Chapter Text
Three days after the end of the Fifth Blight
The candles in the Chantry glittered, even as a drapery flapped in a window that had been smashed in by the darkspawn, not yet repaired. The tapestry had been partially nailed down, clearly to keep it from sailing out the window entirely, but that just meant it billowed when the wind blew by, making a snapping sound like a ship's sail. It was on the wall just behind the Revered Mother's shoulder, but Alistair could see it if he darted his gaze. It was, unfortunately, an ugly tapestry. A female figure knelt at a once-cloth-of-silver (now tarnished grey) pool while swordsmen surrounded her; it was one of those gloomy ones that showed Maferath delivering Andraste to Hessarian. Why the Chantry always picked Apotheosis for tapestries and not something more upbeat like Exaltations, Alistair had always wanted to know. The wind puffed it out again, making it look like Andraste's head had suddenly got dunked in a now-enormous tide.
He bit back a snort at the sight, returning his gaze to the Revered Mother before looking down at his pressed hands in a show of piety, but out of the corner of his eye he could see Anora shoot him a brief but clearly displeased look before she resolutely looked back up at the Revered Mother. Mother Perpetua, at the very least, hadn't seemed to have noticed anything. She was really charging through the wedding texts, Alistair had noted, as if she was anxious to get this over with. She was coming to the end of Transfigurations (10? 9? Alistair had never memorized how many chapters it had) and then it would be time for the marriage ceremony in proper. Then the anointing and coronation, and then everyone would be able to exit this bloody cathedral and go home.
Alistair couldn't say he really blamed her. He wanted to get this over with, too. Maybe once the coronation and the wedding banquet and everything was finally over, he could go find a nice, secluded, dusty spare room to go have a good sulk in, let himself drink in the fact that he was getting married and it was to someone he didn't even like. Did the royal palace even have any unoccupied rooms at the moment? Maybe he'd make do with a wardrobe, hidden away in some obscure wing so that the new King of Ferelden could be utterly miserable in peace.
“For You are the fire at the heart of the world, and comfort is only Yours to give,” Mother Perpetua said, and then the robes of the Sisters rustled as they stood to sing the last two verses again. Alistair, as had been rehearsed yesterday, offered a hand to Anora and they both stood from their kneelers, and Alistair resisted the temptation to shake out his aching knees and legs. Anora, on the other hand, seemed completely unaffected by any muscle strain, her face closed and unreadable. Well, Alistair thought, this was her second wedding, after all. Perhaps if you'd done one, it gave you the patience to sit – or rather, kneel – through another. Her fingertips were cold in his fingers. Alistair held them gingerly, wishing he could do so without touching her at all.
But this whole thing was about the show of it all, as everyone had kept reminding him. A show of Fereldan strength, of unity after the civil war and the destruction of the darkspawn. Their beloved queen and a hero of the Fifth Blight, patching any cracks in the nation from the past year. A sign that everything was right again, and never mind that the heir of Calenhad's bloodline was a bastard or that their queen was the daughter of a national hero turned madman. Never mind all that, Alistair thought. Might as well get two puppets up here in front of the altar, that would do the trick just as well. Hang the puppet-strings from the Chantry ceiling. In the pews behind them, he could hear someone try to stifle a cough.
“Welcome, beloved,” Mother Perpetua said, and it was only then that Alistair realized the singing had ended. He knelt again, trying not to look like he'd just missed their cue by a few seconds, and Anora let go of his hand as she knelt in perfect unison with him. Once again, she looked much more serene than he felt he did, though he could see a small knot between her eyebrows that tipped him off that she was, once again, annoyed with him. He braced his knees against the kneeler and tried to ignore how much his thighs were complaining about it. At least he didn't have to wear the heavy coronation mantle for the entire wedding ceremony – that would be added once they'd progressed to the coronating part. Small mercy, for his shoulders. Why did he and Anora have to kneel at these kneelers in front of everyone, while everyone else in the Chantry got to sit in pews? Probably another demonstration of how pious they were, how the Maker smiled on this marriage, et cetera. Alistair felt his shin throbbing from where it had been rent by a darkspawn claw four days ago. For all that he'd complained about Chantry pews in his childhood, he wouldn't mind one now. “We have gathered here today to witness this sacred union into marriage blessed by the Maker,” Mother Perpetua was saying. “We thank holy Andraste, bride of the Maker, for carrying these two through their trials to stand before this altar in sacred seal. In the presence of the Maker, I ask you to state your intentions.”
Alistair paid careful attention to Mother Perpetua as she turned to him, and her face was solemn. He had already made one mistake; he didn't want to make another, more obvious, one. “Alistair Theirin,” she said, and that felt uncomfortable. There was part of Alistair that wanted to stand up and scream his head off, tell the entire sodding gathering that he had never wanted to be a Theirin and didn't want to be one now, but of course the ceremony was marching on. “Have you come here to enter into marriage without coercion, freely and wholeheartedly?”
I don't want this, thought Alistair, but he heard his voice saying, “I have.” Mother Perpetua turned to Anora.
“Anora Mac Tir. Have you come here to enter into marriage without coercion, freely and wholeheartedly?” Mother Perpetua said, and Anora responded, the candlelight glinting off her hair, wound in an elaborate braided knot at the base of her neck.
“I have.” Mother Perpetua nodded, and Alistair remembered that this was another cue for them to stand. Thankfully, he didn't have to take Anora's hand again to do so.
“Are you prepared, as you follow the path of marriage, to love and honor each other for as long as you may live, doing each other no harm?”
“I am,” Alistair said, and Anora echoed him. Was it just him, or was the air in the Chantry unusually thick, all of a sudden?
“Since it is your intention to be joined in the sacred union of matrimony, join your right hands, and declare your vows before the Maker and his Bride.” Alistair and Anora turned to face each other, and he hoped his hand didn't feel clammy. Mother Perpetua took the handfasting cord and wound it around their clasped hands, leaving the tassels free to hang at the long ends. Alistair couldn't decide if it was better or worse that Anora wasn't smiling. He wished he didn't have to say these vows, wished he didn't have to lie through his teeth about promising to love her. He wished he wasn't standing in front of as many people as the Chantry could fit, that this whole excruciating lie could've been done somewhere small and in private.
“I, Alistair Theirin, take you, Anora Mac Tir, to be my wife, the beloved of my heart.” Since his hand was holding hers and were now bound together, Anora probably definitely knew his hands were shaking. “I promise to be faithful to you, in good times and bad, in sickness and in health, to love you and to honor you all the days of my life.”
Anora held his gaze, and when she spoke, her voice was steady and measured. “I, Anora Mac Tir, take you, Alistair Theirin, to be my husband, the beloved of my heart.” Alistair wished he could look anywhere but into her face. He didn't know her. “I promise to be faithful to you, in good times and bad, in sickness and in health, to love you and to honor you all the days of my life.” Mother Perpetua stepped forward and held their bound hands together.
“Thus joined, your sacred bond is wound and sealed. Maker, what You have created, no one can tear asunder.” The Sisters stood once more and began to sing some of the verses of Trials, and Mother Perpetua unwound the handfasting cord, carefully handing it to another Chantry Sister before passing Alistair and Anora a ring each. Anora's hand in his was once again cold as he slid the ring onto her finger. She took his hand and slid his ring onto his finger, and Alistair was almost surprised by how normal the ring felt. It didn't burn him or freeze his skin or do anything to signify that they were now husband and wife, married, that there was no longer any chance to back out and emerge relatively unscathed.
Forget the wardrobe. Alistair would curl up in a convenient hole if he could escape this ceremony right now.
But Mother Perpetua was stepping aside to let them approach the altar themselves, where Alistair had been trying to ignore the two thrones looming down at them. Someone was settling the heavy mantle over his shoulders, leather and fur and velvet, emblazoned with the Fereldan mabaris. Anora's fingertips were freezing from where they were resting in his fingers.
* * *
“Your Majesty, may I offer you a dance?”
Bann Ceorlic bowed and offered her a hand, taking half a step up onto the royal dais. Though the three minstrels – only a few could be found on such short notice, as most of them had died during the attack on Denerim – had been playing lively tunes for about an hour now, Anora had been abstaining from those specific festivities. The banqueting-tables had been pushed to the edges of the palace's great hall, the dishes at the royal table cleared, so there was only a cup of water and a cup of wine for her to occupy herself with. And as tempting as it was to down the wine, she knew she and her husband were not in the clear just yet.
From her seat, Anora smiled at the bann, though she was careful to make it more polite than warm. “No, thank you, Bann Ceorlic,” she said, and she looked back out at the hall, pointedly not giving him special attention. She could see Arl Leonas Bryland watching this interaction, his eyes narrowed. “I wish to save any dances for my husband.”
And that is unlikely to happen, Anora thought, allowing herself a mental eyeroll. Alistair had barely spoken to her all evening, other than an err, I'm sorry, did you want the salt cellar? during dinner, after which he had turned red and then tried to pretend she wasn't there. She didn't mind that; she was fancying the idea of pretending he wasn't there herself. At least she would be much better at hiding it, she thought sourly. Alistair didn't seem to have a subtle bone in his body, which meant the brunt of the work tonight would be on her shoulders.
“Oh, yes, of course, your Majesty,” Bann Ceorlic said, and he mustered up a smile. “Allow me to offer my congratulations once again.”
“Thank you,” Anora said graciously, finally looking back at him, and Bann Ceorlic bowed and stepped back into the crowd, a scowl etching itself across his features. Arl Leonas, apparently satisfied, turned away to talk to Bann Teagan, and Anora made a note to herself to try to find a way to show support for Arl Leonas in the upcoming days. If Ferelden was to be reunited by this marriage, it meant that she would have to publicly show support for those who had voted against her father in the Landsmeet while quietly – but publicly – withdrawing approval from his allies. It would be distasteful. But it was, she knew, necessary. Her father's betrayal cast a long shadow, and she needed to work quickly to free herself from under it. Above all, the image of a unified and strong Ferelden needed to be at the forefront in these next few weeks, exemplified by its two monarchs; the queen the people already knew, joined with their new king, a hero of the defeated Blight.
Alistair could at least make an effort to look pleased, Anora thought, as she reached for her cup of water and took a sip. Or, at the very least, like he didn't want to go running off into the night without coming back. He kept fidgeting, he had almost spilled his wine at dinner, and right now he was drumming his fingers on the side of his chair, the tapping noise mostly being masked by the music and clapping, thankfully. Anora smiled again, just to keep herself from grinding her teeth. If she thought he could, she would tell him to ask her to dance a set, just to cement the image of unity into the nobles' heads, but that would be a no-go tonight, which was another reason she had refused Ceorlic. A bumbling, graceless king would hardly send the right message, and if Anora danced without him, that would raise eyebrows as well.
Instead, Anora reached over and took his hand, the one that was drumming on the chair. Alistair started and turned towards her, his spine stiffening, and Anora made sure their hands were above the table and visible as she leaned towards him, his ring catching the torchlight. At the very least, he was perceptive enough to lean an ear towards her. To the hall, hopefully they would appear to be a content couple confiding in each other, even if they weren't the most affectionate one. Anora affected another smile as she pitched her voice low so that only he could hear.
“Stop doing that,” she said, keeping a firm grip on his hand so that he wouldn't try to snatch it away. “And try to smile a little, please; we're supposed to be happy.” Alistair nodded and she leaned back away from him, releasing his hand, which immediately dropped down to the side of his chair before he caught himself and reached for his goblet of wine.
Anora looked away, just so annoyance wouldn't inch onto her features. A cheer rose up as the minstrels started one of the more popular dances, and several more nobles joined the dancing as two large circles formed, bobbing and weaving with the music. Those that weren't dancing started clapping in time to the beat, and the sound melded with the footfalls of the dancers to echo through the room. The sound rose to the ceiling with the smoke from the enormous hearth, still cracked from the battle. Anora briefly closed her eyes against a creeping headache.
When she opened them, Arl Eamon was making his way through the edges of the dancing towards the high table. From behind the tablecloth, Anora purposefully flattened out her hands, letting the tension strain before clasping them together in her lap. She smiled, forcefully pleasant, at the arl, but he bowed to her only perfunctorily before turning to Alistair.
“Your Majesty... Your Majesties,” Arl Eamon said, and Alistair shifted slightly. “It was a beautiful wedding. I must congratulate you both. To see Calenhad's bloodline restored... will be invaluable to Ferelden. And united with our capable queen, at that,” Arl Eamon said, finally nodding at Anora.
“Thank you, Arl Eamon,” Anora responded, making sure her smile was still in force. “We are all fortunate to have witnessed this day.”
“Yes, um, thank you, Uncle,” Alistair said, straightening up in his chair, as if he were about to be cross-examined.
“I pray that the throne may be blessed with an heir soon,” Arl Eamon said, and Alistair reddened for the second time this night. Anora fought to maintain her smile. This – this poking at her and Cailan's failure to conceive – was usual behavior from Eamon, she reminded herself. This was expected. Even so, expecting it didn't make it any less maddening.
“I hope so, as well,” Anora said evenly, when Alistair made no reply. Was he just going to leave her to handle this entire conversation? He knew the man better than she did; he could at least help it along. But Alistair just sat there, looking like he was trying not to squirm and not entirely succeeding.
“Ah, my Lord – I mean, Arl Eamon,” Alistair said suddenly as Arl Eamon bowed again and turned to leave. “Will you be leaving Denerim... already?”
“Yes, your Majesty, I must return to Redcliffe to attend to matters there,” Arl Eamon said. “Of course I did not want to miss your coronation, but unfortunately, now that it is over, I must not neglect my people.”
“Right,” Alistair said, nodding and swallowing. “Right. Of course.” He deflated slightly in his chair, then sat up straight again, obviously reminding himself to do so. Anora sighed through her nose and took another sip of her water. The clapping grew disjointed as the music got faster, the dancers' circle splintering slightly as someone broke away laughing, unable to keep up. Her headache was coming on in earnest now. She closed her eyes again.
“Um. Do you... need anything?” Alistair said, awkwardness coloring his tone, and Anora blinked her eyes back open to see that Alistair was looking at her like she might explode. “You keep –” and he made a vague gesture at his eyes.
“I'm fine,” Anora said crisply, feeling a stab of irritation. “I have a headache. But I am fine. Keep smiling.”
His face shuttered, and he turned away. Anora allowed herself some of her wine, the goblet heavy in her hand. There were, after all, several hours to go. She took a deep breath, in and out. This was what she had expected. She would be fine. In the fireplace, a log popped and splintered in a shower of sparks.
* * *
It had long since grown dark when the celebration had finally ended, the nobility trickling back to their Denerim estates or borrowed rooms in the palace. Though Anora had extinguished the candles in the bedroom when she got there, the darkness a relief for the throbbing behind her eyes, she had not yet drawn the curtains, and the fire in the bedroom hearth was dim and barely burning behind the grate. She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes and took a deep breath, then stood and started undressing for bed, moving partially behind a screen that had been set up in front of her wardrobe. Her furniture had been moved to accommodate Alistair's furniture, which in reality was just Cailan's, hastily cleaned up and emptied of the last of his belongings.
She shed her layers until she was standing in just her chemise, then sat back on the bed, reaching up to let down her hair. While she knew she could not reasonably put consummation off if he wished it, Anora was hoping she could be in bed and asleep (or at least pretending to be) when Alistair arrived, whenever he arrived. Anora pulled the pins out of her hair, setting them in a neat little pile on the coverlet, then started to undo the mass of small braids that had formed her hairstyle. She didn't even want to sleep next to him. Anora reached for the hairbrush that was sitting on her dressing-table, running it through her hair in the shadowy dimness of the room. He was useless, awkward, and didn't seem to be able to do anything without instruction. Biddable enough, she remembered was how she had once described him to the Warden. Today had only confirmed her initial assessment.
Anora started to plait her hair into one long braid for bed, pulling the plait over her shoulder when it got long enough. There was a part of her that recognized she was being a little ungenerous, but she didn't particularly feel like giving him any grace at the moment. Not tonight.
She was finishing tying off the braid when the door scraped open and Alistair carefully closed it behind him. Anora scooped up her hairpins and set them back on the dressing-table, along with her brush, and Alistair jumped at her movement in the darkness of the room.
“Oh,” he said, a nervous-sounding laugh bursting forth, and Anora winced at the volume. “Sorry. I thought... that you might be asleep, because of your, uh, headache.” He took a few steps forward, towards her and the bed, then stopped. “I mean. I didn't wake you, did I?”
“No,” Anora said shortly. She was going to slip between the covers once her hair was braided, but now that he was here, she didn't want to, not in front of him. Which was stupid. They were husband and wife, and this was not her first wedding night; she knew what her duty was. “I was about to.”
“Right,” Alistair said, taking another, halting step forward. The moonlight through the window outlined his silhouette in fuzzy grey. Anora flipped the coverlet down and slid underneath it, turning onto her side and towards the edge of the bed. Alistair was still hovering near his wardrobe, and Anora twisted over her shoulder to peer at him. What was he doing? Did he expect an invitation? “You weren't waiting for me, were you? Because I'm not really in the mood,” he said, and his voice took on a bitter edge. Anora rolled her eyes, because she knew it couldn't be seen in the dark.
“No, I wasn't.” Anora turned back over. She could hear the sound of rustling fabric, presumably him getting undressed, and then the soft thump of clothes hitting the floor. If she was less tired or had a smaller headache, she'd point out that he shouldn't be throwing expensive fabrics on the floor, but, Maker, she was tired. She closed her eyes and decided to try to ignore his presence, at the very least so she could fall asleep.
“I kind of wish we didn't have to share a bed.” The covers shifted and Anora gripped the edge of the coverlet so that it wouldn't get pulled off her completely as he climbed in, the sheets stretched taut between the two of them until he seemingly settled himself.
“Yes, well, we do,” she said, a little snappishly. That was either an astoundingly naive or tone-deaf statement, and she honestly wasn't sure which. “I would prefer that you wait until we have an heir, then you can start sleeping elsewhere.”
“I'm not going to sleep elsewhere, I seem to recall I made a vow of fidelity this afternoon,” he snarked back, his tone biting, and Anora made a soft snorting noise before she could stop herself. So it was naivety, then. “What I mean is that we don't exactly like each other, and now we have to sleep in the same bed. Not really two things that you'd think go together.”
Anora pressed the side of her face into her pillow, the pressure alleviating some of the pain in her head. She was glad she wasn't facing him for this ridiculous conversation. “We're married. Husbands and wives do commonly sleep together, in case you weren't aware.”
“What? Sweet Andraste, I didn't know,” he said, his tone equal amounts of exaggerated surprise and sarcasm in turn. “And here I thought we'd spent an hour kneeling in the Chantry just for fun.”
“Alistair,” Anora said, her tone sharp, the one she used when nobles were squabbling and she wanted everyone to shut up and be quiet, “I have an intense headache and I would like to sleep. Is there a point you are trying to make with all this? Because if so, please just make it, and then we can go to bed.”
He shifted, and Anora could feel the gap in the bed between them. Clearly he was trying not to touch her. “No. Goodnight,” he said, and as he shifted again, the sheets slipped away from her. She yanked some of the coverlet back towards her, tucking some of it underneath her so that she wouldn't be left uncovered if this continued during the night.
She knew it would be the polite thing to offer him a goodnight back, but instead she concentrated on falling asleep.