across his chest, and together they lapse into a silent vigil over the festivities. Kelsier has gotten up to dance around and make a fool of himself, pulling a begrudging Dockson into a haphazard waltz. When Sazed speaks again, Marsh has forgotten he is there entirely.
“The Larsta vows are binding in their religion, but the marriage will not be acknowledged by any official doctrine. In the eyes of the empire, only Obligators may officiate a legal marriage.”
Marsh’s eyes narrow. “What are you trying to say?”
Sazed speaks even slower than usual, as though picking his words carefully, pointedly. “That she made her choice a long time ago. Nothing has been set in stone or finalized today that was not already present.”
“Ha,” Marsh goes for another swig and his nose nearly touches the bottom of his cup. He tips it over and shakes it to let nothing spill out. “Is this how you console people, Sazed? You’re terrible at it.”
“You are right in that, I think. But as am I,” Sazed says with a slight curl to his lip, and then vanishes before Marsh can get another word in edgewise. There’s wisdom to be found in his advice – move on, in essence, but Marsh thinks it’s a pretty fucking unfair thing to level that at him when he’s an hour out from watching the woman he loves marry his brother.
Maybe he should just go. No one will notice, let alone mourn his absence, and hanging around here isn’t serving anything outside of causing his mood to fester. He’d paid his dues, gave his regards to the happy couple, everything that could possibly be expected of him. If there was ever a time to make his escape, it was as Kelsier was obnoxiously entertaining the throng of party goers.
When he glances back to scout out a door, all he sees is Mare staring directly at him. She’s turned away from the scene, lips parted, an unreadable expression passing across her features. On instinct, he burns bronze and feels the smooth, rhythmic pulse of her tin wash against his allomancy. Of course. Marsh curses quietly to himself (and her too, he supposes), but doesn’t cower away from her gaze, holds it with his jaw set, his eyes longing.
“Sorry,” he says, and it’s all that needs to be said for everything she overheard. She shakes her head, nearly imperceptible, and he takes it as an absolution.
To everyone else, their silent exchange goes unnoticed.
***
Kelsier falls back into the seat beside Mare, hair disheveled, red in the face and still swaying despite the lull in music. “Something the matter?”
He is earnest and distracted and always a bit clueless to what is going on around him, and that’s when he isn’t drunk. But his emotions are simple, and easy to handle. She hums and shakes her head and gives his cheek a curt pat. “Oh, you know. Just taking all the senses in. I don’t want to forget anything.”
“You’d better slow down on the whisky, then.”
“Uh-huh. Pot calling the kettle black, Kell.”
The music picks back up again with a slower tempo, and Kelsier matches it with the movement of his body, extending his hand to her in invitation. “Dance with me, wife?”
He is earnest and clueless and always good at distracting her. And she loves him, she really, really does. So she turns away from the door that’s slightly ajar and rattling in the wind, from the footsteps she can still hear making their abrupt departure down the cobblestone street. She lets the man she chose pull her up and off her feet, and forgets about the one she didn’t.