Though the time leading up to the wedding had seemed to draw out for arduous and frustrating weeks, Medalia finds the affair itself to be significantly less horrid than she'd braced for.
There is a tension in the air that even her practiced and professionally polite smile can't cut through, but she soothes herself with the knowledge that it will be left behind once the ceremony is completed. It isn't a fake smile, not exactly, though she does have to keep some of the spiteful sharpness out of it, dull its edges to something human and charmed. The humans—her family—are largely fooled and baffled in equal measures.
They do not expect her happiness.
"It's more a wake than anything else," her mother had whispered, the first time Medalia had seen a wolf bride—a man that time, draped in earth tones, red clay smeared over his face, smiling—paraded down the square towards his new pack.
Eliaima had taken her daughter by the face, when she was small and easily frightened, "Make no mistake. The wolves may not drag you screaming into the woods, but they are still animals. If you let them tempt you off the trail, be your blood on your own head."
The warning hadn't stuck any longer than the nervous tremors of her youth. Medalia could tell her mother, even today, was running over what she could've said differently to keep her from this point.
Medalia supposes it doesn't matter how much she softens her smile, the red that is about to be smeared across her mouth will make it blatantly obvious which side she has chosen.
The wolves don't admonish her for bearing her fangs, so she turns to them, as she always has.
Yaniel Westlayen stands proud at the head of the pack, head high and a menacing presence even in his formals. His enforcers—his betas, his dearest friends, his chosen bond brothers—Janus and Oggy stand at his sides unrepentantly beaming across the way at Medalia. Were they not in their human form, she knows their tails would be wagging uncontrollably.
But they are shuttered for this wedding, this performance so as not to alarm the fragile masses. She has never wanted a party to end more quickly than in the moment Yaniel meets her gaze, a flash of his true predatory nature cutting through the pleasant blandness on his face. His head dips slightly, though, a silent warning.
"Be at ease," his eyes say, "Nearly there."
And as feral as she may be compared to most humans, she defers to her Leader. She turns her head away, not shyly, but so that her neck stretches, angled to him.
She blinks slowly. Yes, Alpha.
It is a tease she will pay for, she can tell, or at least, Stars Above, she hopes she'll pay for it.
The Priest is a dogged old man who has seen many a hybrid wedding and is well past the age at which he would balk at it. When he calls them forth from their respective families, Medalia is held back from jogging only by the limping gait of her father as they make their way through the grass. Gareth's face is nowhere near as grim as her mother's is, as he is the one gaining territory out of this marriage.
"Feral child," he'd said of her when Yaniel had asked for her hand, more disgusted than shocked, "Should she to the wolves, let her." Eliaima hadn't seen the point in arguing.
And now Medalia stands on the precipice of wild, screaming freedom, something she'd never have a chance at trapped behind her mother's skirts.
They reach the dirt road separating the families and she turns to him, looks up and tries to find herself in her father's face. Gareth tugs the ribbon—white, pure, no longer to be—from her throat before she can. He's meant to keep it, but she knows him better than that.
Had he blessings to give, now would be the time.
"She was never meant for us," is all he says, derisively, as if he means it to hurt.
It doesn't, though, because no, no she wasn't; she was never meant for them.
Still, Medalia lifts her skirts as she curtsies for him, bows low as expected. She isn't thanking him exactly, but she is grateful he didn't make her draw blood for this. She isn't quite sure she would've shied from it, had he forced her hand.
The dirt is cool under her bare feet as she turns to face her beloved.
Yaniel's father had been proud to send his youngest son off to start his own pack, even a group found instead of born, held together by nothing more than their desire to be together. It took strength to lead that sort of family, and Durith had seen his son grow up with more than enough to manage it. Even now, he looks proud to see this pack growing, regardless of the species of its members.
"My son has grown into a fine man in my eyes," Durith states, though the way he pauses before he says 'man' is not lost on anyone. He smiles slightly when Medalia smiles at him. "Fitting, then, that he should choose a bride such as Medalia."
Yaniel takes a knee before him, easily humbled in the face of his hero, Janus and Oggy falling easily beside him. They don't stand until Durith pats his shoulder fondly, turning him to face his bride-to-be. The only tell of Yaniel's emotions is the way he sighs when his eyes land back on Medalia, like she's the most wondrous sight he's ever seen.
It seems as if he's pulled when he moves forward, a mere step (and a pleasant, if world-weary, old priest) between them.
The words are largely unimportant, said on behalf of the townsfolk. Calls for blessings of the happy couple, praises for the continued peace between humans and magicals manifesting in such a loving manner. Nothing any of them haven't heard before, one way or another, but Medalia finds little meaning in them until the Priest addresses Yaniel directly.
"In taking her, do you swear to keep her?"
Yaniel has not once looked away from her. "So long as I shall live," he states, simple fact. Medalia warms, even as she bites her lip to keep from snapping at the next question.
"And in being taken, do you swear to be kept?"
It's never been clear to her what this means, but should she be kept by any man, she would chose no other. "So long as I shall live," she answers, and the glimmer of a smile that twitches across Yaniel's mouth is amusement and adoration in equal measures. Both make her want to bite him.
As it stands, she takes the pigment jar from the priest and upends it into Yaniel's palm.
Yaniel's hand is a familiar pressure over her mouth as he smears her red, the mark of monsters, making her ceremonially part of his pack, as legitimate as if bloodborn. If she kisses his callused palm, nobody will know save Janus and Oggy who are likely close enough to smell his arousal spike. She watches all their eyes blow dark.
Self-restraint sorely tested, Yaniel keeps his kiss brief, though his grip on her face is just shy of bruising. Janus and Oggy—now Medalia's sworn allies and protectors—kiss only her hands for the time being. They can sooth themselves knowing what is coming.
The wedding is for show, even with the permissible wolfish elements.
The bonding will happen when the moon rises, when Medalia is well into the woods, safely within Westlayen Pack territory.
Walking off with the pack, most cheering, has her chest tight with more emotion than the whole rest of the day. Yaniel takes her hand proudly, the beginnings of genuine relief and unfettered emotion creeping through his public veneer. She squeezes his fingers until they reach the edge of the woods and suddenly she's hefted up onto Janus' shoulders, the man shouting excitedly, near to barking.
The sun sets on their wedding party with her being passed from hug to hug, human smiles and the beginnings of fangs grinning in her face. She grins back, eating and dancing, singing and shouting, until she is finally drawn aside as the sun dips past the horizon.
Nearly there.
Yaniel is seated outside the Westlayen Manor, just a stack of wood beneath him, still managing to look like a throne as Oggy leads her back to him, Janus standing behind his shoulder.
Though he has no particularities towards tradition, it feels natural to sink to her knees before him, the earth brown of her skirt fanning out around her. She's close enough to feel the heat that flushes him at the sight. They are past the point where he feels the need to remind her she need not obey such rules.
Yaniel leans forward, sets his elbows on his knees to be closer to her. "You will be frightened," he tells her.
"I could never be frightened of you," Medalia replies calmly and he narrows his eyes at her. "I know who I belong to, Yaniel."
Yaniel cups her chin. "Beloved, you belong to no one, not so long as I should live."
"Very well, then I know who I belong with," she says, smiling brightly at the way his lip curls back. "Mean you to argue semantics with a silvertongue?"
Janus has a clanging, bright laugh and she looks past Yaniel to smile at him. "M'on, boss, you's acting so possessive earlier, don't yank her around," he says, ignoring Yaniel's warning growl.
Oggy drops down to wipe his sweaty brow on Medalia's back, before tucking his chin over her shoulder. "Sure smells like ours," he says, and she can't wait to be aware of their scents. "Ours, ours," he sings.
