Chapter 54: The Wedding Day Dawns
The morning of the great wedding-coronation dawned bright and cloudless, the sun rising with a benevolent beam over the Amaranthine Ocean. It was accompanied by an easterly breeze that carried the scent of seawater throughout the labyrinthine thoroughfares of the city; overhead, the seagulls wheeled and cried as though detecting the latent excitement below.
Flora awoke to the sound of bells, their muffled, tinny resonance penetrating her dreamless slumber. She turned her head reflexively even as she woke, tangled in the blankets and furs.
Before Flora had even opened her eyes fully, a bright-voiced figure had descended to the bed; kissing her on both cheeks and exclaiming.
"Congratulations, ma cherie!"
Flora squinted, rather blearily, at the bard; rubbing at her eyes and yawning.
"Eeehhh- "
"It's your wedding day!"
"Hnghh."
Flora let out a distinctly Herring-inflected grunt, peering around at the unfamiliar chamber before recalling that they had stayed the night in the Rebel Queen's childhood chamber. Leliana, whose face was plastered with some unguent cream, was beaming excitedly – and a fraction maniacally - down at her.
Sensing that it's mother was awake, the baby gave a little experimental nudge. Flora patted her stomach absentmindedly, ears pricking at the increasing resonant clamour from outside.
"What's that noise?"
"The Chantry bells, ma petite. They ring from the towers of every chapel in the city. Just wait until the Grand Chantry joins- "
Even as the bard spoke, the nine hanging bells of Ferelden's largest Chantry chimed in. Even at a mile's distance, their sonorous metallic pealing echoed about the palace towers; demanding the attention of those within.
Awestruck, Flora wandered to the window and stood on her toes, craning her neck to peer down at the city below – this chamber did not have such a lofty view as did the Royal quarters. The joyous ringing of the bells seemed to rise above the slate rooftops, resonating above the city like a miasma of sound.
"It's not Sunday," she observed, brow furrowing. "Why are they all going off?"
"Because it's the coronation," replied Leliana, who had just finished issuing a series of instructions to a hovering servant. "And your wedding day. They're ringing for you and Alistair, ma petite."
Flora thought of her best friend and former brother-warden, waking up alone in a far grander bedchamber. He too would be able to hear the insistent clamour of the bells – she wondered if he was at all nervous.
I don't think he's at all anxious about the coronation, actually. I think he's nervous about tonight.
She leaned forward, resting her forehead against the cool, leaded glass. Oddly enough, Flora's own heart was racing – fluttering against her chest like the caged wren she would have to wield at the altar in mere hours. This was accompanied by a peculiar curdling in the base of her belly that felt wholly unlike the nausea caused by the baby.
I can't have had a nightmare. I don't dream anymore. Why am I feeling like this?
Flora took a deep, steadying gulp of cool air, watching the moisture from her own exhalations slowly cloud the glass before her face.
Am I nervous?
There came a soft throb of pain from her hand; when Flora glanced down at her palm, she noticed a semi-circle of pink indentations dug into the delicate skin. These must have been caused by the pressure of her own bitten nails, driven into her palm by curled, overly tense fingers.
I must be nervous. I wish Alistair was here.
"Right!"
Leliana advanced across the chamber with the feverish efficiency of a commander issuing orders to his cornered troops.
"The bath is being brought up – hopefully it's not cold by the time it makes it to this Maker-forsaken corner of the palace – and we have two candles to get you washed and that rampant mass of hair dried. The dressmaker is arriving at nine bells. We need to be ready to leave an hour before midday. We must adhere to this schedule, Florence, or all is lost!"
Flora nodded, boggling at the meticulous timings. There came a knock at the door, and the bard's head flicked around quick as a whip.
"Ah, that'll be the bath!"
Instead, much to Flora's delight, Zevran and Wynne were waiting in the mildewed corridor. The senior enchanter was clad in a rich crimson robe edged with bronze thread, her hair wound into an elaborate braid around her head, whereas the elf had managed to find a set of dark, high-necked leathers that almost appeared formal - at a distance. Flora beamed, ridiculously happy to see them both; the peculiar nerves in her belly subsiding.
In place of a greeting, the elf strode straight across the chamber. Without hesitation, he clasped Flora's face in-between his elegant, tan fingers and kissed her squarely on the mouth; hard and purposeful.
"There! Your last as an unmarried woman," he declared gleefully, stepping back as an astonished Flora blinked. "It is Antivan tradition that a bride be kissed by a man who is not her husband on the morning of her marriage."
"Oh! Really?" she replied, fascinated. "I've not heard of that."
"Antivan tradition, or lecherous elf tradition?" muttered Leliana, leaning out into the corridor in a vain effort to spot the approaching bath. "I think the latter!"
Zevran let out a roguish cackle, darting a quick wink in Flora's direction. She smiled back at him, before turning to Wynne. To her surprise, the strait-laced senior mage appeared distinctly damp around the eyes, the corners of her lined mouth puckering.
"Wynne," Flora breathed, reaching out to clasp her companion's hand. "Wynne, I- "
"Don't start, Flora," retorted Wynne sternly, unable to disguise the distinct tremor in her voice. "I'll prove myself a foolish old woman by shedding an abundance of tears today; I do not wish to start prematurely."
Fortunately, the bathwater arrived before the senior enchanter could succumb further to her emotions. The bathtub was hauled into the centre of the chamber, water spilling over the flagstones as the great copper receptacle was lowered before the hearth. A gaggle of excitable maidservants scuttled about the room; one adding more logs to the fire, another bringing forth a selection of scented soaps on a silver tray. A third presented a delighted Flora with a small bowl filled with cubes of raw turnip and carrot – covered with a fine sprinkling of earth – while a fourth waited for any further instructions.
Leliana dismissed the maids with polite tenseness; neither requiring nor desiring assistance.
"Vêtements!" she commanded, keeping one ear out for the bell that marked the morning change of watch.
"Eh?" mumbled Flora - whom the command had been aimed at – through a mouth of raw turnip.
"Your clothing! Take it all off."
Flora obediently pulled loose the strings of her nightgown, shaking her shoulders to let the voluminous material pool around her feet. Leliana gestured her towards the bathtub, rummaging through the tray of scented perfumes with a clatter of glass.
"It is a large babe for only two-thirds grown," Wynne commented with a faint air of experience as she took a seat at the window; eyeing the swollen mound rising from Flora's belly. "Think it's a boy?"
"Possibly," agreed Leliana, placing several vials to one side. "Though according to the midwife, Florence herself was an overlarge babe. It could be a girl."
"Your body is as beautiful as I remember from the Temple of Sacred Ashes," Zevran commented kindly from the bed, in an effort to distract Flora from the horrors of birthing an overly large babe. "Even more so. My ripening little peach."
Flora smiled at him gratefully, taking Leliana's steadying hand as she clambered into the bathtub. The water was an inoffensive temperature – no servant was going to risk either freezing or scalding their future queen – and she let her head tip back to soak her hair. It floated up about her shoulders, like thick clumps of dark red seaweed.
The bells kept ringing in the distance, their anticipatory pealing echoing even up as high as the Rebel Queen's chamber. Leliana, aware of Flora's distaste for overly girlish scents, spurned the fanciful floral concoctions that she personally adored, using instead perfumed oils of rosemary and hazel.
"Your fingernails are filthy," Leliana murmured with gritted teeth, scrubbing them furiously against a horsehair brush. "What have you been doing, digging up handfuls of earth?"
YES, Flora thought defiantly to herself; unable to explain the strange urges that occasionally drove her to eat raw earth and gnaw on wooden spoons. Instead she smiled up at Leliana, peeling a wet rope of crimson away from her cheek.
"Thank you."
The bard blew her a kiss in response, working the oil methodically through to the end of each strand of hair. Flora settled back against the copper rim of the tub, eyeing the glistening milky orb of Mairyn's Star as it sat plump on her fourth finger.
"This ring would make excellent bait," she commented idly after a moment. "I bet some really interesting fish would be attracted to this if I attached it to the end of a line."
Wynne glanced across at Zevran, who gave a little helpless shrug; both hoping very much that Flora was joking.
After Flora was done soaking herself, she was given strict instructions to kneel before the hearth and direct her hair towards the heat of the flames, while Leliana took her place in the bathtub. Finian, who arrived clad in the full velvet-edged regalia of an arl, was promptly assigned the task of soaking up as much moisture as possible from the damp mass of tangled red.
"Don't you dare let that blanket fall, Floss," the young arl instructed sternly as he knelt on the flagstones, rubbing clumps of his sister's wet hair between two linen cloths.
Flora clutched the embroidered wool about her shoulders, letting the swell of her stomach rest on her thighs as she bowed her head. The baby gave a vigorous little nudge against one kidney, and she patted it gently through the skin.
"You're getting made not-a-bastard today," she informed it solemnly, knowing that it's ears were formed enough to hear. "So there's no need to kick me."
The scent of violets soon billowed throughout the room as Leliana liberally applied the perfumes that Flora had spurned. The bard hummed a soft melody under her breath; such was the beauty of her voice that the others paused in their conversations to listen.
A short while later, Leliana finished in the bathtub with a soapy flourish, water streaming in rivulets down her magnificently toned and athletic body as she stood.
"Hair?" she snapped imperiously towards Finian, who held up a half-dried strand of oxblood. "No, that's not yet dry enough. Keep going!"
"Maker's Breath," the young Cousland murmured under his breath as the bard strode, dripping, across the flagstones to retrieve her dressing robe. "Our Chantry sister is filled with urgency this morning."
"We have a strict schedule," offered Flora helpfully from somewhere beneath the mass of hair. "We have to stick to it, or 'all is lost'."
"How much will be lost, flower?" asked Finian innocently, shooting Zevran a sly glance.
"All!"
"Some?"
"No! All!"
As the morning watch changed, the excited rhythms of the Royal Palace increased in intensity, each occupant counting down the hours until the coronation began. Although the ceremony itself was taking place in the Grand Chantry, the attendants would be returning to the palace for feasting and festivities that would last nearly eight hours. It would be the most monumental occasion since the coronation of Cailan five years prior; and, especially in the wake of the Fifth Blight, everybody was looking forward to the celebrations. The coronation – and the wedding – were seen as yet another portent of hope for Ferelden's future; tangible as the lady Cousland's swollen belly.
Up in the Royal Chamber, Alistair paced back and forth across the length of the room in a frenzy of nervous excitement. Teagan, Eamon and Fergus attempted in turns to calm him down; while a grinning Oghren was determined to insert as many lewd wedding night puns as possible into every comment. A pair of smirking manservants had manoeuvred a wood-framed silken privacy screen into the room without comment; resting it discretely against the wall in preparation for later.
Alistair, who was clad in the traditional tan leather and pale fur garb of a Fereldan king, had his head bare in preparation for the ceremonial crown. He paused before the mirror, running a finger over the short, neatly trimmed facial hair over his jaw, before turning to face Teagan in mild agitation.
"How is she even getting to the Grand Chantry? She's not riding on horseback alone, is she?"
"I'll have her on my saddle," Fergus replied, in a tone caught halfway between reassurance and amusement. Like the other nobles of Ferelden, the young teyrn was clad in the formal livery of his family seat; the distinctive olive and navy colours of Highever reflected in the expensive cloth of his tunic.
"And with a proper escort? The people will all be on the streets – they've been given a holiday – I don't want them rushing towards your horse."
"Maker's Breath, Alistair!" Fergus retorted, a rueful smile curling the corner of his full Cousland mouth. "I'll not let a hair on my little sister's head be harmed."
Alistair grimaced, not entirely reassured. Reaching for a half-drunk and lukewarm tankard of ale, he swallowed it in three gulps before turning to Eamon. The Chancellor made a final few notes on a long skein of parchment before handing the letter off to a scribe.
"Once you're both inside the Chantry, the guards will allow the crowds into the Square; where they'll wait for your first public appearance as man and wife."
Eamon's eyebrows shot into his greying hairline as Alistair gave a slightly damp sniff in response, his hazel eyes gleaming with emotional anticipation.
"Come on, lad," the arl said, not unkindly. "Keep it together."
"I wish I could see Flo now," said Alistair in defiant response, turning his head longingly towards the tower where the Rebel Queen's childhood bedchamber lay. "I can't wait until midday. I might go and say good morning. See if the baby let her get any sleep."
"Best of luck getting past the lay-sister Leliana," Teagan murmured from where he was leaning against the window. "You know how much of a devotee she is to tradition. I believe the senior enchanter Wynne is also present in Flora's bedchamber."
A small muscle at the corner of Alistair's eye twitched, and he visibly deflated.
"Well, I'm not getting past those two," he admitted, resigned. "They're more effective than guard-Mabari. Speaking of Mabari, Ferg, how far in pup is Saela?"
"She'll be birthing them as you get back from your progress, by my estimates," replied Fergus, more than happy to distract Alistair from his own eager anticipation. "I'll train the strongest pair in the litter myself; I've got a knack for it. I… I trained Jethro."
The teyrn was silent for a moment, recalling the brave hound that had fallen in defence of Finian during the final battle.
"Thank you," replied Alistair, earnestly. "I can't wait to get more dogs around here. This place is far too clean; it wants for a nice layer of animal hair over everything."
Meanwhile, up in Moira Theirin's childhood bedchamber, Flora's hair was finally dry; due to a combination of the hearth's radiating warmth, Finian's efforts with a linen cloth – and, finally, some tactful application of Wynne's staff.
During the delay, Leliana had changed into her own outfit – the cream and maroon garb of a lay sister, the heavy weave of the material clinging to her athletic form like poured milk. Despite this necessary adherence to uniform, Leliana had managed to add her own Orlesian touches to the outfit. Beneath the long skirt, she wore a pair of rose-pink, raw silk slippers, and perfume was applied liberally to both wrists and behind her ears.
"How do I look, Wynne?" the bard asked with a coy smile, gazing at her own reflection in the warped surface of the mirror. "Acceptable, I hope."
"You look lovely, my dear," replied the senior enchanter, giving a soft laugh. "The perfect picture of devotion."
Flora was perched on the edge of the bed, a dressing robe clutched loosely around her bare shoulders. She had eaten her way methodically through the bowl of raw turnips, trying not to let the nervous squirming in the base of her stomach alarm her.
I'm not scared. Why would I be scared? I've been Warden-Commander, I've spoken in front of ten thousand troops.
Zevran was watching her carefully, the elf's keenly-honed perception sensing that something was perhaps not quite right. He was almost as skilled as Alistair at picking up on the fine nuances of Flora's expressions; at seeing through the customary solemnity to the latent emotion below. He was just about to lean towards her and whisper a soft query into her ear, when there came a quick rap at the door.
"The dress!" breathed Leliana, checking quickly to see that Flora was decent before scurrying across to the entrance. "Perfectly on time, just as instructed."
The dressmaker entered, with the shadowed eyes and limp hair of one who had been up all night. Leliana immediately swooped forwards to intercept the muslin-wrapped length of material, murmuring effusive thanks. The dressmaker handed over a small leather pouch, and Leliana returned the gesture with a similarly-sized silk purse. When the woman made to refuse – garbing the Hero of Ferelden on her wedding day would bring in business enough – the bard murmured an insistence, pressing the pouch into her hand.
While Finian and Leliana made to unwrap the dress itself, Flora peered out of the window down to the courtyard below. Servants were crowding over the cobblestones in a near constant stream; carrying tables, wine-barrels, standing candelabra, and other items associated with great social gatherings. The baby gave a little nudge inside her stomach and Flora rubbed the heel of her hand absentmindedly over the high, swollen mound.
"Florence, ma petite," came Leliana's voice from across the room. "Are you ready?"
Flora nodded, letting the dressing robe drop from around her shoulders. She padded across the flagstones clad only in her smalls; much to Finian's dismay as he clapped his hand over his face a fraction too late.
"I'm now blind in my only remaining eye, Floss, thanks a lot!"
Flora let out a little grunt of apology, confusion mounting. She could recall Leliana describing Anora Mac Tir's wedding gown – the bard had not been present, but had come to hear of it through other channels. Anora's gown had been made from sky-blue silk velvet imported from Orlais, each yard of fabric costing hundreds of gold. The queen had worn a gossamer veil which sat, cloud-like, atop a tightly braided intricacy of golden hair.
"But this doesn't even look like a dress," she observed, brow furrowing as she gazed at the swathes of leather on the bed. "Where's the head-hole?"
"It's not a traditional wedding gown," Leliana confirmed, positioning Flora on the flagstones and lifting one of the swathes of leather. "That's the point. Zevran? She'll need to be sewn in right from the beginning."
The elf rose to his feet, duly producing a stiff, leather-working needle and a skein of thread. He went to assist the bard, dragging over the stool from the hearth to perch himself on as he bent to Flora's waist. Flashing a quick wink up at the astonished bride, he began to pin the leather around her hips.
Finian, who had been present in the relevant discussion between Fergus, Eamon and Leliana, took pity on his younger sister and went to explain; his gaze still firmly directed at the ceiling.
"Floss, your greatest asset as queen will be that you're not traditional. You're the Hero of Ferelden; a girl with the power to summon and lead armies; a dragon slayer."
"It was a demon in the form of a dragon, not an actual dragon," Flora corrected with Herring pedantry, lifting her arms obediently as Leliana fastened a swathe of buttery-soft leather around her waist.
Finian rolled his eye at his sister's exactness, leaning back against the bed cushions.
"It doesn't matter. Flossie, do you know how many eyes across Thedas have been studying the map over the past year? Knowing that Ferelden is vulnerable? Wondering how far they could possibly encroach upon our borders while we've been dealing with Darkspawn in the east?"
Flora blinked, feeling Zevran's deft fingers brush against her hip as he worked the needle skilfully through the leather.
"Now, it helps that there's a popular Theirin on the throne once again," Finian continued, as his sister rotated according to Leliana's quiet instructions. "Alistair has the look of Maric, and has proven himself in battle. But there's a message that needs to start spreading across Thedas from now – that Ferelden's new rulers are undoubtedly unconventional, but they're as strong as silverite and twice as unyielding."
"Oui," mumbled Leliana, her mouth full of pins. "And that Alistair's queen is one who can summon and lead armies. Who has slain Archdemons and ended Blights."
"Just the one Blight. What's that got to do with my outfit? – oh," said Flora, suddenly recalling the conversation from yesterday. "You're dressing me like one of the Alamarri."
Finian clapped his hands together, finally daring to look at his sister now that her bosom had been sewn into a leather corset.
"Like one of the ancient tribal queens, yes," he murmured, and although he did not say the name of the Maker's Bride; the inference was clear. "The women who rallied armies of thousands and then fought like banshees at their side. This is the image we are presenting today."
Flora scratched her nose, thoughtfully. She had been told a hundred times of her typically Fereldan colouring – the milk white skin, the dark red hair, usually in conjunction with remarks on her traditionally-hewn profile. All the Couslands were descended from one of the oldest Alamarri tribes; it just so happened that these ancient phenotypes had manifested particularly strongly in her.
It took a full hour for Flora to be sewn fully into the leather garb. She bore it with northern stoicism; it had taken almost as long for her to don full Grey Warden ceremonial garb.
"This reminds me of when we were preparing for the Landsmeet vote," she said, lifting her mass of hair above her shoulders so that Leliana could adjust a final strap. "Remember, when I got dressed up in proper Warden stuff for the first time?"
"Oui, and this outfit today is also for the purpose of spectacle. Can you breathe?"
Flora had been a little worried when she had seen the corset – with painful memories of being laced into them tight enough to disguise her swollen stomach – but this one had been cut perfectly to the curve of her belly, to emphasise rather than to hide.
"I can breathe," she said, eyeing her fur-lined, leather-boosted cleavage in awe. "But I think I might knock the Grand Cleric's hat off with these if I turn around too quickly. I feel… thrusty."
"I can't breathe," announced Zevran dramatically, collapsing backwards on the bed and gazing at Flora in a great imitation of a moonstruck youth. "You're going to feature prominently in my erotic fantasies tonight, mi sirenita."
Flora continued to stare at herself in the full length mirror, eyes wide. The bodice emphasised her breasts and her high, rounded belly, the soft, dark leather clinging lovingly to the flesh. It was cut low in the back to expose her from neck to base of spine, and the skirts flowed about her legs like liquid; cut up to the thigh. She would wear no boots, since the Alamarri traditionally wed barefoot.
"When you said it was a leather dress, I thought I'd get really sweaty," Flora said at last, letting out a cackle. "But I can see that's not going to be a problem. How many cows died to make this? Actually, probably only half a cow. There's not much of it."
"A cow-leg," added Zevran, with an appreciative smirk. "If that."
It's meant to show off the baby, Flora thought to herself, eyeing herself a final time in the mirror as Leliana stepped back, placing needle and thread proudly back in the pouch. And the marks left by the Archdemon on my thigh and between my shoulder-blades.
It's a message without words. Just like when I was Warden-Commander and wore my hair in the high ponytail every day. On the morning of the final battle, everyone had the crimson ribbon wrapped about their weapons.
"You look beautiful, and very Fereldan," Leliana murmured, unable to stop a beam of pride from spreading across her own lovely features. "Let them see that this queen does not wear Orlesian silk or Nevarran scent."
"She wears fish oil?"
"She does not," countered the bard with a moue of horror, a small glass vial manifesting in her hand. "She wears essence of violet. Give me your wrists."
OOC Author Note: OOoohhh the wedding day is finally here! How exciting. And Flo's getting all strapped up into her hot leather mama gear, haha. Lol I literally take my own wedding dress out of the cupboard and just STARE at it from time to time, I'm such a loser! The other night I had half a bottle of wine and watched my wedding DVD. I LOVE WEDDINGS!
Flora is not going to be a hot leather mama at her own wedding if she gets her own way and drenches herself in fish oil though, haha.
Incidentally, the film reference scene from the previous chapter was CLUELESS! The bit where Cher helps her lawyer-father with underlining deposition documents.
Replying to reviews in the reviews thank you!
