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POP!! “Congratulations!”
Marian deftly slipped the glass under the champagne before a drop spilled, half filling it and handing it to Aveline before grabbing the next glass. Once everyone was served, she poured her own and raised it. “A toast to the beautiful bride.” The other women cheered and sipped while Aveline blushed.
And she was beautiful, no one could deny it. Aveline the guard captain was a plain woman, brow furrowed by the burdens of rank, rarely smiling, bright red hair held in a simple braid with an unflattering headband to keep it out of her face. But Aveline the bride was a vision. She wore a silken shift of pale green with a matching robe and delicate slippers, her hair a waterfall of molten copper, cascading over her shoulders with a slight curl and a sweet colour to her cheeks.
It was barely dawn. The wedding would take place at noon in the Chantry but she could already hear movement from below as caterers and florists and who knows what else arrived at the Hawke mansion. Marian had insisted on the bridal party spending the night and they had swarmed into her room a little while ago with arms full of champagne, breakfast and wrapped packages, singing the Ferelden folksong that traditionally woke the bride, with various degrees of success.
Marian, Isabela, Merrill and Brennan had moved around the room with total inefficiency that resulted in the ewer being smashed, a jug of fresh milk landing in the fireplace and the corner of a present peeking out from under Aveline’s bed, but today she didn’t care, ignoring Isabela’s orders by helping Marian and Orana tidy up the mess before they all settled enough to sit down for champagne and strawberries.
“Where on earth did you get strawberries in Cloudreach, Hawke?” Aveline asked as she reached for one of the perfectly ripened fruits. Strawberries were her favourite but getting them in autumn was hard enough, never mind this early in the year.
“Maaaagic,” Hawke drawled, wiggling her fingers while Merrill giggled.
“I grew them,” the elf said, putting finishing touches to a wreath of baby’s breath and gardenia with bright blue iris dotted through it. She walked over and gently sat it on Aveline’s head before giving her a light kiss on the cheek. “ Mythal-enansal, lethallan. ”
Aveline smiled up at Merrill. “My thanks, it is beautiful. What did you say?”
Merrill’s gracious smile was a reminder that once she had been destined to lead her clan, her voice somehow filled with the knowledge of ages as she said, “I ask for Mythal’s blessing on you, Aveline. I wove a little Keeper’s magic into the wreath along with the flowers. Baby’s breath for fertility, gardenia for joy and the iris symbolises faith, valour and wisdom among the Dalish. It seemed the right combination for you.”
“Ugh,” Isabela interjected. “This is so sweet I think my teeth are about to fall out. Here,” she shoved a box towards Aveline, wrapped in a deep red paper. “I’m going to get a real drink.” So saying, she headed for the rum she had brought in and hidden behind the champagne bottles, pouring a jigger into the half empty champagne glass before throwing it back.
Aveline flushed again. “Thank you, Isabela.”
“Well, open it, sweet thing.” Isabela was watching Aveline like a cat as she carefully opened the seal and the pirate huffed a little. “Honestly, half the fun of unwrapping is to just tear it off. Poor Donnic, if you don’t know that by now.” Brennan snorted just as she took a sip then began coughing as bubbles went up her nose. Aveline continued her careful unwrapping then lifted the lid, only to slam it back down, her cheeks flaming.
“Isabela, what on earth?” She lunged as Marian swiped the box from her knee and opened it, lifting out a long, thin riding crop and a pair of leather handcuffs, dyed the same red as the wrapping paper. Aveline sputtered, caught between embarrassed and furious, with just a hint of curiosity she tried desperately to hide. Brennan was giggling hysterically while Merrill snooped in the box and pulled out a red leather harness that was quite obviously not designed for a female to wear.
Isabela smirked, “You need to let go sometimes, Big Girl. I thought your Donnic might quite like being in charge. The disapproving guard and the naughty maid. Of course, if he prefers you to be, on top, shall we say? Well, there’s things in the box for that too.”
“Ooh, this is lovely, I haven’t seen one as big before,” Merrill cooed, holding a rather large toy in the same red leather as the rest of the set. Aveline grabbed it from her hands, along with the items Marian held and crammed them back in the box, slamming down the lid and shoving the box under the bed.
Brennan, still giggling, handed her another present. “It’s not quite as interesting as Isabela’s,” she chuckled. “But I hope you like it.” The small pouch contained a vial of oil and a bar of soap, but scented with lavender, Aveline’s favourite. Aveline took a sniff then dabbed a little of the perfumed oil on her wrist, murmuring her thanks.
Finally, Marian stepped forward, holding out an envelope with the Amell seal. Aveline looked confused as she took it.
“Hawke,” she said, almost sounding distressed. “You can’t give me anything else. You already insisted on holding the wedding party here.”
Marian shook her head. “It’s unlucky to refuse a bride-gift, Aveline. You know that. Besides, it’s only a little thing. Hardly anything at all.”
Aveline opened the envelope, taking out a letter. As she unfolded the piece of parchment a piece of metal fell onto her lap and she picked it up, finger following the enamelled image of a flaming sword. She read the paper silently, her eyes welling up, hand clutching the medal tight. Her voice was uncharacteristically soft as she began to read aloud.
The Order of the Knights-Templar has the honour to present the enclosed medal to Ser Wesley Vallen in gratitude for his service. The Order shares your sorrow that Ser Wesley, in respect of whose service it is granted, did not live to receive it.
He whose loss you mourn died in the noblest of causes. We pray that the Order’s gratitude for a life so nobly given in its service may bring you some measure of consolation.
May the Maker Bless You.
Edward Dudley
Knight-Commander of Denerim.
The last words came out choked and Marian dropped to her knees beside Aveline, wrapping her arms around the woman as she cried.
“I wanted you to have it before the wedding,” she murmured.
Aveline’s voice wavered as she pulled back to look at Marian. “Thank you, Hawke. I... I have thought of Wesley so often these past months. I’ve wondered what he would think of Donnic, what he would have thought of all of this.” She laughed weakly, “Of course, none of this would be happening if he was here. But... thank you.” She looked down at the silver medal, the bright red of the flaming sword half hidden in her hand. “I want to wear this today. I know Wesley would approve. And I know Donnic will too. And tomorrow, I would like you to put it in the vault with the letter and his shield. Please?”
Marian hugged her again, saying “Of course.” Then she stood back up and put the medal on the dresser beside the items of jewellery Aveline would wear later. She turned back to see Isabela refilling all the champagne glasses with rum while Aveline protested that they couldn’t be drunk during the wedding and Merrill and Brennan pointed out that the wedding wasn’t for hours yet.
There were pastries and fruit, cold cuts and cheeses and ample fruit juices and water to counteract the alcohol and three hours before noon the bridesmaids were sent to make themselves ready while Orana helped Aveline bathe, anointed her with lavender oil, curled and styled her hair and made up her face so subtly that the bride seemed to glow with her own natural beauty. Then she helped her into her wedding dress and left to make sure the rest of the ladies were ready. Aveline looked at herself in the mirror for a moment and smiled. She touched the medal Orana had affixed inside the dress, directly over her heart, then turned and left the room.
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Donnic stood at the foot of the giant statue of Andraste, calm and still. He had seen grooms stand here and fidget, he had seen them pace and pull at their collars, but not him. He stood, looking up at the perfect face of the Maker’s Bride and thanked her for his good luck. He still didn’t understand how a grizzled veteran like himself had gained the interest of the amazing woman he patiently awaited. A long time ago he had been married. Less than a year later his wife had died trying to bring their daughter into the world. The child had never drawn breath. It seemed like an age ago now, a distant dream, except for two locks of hair encased in a silver locket which sat inside his tunic. Today, of all days, he wanted them to be part of this. So he lightly touched the outline of the locket and waited for his bride.
Fenris stood beside him, just as still. They were good friends and he had asked the elf to stand with him, even before men he had known for years. On the other side of Fenris were Grigor and Jalen, looking strange in formal tunics of deep blue instead of their uniforms. He knew Anders and Varric were around. Anders was far from fond of the Chantry but as much as they argued, he would never miss Aveline’s big day. Varric was in the apse, talking to Sebastian, a man Donnic knew by sight but had never spoken with, although Hawke’s rapturous description of his singing had led to Aveline inviting the man to take the role of Chanter. The guests were filing in, most of the guard, a few of Hawke’s cronies, her Templar brother and the blond, curly-headed Knight-Captain. Finally everyone was settled and the bell rang to announce the procession of the bride.
A pure, deep baritone filled the room, singing the Chant as it was only sung at weddings and baptisms. The final mutterings and rustlings of the guests died away as the bridesmaids began their slow walk. Merrill and Brennan, then Isabela and Hawke, each dressed in a flowing gown of silk the colour of blue topaz. Flowers and pearls woven in their hair. Behind them, Aveline stood in the doorway, pausing a minute to allow everyone to see her.
Donnic had always known Aveline was beautiful but now she was ethereal. Below a delicate crown of flowers, long curls of copper flowed down to her waist. Her bouquet matched the crown and her dress was pale green, covered in lace and in the modest Fereldan style. No doubt others would know the name of the colour, or the style, Donnic could not care less. Had she appeared in uniform, or in sackcloth, she would still be the bright light of his life. She walked towards him, glowing radiant as she met his eye, not a hint of doubt or fear about tying her life to his, and Donnic thanked the Maker yet again.