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They’re wed in the summer.
The grass is tall, untamed and glowing emerald-green beneath the warm beams of sun over Ferelden. It never gets quite so hot in the North as it does in all the other places they’ve visited, the pleasant, rolling breeze rustles the foliage. The sounds of branches swaying, old leaves swirling down, down, to lay on the outskirts of the forest.
The day they marry, the sun is high, bright, and there is not a cloud in the sky. They grip each other with sweaty palms and nervously grin at one another from across the Chantry. They had not planned this out for months in advance, as is tradition, to have a large celebration with merriment and entertainment.
She had looked at him just that morning, he had been tending to his clean clothes on the bed, in their temporary living space in Denerim. She studied the careful movements of large, sturdy fingers, subtle flexes of his arms, the pinch of his brow as he tucked and folded. She had realized, then, what it would be like if she had him like she wanted him. If she had him forever. And then she came to stand in front of him, and she had said, “Would you marry me, if I asked? Right now?”
He had been shocked for a moment, half-folded trousers abandoned to the edge of the bed as he stood. Her eyeline at his chest, she’d stepped back to look up into enlarged, excited eyes. He hadn’t been sure- was that what she wanted? To be wed in what low-budget finery they already owned (“finery” simply being clean trousers and linens), to be wed quickly, with no celebration?
And she had assured him, “ yes, Alistair. All I truly want is to be your wife.”
And so they had gone, then, to the Chantry with bright eyes and open, bleeding hearts. Stumbling over one another in excitement, gripping one another’s palms, kissing one another’s cheeks.
The Revered Mother in Denerim had gawked for a moment. The newly named Hero of Ferelden, a tiny mage from Calenhad, and the Warden Alistair- giddy and abrupt- asking her to wed them.
And she had, of course, after an awkward moment, and it is the happiest moment of either of their entire lives.
Leaving the Chantry hand in hand, husband and wife, neither of them even over twenty one years of age just yet.
They’d been unsure of where to go, then. Did they retire? Did they gather up some friends still in Denerim for drinks, a dinner?
She had roped her arms around him and asked him, trust me, come with me. And he could never do anything short of it. His faith in her complete, unwavering- nearly blasphemy. She was his Andraste, Chantry-upbringing be damned. She is all he will ever need, and he is hers.
She had come to him in a difficult time in his life, she had supported him through uncertainty, through strife and pain. She had protected him, even when he hadn’t needed it, her devotion to him- not only as a lover- but as a person - had long since been made clear. He was brighter with her.
And he- he had been the first to look at her as more than an obedient mage-girl. She was a fellow warden, a friend, an ally- he looked on her as an equal, and at times, a superior- even. She had been the de facto leader of their group, after all. The slayer of the archdemon, in the end. And she was brighter, then, when she was with him.
There is not a thing in all of Thedas, they’re both thinking, looking at one another surreptitiously as they head out of the city on foot, not a single thing that could separate them, that could dull the ache they feel when they are apart. They hover near, bound by that invisible red string.
They make it to the meadow, outside of Denerim’s crowded, busy, stone streets, on the outskirts of the dense woods. They stand together, hands clasped, and silence overtakes them as the sounds of the breeze in the grass and the trees fills their overflowing hearts.
She loops her arms around Alistair’s, her husband’s , neck, and kisses him properly- pulling back to cup stubble-laden cheeks in her hands, brushes her nose against his. He shudders and sighs with emotion at the sight of his wife’s long, pale hair coming down from its bun, rolling over her shoulders, her dark eyes shiny with emotion.
They go and lie in the soft, sun-warmed grass. Rays dance on their skin- over their scars, his freckles, her pale complexion, their fingers clasped tightly. Laying side by side, breathing matched to one another, to heartbeats rolling like the wind blows.
“I-,” Alistair stops himself when he finds that he is already choked up before he can start. A million words, a million things he could say to her, they run through his mind. He could go on for hours, but he takes a deep breath and clears his mind, and says what comes naturally.
“The moment I saw you, I-,” he turns his cheek to the earth to gaze into her eyes, she rolls onto her side to be closer to his warmth, his body.
“You were- are- the most beautiful, divine thing I’ve ever seen.”
She blushes, pallid skin runs a soft rose as she takes in his praise. They’ve always been good at that, praising each other. And she brings his broad hand, twice the size of hers, to her lips, and kisses each knuckle as she thinks of what to say in return.
“Oh, Alistair,” she whispers, so quiet he can hardly hear it over the grass rustling.
“My- my husband.” She closes the minuscule gap between their faces and kisses him, slow, warm, like honey- like every promise she’s ever made to him, every promise she would die to keep.
“This last year has been filled with strife.”
Is all she says, but she meets his eyes, squeezes his hand,
“And there is nothing I would change, because it brought me you.”
He smiles like the sun, cheeks soft, teeth showing, eyes squinty like they get when he’s excited beyond belief. She decides to herself she will spend their first night as man and wife kissing every freckle on his body, starting with the perfect star-dust pattern over the slope of his nose.
“And there is nothing I wouldn’t do for you, Alistair,”
And she means it- there’s nothing he could ask for that is too daunting, that is unthinkable- except to stop loving him. For, that, that , is impossible.
He agrees, wholeheartedly, and shows it by kissing her forehead, squeezing her hand. And he notes the way the sun is beginning to dip low on the horizon and the way the meadow is toned brilliant hues of green-yellow and orange. He rests his forehead on hers, stretching out what time they’ve left here, in this moment, before they return to their quarters for the night- and he says to her, despite the way his mind likes to race, to jest, to ramble, he knows exactly what to say-
“Forever, my wife.”