There was no altar.
There didn't need to be. The spring itself became the center of it, the gold light still rising faintly off the water, and the Pope simply walked to stand beside it, robes settling around him, staff planted in the not-quite-ground.
"Stand here," he said, gesturing. "Both of you. Facing each other."
Valerian and Aisha moved into position. Soaking wet, neither of them dressed for anything resembling a wedding, and somehow that made it feel more real rather than less.
The six saints arranged themselves in a loose half-circle. Roland and Markus stood slightly apart, arms crossed, expressions identical in their carefully maintained severity.
The Pope looked between the two of them. Then he smiled, and for a moment the ancient weight in his eyes softened into something that was, simply, a grandfather looking at his granddaughter.
