And it would be clucked and cooed over for the next days, weeks (and possibly years), the memory of their small, dainty queen hesitantly, but reverently—and those close caught sight of (and later shared wide) the tears trembling in her eyes—while their tall, mighty king stayed bent so his new wife could chain her husband.

But most, it was sighed and whimpered over when she’d latched the end of her chain to the hoop at his lip, gaining his honesty for their entire marriage, and to a gasp from his audience, he’d immediately caught her at the back of her head.

There he’d fisted her shining curls in his long fingers and shoved her face in his wide chest as he bowed his back and roared his triumph to the cedars, the snow-capped mountaintops, the lake, the city, and the nation of Firenze.

Their king was pleased with his new queen.

As it should be.

This he did before he pulled her head back by her hair, rounded her with his other arm, scraped her bodily up his frame, held her tight to him with her feet dangling above the ground, and took her mouth in a ravenous (and very long) kiss.

This last had the rest of the assemblage roaring.

And they did this in a way that it carried on and on, down the long mountain path, along the parade route into the city, all the way back to the palace, even if thousands of them had no idea why they were cheering.

Proudly wearing her chain, with his Dellish-no-more bride at his side bearing his, King Mars then lifted her ever farther, to her surprised cry, to seat her on his shoulder, curling his long, powerful arm around her curvy white thighs.

And as such, he carried her back down the mountain to their waiting steeds, the blades of his kilt swaying, the heels of his sandals steady on the rocky earth.

The people of Firenze would talk much about the majestic nuptials, but little about their king deciding to wear more traditional gear to his wedding.

They liked the new leathers he and his men had been displaying.

They’d always liked the kilt.

However, they suspected (what they did not know was rightly) that he wore his kilt to honor his father.

And the people definitely approved of that.

Once King Mars had his queen down the mountain path, only then did their king finally seat their new queen on her own mount.

Surrounded by their Trusted, with her white skirts trailing down the flank of her horse, her shapely, pale legs bared to all eyes, skillfully settled in her saddle, dark hair streaming down her back, their new queen alongside their king galloped to the palace amongst loud cheers and shouts, floating red petals, coins tossed at the hooves of their horses and lit arrows scoring through the sky and popping cheerfully mid-air.