Chapter Text
Dorian certainly has always envisioned the day of his wedding somewhat differently. For one, it was supposed to be to someone he actually liked. For another, it was supposed to be tasteful, not so ostentatious it bordered on tacky. Finally, he’s fairly sure there isn’t supposed to be a cold dread coiling in the pit of his stomach as he finishes dressing.
He understands the reason for it, of course – a marriage puts his foreign spouse on equal footing, more or less, granting them certain rights and freedoms within the Imperium that would otherwise be inaccessible, no matter how politely the politicking was supposed to go. After all, there are some closed doors you simply cannot open, no matter how polite a delegation you bring with you.
Dorian just wishes he’d held onto his anger long enough to see him deep in the frostbacks, instead of returning just to subject himself to – this.
He consoles himself by checking his appearance once more in the floor-length mirror. Light white robes, tailored to show off his rather striking figure, with elaborate gold embroidery on the short sleeves and hems, tasteful gold buckles down one side and all done up in a royal blue sash. Dark pants, matching boots, and tasteful application of makeup finish the look. It’s a shame the outfit will swiftly be thrown back into his wardrobe and never seen again for the remainder of his natural lifespan; Dorian is absolutely radiant.
He's fairly sure he's going to be sick.
Pulling his collar straight so it frames his neck and jaw just so, he allows himself only a moment to smile wistfully at his own reflection before forcefully smothering his lingering misgivings. At least without his usual array of jewelry adorning his hands he has nothing to fidget nervously with.
“My lord? It’s time.” A voice calls softly before knocking on the door to his dressing room, and Dorian allows himself one last deep sigh as he straightens his posture and schools his features. Shoulders back, head high, he throws open the door and strides out to seal his fate with every ounce of pride he can possibly muster.
---
Even Krem laughing his ass off when he broke the news had been preferable to the hushed conversations that follow him as he gets ready. Bull isn’t nervous, per se – although he can’t say he enjoys the thought of being tied to some ‘Vint asshole for his foreseeable future – but the stuffy atmosphere of the chantry does nothing to ease his worries about his assignment.
He finishes lacing up his pristine white vest, knotting it and examining his appearance critically. He’s been groomed to within an inch of his life, enduring a bath and shave and having extensive geometric patterns painted on in black and white vitaar across his shoulders and arms while he sat painfully still for an hour. The result was nice, he had to admit, the patterns accentuating his muscles the way a full coat wouldn’t be able to.
Plus it would come in handy if someone tried to fry him and he had to knock some heads together.
Ah, if only Krem could see him now. He smiles mirthlessly at his reflection, wishing he at least had a couple of his Chargers in the city instead of left at the border to take on jobs solo until he could figure out what to do with them. They’d taken the news pretty well, after Krem had stopped laughing at the thought of Bull getting married off like some Orlesian fop and realized he was dead serious. That had raised some questions – chief among them being how the Qunari don’t exactly do marriage, let alone political ones – but apparently someone back in Par Vollen thought it was too good a chance to get into the nobility to pass up.
Enough that the Iron Bull was being picked as the most expedient agent for the job, instead of someone who stood out a little less.
Grumbling to himself, he stretches and shakes out, as if it will help rid him of nagging thoughts on all the ways this could quickly go wrong.
“Ready? It’s time.” An elf girl pokes her head in to wave him out, and he takes a measure of comfort in the fact that his delegation is made up of no less than five capable fighters, with several more placed around the building just in case. Just another job.
He steps out into the hall, following it to the end where it opens up to a small foyer. Bull hardly has a moment to take in the rich gold and blue drapery adorning the statues before the door opposite him is thrust open. The man that strides out is… not what he’d expected, actually.
Bull is mildly surprised by the young man that moves to stand before him, a brief pause on the threshold his only reaction to the Qunari’s presence. Regal is the only word Bull can think as he takes in the ‘Vint’s appearance, fine white robes against dark skin, only the barest hesitation before staring him in the eye with a pleasant if not entirely genuine smile. Bull inclines his head slightly, offering his arm.
“Shall we?” His partner lets out the slightest huff and takes his arm, though Bull can’t tell if it’s amused or irritated or just a bit winded from the walk. He notes the very brief edge of a frown as the double doors of the hall open and they pass through and then it’s gone just as quick, blandly pleased expression in place once more.
He doesn’t dwell on it as they proceed into the grand hall and he has to hold in a laugh at the overwrought décor. Everything is draped in silks and flowers and extra statuary, bringing what would be a pleasant experience normally to the edge of distasteful. It almost distracts from the fact that the guests in attendance are the political groups that arranged the whole thing and one of the grooms is a Qunari.
---
The stately walk from the doors through the hall and up to the Revered Mother feels interminable. When they finally make it to the front and he lifts his hand from where it rested on the Qunari’s thick forearm he finds himself with nothing to do but maintain a calm exterior and stare up at his soon-to-be husband. That makes a whole new set of knots twist in his gut, only held in check by years of experience dancing around issues in Tevinter society. He resolutely does not even so much as glance at the assembled guests, refuses to acknowledge a single one of them, family included.
“We are gathered today to celebrate the union of two peoples seeking peace and prosperity. This blessed couple takes on the privileges and duties of not only wedded citizens, but champions of the approaching calm. Dorian of House Pavus, respected Altus and scholar, will bring to this union the spirit and tenacity of Tevinter. Joining him is The Iron Bull of Par Vollen, representing the strength and will of the Qun. They marry today for the betterment of themselves and their proud peoples.”
Dorian does pay proper attention when the Revered Mother begins speaking, dutifully not scoffing or rolling his eyes at the platitudes. The emotional aspect of a typical marriage is only glossed over, much to his relief, and when it’s time to recite their vows – helpfully provided by the interested parties, of course, resulting in something significantly more magnanimous than Dorian would have penned – his voice doesn’t waver in the slightest.
Privately, he has to admit to himself that this “Iron Bull” isn’t what he’d expected. Not that he had any clear idea of what to expect, granted. At least he was pleasant to look at, taut muscle over a broad frame, eyepatch lending him a slightly roguish air. He hadn’t considered how awkward it would be to wed a Qunari woman who would surely tower over him just the same, if the current specimen before him is any indication. At least Dorian can remain secure in being the most attractive one in the room, marginal as his lead may be.
Bull reads his portion of their vows, voice deep and steady, and Dorian again resolutely does not look out to the assembled guests. The stricken look he imagines on his father’s face is much more satisfying than he’s sure the real thing ever could be.
The Revered Mother directs them to place their palms together and they do, Dorian’s hand seeming laughably dainty in comparison. His stomach gives one last good lurch as she wraps a length of cord around their joined hands, a symbolic gesture of how he’s now bound to this man for the rest of his life. He trembles only slightly as the knot is wound around their hands, slipping the ends through so they can grasp them and pull free, leaving a decorative knot suspended between them. It’s lovely. He wants to set it on fire.
The last thing to do is exchange their rings, fine bands of gold with a braid of other colored metals pressed down the center, very elegant and refined without, miraculously, being tacky or gaudy. Thank the Maker for small mercies.
Dorian maintains his soft smile during the exchange, not faltering even as their hands touch. This time he doesn’t tremble, not as the ceremony concludes with Bull leaning down to ever-so-lightly brush their lips together and not as he finally turns toward their audience as a newly married man.
There’s a bit of applause, quiet murmuring, and at least one sigh of relief almost certainly from his father as they proceed to the exit as they came in, arm in arm.
He finally breathes a soft sigh as they make it out of the public eye, dropping his hand from Bull’s arm and pacing slowly toward the enormous side room cleared for their reception. The silence between them is heavy, and Dorian is loath to break it. Catching himself twisting his newest ring, he drops his hands to his sides again and risks a glance back at his – husband.
“So, The Iron Bull?” He keeps his tone light, conversational, a hint of a smile and raised eyebrow. Casual interest, nothing pressing. Tests the waters.
“I prefer the definite article,” The Iron Bull responds, chuckling. Dorian is surprised, seeing how at ease the Qunari seems given the circumstances. “It’s like – ah, I’ll explain it later. Qunari don’t have names, so I picked one that made me sound tough.” Dorian actually lets a genuine smile slip out for a moment at that, as if the huge man needed anything to make him seem tougher. Shaking his head a bit, he huffs a soft laugh and steps into the improvised reception hall.
---
The decorations are no less grossly ornate, but at least there’s food and drink. The air of tension has relaxed, and Bull finds himself at least mildly entertained by the goings-on of all the wedding’s attendees. He doesn’t eavesdrop exactly, but if he happens to overhear a few hushed conversations while he’s getting a new glass of wine, well.
The food is rich, spiced meats and delicate pastries and strong creamy cheeses, paired with several varieties of fine wines, nibbles of candied fruit and nuts. As with everything in Tevinter, it smacks of careless wealth. They went to all the trouble, though, so if Bull indulges a little he’s sure everyone will understand. It’s a celebration, after all.
He and Dorian stay relatively close, never ruining the illusion of a happy couple, but there’s enough distance that he’s able to briefly speak with the people who arranged this all for him. The longer they go without incident, the more concerned everyone seems to be getting – and Bull doesn’t blame them. Since when has a Tevinter party not ended in bloodshed?
“You did well. I know it’s difficult, but it was the best –“ Bull’s attention is caught when he notices Dorian speaking to a man by the desserts.
“I know. I understand. Maker knows I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” There’s a subtle biting tone to the remark, though Bull can’t quite figure out what it means. He gestures dismissively, though it’s clear he’s restraining himself. The other man sighs heavily through his nose.
“Dorian, please. You’ve done a good thing. It’s a compromise, of course –“ Dorian shakes his head, cutting him off again.
“Please, save the platitudes for –“ Bull slides away to procure some more meats as Dorian seems to recall the mixed company they’re keeping, the irritation sliding out of his posture and expression in a clearly practiced gesture. Interesting.
As the evening wears on, however, past dinner and desserts and plenty of rare beverages that all taste the same, not much else of note happens. By the end he’s passing familiar with the other Magisters making up the Tevinter party and Dorian has spoken to a few of his people, all without any real incident or even content beyond the weather and stilted congratulations. Bland, predictable, and practically unheard of.
Still, when a suitable amount of time spent mingling has passed, Bull meets Dorian by the door, they bow gracefully as a pair, and make their exit without incident. Safely ensconced in a carriage, they head toward their new estate, a small offshoot of the Pavus holdings renovated and furnished specifically for them. Dorian is silent on the ride, electing to wring his hands together and stare out the window. Bull decides after a moment that conversation is not forthcoming, and turns his attentions to the roads as well, familiarizing himself with the city as best he can.
The manor house is impressive, even by night. A small fountain out front, flanked by flowering shrubs, speaks tastefully to the wealth of the Pavus household. High hedges and a wrought iron fence screen off the sides and back of the house, but Bull is willing to bet upon first glance that there are some private gardens, possibly a pond. At least his newest assignment will ensure he has a nice mattress, unlike most of the jobs he’s had.
He feels the tension rising again as they approach the entrance, Dorian drumming his fingers against the glass. They aren’t quite drawn to a stop when he leaps out of the carriage, striding purposefully up the front steps to the wide doors. Bull follows a few paces behind, length of stride making up for Dorian’s head start. He watches his new husband unlock and throw the doors wide, and as soon as he steps over the threshold it’s like something snaps. Muttering what Bull can only assume are elaborate curses, Dorian twists the ring from his finger and throws it, ring clattering against the wall and floor with a bell-like chime. Without pause he storms up the stairs to what Bull can only assume are the private quarters.
Much slower, Bull follows and takes stock of his new lodgings, stooping to retrieve Dorian’s ring from where it ended up at the base of the marble stairs.
Well, at least his time will be interesting. He pockets it and heads up to explore the house a bit before attempting to get some sleep.