I watch Father McKenna's eye develop a small twitch. "I see. And will these... drummers... be using traditional instruments?"
"War drums, yes. Thunder-makers. Bone horns for the processional fanfare."
The poor priest looks like he needs a stiff drink. Or possibly an exorcism.
"Perhaps," I interject quickly, "we could discuss some modifications to the traditional ceremony?"
This begins what Ursak will later refer to as the Great Compromise Wars. Every wedding detail becomes a negotiation between human expectations and orcish tradition. Flowers or war banners? String quartet or thunder drums? White dress or ceremonial battle armor?
Actually, the battle armor question is surprisingly tempting.
The dress shopping expedition with my mother and sister becomes its own special hell. Mom keeps steering me toward things that look like meringue explosions, while Elena advocates for anything that shows more skin.
"You're marrying an orc," Elena points out while I'm trapped in a particularly puffy monstrosity. "Embrace the exotic. Show some thigh."
"I'm not attending a Renaissance fair," I call through the dressing room curtain. "I'm getting married in a cathedral."
"To a seven-foot green man with tusks," she counters. "Traditional went out the window months ago."
She has a point, but I draw the line at the dress with the leather corset bodice and the sword holster.
Ursak, meanwhile, is having his own clothing crisis. Apparently, traditional orcish wedding attire involves ceremonial war paint and what he diplomatically calls "minimal coverage."
"How minimal?" I ask during one of our nightly planning sessions.
"Loincloth. Chest harness. Clan markings painted from shoulder to hip."
I try to picture this. I really do. "And Father McKenna is aware of this tradition?"
"I may have mentioned formal orcish regalia without elaborating on specifics."
"Ursak."
We compromise on a tuxedo with ceremonial clan colors worked into the tie and cummerbund. He's not entirely happy about it, but concedes that a loincloth might "distract from the solemnity of the vows."
The real chaos begins two weeks before the wedding when Ursak's family starts arriving.
I'm prepared for big. I'm not prepared forenormous. Ursak is practically dainty compared to his cousin Grok, who has to duck through our apartment doorway and whose handshake could probably crush walnuts. His great-aunt Ursa makes furniture creak just by looking at it.
They're all lovely, don't get me wrong. Incredibly warm and welcoming, bringing gifts of traditional foods and offering to help with preparations. But watching them navigate our human-sized world is like observing gentle giants trying to operate dollhouse furniture.
The hotel situation becomes an immediate crisis when three bed frames collapse on the first night. Emergency calls to reinforcement specialists follow. The restaurant reservations for the rehearsal dinner require a complete overhaul when we realize thatfamily-style portionsmeans something very different in orcish culture.
"How much food are we talking about?" I ask Ursak during one planning session.
"For sixty orcs? Perhaps four whole cows. Six pigs. Barrel of ale per ten guests."
I gawk at him. "Barrels. Plural."
"Wedding feast must be memorable," Ursa adds, nodding sagely. "Guests should roll home, too full to stand."
The caterer's face when I relay these requirements suggests I may have broken his spirit entirely.
But somehow, miraculously, everything comes together.
Wedding morning dawns crisp and clear, and I wake up in my childhood bedroom feeling like I might throw up from nerves or excitement. Possibly both.
The cathedral is already bustling when we arrive for photos. Orcish family members are setting up what appears to be a small village's worth of ceremonial decorations. Banners in deep greens and golds hang alongside traditional white flowers, creating a look that's somehow both elegant and wonderfully bizarre.
