Standing at deceptive ease in the hallway, Fenris heard the sisters laughing from behind the still-closed door. They were already running a little late, but Fenris was not going to be the one to begrudge them their moment of happiness together; there'd been all too few of them in past months. Beside him, Ser Kinnon smiled a fond smile, but reddened slightly and lifted his shoulders when he noticed Fenris' querying eyes on him.
"It's just—for a long time there was no laughter here," Kinnon explained, eyes still scanning the hallway to either side of the door. The guard was, Fenris noted with some satisfaction, entirely focused on the task at hand even as he conversed. As it should be, on a day as important as this one. Fenris, conventionally unarmed, nevertheless flexed his hands at his sides and let a flash of lyrium brighten his tattoos for an instant.
"Hawke brings laughter with her," Fenris admitted.
Kinnon's grin was swift. "There are worse things to bring."
Here, however, Fenris did not share the knight's mirth. He felt the faint crease of a frown in his brow. "Those may also follow on her heels. They have before. Vigilance does not end because this day's events are joyful ones." He shook off the grimness and, if not quite a smile, managed to smooth the worry from his face. Hawke would see it, and even if she did not, Amelle was frustratingly fluent in the language of his expressions. Thinking of her brought a slight smile, a bare curve of his lips, just in time for the door to open.
Hawke emerged first, Amelle carefully carrying an armful of her sister's multitudinous skirts. Fenris spared a moment to think what a nightmare movement would be in such an outfit, and then banished that thought as well before either of the Hawkes could spy it. On this day, Hawke did not have to move with her usual swiftness; a hundred pairs of eyes were fixed on her with no other agenda than keeping her safe.
Fenris supposed he was meant to think the raiment lovely, and certainly the cascades of fine silk and lace and gauzy-thin veil were indeed beautiful, but dresses could not compare to the loveliness of the ladies inhabiting them. Hawke, still glancing back at Amelle, laughing about the ridiculousness of her gown—it did not, evidently, want to fit through the doorway—shone as Fenris had never seen her shine before. Amelle was scarcely less brilliant, and a little more of his uneasiness faded in the light of the smile she flashed his way the moment she noticed him. He thought her eyes a little over-bright, but her joy-flushed cheeks betrayed no sign of tears.
Fenris thought, perhaps, Kinnon had the right of it. Even with Hawke's penchant for bringing laughter wherever she went, that sound had been in short supply since Kirkwall, and Anders, and Meredith. It was a potent thing, to see the Hawke sisters so unfettered. His lips twisted wryly when the image that came to mind was one of sleek birds shaking out their wings, preparing to take to the skies after long captivity.
And perhaps he'd best leave poetry to those with the talent.
Hawke, seeing her sister's grin, turned and gifted him with another. "Come to steal my sister away, have you?" she asked brightly.
"Indeed not," Fenris remarked. "On this occasion, Ser Kinnon has that honor."
Hawke's brows lifted, her expression rendered almost comic in its confusion. "Bu… uh, sorry? Why? Where are you off to?"
A thread of mirroring dismay chilled him, and he wondered if he oughtn't have spoken to Hawke of this change in plans beforehand. Both Sebastian and Amelle had thought it a good idea, but Hawke's surprise unsettled him. "You have no… surviving male kin," he began, turning out his palms in mild supplication. "I thought to… lend you my arm. As you have so often lent yours to me."
Hawke blinked. Once. Twice. And then she burst into tears.
Fenris glanced at Amelle, Amelle stared back, wide-eyed. Kinnon looked between the pair of them, mouth sightly agape. From around the corner, where she'd evidently been waiting for just such a mortifying occasion, Tasia came running. She, at least, had little trouble moving in her cumbersome outfit. She had the most curious ability to be swift without sending her own dressed hair into disarray. "My lady, no!" she cried. "Don't you dare!"
As abruptly as they'd started, Hawke's tears shifted to a giddy giggle. "Oh, Maker, Tasia." Her tone, nevertheless, held genuine relief, and the entire crowd of them stepped back so Hawke's maid could make certain no irreparable damage had been done. When all was deemed satisfactory, the petite woman turned and jabbed a finger into Fenris' chest hard enough to make him rock back on his heels. He was caught so off-guard it didn't occur to him to resist or retaliate. Or shift his balance to absorb the blow. So he rocked. And Tasia glared with grim gratification, her upheld finger prepared to strike anew.
"Don't do that again," Tasia hissed, pale eyes flashing. "We haven't time to do this all over."
Hawke stepped close and settled a gentle hand on Tasia's shoulder. "He'll be good, I promise, Tasia."
Tasia's glower said he'd better be, or he'd regret it. And he, startlingly, believed it. When Tasia stepped away, Hawke tilted her head and fixed Fenris with a penetrating gaze. He wondered what she saw. The worry? He hoped not. The friendship?
As suddenly as she'd wept, she swept him into an embrace. Tasia muttered something dire about wrinkling her gown. Fenris didn't stiffen or bristle or sigh with long-suffering, the way he'd so often done before when confronted with Hawke's sudden displays of affection. This time, he returned the gesture, patting her shoulder awkwardly. She laughed again, vaguely watery. Bringing her lips close to his ear, she whispered, "You're kin to me. And the honor is entirely mine, old friend." Stepping back, she fixed him with a decidedly impish look. "You know what? We should move on."
Behind them, Amelle snorted a laugh. Kinnon and Tasia shared a confused look.
Lifting his arm, he offered his elbow the way he'd so often seen Sebastian do. Hawke slipped her hand into the crook, and bumped her shoulder companionably against his. She winked at him, and with lightness in her tone that belied the message said, "Fair warning, though, I can't move in this thing to save my life. So, if anyone jumps out at us on the way…"
Somehow this, the knowledge that she was as perceptive and watchful and clever as she ever was, even dressed in unfamiliar finery and on her way to a ceremony that would, in so many ways, make her yet more of a target to those with grudges against her, was enough to settle Fenris' uneasiness at last, and he smiled. Like the Hawke sisters and their joy, for once unfettered and unbound. "Whatever you need, I am ready to assist."
Some things, after all, never changed.
#
The day could not have been more perfect for a wedding if Hawke herself had petitioned the Maker to craft it so.
Then again, Cullen thought, a fondly amused smile curving at his lips, given even a fraction of what he knew Hawke to be capable of, such a meeting was not so terribly difficult to imagine. The air was crisp and autumn-kissed; the sun blazed above in a sky dotted with clouds, warming the onlookers against a gentle wind that, had it been any less kind, might have turned the day chilly. If he'd not seen this same courtyard in its usual state as practice yard, he'd never have believed it was the same. Where practice dummies usually stood, real people mingled. Flowers and bunting and ribbon in ivory and gold and all the shades of autumn decorated a space usually filled with sweating soldiers. Instead of grunts of effort, happy laughter filled the air. The very center of the space remained curiously empty, kept so by a ring of ribbon-draped posts punctuated by knights in their shining-armor best. Cullen wondered, absently, what it was for.
Hard as it might have been for him to imagine once, he stood with the rest of Hawke's people. Now, though, after so much uncertainty, after so much struggle to prove himself (not least of all to himself), he felt as if he finally belonged with them. Even Guard-Captain Aveline was not quite as coolly reserved as she had been those days in Kirkwall. Indeed, her greeting had been… wryly sheepish, and Cullen wondered how much of her change in demeanor had to do with her illness and recovery. She looked well enough now, he was pleased to find, though she made no secret how unpleasantly stiff she found her own finery. Even Guardsman Donnic looked, Cullen thought, rather surprised to see his wife in a dress.
For that matter, all of Hawke's people were dressed in their best—Merrill was swathed in a floaty green affair and had deigned to wear slippers, while Isabela's gown managed to cover more skin than did her usual attire, and yet remained hovering just on the cusp of indecency. Which had likely been the whole point. Varric, Guardsman Donnic, and Cullen himself sported tunics far more richly constructed than anything he'd ever worn in the whole of his life. He'd wanted to wear his armor—Maker only knew how Isabela managed it, but she'd brought his suit of heavy plate back with her from Kirkwall—but Hawke had nipped that suggestion in the bud, saying it's my wedding, and you're there as a guest and a friend, Cullen, not a templar.
Making such a distinction was still… new to him.
A ripple went through the crowd already assembled in the vast courtyard; long benches had been reserved for close friends and honored guests on all sides of the protected inner circle, and Cullen had first thought it odd that so few seats had been put out. Now, though, the courtyard continued to fill and fill and fill, not just with lords and ladies of the court, but common folk in their chantry best who looked about with wide-eyes and slack jaws, as if disbelieving their luck. Cullen allowed himself a smirk, if not an outright chuckle when he spied Lady Caddell get jostled to one side by a pair of boisterous, excited young girls—one rising on tiptoes and the other hopping on one foot in hopes of catching a glimpse of the new princess. Their mother—ahh, and yes, it was the Starkhaven Circle's lady First Enchanter, Nadiah, though no air of magic currently clung to her to tickle his senses—had to herd them back to her, and as Lady Caddell opened her mouth to hiss something doubtlessly cruel and belittling to the children, she caught Cullen's inquisitive gaze. Suddenly her mouth snapped shut, a flush of helpless indignation mottling a path up her neck, nostrils flaring as the girls pelted back to their mother.
He tried not to feel too pleased, but mostly failed. It was, after all, very big of him not to smite her outright, after all the things she'd said and done. Maker's breath, she was lucky to have obtained an inviation at all, as far as he was concerned. Instead, he merely inclined his head with exaggerated courtesy and was most certainly pleased when she responded by losing herself very rapidly in the crowd of commoners she'd been so quick to disdain a moment earlier.
A few moments later, Varric bustled in and accepted the seat Isabela had saved for him, between her and Cullen. At first glance, the dwarf appeared to be wearing his same clothing, but a closer look proved the fabric was even finer, and the gold embroidery on his coat more lush. He hooked his thumbs in his belt as he sat and looked immensely proud of himself.
It was, Cullen thought, quite unnerving.
Isabela was not as easily unsettled, evidently. She nudged Varric hard enough with one elbow to send him bumping into Cullen's side. "What," she asked incisively, "has you looking so smug?"
"You wound me with your accusations, Rivaini. I'm merely… enjoying the day. A fine day to be enjoyed, don't you think? Sun in the sky, birds in the trees—hey, even a little of that salt water you're so blighted fond of on the breeze."
She glowered, obviously unconvinced. Cullen felt momentarily bad about eavesdropping and then decided if they didn't want to be overheard, they shouldn't be sitting so close or speaking so loud. A man couldn't help hearing, after all. He could hard turn his ears off.
"Insufferably smug," Isabela amended, leaning down to stare Varric in the eyes and giving Cullen a most-distracting view in the meantime. He flushed his embarrassment, glancing toward the other side of the courtyard, and was glad both pirate and dwarf were too much occupied to make fun of him. Merrill was now flitting through the crowd, handing out flowers to all the children she passed. One or two spoke shyly to her, and though he couldn't hear their words, he could appreciate the way the elf stopped for each one, crouching at their level heedless of her dress and taking time to answer whatever their questions might be. When Merrill ran out of flowers in her basket, she pulled one from her hair, and gave it to a particularly adorable little girl with a head full of bright red curls. The little girl, unabashed, lifted her chubby arms. A moment later Merrill picked her up and settled her on one hip, and then moved away, likely in an attempt to find the little one's mother.
To his right, Isabela hissed, "You're planning something. What are you planning? And why didn't you tell me?"
Varric chortled. Cullen wasn't entirely sure he'd have risked chortling at a woman who both sounded dangerously annoyed and was handily capable with the knives she doubtless still carried concealed in her confection of a dress. "All in good time. Don't want to spoil the ending. No one likes it when you skip to the last page."
"I always skip to the last page."
Varric's sigh was melodramatically morose. "You would, Rivaini. You would."
"Tell me what's on the last page, Fuzzy."
"Never."
"Varric."
"Patience, precious pirate. Patience."
Isabela growled, "Patience, my arse. I am going to kill you."
Cullen looked back just in time to see Varric reach out and capture Isabela's hand in a brief squeeze. Her dark brows furrowed even further, but she didn't pull away. Then he said, even more horrifyingly cheerfully, "Kill me and you'll never know how it ends."
"Please, no talk of killing, today of all days," Aveline groaned, from Isabela's other side. "This location is a defensive nightmare with all the windows and open spaces and—Maker's breath, Varric, why do you look so unbearably pleased with yourself?"
Isabela, sensing an ally, brightened. "You know, big girl, if we work together I'm sure we could make him talk."
Varric released Isabela's hand and held both his up in mute surrender. "Some secrets go to the grave, and since Aveline's put a ban on killing…"
"This isn't over," Isabela groused.
"No," Varric said, pleased, "in fact, I believe it's just about to begin."
As if on cue, movement at the training yard's East entrance caught Cullen's eye; when he looked over it was to spy a nearly unrecognizable—if not for the hair, at least—Hawke, standing with Fenris and Amelle, Ser Kinnon hulking just to the side of them and Hawke's mabari, whose actual name he was still entirely unsure of, sitting patiently, head cocked as if he knew perfectly well the importance and gravity of the moment. Tasia flitted about Hawke like a particularly determined hummingbird, adjusting the diaphanous skirts and smoothing them out before helping Hawke settle a cobweb-light veil into place over her head—which did nothing at all to diminish Hawke's smile.
Fenris looked characteristically grave, but in a quietly pleased sort of way, and Cullen wondered how he'd come to learn such distinctions in the elf's demeanor. Amelle, on the other hand, wore not an ounce of gravity in her expression—he'd never seen her smile quite so wide, quite so bright as she leaned forward and whispered something in her sister's ear. As she withdrew, her expression suddenly and decidedly impish, Hawke punched her lightly on the arm and Cullen chuckled in spite of himself.
It was nice to know the world hadn't gone so mad, hadn't turned so horrifyingly upside-down, that moments such as this one couldn't exist. Indeed, the fact they were here at all like this was… reassuring.
Amelle then stepped away from her sister, smoothing out her own voluminous gown before tucking her arm into Fenris'. With a final parting nod to Hawke, they walked together into the yard, the mabari trotting along on Amelle's other side, coming to the bench where Cullen, Varric, and Isabela were sat. Amelle slid in on Cullen's other side, and Fenris settled on the end, with Cupcake (given Aveline's moratorium on violence, perhaps "Killer" would not be the dog's name today) sitting with amusingly appropriate sedateness; Fenris' greeting came in the form of a silent nod before he turned his attention, not to the proceedings exactly, but to the placement of the guards stationed at various points around and above the yard.
"You clean up well," whispered Amelle with a grin. At this distance he saw the faintest touch of red around her eyes, but there was nothing of sadness in it. "I'm glad Kiara talked you out of the heavy plate."
"It feels… odd," he confessed.
"And tell me you aren't just a little accustomed to odd by now."
He had to admit, she had a point.
"Besides," Amelle went on in a whisper, "this bench under the weight of all that silverite? You'd have reduced it to splinters for sure."
Before he could even think of a rejoinder, a man carrying an obviously old, but lovingly polished fiddle, walked in from the yard's South gate, making his way easily through the crowd until he stood before them all, just outside the center circle. It took a moment for Cullen to realize this was the very man who'd stood up in Hawke's defense the day Jessamine had rained poisoned arrows down on the people of Starkhaven and called it justice. The man who'd been wounded in the fracas, the man Amelle had healed. Joff, came the name, a little belatedly. Joff, the plain man in the plain clothes, who'd nearly died standing up against a darkness so very much larger than he. His clothes were not so plain today, having obviously come from the same tailor who'd visited Cullen.
Joff's throat bobbed with a nervous swallow before he brought the fiddle up, resting his chin upon it and raising his bow to the strings. What followed was a tune Cullen had not heard in more than a decade, not since he'd been a young, green recruit at Kinloch Hold, before the darkspawn, before Solona Amell's death, before Loghain Mac Tir's betrayal and before Uldred's deceit. The song itself was a Fereldan folk tune, and though he'd long since forgotten the words, the melody pulled a torrent of memories forth, reminding him very forcefully of home.
He wondered if that was the reason behind choosing such a song to open a ceremony such as this—that Starkhaven would someday be as much home as Ferelden had ever been.
A moment later, the sweet, mournful sound of a tin whistle joined Joff's fiddle, playing a completely different song that somehow wove in and out of his in harmonious counterpart. It was a tune Cullen did not recognize, but a quick glance around the courtyard showed many a pleased smile on the faces of the Starkhavenites. From the North entrance, a lovely red-headed woman walked, tin whistle at her lips, her dress fine and cut from the same cloth as Joff's tunic. When she reached the middle, she and Joff faced each other, and the man's face lit with a smile that rendered him anything but plain. The woman—his wife, Cullen presumed, and if the hair was anything to go by, perhaps the mother of the little one Merrill had earlier rescued—could hardly smile with her lips to her pipe, but her eyes shone and her cheeks were flushed with joy.
Beside him, Amelle heaved a happy little sigh. "I didn't know about this," she whispered. "It's a lovely touch, don't you think?"
"Perhaps not was the nobility was expecting," Cullen agreed, tilting his chin in Lady Caddell's direction. Amelle took one look at the woman's sour expression and had to put a hand up to muffle her burst of laughter. Fenris shot them both a look, but even his lips were smiling.
Further conversation was stilled by the sudden hush of silence as the music stopped. Now Joff's wife smiled, before nodding and lifting her instrument once again. This time she started, and a few moments later her husband's fiddle joined in. Cullen glanced at Hawke. She stood alone now, chin raised proudly, every inch a vision of regal grandeur.
"Ahh," Amelle murmured. "There he is."
He followed her gaze and saw Sebastian at the far opposite end of the courtyard. Like Hawke, his finery was beyond compare, gold-embroidered white and finest leather, and a cloak that swirled about his ankles with every move he made. The gold band of his crown glinted in the sunlight, official now, with the coronation and conferment of title having taken place the day before. He wore it with the same casual ease that Cullen wore his templar plate; as if it were merely an extension of him. Perhaps it was, at that.
The music lifted, shifted, soared, and though they were only two little instruments, the sound of their song filled the entire space. Someone nearby caught their breath. Cullen would've sworn it was Isabela, except he felt certain to call attention to it would end badly for him.
Instead of the ceremony Cullen was expecting, with Sebastian waiting at one end of a long aisle for his bride to come to him, the Prince of Starkhaven and the Champion of Kirkwall instead began, very slow, very stately, to walk toward each other. Neither outstripped the other.
"Oh," Amelle breathed. "Oh. This… this wasn't the plan at all. The wedding planner demons must be having a fit."
She sounded entirely, entirely pleased. Cullen hazarded a look at the dwarf beside him. Varric looked as pleased as Amelle sounded.
He also, Cullen noted, did not look surprised.
Hawke and Sebastian met at the ring in the center of the yard, precisely at the same moment, and as they reached that point, the guard stepped away, perfectly in unison, perfectly synchronized, and moving unobtrusively in such a way that cleared a path through the onlookers. The Revered Mother walked through the throng as if it had parted specifically for her—which, Cullen supposed, it had. By her side was a little blond page he'd frequently spied trailing after Hawke with adoring eyes. His expression just now was very serious, and his steps careful and determined. In his hands he carried an ivory pillow. As the page walked past, Cullen craned his neck to find the pillow was heavily embroidered—a long line of gold alongside a line of red split the pillow on the diagonal; one triangle of the pillow's surface bore the Amell crest in deep red thread, with the Vael crest—and Cullen knew its image well enough simply from its presence in the palace—stitched in gleaming gold.
Coiled on the pillow was a length of red ribbon.
Amelle's breath caught. From the corner of his eye, he saw her cover her mouth with one hand. Fresh tears clung to her eyelashes but did not fall. Fenris bent his head close to Amelle's but though she waved a dismissive hand and shook her head, she tucked her left arm into his. Nothing wrong, then. Perhaps something very right, instead?
Cullen glanced again at Amelle, whose attention was positively riveted on the page and his pillow. As he and the Revered Mother reached the center circle, she and the boy turned and she took the length of wide red ribbon up in her hands. It uncoiled soundlessly, the ends catching the breeze and fluttering with it.
Lowering his voice to a whisper, Cullen bent closer to Amelle. "What are they—"
"Handfasting," breathed Amelle, briskly dashing her tears away with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. "Our mother and father were wed this way. They… they couldn't have a Chantry ceremony." She smiled at him in a way that said she didn't blame him, even though he was indelibly connected to the reason her parents couldn't wed in the usual way.
"Old tradition," Varric supplied helpfully. "Some say it predates the Chantry's influence. Some say it was designed for those who couldn't get themselves to a chantry. Not everyone—"
"Shh," Isabela hissed. "They're starting." From Cullen's right the mabari chimed in with a distinctly reproachful-sounding woof.
Cullen spared a brief chuckle for the pirate's vehemence, to say nothing of Cupcake's, and turned again to the tableau before him.
The murmuring in the crowd died instantly the moment Sebastian lifted his chin and parted his lips to speak. Cullen didn't know if it was the acoustics of the space, or some trick of the delivery, but Sebastian's voice seemed to carry to all the corners of the courtyard without him having to strain it. "My lady," he said, "we once spent a memorable afternoon in this very courtyard. As I recall, you threw an archery match to win yourself a kiss."
Placed, as he was, so near, Cullen heard her faint snort. "You've a remarkably selective memory, love," she replied. Laughter rippled out at the comment, and Sebastian's eyes crinkled with suppressed mirth. "As I recall, you attempted to throw the match first."
"Rematch?" he murmured.
"That is not an archery gown," came Tasia's voice from the far side of the circle, vaguely strangled.
Hawke laughed, shooting a swift glance back at her maid. Her bright eyes echoed the laugh in her voice, and Cullen felt his own lips curving in response to the grin he could barely make out through the gauzy film of her veil. "And no one's gambling for kisses and the Starkhaven longbow today, I assure you."
The crowd tittered.
Sebastian continued, smiling, "It would, perhaps, make for a good tale if I said that afternoon, that wager and that kiss, was when I knew at last I loved you, but the truth is, I have loved you far longer. I think I have loved you since five minutes after you walked out of the Kirkwall Chantry that first time, all those years ago. Since then, I have loved you brave and loved you vulnerable, loved your passion and determination and kindness. For the longest time I believed that love unrequited, but it has never faltered, never ebbed, even though, for too long, it went unspoken." He took his end of the red ribbon from Revered Mother Illona's waiting grasp. Lifting Hawke's hand, he circled the ribbon around her slender wrist three times and tied a shaking knot.
"Weddings," he continued, never lifting his gaze from hers—they might have an audience, but Sebastian was not playing to it—"are often about promises. They are about vows and oaths and binding." He tilted his head and smiled a little wryly. "Vows and I have an uneasy history. As you well know. But it is not a vow to say I will love you all the rest of my days. It is not a promise to say I will do everything within my power to protect you and keep you and see that you laugh every day. It is not an oath to say I am already yours, body and soul, as long as you will have me." He paused, swallowed, blinked. The faint shimmer of tears shone on his lashes, but when he spoke his voice was still sure and steady. "These are, heart of my heart and light of my life, merely truths, humbly offered."
To his left, Cullen heard a very faint sniffle, followed by Varric, in a low voice, whispering, "Are you—are you crying, Rivaini? Maker's hairy asscheeks, you are!"
"I am not," Isabela hissed back. "I have something in my eye. Or I'm allergic to all these blighted hideous flowers."
Varric chuckled. "And so it was," he intoned with the gravity of a writer putting something down for posterity, "the bold and beautiful Rivaini pirate queen was brought to tears not by pain or injury, but by a wedding."
"And so it was," Isabela replied in an edgier version of the same tone, "the hairy little dwarf man never made it to that wedding's reception because the definitely-not-crying Rivaini killed him and hid the body in Hawke's third wardrobe, never to be found."
Cullen, standing so close, felt the little spark of magic a moment before Isabela and Varric gasped identical horrified—and silencing—gasps. Amelle's expression never changed. Except, perhaps, to slide into something even more butter-wouldn't-melt innocent.
He decided to let the unauthorized use of magic pass. Just this once.
"Sorry," he heard Hawke say. Cullen's heart stuttered—sorry for what?—and he immediately looked up, just in time to see her lift her own veil with her un-bound hand. "I—sorry. I want to see you for this part. Besides, I'm pretty sure you're familiar with the merchandise at this point. Some traditions are good ones. Others, frankly, are just strange."
Again the crowd laughed. Still Sebastian's eyes shone. Hawke reached for the other end of the ribbon. Even the Revered Mother was smiling now, Cullen noted, and the little boy at her side was practically bouncing his excitement, all his earlier gravity vanished. Shaking hair and veil back from her face, Hawke lifted her chin. She repeated the winding of the cloth around Sebastian's wrist. Her hands didn't shake quite so much as the prince's, but it still took two tries to fix her knot. "When I was a little girl," she said, "I used to watch my parents together, laughing and talking and dancing. Sometimes they argued. Often things were unsettled. But through it all, they held tight to one another. I watched them, and I thought, were I to marry one day, I would not settle for any less than what I saw my parents have." She gripped his hand with both of hers. "I don't know if I loved you five minutes after I walked out of the Kirkwall Chantry that first time, all those years ago. I can, I am reliably told, be a bit dense when it comes to knowing my own feelings. What I do know is this: there is no one I would rather talk or dance or laugh—or, Maker, even argue with than you, and so it has been almost from that first moment. You are, and have always been—to put it in a way a certain mutual friend of ours might appreciate—my port in the storm. I wish only to be the same safe haven for you, to support when you need supporting, to push when you need pushing, and always, always to keep you safe and loved and comforted within the circle of my embrace."
Isabela was certainly no longer the only one sniffling. Cullen swallowed past the thick knot of his own emotion.
The next words, Hawke and Sebastian spoke together, their eyes on each other, alone amidst the vast crowd surrounding and supporting them. "And so we bind ourselves together, hand to hand, heart to heart, life to life, and soul to soul. Freely, gladly, now and for always."
Cullen could not have said if Sebastian moved toward Hawke, or if Hawke closed the distance first, but a moment later Sebastian's unbound hand found Hawke's unveiled cheek, and Hawke's free arm closed tightly around Sebastian's waist. Their kiss seemed to mix sweetness and passion in equal measures. The assembled crowd clapped joyously, and the little page with his now-empty pillow jumped up and down and looked liable to start running in circles at any moment. Hawke and Sebastian pulled away from each other a few seconds later, but it took several more minutes for the crowd to calm. At which point, Revered Mother Illona cleared her throat and began, with somewhat more emotion than Cullen was accustomed to hearing in her voice, to speak the more familiar words of a traditional Chantry marriage. Hawke and Sebastian, still gazing rather moon-eyed at one another, had to be coaxed into giving their formal replies.
When that formality was over with, the couple kissed again, more chastely, and turned to face their people, red-bound hands lifted together in gesture both wave and salute, and their people roared their approval back. Cupcake's joyous barks were nearly lost in the commotion, but as he bounded forward, mouth open and tongue lolling out, Tasia's shriek cut through the din like a knife.
"If you get dog hair on that dress—!"
And then, as if suddenly remembering himself, the enormous mabari stopped in his tracks and dipped his head a moment, abashed, before recovering his dignity and padding forward, with all the grandeur a dog could possibly muster, to stand by the couple. Cupcake's eyes slid towards Tasia for a split second before he discreetly licked Hawke's hand.
The palace guard that had cleared the way for the Revered Mother's entrance remained at attention as Hawke and Sebastian walked together, hand in hand, out of the inner circle, and onward through the yard; a reception was planned inside the Great Hall for invited guests, but the celebration was hardly over for the rest of Starkhaven. Long tables for food and drink had been set up in the early morning hours, the market square decorated with the same ribbons and flowers that festooned the practice yard—indeed, it was to be a day of revelry for all. We must start as we mean to go on, Hawke had said more than once, and this particular beginning was full to overflowing with inclusion, kindness, and generosity.
Once Hawke and Sebastian had left the courtyard, invited guests went in one direction, while the rest of the attendees and onlookers streamed out the other exits to continue the festivities elsewhere. Tradition dictated Amelle, by virtue of being the bride's sister and only blood kin, was to be the first to follow after the wedded couple, but rather than she and Fenris rising and making their way down the guard-flanked path, Amelle grabbed Cullen's hand and gave a sharp tug, gesturing at him—and at Varric, Isabela, Aveline, Donnic, and Merrill—to join her.
"Amelle—" Cullen hissed.
"Chantry tradition says the bride and groom's family follows." She grinned crookedly—at odds with the tears making her eyes overly bright, for all Cullen knew them to be happy tears. "So what exactly are you waiting for?"
Even if Cullen wanted to argue—and part of him did, though he knew it would be fruitless—none of the rest of Hawke's companions were remotely inclined to disagree (indeed, Isabela was already waxing on about sparkly Orlesian wine), and he felt himself jostled along by Varric and Isabela, Aveline's badly suppressed chuckle behind them.
"So, kitten," Isabela began from behind them, striding beside Varric as they all walked past the lines of guards, "big sister's taken the plunge. So when are you and Broody going to take that leap off the plank?"
Amelle's cheeks turned pink; she covered her blush with a laugh, shaking her head and replying, "When you stop with the nautical metaphors, I imagine."
"I could do that easier than you imagine, sweet thing."
"Maker's breath, Isabela, even when you're not innuendoing, you're still innuendoing."
"What can I say? It's a talent. Now, about you and Fenris…"
Amelle's complexion went an even deeper shade of pink, but before she could open her mouth to deliver retort or reply, Fenris turned his head enough to acknowledge Varric and Isabela, and said, with a decidedly pointed edge, "Perhaps some might do better to consider their own wedded state before interfering in the affairs of others."
Isabela stumbled. Cullen, startled by the uncharacteristic lack of grace, nevertheless had a hand out to help her, should she require it. Varric, however, got there first, Isabela's grasping fingers finding his sturdy arm.
"No wonder you don't wear dresses," Varric said smoothly, as if nothing amiss had happened. Isabela ducked her head, the fall of her dark hair masking her face, but not before Cullen saw the heated blush infusing her cheeks. "So much easier to keep your feet with nothing to tangle between your legs."
She lifted her chin and her blush slid sideways into a far more characteristic smirk. With more than even her usual dose of innuendo, she purred, "You can say that again, sweet thing."
Amelle rolled her eyes. Fenris smiled a very private sort of smile. Isabela, Cullen noted, kept hold of Varric's arm even after she'd regained her footing. And no one mentioned any nuptials but the most recent ones as they made their merry way inside.
