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The golden halls of Anor Londo hadn’t been properly decorated for the last few centuries or so, at least since Lord Gwyn’s own wedding. But today is a proud day for the golden city, almost every member of Gwyn’s sovereignty stood outside the palace in order to celebrate such a momentous occasion. So large was the crowd, that small fairs with entertainers and kitchens had been started up throughout the city, solely for the benefit of the spectators of tonight’s event.
For the commoners, it would be the first royal wedding they attended within their lifetimes, and it was likely to be the last; hence it was to be an unmissable ceremony. Every member of the palace’s staff and service had been working tirelessly for weeks- making arrangements and smoothing out every detail, (even now still bustling from room to room) to ensure every element of the day would go off without a hitch.
Lord Gwyn himself was decorated with fabrics and jewels sourced from every corner of Lordran, no expense having been spared in the preparation of Anor Londo’s finest Lord. In truth, he was glad to finally be here, his firstborn taking so long to choose a wife that he’d begun to believe the day would never come. He understood, at least somewhat, that his son was ill-suited for matters such as this. There was a certain degree of finesse required when it came to ruling Lord Gwyn himself had barely come to master; in no small part thanks to his own role in the very age’s foundation. He would be the first to admit that for one who takes so easily to battle, the fineries of conversation and politics can be very stifling.
He was initially rather surprised when his son came to him (for he was tired of dragging his heels on the matter) and conceded to choosing a bride and being wed in the capital. Though Gwyn was never quick to express much beyond a look of vaguely grave importance, one could see the softening in his face and the sigh of his shoulders upon hearing of his eldest’s decision. He was, frankly, very proud on this day, the sun taking to his cheeks as he stands in its light, staring down the steps leading down into the township below. It was a fine day, almost every face in his kingdom was somewhere before him now, standing both near and far, looking on in wonder at the God who rules their city.
Beside him stands the Princess of Oolacille, graceful as ever, the most beautiful of white silks covering her from top to bottom, waiting in anticipation of her betrothed. Despite only knowing her a small number of weeks, Gwyn had grown quite fond of the young woman, finding her sharp enough to know when to say the right things and often wise enough to keep them worth saying. Dusk herself felt a little out of sorts stood before so many, her kingdom seeming so small by comparison with the collective splendour of Lordran’s capital. She was glad to truly love her husband, for there were few men Dusk had met that were as respectful and affectionate. Though she understood it was not his wish to marry, never did he begrudge it of her, nor did he ever allow her to feel unloved or unwelcome. On her first night in Anor Londo he’d taken her gently by the hand and shown her around each and every room, introducing her to every servant and cook and handmaiden till her head was swimming in half remembered names.
A smile crept onto her face despite trying to keep herself as calm as possible. She was happy to be wed today, and happier still at the prospect of having such a wonderful husband for the foreseeable future. ‘I suppose’ she thought to herself ‘that today, of all days, I can be afforded a break from regal composure’. She let herself relax, feeling the tension in her face melt away.
…
Thrumming wide fingers against a low stone wall, Gwyn was beginning to wonder where his Son had gotten to. He spied one of his attendants vanishing out of sight now, having just informed him of the groom’s apparent absence. He was to be getting ready in his chambers, but when someone had been sent to fetch him to begin the ceremony, The Lord of Sunlight’s firstborn was nowhere to be found. Granted, it wasn’t unlike him to be indisposed, but for a matter so truly important it was rather unusual to find him missing from his designated place.
Lord Gwyn let a low sigh roll down his beard. It was likely that he’d have to go find him before too long, before Dusk and the townsfolk realise the wedding ceremony was set to begin several minutes ago. Where could his damned son be?
…
Pale snakes coil round his hips tightly, some sprawling up his back, others wrapping lower, grasping tensed thighs, sinking tiny teeth grip into any succulent flesh they can reach. The sensation was minor, a greater concern was if they would leave marks or not, but that was something he could worry about later.
“Mmnhhh… B-Brother, w-wait… we need to… go… we’ll be l-Ah!” Rough hands find her waist, fumbling with the soft fabric of her white dress, pulling it higher and higher. A jolt runs up her body as he fingers her chest, finding her sensitive nipples taut, receptive. He can feel her buck her hips back (at least, as much as she is able) against the sensation.
He brings his hips against her again, faster this time. “Sister-” he starts, slowly taking himself out of her again, before gently pressing himself back in. Each thrust was almost painfully slow, but he was always careful not to hurt her. Gwyndolin had always been physically sensitive, but her brother was massive. “Did you expect for me to see you this morning, the way you were, and remain unaffected?”
Gwyndolin had always struggled to deny her brother what he wanted, after all there were few but he and Gwynevere who treated The God of the Darkmoon with such kindness and grace, such unyielding love. When, eventually, she learned how truly unyielding her eldest brother’s love was, Gwyndolin was overjoyed. To be wanted, in the way so many want her sister, and to be held, in the way that so many wish to hold the sunlight… it had made Gwyn’s youngest feel whole.
Yet the young God still felt guilty for stealing her brother’s affection, and on a day such as this…
Still, her conscious’ voice could never quell the burning heat within her, the feeling of her brother inside of her, making her whole over and over again. She felt so small, in his arms, she felt so warm. His hands were on her again, tracing over the small of her back, the softness of her rear. He grips her hips firmly, pulling himself slowly from her again, his sister’s warm, wetness clinging to him.
Gwyndolin is laid on her back, fingers tracing her delicate chin. She is thankful for her golden crown, else her brother would see the rush of scarlet on her face. She tries to ignore the ‘beautiful’ that she knows he can’t help but let spill past his lips. He leans down and she kisses him back, feels his hips start to move again. Small hands wrap round his cock, guiding it back where it needs to be.
It was far from convention. Often, when she spied her brother standing with Dusk, she wished that she wasn’t born as his sister. It was just another way she had been born wrong, she thought. She wasn’t like her siblings, loved and right and warm. Though she still carried herself with pride, though she was still respected, Gwyndolin could never change her own nature. She was born of moonlight- She was born cold. The Heir of Sunlight was the only warmth in her life. Was it so wrong for someone so freezing to claw at the nearest sun? To clutch it for dear life because you know that it can never be yours?
Her dress was fashioned in the same vain as a wedding gown. It had been specially made for today, and was likely to be the closest Gwyndolin would ever get to wearing an actual wedding dress, as it wasn’t likely that she would ever be wed. She looked absolutely beautiful, adorned in soft white silk that glittered as though it was encrusted with stardust, the dress flowing with the twists and curves of her body, being tailored precisely her form. It had taken weeks for the seamstresses and dressmakers to weave it, and though Gwyndolin objected to them making such a fuss over someone as tainted as her, she still felt absolutely elated when trying it on for the first time.
She had been surprised to see her brother there, when he should have been getting ready to attend his own marriage ceremony. It was, after all, his wedding. She was far from surprised when he came up to her and hiked up her dress, stealing a kiss and lifting her by the butt towards the bed. There were very few in Anor Londo capable of lifting the young God, so she cherished every moment that she could enjoy the feeling.
She cherished him so much.
Fingers trace scarred skin. The faintest memories of blades making contact, glancing blows that thankfully weren’t enough to pierce her brother, near victories that probably earned the aggressor’s a very quick death. Gwyndolin was glad, glad that fortune had smiled favourably on her brother, kept him safe.
He runs a broad, hard finger along her backside, finding where skin gave way to scales as he pulls and parts the many serpents that make up her lower half, comfortably moving himself between them. Small teeth latch into his shoulders, long bodies slumped comfortably round his shoulders as he steadies himself, before he leans down and pulls at the top of her dress; taking her small, sensitive breasts in his hands and rolling his thumbs over his sister’s rosy pink nipples, feeling the roll of her hips against his, revelling the feel of her hot breath against his neck.
Their lips meet as his hands roam all around her body, rough skin rolling over her smooth neck and chest, his left hand reaching lower, softly tracing her thighs, a digit dragging up along the delicate place where Gwyndolin’s thighs meet, a shudder rising in her chest, a shiver crawling through her spine.
“Gwyndolin…” he starts, teasing her entrance with his fingers, making her claw at her bedsheets. His voice is low, filled with need and something else she couldn’t quite make out. “I love you, dearest sister.” It made her heart soar, but it did little to prepare her for what he had to say. His voice came out shaky.
“-More than her. I don’t want-“
Gwyndolin felt a tightness in her chest. A bitter chill wrapped round her heart, yet it was still trying to cling to her brother’s warmth. He was just within reach, just as he always was, yet he suddenly felt miles away. His fingers began moving inside her, and for the first time they felt sore. Her hand moved to gently rest on his arm.
“Stop.” She quietly said. “Stop this.”
Her words were little more than a whisper, but Gwyn’s Eldest Son stopped moving at once, and slowly took his hands away. Gwyndolin felt empty. She wanted nothing more than to beg him to come back, to keep going, take her again and again.
“You are going to be wed today. We cannot do this again.” She straightens her back and tries her best to look as dignified and distant as she usually does. It took all her years of practice to keep herself from crying. His hands try their best to fix her dress up properly, to smooth out the creases that he had put into it. As she looks up into his face it was heavy and unusual. His soft eyes which were usually so full of warmth looked cold, as though someone had poured into them all the rain in Lordran. His dearest Gwyndolin, a miracle in every sense of the word, yet the one and only woman he could never be permitted to take. Her hand came up to rest on his chin.
“I cannot. I’m sorry.” She stood and fixed herself once more before quietly making her way towards the door, trying to stifle the deafening pound of her heart trying to leap from her body.
“I’m sorry.” She said again. After that, she was gone.
Gwyn’s Eldest laid back on his sister’s bed, burying his face in her sheets. Heart heavy and hands shaking, he stood and began to dress himself again, picking up the discarded pieces of clothing scattered around her room. He shut his eyes and tried to imagine that he was somewhere else entirely.