A/N:Thank you for the reviews! And, as promised, here's chapter 3, in a lot shorter a time than it took me to get chapter 2 out lol. Enjoy!

Chapter Three - Wedding

"I do miss Cassandra," Donna said, sipping her morning cup of tea, "but it is good to have sugar again."

Diana smiled a little. Now that the budget was only feeding two of them, they could afford both sugar and beef. Though not in the same dish, obviously. "What are you going to do today?"

"I thought I might go up to the top of the hill and take a sketch of the view facing south. It is a clear day."

"I think it might rain today."

"No, it will not rain."

The elder sister chuckled. "You always say that and then it always does."

"Well, not today," Donna said optimistically. "I thought I'd sketch it and then paint it later. It could go in the parlour above the fireplace."

"Be careful, won't you?"

"Of course. What are you doing today?"

"The logs need chopping, and the silverware needs polishing."

"Can't Etta do that?"

"She'll be cleaning the windows and wiping the range down."

"But, Diana, you can't possibly chop logs!"

"Why not?"

"Because you're a woman!"

"I'm strong enough. Calm, sister."

"You are not the man of the house."

"I must be," Diana smiled grimly. "There is no one else to be, is there? Unless you've a fiancée you have thus far neglected to mention?" She smiled and kissed her sister's forehead. "Go and sketch, my dear, but don't catch a cold. There's the wedding tomorrow, don't forget."

Once Donna had gone up the hill with her sketchbook and charcoal in hand, Diana went outside to begin cutting up the logs that were piled outside the cottage. If she didn't do it then there would be no firewood for the coming weeks. Not good when they were still in the depths of winter. She'd dressed in her oldest, tattiest clothes, which, while still not ideal for wood-chopping, would not be a tragedy if they were to be ruined completely. She made sure her hair was tightly bound in a bun so it would not come loose, and picked up the axe. She placed the first lump of wood in the centre of the block and took careful aim. Then she brought the axe hurtling down. It hit perfectly, and the wood split cleanly down the grain of the wood, making two perfect pieces of firewood. Diana dropped them into the wicker basket at her feet, and continued. She doubted most other women would be able to undertake such a strenuous task as chopping wood for hours on end, but as she had told Diana, she had no choice. There was no one else to do it, and she was strong enough. The muscles in her arms were powerful and well-defined. One of the reasons she chose to wear long sleeves even in summer. It drew fewer stares that way.

Women were not supposed to be strong, Diana reminded herself bitterly, whacking the axe down. It made a thwump sound. Or independent, thwump, or practical, thwump. That was left to the men, thwump. Women were supposed to paint, thwump, and play music, thwump, and ride side-saddle, thwump, and look beautiful and, thwump, do absolutely, thwump, nothing else.

It was a perfect day for this, Donna thought happily. The sun was shining low in the sky, and it glittered over the snow which dusted the hills around her. The path up the hill was the sole ribbon of dark. It was cold, yes, but brightly so, and in direct sunshine it was even comfortable. She opened the cover of her sketching pad and pulled out her charcoal, then began. First the broad strokes—the hills, the river, glistening with silver. Donna looked at the colours as much as she looked at the shapes. It was too cold to paint outside, but as long as her memory held up, she could paint at home. She just had to remember what shade the shadows were, or the palest, eggshell blue of the sky.

Snow was always difficult, she found, since just to leave blank whiteness on the page felt wrong. In the sketch though, it would have to do, and there was no other colour—or lack of colour—that she could use for snow. She would paint this view again and again, she thought. It wasn't their home in Worcestershire, but it was beautiful all the same. She would paint it in spring, and then hang that painting next to this one. The pale green against the white would look wonderful. Or perhaps she would even have season walls in the parlour, she thought suddenly, picturing that. If Diana would let her decorate the parlour. Heaven knew it needed something to lighten it; it was such a gloomy room. Such a gloomy cottage, in fact.

Father would have just said it needed some colour to make it less dreary, of course, she thought with a small, fond smile.

It still hurt to think of Father, but she was beginning to fall into line with Diana's feelings: that it was not fair. Such a petulant, childish thing to say, but to think, perhaps less so. There had been no fairness, no justice in the way Hector Prince had been treated, and even less in the casual way he had been executed. How much more corruption and cruelty was there in the world? It needed fixing. And Donna wanted to help fix it. It might be an impossible dream, but it was one which would give her focus, a goal. Something to do, or to try at least. And the effort would bring some pride back to her father's memory.

Nodding at that idea, Donna returned to her sketch. She would do that, and in the meantime she would fill the cottage with colour. She would paint and paint and paint, and when spring came, she would go out and collect wild flowers every day. It was almost finished, right down to the wispy clouds hanging to the west. But there was something missing. Something in the foreground, something dark to draw the eye…

She looked up, searching over the landscape for something that would work. Almost instantly, she found it. There was a lone rider at the bottom of the hill. He had his back to Donna, but was doing as she was, and looking out over the valley. The horse was black, dark against the snow, as was the gentleman's clothing and hat. Perfect. She sketched him in, swift, bold strokes of her charcoal.

There was something a little odd about the way he sat, she noticed, the way only one hand gripped the reins, but he was definitely a gentleman. Donna could tell that much from his straight posture. For a moment, she wished she could see his face.

As if he had heard her, he turned to look at the top of the hill. With the glare of the winter sun in her face and the light reflecting off the snow around him, she still couldn't see his features properly. He obviously could see her though, since he tipped his hat—Donna inclined her head—and then rode off. His horse left a neat, winding trail of hoof-prints in the snow. She watched him for a little while, and then smiled to herself. Yes. Definitely a gentleman.

With her sketch done, she folded the paper away and began the walk home. She moved quickly, trying to regain feeling in her toes and hands. Despite wearing gloves, a bonnet, her coat and a shawl, she was still very cold. And she knew that Diana, when she complained of this, would only point out that she should have worn two shawls. But then that was her sister. Caring and clever, and always kind, but practical to a fault sometimes.

As proven when Donna rounded the corner to the gate of the cottage. Diana was out at the front, not wearing a shawl, and chopping wood. She was swinging the axe up and down as though it were a quill, and never missing. If she ignored the fact that women were not supposed to be skilled at manual labour, Donna could almost see how the sight would be hypnotic. Up, down, split, knock off, up, down, split.

She opened her mouth, about to tell her sister for the second time that day that chopping firewood was hardly a fitting occupation for a lady, when it occurred to her that doing so might go against her earlier resolution. Diana was right—there was no one else to do this. And in a small way, it was fixing things, was it not?

Diana wedged the axe down into the block and wiped her forehead, smiling at her sister. "Donna. Did you get your sketch done?"

"Yes." She smiled and held it up. "What do you think?"

"It's beautiful."

"I thought I might do one for each season, hang them all in the parlour."

"Bring some colour to the place?" Diana asked with a knowing smile.

Donna nodded with a resolution that she wouldn't cry. "Yes."

"It's a wonderful idea, sister."

"Thank you. May I help with that?"

"With what? With the logs?"

"Well…yes."

Diana chuckled. "This is a turnaround." She stood back and folded her arms, then nodded. "Very well. Come here then." Donna did so, handing over her sketchpad. "Now grasp the axe, about two-thirds of the way along the handle, firmly, but don't lock your arms. Spread your feet a little. Perfect. Now pick it up."

Donna tried, she really did, but it seem to be wedged very firmly into the block. She couldn't move it at all. Diana seemed to have expected that, since she stepped a little closer and said, "Rock it, back and forth, back and forth. After a moment you should feel it loosen. Then you can pull it out. But try and do it slowly," she added, "unless you'd like your nose a lot shorter than it is."

Donna followed her sister's instructions carefully, and to her surprise it did seem to work. The axe came loose at any rate, except once she had the full weight of it, it was surprisingly heavy, and gravity did the rest. Diana had to make a lunge for it in order to make sure Donna didn't lose any toes.

They both burst out laughing though, clutching at one another to keep from falling. The axe was now lodged in the frozen ground, quivering slightly.

"Great Hera, Donna!" Diana gasped, wiping tears from her eyes. "Come on, let's go inside before you do yourself some serious injury."

With their arms around one other, the two sisters went into the cottage, Etta preparing some tea for them. As they drank in companionable silence, Donna remarked, "You haven't said that since Mother died."

"No, I suppose I haven't."

Perhaps after her name sake, Hippolyta Prince had schooled her daughters to be women decades—if not centuries—ahead of their time. Both Diana and Donna could read and write in English, Latin and Ancient Greek even before they went to school, and Diana in particular had loved tales of the Greek heroes and their gods. She'd decided at the age of six that she was not going to be a Christian; instead she was going to worship Hera, Athena, Aphrodite and Artemis. Hence, it was always 'Great Hera' or 'Athena's mercy'. That had changed after Hippolyta had died giving birth to Cassandra; she had of course been buried in a church, with a Christian burial. Thereafter, Diana had reverted to Christ and His Father. Now it appeared she was reverting back.

"Why now?"

"The Bible teaches forgiveness. Peace and reconciliation. I have a feeling there is going to be little of that in our future, Donna. I cannot give you any reason for that suspicion. It is only a feeling. An intuition. But if we are going to war-"

"War?" Donna demanded, her eyes wide.

Diana's eyes were equally wide, but she was staring at some fixed point in the middle distance. It was uncanny; as though she were seeing something Donna could not. She also clearly had not heard her. "If we are going to war, then I would rather invoke the old gods than the new."

There was a silence, in which both sister shivered. A bang from the kitchen made Diana snap out of her trance, and blink. "Goodness, I'm sorry. I don't know what that was."

"No, nor do I," Donna frowned. "Please don't do that again, Diana. It was frightening."

Diana leaned forward and squeezed her hand. "I'm sorry, dear one."

"It's alright. It was simply not like you."

"No," Diana said thoughtfully. She put a hand to her forehead for a moment and then shook her head. "Is your gown for tomorrow clean?"

"Donna! We will be late unless we leave now!" Diana called up the stairs the next morning, looking anxiously at the clock on the mantlepiece.

"I'm almost ready!"

"'Almost' is not quite good enough, dearest!" she called back. "Miss Lane will be inclined to deprive you of another sister if we are late, I fear!"

Donna laughed, though Diana was only half-joking. Finally though she came down the stairs, bringing a small carpet bag down with her. In it were the gown, gloves and shoes she would be wearing for the dancing this evening. She had on a pale yellow dress which set off the golden colour of her skin. Another gift from their mother. Women were supposed to be fair-skinned and remain indoors, but both Donna and Diana loved to be outside. With their mother's complexion, it meant that they could indulge that passion and still look healthy. In Diana's experience, it was women who decided women should be pale anyway; it made no difference whatever to men. Not that she cared what men thought of her, of course.

Diana herself had on a pastel green dress, with a matching ribbon woven through her raven hair. She had a dark blue silk packed for tonight. They would both be back in their black tomorrow, of course, but today was a day of celebration.

"You look very pretty," Diana said, before her sister could ask.

"Diana, I am not on the search for beaux."

"For what?" Diana asked, laughing.

Donna coloured. "It's what Lucy Lane calls them."

"I see. Come, let's get in the carriage. Then you and Miss Lucy can discuss 'beaux' to your hearts' content."

"Oh be quiet. You know I don't care for her company."

"It is unfortunate that the antipathy is not reciprocated," Diana said, not hiding her amusement as they climbed into the carriage. Donna scowled as the vehicle jerked into motion, and did not speak to her sister on the journey to the church.

They had seats on the bride's side of the pews, at the front of the church, in the row just behind Lois' family. Her mother was already sat down, and nodded to Diana and Donna as they took their seats. Sat opposite Mrs Lane, Mrs Kent gave a friendly wave. Her son—looking slightly nervous but not as terrified as she might have expected—also smiled faintly at the two Prince girls.

"He looks a little frightened," Donna remarked to her sister.

Diana smiled fondly, whispering, "He's marrying Lois; I would be a little apprehensive too."

Donna giggled silently until church doors opened and Lois began her walk up the aisle. She was escorted by her father, General Samuel Lane, in his red dress uniform. He looked very smart, and was almost bursting with pride. Lois, from what Diana could see of her face, had not taken her eyes from Clark's face. Likewise, all signs of tension had drained from Mr Kent's body. His expression was full of light as he looked at his bride.

Watching the bride pass, Diana suddenly found herself looking at a guest on the groom's side of the church. He was a gentleman, about thirty she guessed, or a little younger, and handsome, with dark hair and blue eyes. And…familiar. As if sensing her gaze, he looked at her, unsmiling. Her gaze turned assessing, analytical rather than particularly admiring. And suddenly Diana knew him, her heart stuttering inside her chest. Bruce Wayne. He was here.

Even though she was sat inside a church watching two dear friends go through the Christian marriage rite, Diana could not help but feel as if Hera had answered her after all.

A/N: Well...I didn't say he'd be talking, did I? :P Review please!