Title: Five Times Alistair Wasn't Kissed (Wedding)
Author: Jade Sabre
Notes: Again, apologies for the delay; I had to replace my hard drive, and then I posted my entry for the Seven Heavenly Virtues of Loghain, and I don't like cluttering people's inbox with new fic (although I guess people themselves don't mind it so much), and so here, a few days later, Part 5 in the immortal series.
Thanks so much for all the reviews!
Disclaimer: I still don't own Bioware! Though I'm totally naming my Lady Hawke Isabeau.
five
He'd been to a wedding or two in his time, but nothing had prepared him for his own, standing in front of thousands of Ferelden's finest while he promised to protect and cherish their beloved queen. Not that he wasn't beloved too—hero of the Blight (the real hero gone, searching for their Grey Warden brethren, and he wished he was with her), born of Maric's blood, and helplessly handsome to boot. None of this endeared him to the queen, however; he knew she was comparing him to her dead husband in her mind, and the ways in which he wasn't lacking were the ways in which she couldn't control him. It wasn't particularly pleasing, but the other Warden had assured him that he could do it—had not-quite-ordered, not-quite-begged him to work it out for the good of Ferelden, and he owed her that much, at least.
The Grand Cleric recited the bits of the Chant concerned with marriage—in context, many of them were about Andraste's loyalty to Maferath, and everyone knew how well that had turned out—and he looked at Anora not-looking at him and tried not to wish he was anywhere else. His bride was beautiful, yes, but it was an icy, aloof beauty, and the knowledge that he would have to try to shatter her barriers filled him with unease. He'd fought darkspawn and blood mages and faced an archdemon, but the resentment in her eyes was the first truly insurmountable foe he'd faced. Her hands curled into fists within his grasp as the Grand Cleric sang the vows of binding, and then it was done, and he tried not to panic as she said, with an ironic lift to her voice, "You may kiss the bride."
Anora lifted her head, but when he gingerly bent towards her lips she slipped past him, her cheek bumping his in what might look like a kiss, her voice soft in his ear: "Touch me tonight, and I will kill you."
He swallowed, and whispered back, "Assuming I'd want to, which is generous."
He felt her cheek tighten with a smile. "Well-played, my king," and part of him suddenly did want to, but she was drawing away and the Grand Cleric was presenting them, King Alistair and Queen Anora. He squeezed her hands and then released them; she gave him a quizzical look, but he turned to his people—their people—and raised his arms, and was glad to let their cheers drown out the fears in his mind, for a time.