Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto. Beta'd by Fishebake.

"With a heart like that, you deserve the world."

— r. m. drake

It takes a month to arrange the wedding, a month to nail the notice to the door of the church, a month to send all the invitations, a month to arrange the feasting, a month because his lady mother worked far more quickly now that there was a bride in mind.

Warwick's extensive resources are brought to bear, a priest is called, rings are forged by a goldsmith and sent up to the castle, all with the speed enough that it would make his head spin. Still, he has ignored it for the most part.

Certainly, Her Grace doesn't want this chance to slip through her fingers. More time to think must have made her realize that he will do no better than a princess, no matter how much she doesn't approve of the princess's habits.

He's glad, at least, that there were no further protests. They were beginning to wear thin his patience. And when his patience burns away, there is very little to contain his rage.

There is, after all, only so many times he can covertly threaten to shave his head and become a monk without it feeling like a death sentence even for him.

The irony of him becoming a man of god would be humorous if it wasn't also...disquieting and sad.

In most respects, he belongs to the faith and the ideals of the church. In most respects, until it comes to love.

For then at least, half his love is sin. His most recent love affair would see devout members of the Church attempt to try and hang him, if not burn him at the stake. Sodomy is an awful word, and it brings with it great punishment.

So when he dresses that morning before the ceremony and prepares to step foot in the great Cathedral, his mind is strangely calm.

Like a soft tide rushing out to sea, he clasps the last of the fasteners of his black cloak about his neck, pauses for a moment while turning an idea over in his mind, before sweeping out of the room.

His cane stays where he'd left it the night before, leaning against the rack where he also kept his rapier, shield and suit of arms.

Here in Warwick, on his wedding day, there will be no need for blades.

The service is a long one, though his mind does not wander as he listens to the priest's low baritone echo from the walls, through the atrium and up high into the rafters above.

The priest speaks of the sacred nature of the marital union, of the ties that bind, of what is to come and what has been.

For all intents and purposes, this was and has always been his fate.

He wisely refrains from any change in expression during the discussion of fated, predestined union written down long before he was born.

If I did not choose to go to Islay, if I did not choose to joust, if she did not choose to falter, my predestined fate would be married to another woman. It's our choices that make us who we are.

What a lovely thing it is when it ends.

Only when they are at the altar, does he finally see her. Her hair has been twisted into a crown of braids, thick and heavy, pinned tightly with not a strand out of place.

Sir Kanae does not look like herself in this blue dress beaded with black pearls, sheer lace gloves up to her elbows, her hair tamed and her posture demure.

She acts well, so she does, Kanae Uzumaki, Princess of Scots, but when she turns her eyes up to meet his own before the vows, he knows very well that it is only an act.

No, she may wear the trappings of propriety well, but they will never be her nature.

He is glad, in a way, that King Ashina had allowed her the choice of a lord with a trial by combat.

If her life had been signed to a man with no care for a woman who deviated from the bounds of what was proper besides how he could trample it under his foot, Madara is sure she would survive.

But that would not have made her happy.

He is uncertain that he will make her happy in the end, but at the very least, he is not blind to who she is, of the storm behind the veneer of grace and a demuring nature. At the very least, he has already promised to try.

He takes her hand, and turns to face the altar.

"I do." From this day to his last day, to have and to hold, to cherish and to honor.

"I do." From this day to her last day, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health.

Turning away, there is Taiko, the messenger boy holding the tray with the two plain gold bands.

He selects the slighter of the two and slides onto her finger, the band cold to the touch despite the balmy summer air.

She smiles, small and quick, amusement dusting her features for the briefest span of moments before with great deliberation she picks up the other ring.

The rings themselves were made by a great jeweler, spun air-light and delicate, far beyond the usual craftsmanship for such affairs.

Warwick deserves nothing less.

It is not heavy on his hand when they turn to walk down the aisle, amidst the cheering of the gathered crowd, but still the cool feel of gold unwarmed by the touch of a human hand clasps him by his hand.

By the end of the day, even that is forgotten.

"Perhaps we should retire." He offers the woman beside him his arm. "It is late enough."

The jostling and noise of the guests rattles in his ears and he dislikes the boisterous mood. Yes, it is a wedding party. Yes, it is his wedding party.

That doesn't mean necessarily that he's happy. There have been few parties in his life where he's been truly happy.

There's too much of this that he dreads, but nothing has been solved by running away from it.

There's a gold band on his finger.

There are guests here celebrating his marriage.

Her Grace looks well pleased by the boisterous atmosphere. Warwick has not seen a celebration in years.

His Grace has deigned to sit at the head of the table tonight, propped up on pillows and periodically snapping at the cupbearer who tops his glass.

Izuna is here too, a small smile on his face, far happier than he's been since Madara's return.

He glances at his younger brother's face and almost flinches. The pang of guilt is still too much, too sharp, too difficult. He cannot think of this now.

Only one thing remains, only one thing remains, and he hardly wants to think of this exactly.

Despite what other people have always whispered, especially in Court, he is made of fire, not ice. He is a man made of fire, and this night has an inevitable conclusion.

"But the guests aren't done celebrating yet."

She's thinking of— His mind cuts off the thought. "That's a disgusting ritual. No one is chasing you tonight." He'd personally told his men he would not tolerate such a thing. The tradition of tearing the bride's dress off of her on the way to the wedding bed will find nothing but a swift death here.

How lovely it is that his lord father has other ideas after seeing him rise. "Perhaps we should celebrate the happy couple a little more tonight. After all, there is only ever one wedding night."

The commoner fortune teller is at his father's elbow, dressed in motley like some sort of fool.

Just the sight of that disgusts him more. "I doubt my lady and I need to be celebrated any more tonight, Your Grace. We've been celebrating since dawn, give everyone a little rest."

Who will these now awkwardly silent guests listen to: the man on his deathbed, or their future lord?

It's not a hard choice. He'd grown up among these people, and despite not being home in seven years, he is still their future duke.

No one follows them out.

The walk down the hall with her hand on his arm sets him ill at least, tension in his shoulders, his neck, fraying at his fingertips.

It does not help that their walk is silent. For the first time, it doesn't seem like she's particularly inclined to break the quiet that has settled all about them. She is content in the wordless press of nothing then.

He cannot help but find that possibly even worse than her constant chattering.

They enter his suite of rooms first. The candles are lit.

Her hand slips from his arm.

"Chihaya is waiting for me to let down my hair." It might be a stalling tactic, but he too wishes to stall the inevitable.

"As is only reasonable." He says, so softly it might as well be a whisper. "You shouldn't keep her waiting."

He takes a seat, his back to the door of her rooms.

She will return, or she will not.

And if she does not...if she does not…

He never finishes that line of thought because she returns, the soft scrape of the heavy door against the stonework of the floor loud in the quiet. "My Lord?"

She sounds nervous, still the sound of her bare feet across the floor tells him that she is moving toward him.

"My Lady." So it is to be titles between them. Perhaps years from now, there will be no one to call him Madara.

Still, there is something intimate about the way 'my lord' falls from her lips. Why does it make his skin shudder when he hears it so frequently from almost every mouth? She should be no different, but the words raise gooseflesh on his skin.

She is just behind him, now beside him, then before him. "There is something expected about this night."

"There is," he agrees, quite uselessly. He ought to raise his eyes, but that would be confirming a truth, and he doesn't know what sort of emotion she'd read from his eyes.

No, he does not want to know.

"Well." It sounds like a question. Shouldn't something happen then? She has returned. He ought to do something.

Ought to, but his hands are heavy at his sides.

What has he become?

Heavens, it is not as if he is still some blushing boy who has never known the pleasure of flesh.

That would be himself perhaps some six or seven years ago.

He is not old to be married, but neither is he young.

"I am not immune to desire, my lady." His throat is parched, dry, and he wishes he didn't ignore the goblet of mead topped up to the brim by his elbow all night. She wears only a shift, her feet bare, her hair loose. It is the most unguarded he's seen her. "But I have also never bedded an unwilling soul." Something inside him twists.

Does he desire her?

Yes.

He does.

"I will not start tonight." He still has some dignity. Never before has he had an unwilling lover, and tonight is not the night he starts.

She takes a step closer. "No," she agrees. "You will not." A hand against his cheek, tilting his face up. He has to meet her eyes.

They are wide and clear, almost heartbreaking in how earnestly she looks at him. So few people bother to tell him the truth to his face.

He almost tells her that he understands that there is no need for anything to happen despite the rather obvious: a marriage is unlawful until consummated, but she continues. "I have never desired anyone before." No, likely she has not. She's young.

When he was seventeen, he'd thought Hashirama a friend. His dearest friend in an unfamiliar city, in the wide and wheeling court, but he had no thoughts towards sin either.

"But I doubt I'm immune either." The corners of her mouth tilt up in a genuine smile. "You are beautiful, my lord."

"Beautiful?" he asks. He already knew that he was striking, and that it gave him the ability to charm who he wanted to charm should he try it, but her words always bleed with a sort of raw honesty that makes him doubt himself. "Am I?"

"Of course you are." Her voice takes on a slightly amused tinge. "Surely, someone had to have told you?"

Plenty of people have told him. It is just— You have never said that before. "You have not." Is what he settles for. There is an ache in his very soul that would take too many unfamiliar words to explain.

His lips and tongue can't form those words, not tonight, maybe never.

"Can you teach me?" She climbs onto his lap, straddling his hips, hands braced against his chest.

She does not know — she cannot know — how this affects him. Would she tease him so with the white column of her neck, her bare shoulders, the sharp line of her collarbone, if she knew how much he longed to plant kisses there until she understands?

"There is no need to teach desire, my lady." He cups the back of her neck, fingers tangled in her hair. "It lives on attraction and breathes in affection." Desire is a living, pulsing thing, a thing felt by instinct and hollow echoes.

They had kissed earlier, a chaste press of lips over the top of a tower of buns.

That is not the way he wants to kiss her now. "May I?" May I kiss you, my lady?

Her lips part slightly, painted red with rogue, a gentle distraction.

"Yes."

The press of her lips against his is soft at first, but grows more insistent, still gentle, not exactly passion, but on the way there. There are many ways to either fan this flame or squelch it.

He sighs into the kiss; her mouth is warm, and she tastes so sweet. There is something about the softness of this moment — not the desperate urge of need, but a soft current of want nonetheless.

Tonight, he chooses to fan the flame.

She shifts, her hands clenching tighter.

When they finally break apart, her face flushed, her hands fisted in his shirt, it feels like a simmering in his blood. It has been months since he felt this way. He has always been a man of earthly temptations, but something this intoxicating can only be rare and precious.

"May I?" There is something so lovely about this moment. He half wishes that he could keep it forever.

"Yes." She carefully lets go of his shirtfront, fingers attempting to smooth the wrinkled cloth.

He pulls her closer, lips ghosting over her pulse. She trembles, the sound that escapes her breathy and indistinct.

It was not a name, not a distinguishable word, not even loud, but it shudders through him all the same.

He tilts his head, teeth scraping the juncture between her neck and shoulder before he drags a hot line to hollow of her throat.

"Please," she whispers from somewhere above him. "Please."

She doesn't know what she's asking for. Perhaps someone had told her once what was to come on a wedding night, but she does not know, not truly.

That does not make the words she's using any less heady.

Passion is a fire. And fanning the flame can lead to burns.

Ah, but he was never good at protecting himself from that. He has always loved the flame.

Let him burn.

He pulls back, fingers lingering at the neckline of her shift. It wouldn't take much to get rid of it.

He asks with his eyes, not entirely sure of his ability to form a coherent sentence. The look of want — like storm clouds rolling on a desolate coast, like coming home from war, like affection that ruins the fury of grief, like — in her green eyes is enough to cut him apart.

She is no lover that he can love and leave.

And he has always been good at burning.

She takes the hand that rests on her shoulder and pulls the collar down, the linen pooling around her thighs. It will have to be removed later, but as it is, this is acceptable to him.

But having done this, her courage deserts her. She looks away from him, at some point on the floor, lips pulled into a rueful smile.

She is not without scars. A faint one carves a line over under one of her ribs, an accident in the tiltyard perhaps. There are others, but that is the largest, most noticeable of them.

He traces it gently to its end where her ribs join and fuse.

She is not without scars, but neither is he.

"This is nothing to be ashamed of." No one can grow good with a lance without taking some tumbles, without risking injury. No warrior is without scars, and he had admired her for her daring and courage before desiring her lips on his, her hands in his hair, her soul laid bare to him.

"I am not ashamed of it." Her head comes to a rest on his shoulder, her breath fanning out across his throat.

His mouth runs dry once more.

"But I am not very pretty." Not very pretty with it.

"No," he agrees as he pulls her hand to his side. She'd drawn his blood there once. The scar on his left side is new and twisted, puckered pink skin far less pleasing to the eye than the rest of him. "And by that argument, I am not beautiful either." She opens her mouth, protest sparking in her eyes, but he continues anyway. "Do not delude yourself, my lady. You are exquisite."

The choked sob that rips its way out of her throat almost breaks the small part of him that still believes in goodness, in that kindness is to be had in this world, in that beauty can still be pure.

"Has no one told you this before?" Has no one told you, or did you not believe them?

She tilts her face up to his, green eyes brimming with unshed tears that would never fall if he has any say in the matter. "Thank you." Then her mouth is on his, insistent like an unfinished question, like a plea for grace.

He strokes the line of her spine, and almost unconsciously her hips roll forward.

His attempt to stifle his groan is a fruitless endeavor. He leans forward to whisper in her ear. "As much as I love this, my lady, at this rate you'll finish me before you want that to happen." It would be embarrassing, but not the worst thing he's done over the years.

"What?" She sounds so distracted, her hands wandering his front.

"Your lord husband is completely dressed, my lady." He huffs a laugh. "That might be a little unfair, yes?"

Her fingers fly to the top button of his shirt. She doesn't linger, frowning at the persistently small clasps as she attempts to pry them apart. "This wasn't hard before." She mutters, half to herself and half to him.

He laughs, the chuckle warmer than perhaps it has been in a long time. "I don't think you were quite so eager to remove it last time." That's the thing about clothing, it resents you when you try to make it go away. When you desperately want it gone, it stays.

Her shift has to go too. He'd been content to leave it where it had slid down to pool over her thighs like the skirt of a rumpled dress, but now he finds it inhibiting. He tugs at it more persistently.

Linen does not rip like cotton would. The effort to just destroy the garment would cost more than removing it in a more civilized fashion. "Arms up." He asks her.

She makes a noise of frustration. "I'm not done." She has unbuttoned perhaps half of his shirt. She could just pull it off his shoulders now, force buttons to cascade to the floor like so many pebbles bouncing on the stonework, but he doubts she has thought of that particular method. She's too new to this, unpracticed and a little shy.

Some other time, she will rip his shirt off of him, and that deep well inside him will shudder with happy appreciation. For now…

"The buttons won't go anywhere."

Begrudgingly, she lets him pull the offending garment off of her. It falls to the floor, completely forgotten in the span of seconds.

They pause like that for a moment, another moment he wishes to keep, before she launches her attack on his shirt once more.

Somehow, this time, it goes more successfully this time. She peels the shirt off of him with a triumphant cry and lets it drop to the floor, as forgotten as her shift.

Only then does she remember that he still has other articles of clothing.

The truly frustrated cry she allows to slip out of her throat when confronted by his belt sends him into a fit of helpless laughter.

She casts him a disapproving look.

"I'll help." He leans in for another kiss, nibbling lightly at her bottom lip. "If you can bear to be parted from me that is. This will take considerably longer with you in my lap." It is not impossible, merely very inconvenient.

She's upset about this too, but they are not at the point where all logic has fled. She allows him the minute he needs to finally shed all the offending garments that had separated them before she's in his lap once more, hands in his hair, lips on his once more, hot and insistent, all forms of softness and chasity gone.

It's the sight her with her head thrown back, her hair spilling all about her shoulders, red red red, the heat of this, the sounds she's making almost obscene, sobbing, her hands clutching helplessly at his shoulders that undoes him in the end.

For a long time after, neither of them moves. He's content to stay here as the high ebbs from him. She's still in his arms, their hair mingling together, heartbeats out of sync, but still a rhythm that's natural enough.

"Should I ask them to draw a bath?"

"Mmm." She agrees, wordless, drowsy, and most importantly content.

And that is more than enough.

He wakes to the morning sun, golden across the tapestries, and a wild tangle of red hair in his face. They'd left the canopy open last night, and thus the sun was allowed to intrude. He makes a mental note to not let that happen again. Again, as though he governed fate enough that they would do this if not often, then more than once.

He moves the hair, sliding it back over her shoulder, but otherwise does nothing, merely stares up at the ceiling.

It's morning, and he's still here.

That's never happened before.

He woke up in his own bed, alone, more often than he can count all these years.

But this, this is gold in so many ways.

There is still time, still time to get up and go, but he does not and misses the moment to.

She sleeps with one hand half clenched before her, the other arm thrown loosely over the pillows.

He did not lie last night when he said that Sir Kanae is beautiful.

He allows the moment to linger, until it is no longer a moment, but a decision, a choice.

He stays when he has never stayed before.

"You're still here." She blinks at him, sleepy green eyes half open, an arm casually thrown over his chest. She sounds surprised.

Something tightens in his throat. "Would you like me to go?" Perhaps she doesn't want his company any longer? He knows that he is not—

She yawns. "You're tense." Her hand comes to rest on his shoulder, placed lightly. She won't keep him if he chooses to get up and go. "Did you want to go?"

Does he want to— "No."

"Then I would like if you stayed."

And something settles between them. Something stays.

No lover I can love and leave.

And yet he is alright with that.

She hums happily to herself. "I suppose that's the answer then."

"What's the question?" He'd answered her questions.

"Mmm." Her fingertips trace his collarbone, the gesture tender in ways that he didn't expect. "It's not much, just a question my lady mother asked me before I left."

"Ah," he half suspects he knows the question then. How can you be sure that he will treat you well?

Well, now she knows exactly what sort of man he is. "I am not a cold man by nature." Tired perhaps. Hardly in charge of his own destiny here at Warwick. Reserved before a crowd, but hardly cold. "And I am glad I do not have to play a cold part."

He feels her smile against his shoulder more than he sees it. "I'm glad too."

A.N. So uh, apparently I had this written for months and then never uploaded it because ? I'm honestly not too sure why unless I meant to finish writing chapter seven, before I uploaded this, except my brain got eaten by other works in progress in the same time period, so chapter 7 has been gathering dust for about a good five or six months. Anyway, a wedding, a discussion, and thoughts of a future to come.

Thank you to everyone for your support, it's always so lovely to hear from all of you! Stay safe, stay well!

~Tavina