Phantom seemed to be the sort of person who couldn't stand and watch others working; they had been helping to set up the cameras and lights while Blackwell's Hand sat in the buggy staring up at Rethe. This close, it took up most of the sky, dwarfing the moon of Volcan and reflecting rosy light off the ice. Nonetheless, Blackwell's Hand looked grey. Perhaps Fog Rolled In should have hired a makeup artist.
When the cameras, lights, and the relay were set up, Fog Rolled In stopped a few feet away from the buggy, and said, "You're going to have to look, if not happy, at the least alive."
Blackwell’s Hand looked from the bright planet on the horizon, past Fog Rolled In, to the Sun rising at the opposite edge. Their eyes focused, their spine straightened, and they slid daintily out of the buggy and onto the ice. They walked forward, keeping their eyes on Fog Rolled In, which was rather disconcerting after the past weeks of their dead stare. And when they were within arm's reach, their face bloomed into a sudden warm smile, soft and radiant, exactly how a newlywed should look. Fog Rolled In nearly flinched. “Of course, darling,” they said. “How could I not be happy? We’re getting married!” They brushed their thumb affectionately under Fog Rolled In’s chin and this time Fog Rolled In did step back, wanting powerfully to be as far away from them as possible.
"The cameras aren't on yet."
"You'll need a little time, won't you? You don’t want to be doing that”—they tapped Fog Rolled In’s chin with their thumb, and Fog Rolled In flinched again—“when they are rolling.”
Fog Rolled In closed their eyes, hand tight on the Paragon's hilt absent any visual warning of danger, and constructed a small smile. It felt miserable, worse than no expression at all, but they didn't think their family would be able to tell the difference.
"I can see I'm going to have to carry this farce," said the Hand of Blackwell warmly. "Don't smile. Anyone who knows you will think you have a gun to your head off-camera."
Fog Rolled In deliberately unclenched their jaw. "Thank you for the advice, my dear. I don't know what I would do without you."
"Don't worry. Half the wedding is the duel." The Hand of Blackwell smiled at them, hiding contempt behind sweetness. "And we look best when we're fighting, don't we, my love?"
Fog Rolled In felt they might be sick. They swallowed it down and followed Blackwell's Hand into the semicircle of cameras and lighting rigs where Phantom was waiting with their hands behind their back, staring at the bright planet that dominated the horizon. They turned and said, "If everyone has their faces on? We can get started."
They arranged themselves as the cameras panned down from the starry vault, past the transit of Volcan, and finally came to rest on the wedding party.
"We are here today," said Phantom, "to marry the Hands of two great Noble Houses and their swords. Sword of Phantom is the attestor of the inheritance." They drew it from their back and rested its tip on the ice, its pommel a foot above their head. "Those who wish to be joined, state your name and purpose."
They looked at each other, and it was clear that Fog Rolled In should go first.
"I am Fog Rolled In Draper, and as Draper's Hand I claim the Paragon, High Flute Turns Inferno To Glass." As they spoke, they drew it and held it out in front of them. "Who Tears The Stars and I met six years ago on the battlefield. The Hands of Blackwell and Draper fight to keep each other from hurting anyone else, which I have always thought ridiculous. It could be done just as well by staying out of the fighting entirely. It didn't take long for either of us to form the question of why the duel was necessary, and for Who Tears The Stars to ask it of me." They'd thought it would be more believable than the other way around, despite the fact that they would have asked if only Blackwell's Hand hadn't been so adamant on killing them. "Once we started talking it became clear that we were more alike than we were different. We would have both preferred not to make war at all.
"We haven't fought seriously in five years. Instead we simply talked." They looked up from their study of the Paragon's blade to find the Hand of Blackwell watching them with clear eyes and a faint, fond smile. The nausea returned full force. "Th-they—they understood me as no-one else ever has," stammered Fog Rolled In, forcing themself to meet the Hand of Blackwell's eyes. "As I think only two unwilling soldiers can understand each other." The silence stretched out. They had completely forgotten the rest of their speech.
Blackwell's Hand raised their eyebrows, still smiling. "What if we had done as ordered?" they asked. When had they read Fog Rolled In's notes?
Fog Rolled In swallowed and went on, with the feeling that they were clinging to the crumbling edge of an asteroid with their fingernails, no jetpack or ship between them and the infinite void of Heaven. "If we'd done as ordered we could have killed each other," they whispered. At the least they were wearing a microphone. "That thought terrifies me. I could have killed them. We realized that the war was never going to end. The peace we dreamed of wouldn’t come just because we waited and hoped. Love, no matter how true, cannot stop a war if we don’t act on it."
The Hand of Blackwell reached out and took Fog Rolled In's hand in their own, running their thumb over Fog Rolled In's knuckles—shaking with the effort of not pulling away. Fog Rolled In closed their eyes and blanked their face, hoping to look comforted. A deep breath. "But those aren't my vows. That isn't what I love about Who Tears The Stars. I’ve never met anyone so full of life, nor anyone so determined to use everything they have in the service of protecting others. The moment our swords met, even before we ever spoke, I knew I had never met anyone like them. I feel indescribably fortunate to count myself among those who love them, all the moreso because it was so impossibly unlikely. With this joining, I hope I will have the opportunity to repay everything they have done for me.
"This I vow, Who Tears The Stars Blackwell: never to leave you. To protect you as you would me. To protect all you hold dear because I too will hold it dear. To advise and to listen. To cherish the time we have carved from this war, as allies and not as enemies. And to bring House Draper to peace, so they cannot hurt you."
They forced themself to meet the Hand of Blackwell's eyes again. Not smiling, now, simply looking at Fog Rolled In as if they could look forever. Had they actually memorized the speech Fog Rolled In wrote for them? If they'd memorized part of Fog Rolled In's speech—
"I'm so happy," said Blackwell's Hand. And they were, radiantly. They started laughing and let go of Fog Rolled In's hand to draw the Sword of Blackwell. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry—I'm Who Tears The Stars Blackwell and as the Hand of Blackwell I claim The Wheel Turns, We Rise Through Black Water. I've just been dreaming of this so long, it's hard to believe it's really happening. Two thousand days of sneaking around trying to figure out where you'd been deployed so I could see you. Trying to... trying to look a little less like a lovestruck fool than I actually am so no-one would notice." The Hand of Blackwell blinked rapidly against tears, still smiling, but to Fog Rolled In it looked as queasy as they felt. "And now we're here, and everyone can finally know I'm yours." They squeezed their eyes shut and laughed painfully. "I know I was supposed to have a speech. Sorry, Fog. Um, I could tell you how I liked Fog Rolled In the moment I saw their riposte. I could... I could tell you I've never met anyone with such solid faith and understanding of where they were. I could tell you how they treat every person they meet with respect, or how nobody will really believe me how tender they can be or how even though they only like classical music they still let me—" Blackwell's Hand started laughing. "It's not easy to sneak a gramophone onto an asteroid in the middle of a war, you know! And it got so full of dust!"
Fog Rolled In let out an incredulous breath. Perhaps it was possible to guess someone's personality from six years of duels, but their taste in music? What if they had been wrong? What if they had been wrong about all of this? The fact that they weren't made Fog Rolled In's blood run cold.
"I could tell you how I got careless when we were playing around and got sliced, and Fog panicked in that, I don't know, understated way they have where they ask if you're all right, just more emphatically every time. The speech I wrote had something very philosophical about how they saw the blood and said in their quiet way that this wasn't a game, it had never been a game, we were playing with our lives and the lives of our soldiers and they couldn't take it any more. What was it you said, Fog? I didn't even realize you were proposing at first."
They tried to imagine it. Instead of being thrown back by the Sword of Blackwell, hurrying forward to make sure its wielder wasn't badly hurt. "I can't do this any more," they said, mouth dry. "I said, I don't want to hurt you again. Leave with me."
"You did! You can see why it took me a little while to figure out you were asking me to marry you. Oh! I'm sorry again, Fog, I've really lost the plot. You have a way of doing that to me. I'm supposed to be making my vows." Blackwell’s Hand shook their head and stepped forward again so they were nearly chest to chest; they looked down at their joined hands between them and squeezed. “This I vow, Fog Rolled In Draper: to stand beside you all the days of our lives. To look forward in the same direction you are looking in. Or the other way—" they grinned, eyes squinting shut—"if you need me to watch your back."
Fog Rolled In had bitten through their cheek and could taste blood. Blackwell’s Hand held their eyes, although Fog Rolled In wasn't quite able to focus on them, and leaned slightly forward. Fog Rolled In was saved when Phantom spoke again.
"The newlyweds cross swords today, not to do violence on each other, but to show that they can trust each other not to injure. It's all the more important when two swords of Noble Houses are wed that their wielders should be skilled enough to match and protect each other. When they cross swords, Fog Rolled In and Who Tears The Stars will show their commitment, their bravery, and their trust. When they cross swords, Who Tears The Stars and Fog Rolled In will bond their swords, and their Houses, forever. The name of the winner goes to first blood."
Fog Rolled In stepped back in drowning relief as Blackwell's Hand did the same. This was no different than any of the fights they had fought on far-away asteroids. No-one had gotten killed then; no-one would get killed now. The Hand of Blackwell wasn't even trying to kill them this time. They had stopped smiling so widely and were simply focused, relaxed. Fog Rolled In could almost imagine the play-duels they were supposed to have had.
Fog Rolled In lunged forward to test their defenses. The Paragon sang in their hand, but not the eerie wail it sometimes made in battle; a chorus as of many voices in harmony rose from the ice to saturate the thin atmo. Blackwell's Hand swatted the Paragon aside—not as hard as they could, as if they remembered Fog Rolled In's injured wrist—and came within an inch of taking them in the shoulder. It would be so easy for them to fight to kill. But they let Fog Rolled In step back, and let the dance begin again.
And it was a dance, Fog Rolled In was realizing. When they were fighting, the Hand of Blackwell anchored themself to a position and forced their opponent to move around them. Now they willingly gave ground, took it back, ceded it again to Fog Rolled In. They weren't fighting for their lives: Blackwell's Hand was free to leave an opening inviting Fog Rolled In close for a showy opposition parry, and for a while they fought without ever separating their blades. Blackwell's Hand was grinning, perhaps not even feigned, and Fog Rolled In was able to let a small smile grow on their face as well. They both slid back away from each other and took on dramatic postures, timed it just so—lunged—
Fog Rolled In straightened up with a shallow cut across their throat, and Blackwell's Hand with a nick in one eyebrow. They pulled a handkerchief out of their pocket, made a quick salute, and came forward to soak the small amount of blood welling at Fog Rolled In's neck before it could ruin their white shirt. Fog Rolled In rolled their eyes and produced their own handkerchief to dab at the Hand of Blackwell's brow. "Inefficient," they said.
"I forgot," said Blackwell's Hand airily.
"No winner," said Phantom. Fog Rolled In started, having forgotten that they were being watched at all. “May I present to you Mrs. Who Tears The Stars Draper, and Mrs. Fog Rolled In Blackwell. Cross your blades.” There was an awkward trade of handkerchiefs, and then with their off hands behind their backs, Fog Rolled In and Blackwell’s Hand pressed the middles of their blades together, forming a cross. The Sword of Phantom’s tip came lightly to rest at the center. “As I witness your joining, Sword of Phantom witnesses the joining of your Houses.” Ribbons of smoke peeled away from both blades to merge with each sword and to wrap around their hands, like flowing gloves. It was very like when they had been bonded to the Paragon.
All their trepidation and repulsion returned at once. They did not want to be bonded to Blackwell's Hand, but they had trapped themself. All this had been their idea, and the only thing they could do now was see it through.
The smoke faded, and it was done.
They lowered their swords and Blackwell’s Hand stepped forward, watching their face. Right. They would not be able to make a convincing wedding unless they kissed.
Fog Rolled In gripped the Paragon’s hilt like a lifeline, clammy with their own sweat, as Blackwell’s Hand slid a hand around the back of their neck. Fog Rolled In had never been kissed, but even so this wasn't quite what they were expecting. Blackwell's Hand approached slowly, pausing when there was no more than an inch between them and sliding their other hand over Fog Rolled In's on the Paragon's hilt, as if to tell them to relax. Fog Rolled In felt lightheaded, felt as if something was stuck in their chest, making it difficult to breathe.
Blackwell's Hand closed the distance and kissed them gently. That was all, Fog Rolled In thought dizzily. Just touching mouth to mouth. It didn't mean anything.
There were tears on the Hand of Blackwell's face, and although they were smiling Fog Rolled In was certain they were not tears of joy.
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