Chapter 19 #2
The fairy lights twinkle behind us as we leave the park, but I don't look back. I'm too busy looking forward, at the man beside me and the life we're going to build together. It might be loud and chaotic and completely unconventional, but it will be ours.
And that, I think as the emerald catches the streetlight, is all I've ever wanted.
The engagement bliss lasts exactly forty-eight hours before Ursak drops the wedding bomb.
"Cathedral," he announces over breakfast, spreading butter on his toast with the precision of a surgeon. "Saint Augustine's. Downtown."
I nearly choke on my coffee. "The cathedral? That massive Gothic thing that seats like eight hundred people?"
"Seven hundred and fifty, actually." He takes a methodical bite. "I researched the capacity."
Of course he did. "Ursak, we know maybe fifty people combined. What are we going to do with seven hundred and fifty seats?"
His eyes light up with an enthusiasm that immediately makes me nervous. "My family will travel from the homeland for the ceremony. Extended family. Clan members. Academic colleagues from the orc universities."
"How extended are we talking?"
"Well, there's my mother's side, the Irontonge clan proper. Forty-three adults, not counting the younglings. Then father's people, the Stormhammer lineage. Another thirty-seven. My university cohort from Gorthak—"
"Ursak."
"—and naturally, the linguistic department heads who mentored me, plus their families, and the traditional wedding musicians, and—"
"How many people?"
He pauses, toast halfway to his mouth. "Perhaps, one hundred and sixty? Give or take."
I blink at him. "Give or take?"
"Travel is difficult from the homeland. Some may not make the journey."
"Right. And you want to hold this massive orcish family reunion in the most formal Catholic cathedral in the city."
"It will be magnificent," he says, and the pure joy in his voice makes my protests die in my throat. "You deserve to be celebrated properly, Maya. A bride of your beauty and intelligence should be showcased in a setting worthy of her."
My heart melts a little. "You want to show me off to your family."
"I want the world to know that Maya Ruiz chose me."
Damn him and his romantic declarations.
"Fine," I hear myself saying. "Cathedral it is."
…
What follows are three months of wedding planning that make my freelance deadline stress look like a spa vacation.
The first crisis arrives during our initial meeting with Father McKenna, the cathedral's wedding coordinator. He's a sweet elderly priest who clearly expected a nice, quiet ceremony between a linguistics professor and a writer. His face when Ursak mentions the guest count is priceless.
"One hundred and sixty orcs," Father McKenna repeats slowly, like he's testing how the words feel in his mouth.
"Approximately," Ursak confirms. "Though traditionally, orcish wedding parties include ceremonial drummers."
"Drummers."
"Twelve, typically. They'll need space near the altar for the ritual rhythm sequences."
I watch Father McKenna's eye develop a small twitch. "I see. And will these... drummers... be using traditional instruments?"
"War drums, yes. Thunder-makers. Bone horns for the processional fanfare."
The poor priest looks like he needs a stiff drink. Or possibly an exorcism.
"Perhaps," I interject quickly, "we could discuss some modifications to the traditional ceremony?"
This begins what Ursak will later refer to as the Great Compromise Wars. Every wedding detail becomes a negotiation between human expectations and orcish tradition. Flowers or war banners? String quartet or thunder drums? White dress or ceremonial battle armor?
Actually, the battle armor question is surprisingly tempting.
The dress shopping expedition with my mother and sister becomes its own special hell. Mom keeps steering me toward things that look like meringue explosions, while Elena advocates for anything that shows more skin.
"You're marrying an orc," Elena points out while I'm trapped in a particularly puffy monstrosity. "Embrace the exotic. Show some thigh."
"I'm not attending a Renaissance fair," I call through the dressing room curtain. "I'm getting married in a cathedral."
"To a seven-foot green man with tusks," she counters. "Traditional went out the window months ago."
She has a point, but I draw the line at the dress with the leather corset bodice and the sword holster.
Ursak, meanwhile, is having his own clothing crisis. Apparently, traditional orcish wedding attire involves ceremonial war paint and what he diplomatically calls "minimal coverage."
"How minimal?" I ask during one of our nightly planning sessions.
"Loincloth. Chest harness. Clan markings painted from shoulder to hip."
I try to picture this. I really do. "And Father McKenna is aware of this tradition?"
"I may have mentioned formal orcish regalia without elaborating on specifics."
"Ursak."
We compromise on a tuxedo with ceremonial clan colors worked into the tie and cummerbund. He's not entirely happy about it, but concedes that a loincloth might "distract from the solemnity of the vows."
The real chaos begins two weeks before the wedding when Ursak's family starts arriving.
I'm prepared for big. I'm not prepared for enormous. Ursak is practically dainty compared to his cousin Grok, who has to duck through our apartment doorway and whose handshake could probably crush walnuts. His great-aunt Ursa makes furniture creak just by looking at it.
They're all lovely, don't get me wrong. Incredibly warm and welcoming, bringing gifts of traditional foods and offering to help with preparations. But watching them navigate our human-sized world is like observing gentle giants trying to operate dollhouse furniture.
The hotel situation becomes an immediate crisis when three bed frames collapse on the first night.
Emergency calls to reinforcement specialists follow.
The restaurant reservations for the rehearsal dinner require a complete overhaul when we realize that family-style portions means something very different in orcish culture.
"How much food are we talking about?" I ask Ursak during one planning session.
"For sixty orcs? Perhaps four whole cows. Six pigs. Barrel of ale per ten guests."
I gawk at him. "Barrels. Plural."
"Wedding feast must be memorable," Ursa adds, nodding sagely. "Guests should roll home, too full to stand."
The caterer's face when I relay these requirements suggests I may have broken his spirit entirely.
But somehow, miraculously, everything comes together.
Wedding morning dawns crisp and clear, and I wake up in my childhood bedroom feeling like I might throw up from nerves or excitement. Possibly both.
The cathedral is already bustling when we arrive for photos.
Orcish family members are setting up what appears to be a small village's worth of ceremonial decorations.
Banners in deep greens and golds hang alongside traditional white flowers, creating a look that's somehow both elegant and wonderfully bizarre.
The drummers are setting up their instruments, massive things that look like they could double as small boats, while Father McKenna hovers nearby, clutching his rosary and muttering what I hope are prayers rather than profanity.
"It's going to be beautiful," my mom says, though she's eyeing the war drums with visible concern.
"It's going to be loud," Elena corrects, but she's grinning.
Getting ready takes twice as long as planned because every orcish female relative wants to contribute something to my appearance.
Ursa braids tiny bells into my hair "for good fortune.
" Cousin Greta insists on painting traditional blessing symbols on my wrists in washable gold paint.
Great-grandmother Urka, who must be pushing ninety and moves with the careful dignity of an oak tree, gifts me a necklace of carved jade that's apparently been in the family for three centuries.
"You are pack now," she tells me in heavily accented English, cupping my face in hands the size of dinner plates. "Irontongue women strong. We protect our own."
I might cry and ruin my makeup, but it would be worth it.
The ceremony itself is an experience.
Half the cathedral is filled with my family and friends of normal-sized humans in their Sunday best, chatting quietly and checking their phones.
The other half contains what looks like a small army of orcs in formal wear, their deep voices creating a constant rumble of conversation that makes the stone walls vibrate.
When the processional music starts, a carefully negotiated blend of traditional organ and ceremonial drums. The sound is magnificent and slightly terrifying. I feel it in my chest, in my bones, in the soles of my feet.
Then the doors open, and I see Ursak waiting at the altar.
He's magnificent in his tuxedo, the clan colors making his eyes impossibly green, but it's the expression on his face that takes my breath away. Pure joy mixed with wonder, like he can't quite believe this is really happening.
Neither can I, honestly.
The walk down the aisle feels eternal and far too short all at once. The orcish guests begin a low, rhythmic chant as I pass, some kind of traditional blessing, according to Ursa, and the human side rustles with nervous appreciation.
Then I'm standing beside him, and nothing else matters.
The ceremony is beautiful, if unconventional. Father McKenna manages to incorporate several orcish traditions into the Catholic liturgy, including a blessing that involves us drinking from a shared cup of something that tastes like liquid campfire but apparently symbolizes the joining of two clans.
"Do you, Maya Ruiz, take this orc to be your husband?"
This orc. I catch Ursak's eye and see him fighting laughter at the phrasing.
"I do."
"And do you, Ursak Irontongue, take this human to be your wife?"
"With all my heart," he says, and his voice carries to the back of the cathedral without amplification.
The kiss is accompanied by thunderous cheering from the orcish side and polite applause from the humans. Also, apparently, ceremonial horn blowing, which makes several elderly relatives jump.
But we're married. We're actually, officially, legally married.
The reception is held at the downtown convention center because literally nowhere else could accommodate our guest list and dietary requirements.
The space is transformed with more of those elegant green and gold decorations, round tables that can actually support orcish weight, and a dance floor large enough for traditional clan celebrations.
Everything goes smoothly until the cake cutting.
The wedding cake is a masterpiece of four tiers of ivory fondant decorated with sugar flowers and delicate gold piping. It's positioned on a table at the center of the room, surrounded by smaller dessert tables laden with both human treats and orcish traditional sweets.
We're posing for photos, my hand over Ursak's on the cake knife, when cousin Grok attempts to navigate between two tables while carrying three plates of appetizers and a tankard of ale.
Time slows as I watch it happen. Grok's hip catches the edge of the cake table. The beautiful, expensive, four-tier masterpiece wobbles. Tilts. Begins its inevitable journey toward the floor.
"No!" I shriek, lunging forward uselessly.
But Ursak moves like lightning. One enormous hand shoots out and catches the entire cake mid-fall, four tiers and all, balancing it on his palm like it weighs nothing.
The room goes dead silent.
Then someone starts laughing. Elena, I think. The sound is infectious, spreading through the crowd until the entire reception is roaring with laughter and applause.
"Well," Ursak says, grinning at the cake balanced in his hand, "I suppose this is one way to serve dessert."
Still holding the cake aloft, he scoops a fingerful of frosting with his free hand and offers it to me. "Traditional cake feeding?"
I open my mouth and let him feed me the frosting, which is delicious and probably costs more per ounce than my wedding dress. The crowd cheers again, and I a handful to return the favor.
"To quick reflexes!" someone shouts.
"To strong hands!" adds another voice.
"To catching your bride when she falls!" Dex calls out, which makes everyone laugh even harder.
We manage to salvage most of the cake, turns out Ursak's hand is cleaner than the floor would have been, and the party continues late into the night.
The dance floor becomes a fascinating cultural exchange as orcish traditional dances meet human wedding reception classics.
Watching my seventy-year-old grandmother attempt something called the Thunder Stomp with cousin Grok is worth every stressful moment of the planning process.
By midnight, half the orcish guests are teaching the Electric Slide to curious humans, while my college friends are attempting to master what appears to be a ritualistic war dance involving a lot of chest thumping and coordinated roaring.
"How do you feel, Mrs. Irontongue?" Ursak asks during a slow song, holding me close on the dance floor.
Mrs. Irontongue. I'm going to need time to get used to that.
"Tired. Happy. Slightly drunk." I lean back to look at him. "How about you, Mr. Irontongue?"
"Complete," he says simply. "For the first time in my life, completely whole."
The fairy lights overhead, because of course we had fairy lights, cast everything in a golden glow as we sway together, surrounded by the organized chaos of our families celebrating. It's loud and messy and completely perfect.
"No regrets about the cathedral?" I ask.
"None. Though I do regret the lack of traditional war paint."
"Next time."
"There won't be a next time. You're stuck with me now."
"Good," I say, and kiss him as the song ends and our ridiculous, wonderful new family cheers around us. "I wouldn't have it any other way."