The Wedding: Arhat the Fire Lion, 413
There was no dancing for her on this night. It will be four years this fall since there had been dancing.
She has never known silk to be so heavy, or shells to cut so deep. Most days, the cord that was her anchor is a reassuring reminder she had not, in fact, lost her mind. On a night like this, adrift in festivities and merriment, the glistening watersilk felt like the depths of Drogor’s drowning rage.
She wonders sometimes if she is married. The necessary steps had been taken, though not, precisely speaking, in the correct order. She then wonders if it matters. The accidental rose came before it all, the promise had followed, and there was dancing before the dawn.
Weddings have stood upon far less among their people.
A vow in the form of a flower is wandering the world, carrying that part of her soul yet to be claimed, or that possibly has been claimed already. She would know, wouldn’t she?
His Lordship, by way of response, swats at the pixie under the bed. It is all the answer she is to get, and melancholy moods fade in the face of such antics.
She sets herself to tending the overgrown carpet of the treehouse, lovingly restoring each of her friends that they may flourish and bloom. It is for the humans to worry about such things, years run swift as a river among the elves. What were a few decades to such as she?
Gentian, the most solemn of the fae that are her companions, smiles, exuding approval at his young charge.