Disclaimer: I own absolutely and completely nothing. Bioware has that particular pleasure.
Author's note: I can't believe I finally reached this point. And it's cavity inducing, I hope it's not excessively mushy. Honestly do. There will be one more chapter before I leave for vacations but this one, I am sort of pleased with. Even with the mushiness. Hope you like it.
In this chapter: Unexpected guests appear at every wedding.
008.
Boann had lost the count of the times the Grand Cleric had wondered about her attachment to the Alienage. Wondered as in, insinuated that perhaps her purpose inside those stone walls was something much different than bringing the word of the Maker to the elven community. Insinuations, nothing more. Sticks and stones would hurt her, words from Andraste's representative on Denerim make her disappointed.
Elves were a free people whenever there was no human around. From her little hideout, the younger mother had seen how they interacted, normal people, happy people, so satisfied with every little gift. The Grand Cleric didn't see that. In comparison with the great Chantry, it seemed far more real.
And they took her time. To watch the woman who came to them with words of the Maker with suspicious gazes, to wait for that moment in which she'd turn on them. Never. Never, she had sworn in front of Andraste herself. Only contentment she would bring with her into that refuge. There was so much hatred in the world already. This is one of the many ways in which she is rewarded.
The couple seems content. The man in dark blues, standing tall, solemn in the Chantry's shadow but not indifferent. Boann can see it in the dim turn of his lips. He truly seems at ease. In the same manner is the woman by his side. All in white and warm colors, a dress similar to the one she had used that day but with faint differences. Just like her expression, no longer resigned or nervous. She just is.
They are polar opposites in every way she can imagine. From Denerim to that small village, the Mother has had time to evaluate as she never does, called at the last minute for yet another arranged marriage. This is choice. Freedom. Two worlds clashing against each other with so much strength, the one she also saw every time they walked together, hands not holding but close enough to touch with each step.
Will you come, Mother? It would mean the world to her.
She had doubted but she had come and now, how could she do anything else but be grateful? They stand side by side, different as the worlds they came from but their smiles. The slight touch of bare hands. The gaze he lowers to her at times and the one she gifts him when he is distracted. It is right.
"In the name of the Maker, who brought us this world, and in whose name we say the Chant of Light." Their hands shift, his holding hers carefully before entwining. The momentary expression of anxiety fades from the bride's face and the Revered Mother breathes more easily. "I welcome you all in this joyous day."
A year, a whole year Boann has waited for this, never hoping it could come true. Shianni smiles in between what seems tears, so unlike her usual strong persona. Cyrion behind his daughter, so serious, so measuring – it is all right, this is right, they are good people – with Soris whose bitterness seems to be finally fading. She would have never expected the others though. From the King to the former Teyrn, to mages and murderers. They stand with the couple, pleased as each can be according to their own personalities. A sharp contrast to Arl Eamon's features, etched in stone and as different from his son's innocent smile as the sun from the moon.
"All men are the work of our Maker's hands, from the lowest slaves, to the highest kings," she continues, focusing on her role, focusing on the couple, never mind that those words should be heard properly by the nobleman. "For all who walk in His sight are one but none can see as He does. We are different, we walk on the same roads by ourselves except by choice. And this is the choice you make here, of becoming one, of seeing as He does even if just one other person."
The smaller hand tightens momentarily, is the bride bothered again? Boann feels her lips move in the sacramental words, instinctual as breathing, even though the ones she speaks them to seem to become distracted. Tasha's fingers tighten again, Teagan's reply, his eyes lower to her and there's something going on. Something else. Something important said between both gazes.
Somewhere on the back, the King shifts in alarm and the Revered Mother can swear he is reaching for the sword on his back. In the same way, the Teyrn exchanges looks with the male mage, the Mabari tugging impatiently on the leash he never uses. There's something.
"Are you sure?" The Bann's voice almost inaudible near the elf's ear, close enough for the Mother to grasp. Even stranger, she can swear that expression on the elf's face is amused. "I will take that as a yes."
"Then we must hasten things, mustn't we?" Tasha comments mildly and his smile has gone nowhere as well. Their attitudes are similar, reacting like they know what the other's thinking and what will do. "Mother, if you would forgive us."
Teagan turns to his bride, her hands now free to grasp his face and their foreheads touch tenderly. Both smiling, giving no explanation to the sudden rush everything is taking.
"I have all the reasons in the world to keep you." It is him who begins speaking, intense as a priest during its oath. "You listened, you always listened. You saved me and kept returning. You never feared even though I was everything you should hate. You were my friend when I needed and when I didn't. You argued with me, fought until I was so frustrated I had no words to describe it. And frankly, I know that part of you will never disappear. But you understand me, you hear me and I love you. All the parts that are lovely and all that aren't." Again, their smiles are images in a mirror, amusement and emotion in equal parts. "Will you accept me?"
Tasha doesn't reply. Instead one of her hands caresses his jaw, lightly, lightly and it's like they are the only ones there.
"This is my life, Teagan. I spend it in armor. On the roads and I can't sleep without swords by my bedside. But I love you, my foolish man." Teagan falters when she speaks those words, as if they are a surprise when they shouldn't. Maker, why does she feel like crying? "I loved your words those first days. I loved how you waited that night. I loved how you didn't mind when I was irrational, when I went against you, all the time I wasn't near and you still kept me in your thoughts. I love you. So much that I feel this is too much and not deserved. Would you take me?"
They get lost in their own world, embracing like the space between them shouldn't exist. Tighter, more tightly and when they kiss it's like none around matters, none exists, chaste as it is. It makes her almost wish to turn her gaze aside, as an intruder to something precious and private.
"Guess that is not a no," he says, rather blandly considering the situation.
She chuckles in reply, fingers tightened behind his neck. "If you must, isn't that right?"
Maker above, that bubble around them bursts and they turn to her at the same time, different eyes with identical serious gazes while hers are filled with water and her throat seems to have been closed for the moment. Maker. Maker above.
"Mother, will these vows suffice?"
Who would say no to that? They are already apart from whatever she is used to. This is just one more peculiarity added to the mix. "May the Maker bless and keep you." Chocked out but honest. "May His smile grace all the days of your lives and His light guide you to His side."
It is all they need. They kiss again, another mere peek on the lips before they push themselves apart and to their audience.
"Darkspawn," the Warden informs almost bluntly. "Figures they would invite themselves to my wedding."
Questions and shouts explode around them and she, herself, whispers them in her mind. How does she know, isn't it all over, are they in danger but the calm that exudes from the group is contagious. It keeps her safe, it keeps her grounded even as the future Arl instructs everyone to leave for now, to wait patiently, no, everything will be fine, you don't need to worry.
"It shouldn't reach the village?" Teagan asks upon return. All Wardens reply negatively, with words and otherwise, a flurry of movement all around them. Reaching for weapons, the shouts of command, the King and the Commander, the Queen behind them in almost apprehension, a flash of the Teyrn's face which speaks of the Hero she heard stories of. A small army.
It's Tasha who stops in front of her, though, her bare hands reaching for her shoulders.
"Thank you for coming, Mother. You should go inside now," she requests simply. "Your part is done."
"But…" It all went wrong again, can't she see? Like before. And before, Boann couldn't stop it. Being a servant of the Maker is to aid, not to watch as everyone is harmed. It bothers her though, apparently, not the small elf who actually seems happy. "What are you going to do?"
"Free myself from this dress and into armor, what else? Can't leave my bridesmaids to fight by themselves." The redhead's already armed, carrying a bow and swords, light armor pieces in her hands. She doesn't seem bothered either. Terrible sense of timing, no? Nor does the King, he just seems annoyed, really, couldn't they wait until tomorrow? I wanted to taste those pies, they'll get ruined. Nor does the male mage, why do we attract so many odd things all the time? I blame the Commander. "This shouldn't last long. It's a fairly small group. The celebration should be in two hours, perhaps."
"Make it and a half," corrects the Bann's voice, already reaching for the shield and sword the King extends. "We will all need to bathe or none will stand near us."
"Oh. Together. Can I watch?"
"Maker's breath, Zevran. Give it a rest."
A sword and laughter are exchanged between the elves. So is a light helm, a bundle of clothing thrown into the mix by the Senior Enchanter. All around people disappear quickly into their houses, trusting the group, leaving their lives in their hands like it is usual.
"Was that a no?"
"Yes."
"Oh, so it was a yes?"
"Someone shut him up."
There is danger here. This wasn't a correct wedding again, a proper one. Their lives, those will never be normal either. Nonetheless, they will be all right, the Mother thinks, the Mother prays, fervently to make sure. It will be all right this time, puzzle pieces fitting properly into one another. She is certain.
"Mother." Shianni doesn't move into the safety of the Chantry, her eyes carefully following the group's movements as they leave, up the hill and to their destination. "We should enter and wait inside."
They should. They don't. Not until they return – almost two hours after – laughing, of all possible actions, commending each other and singing even though the King stays away from the Teyrn and the mage keeps far from the Bann. They return from a stroll and everything's all right. Look. In the back, side by side, improvised weapons sheathed and entwined fingers.
It is right.
One of the many ways she is rewarded. Boann thanks Him every day. He gives her so much.