PSL with byblow

[solitaryrose]

She has not spoken to him very much between the coronation and the wedding. Already she regrets that, a little.

It isn't that Anora dislikes Alistair. Blights are extremely expensive and recovery from one is a delicate process, even without the upheaval of a monarchy. Anora has been busy. But so has Alistair, remarkably. Alistair has shown dedication and, perhaps alone of Theirin men, moral resolve. When arranging the marriage, the Warden had said she would not be going anywhere, and would remain Alistair's mistress. After the Landsmeet, Anora had heard the strangest thing: that Alistair had ended things with the Warden. Now she is far away, meeting with Wardens in Orlais, not even returning for the wedding she had arranged.

What an odd thing.

Until that time, Anora had threatened to reuse her old wedding dress from her marriage to Cailan. If it is to be the same marriage and the same face, I might as well use the same gown, she had told a dismayed Erlina. But Alistair had surprised her. Alistair had put her first.

Cailan would never have done that.

So she commissioned a new gown for a new marriage, a new reign, as queen in her own right and not merely a consort. She reigns as truly as Alistair. Now, she does not marry as Lady Mac Tir. She marries as reigning Queen Anora.

She did not see Alistair today, both of them being busy making preparations. Now she sees him for the first time as they prepare to process together, wearing her new gown, the first thing she has worn that was not black since her father's death, and she feels...nervous. She had thought having been married before would make this an old hat to be put back on, that she would be past nerves. But this is new. There is no telling what will come of this.

She reaches for his hand. It feels like too familiar a gesture for how little she knows this man, but it is expected. She does not ask if he is ready. It doesn't matter if he is. This is happening.

Comments

pardon my 30-year-old icons, I'm lazy

[byblow]

There's a beat where Alistair looks down at her hand like he's never seen one before, but during that same beat his fingers are uncurling where they'd closed into a loose, nervous fist, to make room for hers, and—

And he pulls his hand away. Away and up, immediately, so the finger he extends to indicate one moment is visible, before he makes a little bit of a show of scrubbing his palm on the thigh of his stupid fancy trousers. His hand had not been particularly sweaty. Clammy, maybe, though, because he's terrified. She's terrifying. He's spent some time imagining a battle of will and words between Anora and Isolde, and he's fairly sure that in his imaginings Anora is the winner, but not entirely sure because in those imaginings they both turn on him and send him fleeing the room with twin glares before their own conflict is resolved.

But she's going to hold his hand, apparently. He's hardly in a position to protest. Confident it's dry, he offers it back, along with a jittery sideways look and a smile.

"We could walk backwards," he says, very quietly.

[solitaryrose]

The ew is expressed in a mere hesitation to take his hand after that. Whether his hand is sweaty or not, after that display, it is going to feel tacky to her regardless. She lapses into internal groaning about marrying an overgrown child--and remembers, with sudden somberness, that Alistair practically is a child. He is barely twenty years old and has never been taught the proper way of acting like a prince, let alone a king, and so she ought to at least be grateful that he wiped his palm before heading into the sanctuary.

The doors open simultaneously as a priest begins to lead the call-and-response Chant in a sweet voice--singing, not speaking, in the tune reserved for special occasions.

Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked--

The response from the rest of the priests arises as king and queen begin their march down the aisle.

And do not falter.

The walk is interminable. There comes a point when she feels Alistair speeding up a little, and her hand tightens on his as her own pace remains steady, slowing him as she can. The Grand Cleric awaits them at the altar, a grey old woman as they all are.

Blessed are the peacekeepers--
the champions of the just.

Her grip on Alistair's hand loosens a little because now her own palm is starting to feel sweaty.

Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow--
In their blood the Maker's will is written.

The walk is long, but the ceremony is short. Anora is relieved to kneel at the altar at last, then to stand with Alistair, exchanging vows that were written by someone a million years ago. She has said them before. She has to avoid looking him totally in the eye or she might refer to him as Cailan instead of Alistair. When her part is said, she does look at him, not smiling or glowering, only paying attention to him. He is clearly even more nervous than she is, and though she will not coddle him, she will have every expectation that he is an adult worthy of respect, in hopes that that is what he will become.