*It goes without saying that Arrow – the story and all related characters – belong to the writers, cast and crew of the show. I claim no ownership or association to DC Comics or to the Arrow. This was written by a fan, solely for the enjoyment of other fans.*

Chapter 2
UNTIL DEATH DO THEY PART
(Part 1)

"Our lives . . . are complicated. But I'm willing to figure us out. If you are."
– McKenna Hall, S01E16

My dress was from Vera Wang's White collection.

A flattering corset gown with embroidery clusters and tiny seed-pearls cascading like iridescent stars over my hips before melting into the smooth skirts of my wedding dress.

And it was mine.

With my mother at the bridal boutique, and only a passing idea of what I was even looking for . . . it's true what they say; I would know it when I saw it and it was the simplicity of its design that drew me. Subtly directing the eye to hips, waist, breasts without ever making you feel that you were looking.

Effortlessly sexy.

No veil. I was adamant about that.

My mother hadn't argued but she did ask me why not and my answer hadn't changed in the three weeks since: because I'm going into this with both eyes open. A symbolic gesture, I doubted anyone would notice, or care, but this was important to me.

Three hours at the hotel salon and at the mercy of a team of stylists and their quick, knowing hands had my blonde hair layered and curled, held in place by pearl-studded pins and at some point, I was sure I was going to wake up . . .

. . . because that couldn't possibly be me framed in a silver-gilt mirror like a princess in a fairytale.

I traced the curve of my cheek, marveling at the soft flush only just pinking my skin. Glowing. I was actually glowing.

"Don't you dare cry," my sister said, appearing behind me in the reflection "you'll ruin your eye makeup."

I wrinkled my nose, laughing a little. Elisabeth – Liz – slid both arms around my waist, holding loosely.

"Have you seen him at all, today? He's even cuter than in his picture."

"Cute," I said. "What is he, twelve? The man's hot."

"Hot," she agreed. "Drop a bead of water on him and watch it sizzle, Ames. You know the honeymoon's the main event and with a body like that," her voice eased into a sultry purr, "shouldn't be too hard keeping the wedding sheets warm. Do us a favor," oh, god "void his warranty."

My face flamed – flamed – and Liz looked inordinately pleased with herself. "Oh, come on. Like I wouldn't notice the quality grade triple-A side of beef strutting around in a tux? I'm wed, not dead."

True. Also true that Owen, busy tending to their newborn while Liz was here with me, really would not appreciate his wife drooling over her sister's groom minutes before the wedding. I didn't say that.

"So, you saw him," I asked instead. "He's here?"

"He'd better be. Show's on."

Yes. Yes, it was.

"How's it looking out there?"

"Crowded. There's press."

"A lot?"

"Enough."

That did not surprise me. Not when the wealthiest and most eligible bachelor was officially coming off the market – but my sister's flippant nothin' was telling in of itself.

"Look, don't worry," Liz buffed my arms, "your in-laws hired security, and from what I saw they weren't letting anyone in past the lobby."

That was not reassuring. It meant that the scrutiny of the free press was a common enough occurrence that the Queen family had known to expect the circus. I pressed my hand to my stomach, fighting past the soft fluttering in my belly. Butterflies.

Oh, so there were my nerves.

"High profile wedding," I breathed.

My sister was not feeling sorry for me. "You knew that going in, though."

"You know you would think that you'd be a tad more sympathetic."

"If it's sympathy you want," she crooned in my ear, "I left my tiny violin in my other purse."

I laughed. We were too much the same, my sister and I. She had no sympathy to offer me, because she herself would have hated it. Oh, she would have loathed it – as if there was anything to feel sorry for me for.

Elisabeth set her chin on my shoulder, trailing curls of hair, stiff with spray, brushing my bare skin. Her arms, still wrapped loosely around my waist, tightened and I set my hands over hers. Giving them a gentle squeeze.

Out of everyone who could have been here with me now, I was grateful for my sister.

"Mom really thinks she scored you a Bentley," Liz said quietly, "when what you have is a sports car in the other room."

Vroom. Vroom.

"I swear if you're building to another sex joke, I'm throwing you out."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me."

She was tempted. I watched the jokes tipping like dominoes in her mind, on her face, in the way her smile turned positively wicked and I would have paid good money to hear some of what she was thinking. Try me. Or not –

"Why, where did you think I was taking that? Fiery new sports car; gonna ride him hot, hard and all night long!"

– and then Liz just up and volunteers a thought.

I smoothed both hands down the front of my dress, cool satin warm against my skin. "Is there a point in all that?" or was I throwing her out?

"My point," she went on, with a little laugh "is that you're a Ferrari. Mom loves us. She wants you to be happy. She does. But can you imagine if mom had netted you what she thinks he is? What the hell would you have done with a Bentley?"

The pinnacle of wealth, polish and sophistication; a Bentley was old money, not movie star.

I let myself remember exactly how Oliver had looked just last night. Bathed in clean lamplight, his edges smoothed by the warmer glow of a hearth fire. The delicious width of his shoulders, his chest, and even now, hours later, I could still feel my hands itching to rasp over that strong jaw.

"You think we're a good match."

"What I think," she drew out, with deliberate, if mild, emphasis, "is that it doesn't matter what I think."

No. But it did – to an extent. Without saying so, she was telling me that she approved; because if she didn't, she would be saying that.

Our eyes met in the mirror. Hers a rich honey brown; our mother's eyes. Sweeter than my charcoal oak, but not softer. No. Here was a woman who owned a boardroom. The daughter set to inherit our family's company.

"So if I took off, would you let me leave?"

"Oh, you're not going anywhere." Elisabeth laughed, delighted. "They're giving you Oliver fricken' Queen; hand delivered, missing only the pretty pink bow. Refuse to go through with this, now, and you'll piss off everyone you've ever met."

I drove my elbow into my sister's stomach, eliciting a gratifying but totally unnecessary 'oof!'

"You say that like I haven't already pissed people off." I held out both hands as if presenting my sister to an invisible audience. Liz's response was to do a short twirl, the skirts of her ruby-colored dress fanning out around her legs.

The bridesmaid's dresses were exquisite. Designer. Each specially tailored to the body of the woman wearing it, they'd cost my family a small fortune to commission and would have been impossible to alter with so little time before the wedding.

Or, specifically, in the time it took me to usurp Moira's decision, exchanging her roses for blue – blue – hyacinths.

Liz pressed her thumb to my forehead, between my eyes. "Smooth this out. Your bridesmaids look great, they're not letting the press in, and your groom actually showed up."

I slapped at her hands, and plastered on a bright, false smile. Chirped, "So turn that frown, upside down!"

"Frown all you want. Just don't look pissy."

I laughed and started to pull a face when there came a soft rap at the door. A slim brunette stuck her head inside, the glint in her eyes evidence she was hoping to interrupt something.

Thea Queen.

We hadn't met, yet. She wasn't at dinner last night. There were no missing seats at the table, no one said anything, but by the slight flush staining Moira's powdered cheeks when we all sat down, I could assume she was supposed to be. And that amused me.

"Is it time?" Liz asked.

"Not yet." Thea slipped into the room, both hands buried under a cascade of green leaves and dewy white petals. "Mom says about ten minutes." Hazel dark eyes slid to me "These," and she trust out both arms, "are for you."

Someone please just take them.

Liz laughed and accepted the flowers from the younger girl. My bouquet. She set them down, careful not to crush the elaborate arrangement. Calla lilies. Their delicate perfume reminiscent of summer strawberries.

This wedding officially had no seasonal theme . . .

Errand accomplished, I expected Thea to just leave . . . not flounce down on the silk embroidered chair next to the door. In her bridesmaid's dress I thought she looked like a spot of blood on the white fabric. I bit back a smirk, choosing not to voice that observation.

"Thank you," I said, to her, "for bringing them."

"Oh, you're welcome."

My sister sniffed, the light in her eyes dancing. She brushed soft fingers down the length of my arm, saying, "I think I'll go check in with Owen."

"Bridesmaid's bouquets are on the table in the hall," Thea chirped, waving her fingers.

And with that dubiously helpful dismissal snapping at her heels, Liz strolled out leaving me alone with my betrothed's little sister. I eyed the girl, thinking we had one thing in common at least. We were both the youngest in our families.

Strange to think that in under an hour this eighteen year old would become my sister-in-law. Thea lounged in her chair like she owned it, the space she occupied and every inch of the smirk pulling at the corners of her mouth.

"You look nervous."

"No I don't."

Her smile showed just enough pout to make it endearing. "No, you really don't. Did you know . . . there's absolutely no one guarding the door?"

I eased into a gentle laugh. "Were you expecting guards?"

"Well, yeah," she teased. "I mean, I almost feel denied. What's an arranged marriage without at least a few big, burly soldier-types making sure everyone's where they're supposed to be?"

"You could try the lobby."

She snorted.

XxXxXx

My head swam with the clean, floral scent of my bouquet; heavier than I expected in my hands. Soft green leaves trailed almost to the floor, forcing me to hold the arrangement up or else let them drag.

Honesty, I loved the bouquet.

Let me have my delicate bits of fancy-fancy.

Liz, my maid of honor, waited with me just outside the reception hall. Taking it upon herself to make sure I was in position. Thea, who weeks ago had so graciously offered herself as bridesmaid, was already inside.

Taking her place at the front of the hall – I wouldn't be escorted by my bridesmaids.

Three, to mirror Oliver's three groomsmen; my third was Laurel Lance. A woman I knew only in passing, and by every right she should have on the groom's side of things. She was his friend, not mine.

Another volunteer.

I had friends. Few friends, true, but friends and it hurt that none – not one – had accepted my invitation to be one of my bridesmaids. I was grateful to Thea, and to Laurel, for being here for me. I didn't know what I would have done without them.

My hands, buried under a tumbling arrangement of crisp myrtle leaves, against the startling white of calla lilies and the added weight of classical ivy, were damp with sweat. Heat, not nerves.

Oh, who was I kidding?

The butterflies in my stomach had become moths; heavier, rolling. I pressed the palm of one hand to my stomach, quieting my nerves with a practiced ease. I wasn't scared. I was excited. This was finally happening.

Not tomorrow, not in an hour. Now.

Elisabeth swept one hand over glistening white satin, loosening while also straightening the supple skirts of my wedding gown. In her other hand, her much smaller bridesmaid's bouquet of blue hyacinths.

My precious hyacinths!

"Breathe, Ames," my sister instructed.

Startled, I sucked in a deep lungful and tried to laugh it off, "I'm okay."

Liz stopped fussing with my dress, and came around to face me.

"I know you are."

From the banquet hall, we could hear the burble of voices over the soft thrum of music. Not yet. Soon, but not yet. To my sister, I said, "Any last minute advice?"

"Yep. Try not to trip on your dress." Right, because I was clumsy. The sparkle in her eyes winked, like stars. "And remember, whatever you do up there, you do not throw up on him."

"Hm. That it?"

"Of course not. Now, you think you're fine but when they open that door you're going gonna want to freeze. I really recommend you don't try picturing the crowd in their tighty whities. Who even thought of that? That's terrible advice."

I snickered.

I asked the question to help keep my nerves steady while counting down the seconds. And my sister, in true Elisabeth fashion, had done exactly that . . . masterfully. Again, I felt my face heat as I tried to keep the image of our friends and family in their underwear out of my head.

There came a soft rap from the inside of the hotel banquet hall. A warning-knock. My sister stepped away. "That's my cue." She winked. "See you soon."

"Liz."

"Yes?"

I took her hand, squeezing it. "Love you."

Her smile softened.

She laced her fingers through mine, for just a second, before letting go. Elisabeth slipped into the hall, going to take her place up at the front with the other bridesmaids.

My heart leapt at the first keys to the traditional wedding march. The music diffused through the elaborate double-doors, unmistakably familiar.

I clasped my bouquet.

The double doors opened in unison, and my breath caught at the sight of hundreds of people rising with a sigh. Liz was right. I wanted to freeze while the music propelled me forward like a hand at my back.

I took one step, and the next was easier. I glided into the immense ballroom . . . and almost panicked. Who were these people?

I scanned the groom's side, and then my own, and recognized so few faces it was startling. My mom, and my dad, stood tall and proud right at the front – a place of respect, they were the parents of the bride.

Owen Grand, my brother-in-law, Liz's husband, beside them with my niece in a lavender dress dozing peacefully in his arms.

I found my grandpa, only a few rows behind the front. His weathered face split into a smile, the sheen of tears watering his eyes at the first sight of me.

There were a scattering of cousins, aunts and uncles, but the bulk of the faces peopling my side of the hall were total strangers. For real, who were these people? Who did my parents invite? My heartbeat more a flutter, than a drum, my ears started ringing . . .

Shit.

I breathed. Discretely sucking in air, fighting the spots dancing across my vision through sheer force of will and almost as if I knew, consciously knew where to find an anchor, from where to borrow strength, my attention swung forward.

Drawn unerringly to the man who waited for me there, at the end.

Clear winter sun spilled through gossamer white curtains, eddying on the floor at my feet. Coaxing warm amber lights from the dark wood.

Oliver held out his hand, and I took it willingly. Gratefully. His skin warm, strong fingers closing gently over mine. Safe. His touch – felt safe. I could smile for him, and the smile was real.

The music died down, the familiar beat of the classic wedding march puttering out and everyone sat in near-perfect unison. Let the ceremony begin.

"Dearest friends," the officiator began, without preamble "we are here to witness the joining of this man, and this woman –"

Annnndddd that's about when I stopped listening.

Oliver was devastatingly handsome. Liz had not been exaggerating, there. He wore a crisp black suit, over a dress shirt whiter than the season's first snow. Broad shoulders, straight back, and eyes so blue they hardly looked real.

His scent flavored every indrawn breath.

The rich spice of his cologne, over the warmer, delicious smell of his skin. Heady, intoxicating combination. I could have spent hours standing there, just breathing him in. Shame we didn't have hours –

The officiator said, "May we have the rings?" and my mind jumpstarted. Paying attention again.

Elisabeth stepped forward, accepting my heavy bouquet, exchanging it for a small gold object. On the other side, Oliver's best man passed him a velvet box. My ring. My ring – despite myself, curiosity burned.

This was important.

I wanted to see.

I wanted to know.

What did my wedding ring look like? Had he chosen it for me, or was that decision made for him? I felt I would know it, the second I saw it, and I so desperately wanted the choice to have been his.

"Put the ring, on her hand," the officiator stated. "Will you, Oliver Jonas Queen, take this woman, to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

No hesitation. His voice resonated, mild and clear, "I do."

. . . my heart may have been beating in my head.

My turn. The officiator, in his official black robes, smiled at me. "And will you, Amelia Sybil Archer, take this man, to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

The whole world seemed to hold its collective breath.

From right at the front, my niece burbled. Fussing a little. Guess she was awake.

I said, very simply, "I do."

Total silence. The place went dead silent; you could have heard a pin drop, as the officiator followed our vows by stating that if anyone objected to this union, they should speak now. Or forever hold their peace.

And on cue . . . Naomi Grand, my five month old niece, my sister's daughter, started to wail.

Owen tried to sooth her, but it was too late. A shocked gasp, hard disapproval, rolled through the assembled crowd.

I glanced at Oliver, curious to catch his response. Humor. He wasn't annoyed; he was as amused as I was. The timing was too perfect –

The officiator was game, "I should have been more specific," his voice rang clearly, "does anyone older than one year object to this union? If so, speak now or forever hold your peace."

A burble of laughter from the crowd, as if we'd given permission to find this funny rather than intrusive.

No one else seemed to object.

Then followed the words that sealed our union, "You may now kiss the bride."