A/N: I wanted to explore the feelings surrounding my warden marrying Alistair as well as play around with writing in the second person, and this is what came of it. I imagine the wedding would feel sort of bittersweet for her, as she thinks about all that she's lost to get where she is. I think the second person gives it an almost surreal quality, which worked well, but also makes it probably a bit confusing- the warden goes back and forth between the present and reflecting on the past few months, and I tried to break it up based on ideas.
This turned out a lot more angsty than I originally intended, but oh well. Cousland's feeling the angst, dammit.
DISCLAIMER: As it stands, I own nothing.
Today, you're getting married.
Every important person in Ferelden has travelled to Denerim in the past few weeks, airing out the sheets and brushing off the cobwebs from the corners of their estates. The taverns are full to bursting as the noble men and women excitedly trade gossip while sipping overpriced wine. The local seamstresses have rushed to put the finishing embellishments on the very fancy and very expensive gowns ordered by some, while others have scoured the merchants' shops for the very best Orlesian designs, all with the intent of proving their wealth to the others. They are all here for the social event of the year.
They are all here for you.
The city itself bears colorful streamers and flowers in every window, the masses smiling and laughing and dancing as minstrels sing epic songs regaling your adventures for the crowds. It is quite a sight; an outsider would never know how utterly devastated Denerim was only mere months ago.
Young girls and boys weave in and out of the crowds, brandishing their wooden swords at each other—replicas of your own favored sword, as well as the new king's. No longer do they pretend to fight off Orlesian forces in the rebel army—now they are Grey Wardens fighting off hurlocks and ogres.
A serving girl shyly peeked out from under her lashes the other day to tell you that when she grows up, she wants to be just like you—the Hero of Ferelden. You told her to practice her swordplay and to never let anyone tell her girls cannot fight. You had felt a dull ache in your gut as you spoke. Your mother used to tell you that.
The girl then giggled and whispered in your ear that she thought the king was very handsome, and do you also think he's handsome? You smiled conspiratorially and whispered back that you think he's very, very handsome. She squealed in response, and an older servant appeared in the hall and scolded the young girl for not attending to her chores. You rolled your eyes and said the lass was just chatting with you, and the woman responded firmly that there was no time for chatting when there were flowers to arrange and tables to set and don't you worry, my lady, we'll have the palace absolutely shining for your wedding. That was over a week ago.
Today, you're getting married to the king of Ferelden.
Most of the nobility are ecstatic over the betrothal. You are a Cousland, he, a Theirin, if an illegitimate one. Greatness runs in both your blood and his, or so you're constantly told. If by "greatness," they mean "darkspawn taint," then sure, Alistair had sarcastically whispered to you, and you had laughed. Not all are happy, though—there are those who would rather see Anora running the country, those who believe Alistair is not truly of royal blood, that Arl Eamon only put him forth as a means to take control himself. You pay no heed to those individuals, for you are a Cousland, dammit, and these few disgruntled noblemen are not worth your time. There are also those very few who paid allegiance to Howe and are unhappy in Alistair's handing over of the Arl's lands to both your brother and the Wardens. These individuals can burn in the Black City, for all you care.
Late at night, as you lie in bed attempting to sleep, you wonder what kind of queen you're going to be. You wonder, will you be anything like Anora? And you know that of course you won't, you're nothing like her. Where Anora was cold, collected, and poised, you are fiery and temperamental, quicker to draw your blade than to make use of diplomacy. As pretty as you look in your fine velvet gowns, you will never like them as much as you like cotton breeches and billowy linen shirts. You are not incapable of acting like a "proper lady," you just hate it. Some days, you are so very sure of yourself; of your ability to lead men and rule the country. You are a warrior woman, and you revel in it. You radiate confidence as you are introduced to foreign dignitaries and Fereldan noblemen. Other days, you are not so sure. You never got along well with the daughters of other noblemen; they always found your interest in combat and hunting and lack of interest in fancy parties and dancing strange, to say the least. Surely a queen is much more like these girls, yes? Delicate and graceful—just like Anora.
You then remember that before Anora, there was Rowan, and before her, Moira—two of the finest warriors Ferelden has ever seen. The country has a long history of warrior queens, and you will be the next. You don't feel quite so insecure anymore.
Most of your friends from your time fighting the Blight, people you now consider family, are here for you and Alistair. Zevran made you flush with embarrassment when he revealed to you his plan to get your future husband drunk so that he would be more reticent to hearing Zevran's "advice" for the wedding night. Oghren had laughed his big belly laugh and offered to provide his own special brew if it meant getting the "Pike-Twirler" to squirm (You don't understand the nickname and mentally make a point to ask about it sometime.)
You have not heard from Sten since he left for Par Vollen (not that you expected to), but to your great surprise you recently received a package of Qunari tea leaves with a note wishing you well and a joyous wedding, Kadan. Shale grumbles about being used as your glorified bodyguard and the city's major "bird problem," but you know she (She? You aren't quite sure what pronoun would be appropriate in the situation) is secretly pleased with the latest gems you added to her form. Leliana came all the way back from Orlais just for the wedding, and you and she sat in your room drinking wine and giggling as you speculated on exactly what sort of "advice" Oghren and Zevran had in store for Alistair.
You are very grateful to have Leliana in your life; she's the closest female friend you've ever had. Well, the second closest, really. There is another woman you once considered your best friend.
But you don't want to think about her.
A small part of you hopes that wherever she is, she is well. That her mother is truly dead and she has finally escaped her mother's pursuit. This part of you even misses her friendship, however fragile it had been.
This part of you is very, very small. A much larger part of you silently rages at how she used you. Betrayed you. Gave you no choice but to give in her request, even after all you had done for her. You don't hate what she gave you—your life. You just hate not knowing cost.
There is an unspoken agreement between you and your betrothed to never talk about what happened; to never speak her name.
The small part of you wants find her; ask the questions she had refused to answer. The larger part never wants to see her again.
Somehow, though, you know you will.
Wynne, of course, has been living in the palace, serving as an advisor to Alistair, and has been there for you in the past months whenever you felt scared or overwhelmed or just needed another woman to talk to and give you advice. You find that you often need her. She sat with you through all the tedious dress fittings; gave you words of encouragement and squeezed your hand with a comforting smile. She has become a sort of surrogate mother to you, in the absence of your real mother. And you feel Mother's absence acutely, especially since you have begun settling into palace life. You find it darkly funny how growing up you did your best to avoid her lessons on proper manners and dancing and the "softer arts," and now that these lessons would have some use to you, she's no longer here to teach them.
You are getting married today. And you are sad.
You sit on a window ledge in your room and quietly watch servants scurry about and guards receive their wedding assignments and lords arrive in their carriages. The wedding is not for some hours now, but servants have begun filtering in and out of your room, carefully laying out your dress and your jewelry; burning incense to calm your nerves. Without your asking, a few servants have been bringing buckets of steaming water into your room to draw you a bath. When they are finished, they usher you away from the window and allow you to undress and step in the water. Instead of taking their leave, though, they fan out around you, washing your hair and cutting your nails. It is a bit invasive, but you don't object—it is your wedding day, and it is their job to make sure you are ready.
It is your wedding day, and you miss your family more than anything.
Mother would have liked Alistair. You know it. She would have found his awkwardness endearing, his humor refreshing. Not to mention, those strong arms, you hear her playfully whisper in your ear. It's harder to tell with your father, but you think he would have liked Alistair too, after much careful consideration. Father would have spent a great deal of time with Alistair (whether Alistair wanted to or not), pretending to be stern as he questioned the young man. No man is good enough for you, my dear girl, Father would have decided, but if this Alistair makes you happy, then I am happy.
You still have Fergus, thank the Maker, and he takes his role as Overprotective Older Brother very seriously. He asked Alistair all the questions Father would have asked, and he grudgingly voiced his approval. See? I told you you'd one day meet a man willing to put up with you, Sister, Fergus had joked.
Once finished with your bath, the servants arrange you into your dress, and you stand patiently as more filter in to tie the corset and arrange the skirts and fix your hair and do your makeup. A servant asks you to please stop fidgeting, and you absently wonder if Alistair is as nervous as you are. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and nearly jump.
You look elegant and beautiful. You look like your mother.
It is almost time for the wedding, and Fergus will be walking you down the aisle. You didn't even have to ask him if he would; it was just assumed he would step in for Father. If everything were as it should be, this day would go very differently. Mother would fuss over your appearance. Father would give you away. Sometimes it gives me comfort to think that everything will end up the way it's supposed to, Wynne had once said to you. You suppose, in way, that that could be true. Your family had to die so that you could become a hero; a queen. You wonder what's in store for the future, what kind of life you're going to have. You wonder if your parents are proud of you, wherever they are. And you don't feel quite as sad. You are getting married to Alistair: king of Ferelden, love of your life. And you're beginning to feel just a little bit happy.
A/N: What did I tell you? Angst.