howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

Alistair scowls playfully, but makes no attempt to fend off the hair-ruffling.

"Yes, ser," he says. "And good luck, all right? I love you."

"It won't be that bad," Cullen says, with wry confidence. "Hadn't you noticed by now? My job is to stand there and look pretty."

One final kiss, and Cullen slips out of the room.

The first one he sees upon exiting the house is Varric -- tailed, of course, by Seneschal Bran, who appears to want to ignore Cullen as much as possible.

Varric observes that Curly is looking very relaxed, if not well-rested, and appears to be making an attempt to waggle his chest hair.

Cullen can't even bring himself to roll his eyes.

Once his mug is half drained, Alistair makes a tentative foray into the cheese, tucking a small hunk into the remainder of the bread. Verdict: palatable. The remainder of his tea later, he upgrades that to "delicious."

Excellent. He'll be in fine shape by the time Cullen's done with the Council. The Orlesian ale has suffered defeat twice over!

Still, he lounges a bit longer before shuffling out of bed to wash up, find one of the outfits Josephine gave him, and return his dishes to the kitchen. Only then does he wander toward the tavern.

Cullen is there during the opening session -- the one with all the ceremonial business, where formal introductions are made, parameters set, schedule established. He steps forward when Josephine introduces him, bows deeply to Leliana as though the two of them never met before, and steps back to keep his expression stern and blank the rest of the time.

Teagan Guerrin has an expression on his face that indicates someone slipped a rotting animal under his chair. Cullen makes note to ask Alistair about that later.

(And thinks, privately, that it's an argument in favor of Orlesian masks. Guerrin is giving too much away.)

He escapes as quickly as he can, and makes a beeline for the tavern.

Alistair's leaning against the tavern, arms folded as he engages in some idle people-watching. His gaze lands on Cullen; he brightens, immediately straightening up.

The outfit Josephine inflicted on him isn't too hideous: no frills, only a little bit of overly-ornate stitching at the edges. While it'd mark him as Fereldan to any Orlesian nobility, it's more of a polite cough and a gesture in that direction rather than YES, HELLO, I AM A DOG LORD, FIGHT ME yelled at top volume.

"You survived?"

"Apparently so." Alistair gets a crooked smile. "You look... very nice."

Alistair rolls his eyes, but he's smiling, too. "All Josephine's doing. But thank you."

He holds out an arm.

"Shall we? Or do you want to sit a while first?"

"Let's." He slips his arm in Alistair's. "If this works for you... there's a small chapel near our guard barracks."

His stomach flutters in anticipation; his grin goes a little goofy.

(They're getting married.)

"That works. That sounds perfect," he says. "Lead the way?"

He does.

And murmurs, once he's confident they're out of earshot of the tavern:

"You're fine with this being just us and the revered mother?"

"Yes." His smile softens. "That's all I need."

He presses a quick kiss to Cullen's temple.

"If we want to celebrate with more people after, we can have more people around then."

In response, for just a moment, he leans his head against Alistair's shoulder.

The words themselves are easy. I swear unto the Maker and to the Holy Andraste to love this man for the rest of my days. It was going to happen anyway. It's an easy thing to swear.

The lack of drama to it... it's easy, too. As though it'll always be this simple. Let it be so, he thinks fervently. Please.

Alistair's broken oath to Weisshaupt is two years behind him, now. He can think of no better oath to swear in its place.

I swear unto the Maker and to the Holy Andraste to love this man for the rest of my days.

He can't help a brief turn toward the soppy, at one point. Softly: You are my light, my love, my shelter. I am so glad to call you husband.

And maybe he gets a smidge teary as he says it. Maybe.

He brushes his thumb over Alistair's knuckles, and returns, only a little unevenly, I was half alive, at best, until you came back. And now I am yours.

All told, it doesn't take very long at all.

And then it's all over but the kiss -- which Alistair keeps to reasonably chaste levels. They are standing in front of a revered mother, after all.

Ten paces away from the chapel, Alistair can't contain himself any longer: he falls into delighted laughter, wraps his arms around Cullen, and spins him in a circle.

All Cullen can do is cling. (And laugh.) "You're pleased?" he manages. "Is that what I'm to understand?"

"Very pleased. Immensely pleased."

They circle to a halt, but only so Alistair can take Cullen's face in both hands and kiss him soundly.

"Husband."

"I gathered." Leaning his forehead against Alistair's, hands gently clasping his wrists. "Yours."

"Yours," he echoes gleefully. "And you're mine."

Another kiss. (He's getting teary-eyed again.)

"I love you. I love you so much."

He brushes a thumb under Alistair's eye. "I love you." Low. "I love you enough to stand in the middle of Halamshiral and do this."

(Amused, too.)

Alistair breaks into fresh (and faintly watery) laughter.

"I'm a very lucky man to find someone who loves me that much," he manages. "Want to go somewhere that's not the middle of Halamshiral?"

"The tavern?" With regret. "I've got to stay relatively accessible during the day. I'm sorry."

"It's all right." He squeezes Cullen's hands. "We'll have tonight, with any luck. And the rest of our lives either way."

.... :D!

Cullen laughs quietly. "True enough. Now -- off to the tavern with us. I fully intend to make someone buy us drinks."

"Two mornings in a row of possibly being hungover," muses Alistair as they head that way. (He hasn't let go of one of Cullen's hands.) "Worth it."

It's early enough for the tavern's crowd to be a little thin. One or two people nurse their own hangovers; Grim's sprawled over a table in the corner, snoring faintly.