Turuk thinks that Malwen has never looked so beautiful in all their acquaintance, and that's saying something. His loose ceremonial robe is deep blue silk, and patterns of embroidered herons chase each other over the garment in a paler shade. Turuk's own robe is blood crimson, and protected by fierce golden lions that stalk around his torso. He sees Malwen eyeing them, and can tell from the tense set of his lover's shoulders that Malwen is very nervous. Turuk is too, if he would ever admit such a thing to himself.
They make an oddly complimentary match, standing at the front of the gathering hall. Both are dark-skinned, both with soft, raven-black hair, though Mal's is kept long, cascading down his back, as a sign of his status. He is the son and heir of the clan chief, and he wears his pride like a second skin. Turuk's hair is cut short enough that it still grows up rather than down; he wears his hair in the more practical style of the warrior. To Turuk, his hair is symbolic in its own way, a pledge to always protect his love.
They are just about of the same height as well, although Turuk is quite a bit broader, his body bulked with muscle. But, as they stand with their profiles facing the room full of gathered loved ones, the difference is not quite as obvious.
Turuk feels a heat building under his skin. It is the ceremonial wine they drank earlier, when the High Priestess began to speak the ancient words. It was laced with a very particular mixture of herbs, known only to the Priestess herself. As Turuk clasps Malwen's hands in his own, he fancies he can feel the answering blood singing below the skin of Mal's wrists.
It seems as though the priestess will go on speaking forever, though Turuk is hardly listening to her words. He keeps his eyes locked with Mal's, holding him, trying to put as much reassurance in his gaze as he can. He knows that Malwen is frightened, far more frightened than him, of this ceremony, and for Mal he must be strong. For Mal he will always be strong.
Finally, finally, the High Priestess speaks the words that Turuk has been waiting to hear. "You will now prove your love," the wizened old crone says in a voice deceptively clear for her age. She steps back, and a soft murmur passes through the crowd, quickly hushed.
Turuk takes a deep breath and squeezes Mal's hand one more time before reaching forward to untie the ceremonial sash holding Mal's robe shut. Malwen reaches forward to do the same for Turuk, and Turuk hopes Mal can still get the knots undone with his hands shaking like that. But he manages, and both their robes fall open, hanging forward on their bodies, just barely hiding them from the audience, but concealing them not at all from each other.
Turuk folds first, dropping somewhat heavily to his knees, and sitting back between his ankles. The robe falls open around him now, and he knows the audience can see him clearly, but his mind is not focused on them. His mind is only on Malwen, as the young man sinks down far more gracefully than Turuk managed, his legs parting around Turuk's thighs.
A murmur rises from the crowd; it is highly unusual for a chief's son to submit so. But Turuk knew Mal would never manage it if he was forced to try to take Turuk in front of all of these people. He's not entirely certain they'll be able to manage it this way. But then, that is the purpose of the ceremony; it shows ultimate love, ultimate faith in and connection with each other, that together they can proudly declare their love in front of those about whom they care the most. Turuk tries not to think about his mother and younger sister in the front row, the latter's eyes cast down in embarrassment, the former's gaze stony and firmly forward. He tries not to think about Malwen's father, the clan chief, seated in the front on the opposite side of the room, his mouth set with an unfathomable stoic understanding.
For a moment, Mal just sits in his lap, their torsos pressed together. Mal's hips must be stretched uncomfortably, but he does not indicate any pain. They have both been training their bodies for this day.
Turuk places his chin on Mal's shoulder and murmurs softly into his ear. "Just breathe, Love," he whispers. "Don't think about them. Just think about me. I love you. Just look at me and think of nothing else."
Mal draws back slightly, meeting his eyes, and nods minimally. He laces his fingers together behind Turuk's neck and takes a deep, shuddering breath, lifting himself, lifting and leaning back...
His anus parts easily around Turuk's cock. He's been well-prepared for the ceremony, purified and cleansed, oiled and stretched, relaxed to the point of pliancy, and he manages to impale himself in a single slow, unceasing exhale. He parts, widens, slides down, his eyes tightly shut, teeth worrying slightly at his lower lip. He stops when he is once again seated on Turuk's lap, though leaned back at a far more extreme angle now, and takes a few moments to breathe.
Turuk has been prepared for the ceremony as well, from practice and the herbs in the wine. He knows what to do, in his mind, but somehow all rational thought seems to flee him whenever he is with Mal like this. It is as though Mal's body bleeds into his, mingling with him and tangling up his sanity. But this time, for once, Turuk must keep his head.
He puts his hands on Mal's hips, sliding his hands under the slick silk and across smooth, soft skin. He grasps his lover firmly, holding him, pressing down with a confinement that means safety, a protective imprisonment. He shifts his own hips upward—not much room, and difficult from this position, but practice pays off—and begins slow, rhythmic thrusts that even out Mal's breathing, syncing them up.
He tries to focus his mind, to send as much confidence into Mal as he can. 'Look at me,' he thinks at his lover's closed eyes. 'Look only at me.' He thinks it over and over again, pounding the message into Mal with his body: 'Look at me. Look at me.'
And Mal's eyes open, bore into his, seeing the message and understanding. His hips tighten, muscles contracting around Turuk's cock as he is lost; he never can handle looking at his lover when he's being taken. He makes a small, clenched-teeth sound, the whimper of one overwhelmed, a sound that Turuk hopes does not carry all the way to the audience, because he wants to keep that sound all to himself, wants to hold that sound close to his heart and know that it is his part of Malwen, and his alone.
Their eyes are locked now, and the communication is freer. Malwen's hips begin to move, drawing out the thrusts so they are no longer meager swivelings of Turuk's hips, but a full joining, a crash of their bodies together as they separate and are drawn back, irresistibly, to the point of their joining.
Turuk holds Malwen's eyes. He has to. He has to keep them utterly, entirely focused and centered, lest Mal remember where they are. Like this they are beautiful, fitting together like a stream in its bed, made for and made by one another. Made perfect by each other. Turuk looks up into Malwen's face, Mal's expression lost in the helpless abandon of the moment, and thinks again that his lover has never before been so beautiful, the almond eyes and arched eyebrows breaking into uncontrolled sensuality.
Malwen is close. Turuk can always tell by the little things, the particular biting of the lip, the tightening of the fingers, but this time he feels sure of the knowledge in a way he never quite has before. It is as though Mal merely has to think the thought for it to appear in Turuk's own mind, and Turuk wonders just how strong those herbs were.
Malwen is shaking, but no longer in fear. Turuk can feel him, understands that Malwen is driven mad by the perfection of his penetration. It will be soon now—watch—one, two, three deep slams downward and he comes, spilling himself on his own stomach and on Turuk's.
Another two thrusts and Turuk is there as well; he has been holding himself back, waiting for Malwen, but it is a relief to give in to the sensuality of the tightness and the heat of Malwen's passage surrounding him, enveloping him tightly like an embrace.
Turuk knows his climax is graceless, and cranes the top of his torso forward to bury his face in Malwen's neck as his hips buck, filling Malwen with the manifestation of his love. It's a move that requires some flexibility, but it is worth it to feel Malwen's fingers tangle in his hair as he holds and supports Turuk, the pads of his fingertips massaging forgiveness into Turuk's scalp.
They breathe for a few moments. The room is silent; nearly a hundred pairs of eyes stare impassively at the couple, witness to this proof of love. When Malwen shakily extricates himself, and Turuk's semen runs down the inside of his thigh, each observer bows his or her head in acknowledgment.
But the couple could not be further away from noticing them. They reach forward in their distractingly corporeal flesh, and lay their hands across each other's hearts.
In a soft but clear voice, like sunlight parting clouds, the High Priestess pronounces them wed.