A/N:Thanks for the early reads of the first chapter! This round will feature Alain Tabris, our second Warden and a shy, quiet city elf. This was actually my favorite origin story to complete, for reasons unknown. I guess I had a lot of fun complaining about my arranged marriage to anyone who would listen, not that anyone really did. As a side note, the name Alain is from France, and is pronounced like Ah-lahn. Hope you enjoy!

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Two. Alain Tabris: The Groom in the Alienage

Elder Valendrian is nearly swelling with pride as he approaches the altar where the four young elves are waiting. It has been many long years since the Alienage has seen an occasion as grand as this one, a double wedding between two of the most beloved children of the community and their accomplished mates fresh from Highever. Weddings are not uncommon in the Alienage- in fact, they are enforced with an almost religious fervor by the elder and the Chantry- but this particular wedding is of more interest than any other has been for some time. Alain Tabris, one of the elven grooms about to be given a wife, isn't sure if this distinction is due to his notoriety as Adaia's son, or if the so-called beauty of his betrothed is what drew the crowds to view the ceremony in the heart of the Alienage. Whatever the case is, Valendrian is clearly pleased with the turnout, and wastes no time in addressing his audience about the significance of this event, which every elf will one day experience for his or herself as a matter of tradition.

"Friends and family," Valendrian begins, "today we celebrate not only this joining, but also our bonds of kin and kind. This occasion is not solely for our dear brides and grooms, but for the betterment of our community as well."

Nesiara places her hand over Alain's, regarding her husband-to-be with a sweet and encouraging smile. He smiles back weakly, his stomach turning over and roiling like a tempest. Her teeth are too straight, he thinks. Her hair is too neat and silvery blonde, and her eyes remind him of rainwater caught in tin buckets after dropping from the ceiling through cracks in the roofs. He doesn't understand what everyone sees in her. She is no better than Valora with her wing-like ears and squinty gaze, even if she possesses a bit more elegance and poise than her counterpart. For all her alleged good looks and accomplishment, she is just a mere girl to him, gratingly groomed to believe in her own greatness and self-assured to the point where she will never understand how little he loves her, how much he loathes the idea of her becoming his wife.

"We are a free people," Valendrian continues, ignoring the sickly grimaces on the faces of Soris and Alain, who are both failing in their roles of happy grooms, "but that was not always so. Andraste, the Maker's prophet, freed us from the bonds of slavery, releasing us from our chains."

Alain snorts quietly at this. He doesn't feel free. If the elves insist on the liberation of their people, why are they chaining him to his unknown and self-important woman with no other reason than the preservation of tradition? When the arrangement was first made, he begged and begged against it. He had never cared for any woman since his mother had died, and every matron and maid that had surrounded him with their pity and tenderness after she was lost only disgusted him through the act of even daring to try to replicate the dear and perfect soul his mother had been. The idea of having to marry one of such false copies sickens him deeply, but what troubles him more is that there is no way out for him. His father hadn't offered one, and had only left him with a gentle reprimand about how marriage was his only route to becoming a full member of the community without remaining a child forever. And Valendrian was even less of a comfort, reminding him that his mother had made unconventional choices for herself, and look where that had gotten her.

"As our community grows, remember that our strength lies in commitment to tradition and to each other. Never again will our people be divided from within and sever our sacred bonds with one another."

Valendrian withdraws from the couples, and a Sister from the Denerim Chantry steps forward to state the covenant before them. Alain sways slightly on his feet. There is no going back now. With a few words, his fate will be sealed. From this day to his death, he will be made to stand beside this woman he does not know or love, bear children with her, and stay true to the vows he never wanted to make. He studies her face again, desperate to find something to draw him into her, some spark of attraction he has never felt before. But how will he even know what to look for? He's never been in love, or even strayed near anything close to it. No matter how closely he looks at her, she is still something foreign to him, and he is still indifferent to whatever charms she used to enrapture all the others.

"Alain, are you all right?" Nesiara whispers under her breath as the Sister talks about the Maker's love for Andraste and the duties of marriage. "You look very pale."

He opens his mouth, trying to produce the proper words to answer her. He has never been much of a talker, and he knows next to nothing about how to converse with a woman, especially one who would expect more delicacy and kindness than a man would. His father should have known to choose someone less seemingly desirable for his life partner. If it is so necessary for Alain to take a bride, he wishes he could have been placed with someone who desired little in life, and asked and expected nothing from him in return.

"I'm dizzy," he says at last, avoiding Nesiara's rainwater eyes. "It's too hot out here."

"Oh, yes. I agree. But this will all be over in a minute, so I hope you can bear up for now."

His heart throbs in pain. It will all be over. There is no other ending. In elven weddings, there is no consent to the vows, just vows thrown to the bride and groom with the expectation of obedience. There is nothing left for him to do but resign himself, or else pray to the Maker for some sort of disruption. A flood, a tornado, an earthquake swallowing them up. An Archdemon descending from the sky.

"Maker help us!" he hears Shianni suddenly shriek, a sound accompanied by the horrified gasps of the bridesmaids and guests. The Sister has stopped speaking. Nesiara grips onto Alain's hand and steps behind him, using him as a shield of protection.

It is no Archdemon. It is a man, a man who is by no means any less of a dangerous force to them than all the darkspawn in Ferelden. Vaughn's eyes rove over the crowds and up to the altar, settling first on Nesiara and then on Shianni. His mouth curls up into a smile. He gestures to his men, and they spill up upon the altar, hands grasping and pawing, clumsy as animals.

Alain clutches his stomach as Shianni is bound and his unwanted bride is taken away from him. His selfish, thoughtless prayer had been heeded, and now he would pay for his foolishness in blood.

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Coming Next:Alixire Amell, the Circle Tower's newest mage, is a mess of contradictions. Jaded by the unblinking eyes of the Chantry but infatuated with one of the Templars that watches her, how will she react when the chance to break free of her cage presents itself?