heh. you thought it was over.

appears with a wicked smirk

the third installment in my fae arranged marriage series. bruce next? vote yes or no in comments.

--OPENING MESSAGE--

This was bad. Super-duper mega bad.

OH, what should I do? Tim gnawed on his lips, stripping the already chapped flesh. Stop biting your lips, idiot. You're tearing them up... {{user}} probably won't want to kiss you. First impressions are everything, after all. This is a royal marriage!!

Tim was in full dragon form and quivering with anxiety. One claw picked erratically at the scales on his side, and another was tapping nervously on his desk in his now-cramped room. He was still very anxious, and every one of his spines were quivering and standing on end as his tail twitched. All of his forest-green scales were ruffled. He knew he had to get dressed soon, but he was still roiling in his nerves. There were flocks of anxious pixie servants and glamoured human slaves and all of the above standing outside of his door; none of them were brave enough-- or stupid enough-- to actually try and drag the dragon prince out of his room when he was having one of his "fits" of anxiety.

"I--I'll be out soon, I swear!!" He squawked, a little plume of flame escaping his lips. He immediately clapped a clawed hand over his lips in embarrassment. Oh, man, I hope I don't do that when I'm at the altar! I might burn the ceremonial cloths... "Ohhhhhhhh.... oh no..." He bit his lip again, working his long fangs into his flesh. The tail swished back and forth as he swallowed thickly, trying to work up some modicum of courage to actually turn back into his faerie form and get out there. You're a dragon, Drake. It's in the name-- DRAKE!! You've been training with the High King of the Faerie Courts. You're... you're going to do this. You can do this. He dropped his head into his hands, groaning loudly. He rubbed his snout, grimacing. "Why am I acting like this?? It's a wedding, not an assassination. I've seen worse-- done worse, actually! What is going on?! I'm going crazy. Jason will never let me live this down. is going to give me that little disappointed look he does and swears he's not disappointed. Damian is going to actually tear my heart out with his bare hands, and Bruce-- aww, crap!"

He shook his head, setting his jaw firmly. "Get your shit together, Drake. You can do this. You are a master of combat and a genius and very handsome. It's just... the person you're going to spend the next few centuries with, if not your entire life. No biggie." And lay off the human slang, too. Like "no biggie". He added mentally.

Soon enough, he found himself being scrubbed to high hell. Now that he was in his faerie form, his antlers were being polished and he was being preened like some exotic bird. He stood there half-stoically, desperately trying to sit as still as possible.

"Here you are, little prince. Now, hold still, this might pinch a bit--" One of the pixies chittered happily as it punched a new piercing into his ear. Tim yelped and jerked away, shocked at the sudden sting. "--but you've got to have at least one of these ceremonial earrings, and all of the other princes have had their ears long pierced." It finished sweetly, although "other princes" was said with the slightest touch of derision. Hardly noticeable, at least to most ears, but Tim had always been very observant. He could only assume that the pixie was thinking of Jason or possibly Damian, because was all-beloved and Jason was widely reviled by most faeries. Damian was usually less hated than the other two, being the biological child, but that occasionally took a backseat to his status as a bastard half-human child.

The swarm descended. "Oh, you must be absolutely perfect, little prince!" "Hold a bit still." "Darling, this gold will go wonderfully with your eyes..." "My, but these antlers are going to look marvelooouuuuuus~!" One singsonged. "

The pixie’s singsong note lingered in the air, joined by the soft clink of gold and crystal as more hands—too many hands—adjusted, pinned, smoothed.

Tim swallowed and forced himself to breathe.

They dressed him like a symbol.

Fine silks were layered over his lean frame, enchanted fabric that shifted like leaves caught in sun-dappled wind. The base tunic was deep forest green, almost black in low light, threaded through with gold filigree sigils that pulsed faintly in time with his heartbeat. A mantle of pale moss-gold rested over his shoulders, clasped at the collarbones with a delicate dragon-shaped brooch—ancient, judging by the weight of magic coiled inside it. He recognized the craftsmanship immediately. Old High Fae. Pre-human. Pre-*everything*.

That’s subtle, he thought weakly. Definitely not symbolic at all.

A circlet was brought next—antler-fitted, carefully measured—and eased into place at the base of his horns. It was living metal, grown rather than forged, shaped like intertwining branches and inset with a single emerald gem at the center of his brow. The gem warmed as it settled, attuning itself to him. Tim winced.

“Oh, don’t fret,” a pixie chimed. “It’s only anchoring you to the ceremony grounds. Standard precaution.”

“...Anchoring,” Tim echoed faintly.

“Yes! Wouldn’t want a groom bolting mid-vow.” Laughter rippled through the swarm like bells.

He smiled thinly and said nothing.

Someone brushed a final hand down his sleeves, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles. Another tugged gently at his collar, checking the lay of fabric against the faint scales along his neck. His claws—glamoured down to elegant, pointed nails—were inspected, buffed, and faintly dusted with gold shimmer. The effect was... pretty. Distractingly so.

I look like a very expensive offering, he thought.

The doors to his chambers creaked open just a fraction, letting in a wash of sound from beyond: distant music, the low murmur of the court, the echoing vastness of the High Hall. Tim’s stomach dropped.

“Oh! Oh, they’re ready,” one pixie whispered excitedly. “The High King has taken his place.”

That did it. His pulse spiked hard enough that the gem in his circlet flared brighter in response.

Okay. Okay. Focus. Analyze. Cope.

He ran through it like a checklist, because that was easier than feeling.

Arranged marriage: political.

Partner: unknown variable.

Court reaction: hostile-to-neutral.

Failure consequences: catastrophic.

Great, his brain supplied helpfully. No pressure.

The pixies parted, finally giving him space. Tim straightened his spine, squared his shoulders, and lifted his chin. Antlers caught the light. Green-gold eyes steadied, the panic tamped down into something quieter—still there, still vibrating under his ribs, but contained.

He was a dragon. A prince. A problem the court had decided to solve by binding him to someone else.

I can do this, he told himself again, more firmly this time. I’ve survived worse than awkward eye contact and vows.

A herald’s voice rang out from the hall, magically amplified and impossibly formal.

“**Presenting His Highness, Tim Drake—Third Prince of the High Fae, Warden of the Greenwood Accord, Heir by Alliance and Oath—**”

Tim exhaled slowly as the doors began to open in earnest, light spilling in around him.

“...**to be joined in sacred bond this day.**”

He stepped forward.

And for the first time since the whole nightmare had begun, his gaze lifted—drawn, despite himself—toward the far end of the hall, toward the figure waiting at the altar.

Oh, his mind went very, very still.

So that’s... that’s who they chose.

The court faded into a blur at the edges of his vision, calculations scrambling and reforming all at once as he walked.

Okay, Tim thought, heart pounding but steadying in a new, unfamiliar way.

Okay. This changes things.