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For all of Maven’s antics–for the boisterousness and the peacocking and the too-loud way she loved to be —the wedding is a small affair.
It is just the two of them, their faithful mabari, and the Chantry Sister who marries them.
The sun has just risen, slipping brilliant swathes of yellow light in through the Chantry’s windows. Starkhaven is still asleep. The summer heat makes the world feel slow, the air thicker and the scent of incense and lavender that blooms in the courtyard all the richer.
It is so quiet, so utterly perfect.
Sebastian says the nobility of the city will be angry with them for not inviting anyone. They laugh at that, and agree it is possibly the best decision they could ever make.
Let them be angry, this day is theirs.
Hawke’s hair is down in loose waves, done herself in the early hours of the morning when there were still stars blinking in the sky. She is crowned in marigolds and baby’s breath. Her bouquet is much the same, only a little sprig of white heather amongst the baby’s breath.
Her dress is simple. White silk hugs the strong curves of her body, full sleeves begin just below her shoulders and fit at the wrist. There is a small pang of sadness that her mother is not here to see her in it.
Sebastian meets her at the Chantry’s entrance. Pax is at his side with a flower woven through his collar. His fur has gone gray around his snout but his tail still thumps Sebastian’s leg at a slow, steady pace. It is nontraditional, she supposes.
But since when have they been one for tradition?
The smile Sebastian gives her is so bright and wide she forgets there was ever a reason to doubt that this is where she is meant to be. This is what they were meant to do.
He is dressed like a prince. It’s fitting, of course. It is who he is down to his very marrow, no matter how far he’d tried to run from it.
He wears a crown. It falls just above his brow and lights up against the warm brown color of his skin. The Vael tartan wraps around his hips, drapes over his shoulder. A golden thistle pin keeps it in place.
Her marigold crown matches the detail in the pattern just-so .
She takes his hand and brings it to her lips, kissing the back of his knuckles and laughing as he blushes. His fingers are warm and bow-calloused at the edges, sure and steady against her own. They are so familiar they might as well be her own.
He leans in and kisses the corner of her mouth in return. “You are truly beautiful, Hawke.”
She wrinkles her nose at him. “You don’t look so bad yourself, Prince Vael.”
He snorts.
“It’s not too late to run, you know,” she says. Almost a whisper. “A well-timed distraction and you could slip out of Starkhaven and I’d never be the wiser. Pax might even join you, if you ask him nicely.”
Pax does not seem to notice and is content to whack Sebastian with his tail.
Sebastian laughs fully, the sound filling her chest and the nave of the Chantry before them.
“I’ll close my eyes and give you a headstart.”
He tilts her chin up and grins down at her, heavy lids and thick lashes. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I’m not going anywhere.”
Maven lets her free hand come to rest on his chest. She traces the lines and folds in the tartan, smoothing it out. “It seems like we’re going to be stuck with each other, then.”
“I think we will manage,” Sebastian says, “Princess Vael.”