Icthlarin wasn't completely sure what the hour was, but it did not matter really. Especially not since this day had passed as so many before. His twin sister, Ilona, had cried herself sick, thrown up, and then cried even more. He had given up his attempts to comfort her and now simply sat by her bed, regularly coaxing her to drink some water so she'd have something to cry out.
To be completely honest, he didn't even know what it was she crying over. She was so insensible she was more or less unreachable in her despair, and it was ripping his heart to shreds with each little sob that forced herself from her sore, aching throat.
He ran his fingers through her dark curls, a gesture that had never before failed to calm her, but now it was about as effective as pouring water on burning oil. That is, not at all and possibly hazardous.
It was into this wretchedness that Lord Mendanbar, advisor to King Cyrion of Brecilia, stepped. His usually somber features had morphed into something that gave the impression that someone had made him watch the drowning of a whole pack of newborn kittens. Mendanbar was ridiculously fond of cats, to the point of owning twenty-two of the beasts. Five of them pregnant females.
"Dearest daughter," he said in a voice that was low and soft, as he sank down on her bedside beside his son. Mendanbar was getting on in age, his once-bright red hair streaked with silver, and his solemn features had deepened to severe, but the gaze he levelled on the sobbing heap that he had addressed showed naught but love, affection and sorrow.
"If I could prevent this, lethallin, I would. But in this, the King will not be swayed. He has promised them Lavellan's daughter."
"Father?" Icthlarin asked hesitantly, "who has the King promised?"
"The tevene." Mendanbar sounded impossibly tired, tears making his dark eyes bright. "Lavellan's daughter for wife for one of their finest altus."
That explained why Icthlarin's darling sister was so inconsolable. It was hardly a secret that she was very much in love with the human knight, Ser Cullen Rutherford, who was a well-known feature about the City. It was even less a secret that the good commander adored Ilona, and that it was only a matter of time before he asked for her.
Now that beautiful future was shattering. No wonder Ilona would not leave her bed or stop weeping.
Mendanbar placed a thin-fingered hand on his daughter's back.
"Asha-nin" he whispered softly, the old childhood nickname making the sobs subside for mere moments, "if I could stop this I would. But tomorrow you shall go, child. The tevene await their peace-bride."
Ilona's cries returned, more anguished than before.
Icthlarin laid down next to her, but he did not cry.
He plotted.
The ship was more or less identical to all other Brecilian ships; long, slim, and with a keel that rose nearly a foot from the waters, she was built for high speeds. Useless in battle, as a well-aimed cannonball would have her sinking, but this was providing that anyone could keep up with her for long enough to fire that cannonball. On the black market (because all Brecilian ships were the property of the Brecilian King and not for sale) she would fetch a very high price. There wasn't a smuggler on the seas that wouldn't trade his crew and at least one kidney to own a Brecilian Ship.
Icthlarin ignored his sister's desperate cry that she wished it would sink where it lay and preferably take her with it to the depths, instead waited patiently for the royal guards to leave. They were nice enough as guards go, but for his little plan to be successful they really ought to be anywhere but where they could see him half escorting, half dragging his sister up the gangplank.
"Stop making a fuss" he hissed in a delicately pointed ear, "and trust me for once."
Ilona stilled mid-sob.
"You have a plan?" She managed, and he ran a comforting hand over her tear-stained cheek.
"Of course I do. But it depends on-" a once-handsome blonde elf strolled towards them across the deck. Aerwedh-of-the-scars was the best captain in the Brecilian flotilla. He also looked like he had lost a nasty fight with a clan of spriggans with his ruined face. In addition, he was well known as a hopeless romantic and cheap drunk. Icthlarin smiled.
"The captain. Perfect. It's him. It's going to be alright, sister. I promise you."
As the ship, (whom by the way was called The cracked mirror for reasons no one but her captain knew and no one who liked their head attached to their necks dared speculate in) sailed out from Brecilia's grand harbour and began her journey for Tevinter, the sun shone obnoxiously against the pale spring sky.
Ilona Lavellan, who was as lovely as a rose even with her face blotched from days of weeping, stood by the railing and wondered if anyone would notice her jumping into the water.
Then again, this journey was underway because she was going to be married, so.. Yes, they'd notice. Probably before she'd managed to drown. She stared into the water and tried not to think of how it was the same colour as Cullen's eyes, as it would only have her bawling again. Her head hurt from all her weeping, and she was so tired she could barely stand. "Dehydration" the castle healer had said grimly. "Stop your crying, girl, and you'll perk right up."
Easy for her to say, Ilona thought spitefully. She was being made to travel across the oceans, away from the only home she knew, and away from the only man she loved. A man she was never going to see again. Icthlarin had been telling her all day that he had a plan, but as evening fell and the skies darkened she still waited hopelessly for any sign of said plan. There wasn't one, and with each hour Ilona's heart broke a little more.
How was she ever to live with the fate the gods had chosen for her? She wished, in her desperation, once more for the ship to sink. She wanted nothing more than to die, rather than give herself to any man but the one she had been forced to leave behind.
Aerwedh-with-the-scars sailed The Cracked Mirror into a small bay, hardly more than an inlet, that lay mere hours from the capital city of Brecilia just as the moon rose from behind the clouds. Well, hours for a Brecilian ship. Anyone else would need anywhere from two days to a week, depending on cargo and winds. He did not anchor near the shore, of course, since that would alert the people in the little village to his presence. And he had some very precious cargo to drop off; cargo he was supposed to keep safe for a very long journey. But he was a romantic, and the fair lady's ashen features had brought up memories he would rather have forgotten for ever, and so there they were. A small row boat laid waiting to bring the cargo on shore, and Aerwedh hurried down below deck to notify Lord Icthlarin that they were ready.
"Has anyone seen us?" was the first thing the young lord asked when he opened the door, and Aerwedh shook his head. He made a gesture to signify 'better hurry', and after a few moments Icthlarin nodded his understanding.
"She'll be up in a few minutes" he said quietly and closed the door. Aerwedh sighed noiselessly. Sometimes, not having a tongue was more trouble than it was worth, really.
Ilona, who had been crying most of the journey, was very confused when Icthlarin helped her into the little rowboat.
"This isn't tevinter" she pointed out needlessly.
"It is not" Icthlarin agreed. "Told you I had a plan."
"If I end up murdered, I am going to kill you" she informed him as he took his place next to her and the sailor that had joined them started rowing.
"I know you will, sister, but you are not going to be murdered. In fact, I think you are going to be very grateful and happy in less than half an hour."
"Now I really am worried" she muttered, "last time you said that-"
"Oh hush, the bruises healed before the week was over. And I am right this time."
She was seriously considering arguing, but jsut then she turned her head to see where he was taking her. On the shore, she saw in the moon-lit night, a small lantern was gleaming. As if someone was lighting their way.
"Who goes there?" She whispered, suddenly fearful her voice would carry across the waters.
"You'll see" Icthlarin replied, smugly.
As they neared the shore, swiftly due to the strength of the rower and the stillness of the waters, the person holding the lantern became clearer. Whoever it was, they held the light at about chest-height, and no matter how much Ilona squinted she could not see their face. But… they stood taller than an elf would, and the built was stronger. Was it-? Surely not. She had not seen him since the day her journey was announced. It couldn't be. Could it?
The row-boat came to a stop, mere feet from the shore, and Ilona rose slowly. Her heart beat so fast in her chest it nearly rendered her unable to breathe, wild with hope and sick with terror at having those hopes dashed.
But he raised the lantern and in the dim light she could see his beloved features. It was Cullen, her Cullen, waiting for her there on the shore and with a cry of happiness Ilona ran to meet him, forgetting her manners and her location. All she knew was that he was there, when she thought she would never see him again.
As she fell into his arms, sobbing with joy, he dropped the lantern and it extinguished. But that didn't matter; she was in his arms, she could hear his heartbeat, and nothing else could possibly matter to her now. If she lived the rest of her life in darkness she would be happy, for she would live in it with him.
"Cullen" she sobbed into his shirt, "Cullen. My Cullen."
"Please" whispered, his face buried in her hair, "don't cry. I'll start crying too, and then where will we be?"
She smiled up at him, losing herself in his eyes. It was not until the moment at last faded, that she realised that she had been hearing oars cutting water.
She turned her head, bewildered, and saw the little row boat nearly back to the ship.
"Lari?" She called, softly, and the wind bore his voice back to her across the waters;
"I told you I had a plan. Good bye, sister."
And then, The Cracked Mirror raised its sails and swiftly left her behind.
About a week later, Lavellan's daughter arrived in Qarian. She turned out to be a lovely elf girl with long red hair and a twinkle in her green eyes that insinuated that she knew a very funny joke and they were all the butt of it.
Magister Pavus hoped fervently, as he greeted the girl and explained that his son was the one she was to marry, that said son would have calmed down enough at this point to not cause too much of a scene when facing the girl. Then again, to be fair, Dorian had been in a snit for about a month - since Halward had first brought up the future elf wife, in fact. There had been some rather loud yelling about failed blood rituals and honor and some other things he had not bothered listening to. The boy was young, after all. He wasn't even thirty yet, what did he know about what he wanted and did not want? Besides, the girl sitting next to Halward in the coach was very pretty for an elf. She had high cheekbones, pale skin and the most peculiar green eyes. Her figure was rather unfortunate, all angles and lines no self-respecting female would have, but surely that would only make Dorian warm up to her faster. After all, she looked rather like a boy in a dress, and Dorian had been most adamant that he was… whatever the term was he had used. It meant that he didn't care for women, anyways. Well, this one didn't particularly look like a woman, did she? Then again, Halward had only seen an elf once, and that had been a male. At least he thought so - the assembly had addressed the elf as "King Cyrion", so he assumed it was a male.
He helped her - Icthlarin her name was, odd name for a girl - down from the coach and watched in amusement as her bright eyes widened in wonder.
"Which part of this house do you live in, ser Pavus?" she asked in an accent that made her sound exotically charming. She sounded a bit like a male, too; her voice was deeper than that of a female. But perhaps all elven women spoke like that. It wasn't as if he had any experience.
"All of it, my dear. This is my house."
"It's the same size as the King's Palace back home" was her only remark.
She probably would have said more, if not for the fact that Dorian chose that moment to come out to stand on the steps and glower in a way that was anything but welcoming.
"Who is that man, he looks like he swallowed a freshly peeled onion and washed it down with lemon juice?" Icthlarin wanted to know. Halward sighed deeply.
"That's… my son. Your husband-to-be. Dorian."
The doors to the bridal chamber closed and locked with a discreet click, but to Dorian it sounded like the toiling of a death bell. He knew he should have ran away from home the moment his father started talking about peace treaties and uniting people, curse it! Now here he was, stranded with a girl he had never met until two days previous and did not want to get to know better. He had, through cowardice, condemned himself to spend the rest of his life miserable. Trapped in a lie. He wasn't even sure he could perform with this girl who had spent most of her time since her arrival poking her nose into everything and asking inane questions at the most inopportune moments. And who named their daughter Icthlarin anyways? It was the most masculine name he'd ever heard on a girl. Elves were a strange lot.
"Are you going to scowl at the door all evening or come to bed?" Icthlarin asked dryly from where she sat on her side of the bed, undoing her red hair from the complicated style Dorian's mother had insisted upon for the wedding ceremony.
"I'd rather not, thank you."
"Not what? Scowl or sleep?"
"Deflower my wife, actually."
"Don't then." her voice was so matter-of-fact he could not help but spin on his heel to glare at her instead.
"Excuse me?" She looked up, completely unfazed.
Not for the first time, Dorian wondered at the angles of her face. There was none of the delicacy of a female, and to be honest - if Icthlarin had been male, Dorian would have been between his legs the moment the door closed. Well, that was the theory. She really had no right to be so attractive.
"If you don't want to rut with me, then don't. It's probably for the best anyway, save you the shock of getting my clothes off."
Right, that cinched the deal. His new wife was insane. How long would he be expected to wait before he had her committed?
"If you could make a lick of sense for five minutes, that'd be appreciated." Dorian growled in frustration, once more cursing himself for not eloping when he had the chance.
"I'm making perfect sense. You're just too dense to keep up." She replied cheerily, then stuck her tongue out at him. Sod expectations, he was having her committed first thing in the morning!
"Then please talk to me like I'm stupid" he growled, having had more than enough of her games. "And explain what the hell you're on about."
"You were supposed to marry my sister" Icthlarin said as she braided her long red hair into a thick braid that rested over her shoulder. "But I arranged for her to run away with the soldier she loved. That left us in a bit of a bind, since the arrangement was for Lavellan's daughter. But I could not allow Ilona to spend the rest of her life miserable, so I banked on you not murdering me once you discovered you've been duped. Peace between or nations, and all that."
Dorian closed his mouth, which had been open in shock.
"I've been duped?" he finally managed.
"Well, yes. Sorry about that. But at the same time I'm not - at this point Cullen should have put a ring on her finger and taken care of that pesky virginity, so they can't demand that she comes back and marries you instead. No offence."
"None taken." Dorian growled, feeling very offended. "But you didn't answer the question."
"I can't answer a question until you ask it" Icthlarin replied cheekily. Dorian wanted to take her over his knee and administer a proper spanking for the audacity. But he had a nasty feeling she'd enjoy it.
"Fine" he scowled, "how have I been duped?"
"Father only has two children" Icthlarin spoke slowly, as it addressing a not particularly bright child. "My sister and me. The deal was for Lavellan's daughter. Do you need more clues?"
Somewhere in Dorian's slightly-drunk mind, a realisation began waking up. He stared at his wife. At her broad shoulders. The flat chest. The non-delicate features. The fact that she was the first woman he had ever had any interest in.
"I take it" he finally said, "that the King of Brecilia has no idea I've just married Lavellan's son?"
"Not in the slightest." Icthlarin admitted. "Sorry about that."
Dorian considered his options. On one hand, he could do what he was probably expected to do and raise hell, demanding recompense for the insult… but he never cared particularly for what was expected.
And there was a stunningly beautiful redheaded youth in his bed.
"Well" he said as he strolled over to the bed, feeling his lips curl into a smile.
He leaned over Icthlarin, so far into the youth's personal space he could feel his breath hitch.
"I'm sure we can come to some sort of... agreement."
"Better work out the details" Icthlarin breathed. "Thoroughly."
Dorian laughed softly, before kissing that lush, lying mouth.
"Oh yes, we must."
And they did.
Rather vigorously.