Somehow, Lucien almost felt that he should be more nervous than he was. Weren't people supposed to be nervous at their weddings?
But though activity fluttered around him—the musicians settling into their places and beginning to play gentle ambient music, the officiants assembling themselves at the front, the guests milling about and beginning the slow, social process of making it to their seats—he felt himself rather... centered.
The Grand Cathedral was certainly fitting for an event of this magnitude, he supposed, but he'd never been especially intimidated by the grandiose or the large scale. He'd been raised to that. If anything, it was the more intimate and personal things that tended to throw him. Where he'd historically been less certain of himself. But he felt no unease about the much smaller gathering to follow, either. Perhaps it was just that he'd done the difficult part of all of this already. He had no doubts about whom he'd chosen to marry, and though some still-existing self-deprecatory instinct wondered a little more at Sophia's selection, well. In the main he knew it wasn't a bad one. And the happiness he felt that she'd chosen him was more than enough to silence what traces of anxiety might have otherwise remained.
He turned his eyes up to the vaulted ceiling for a moment, then angled it to the grand, massive circular stained glass window making up most of the west wall, to catch the light of the setting sun. The edges of the panels seemed almost kissed by fire, no doubt the architect's intention, given Andraste's association with the same. Though he was not an especially religious man, some combination of the majesty of it and the occasion this building was to host inspired a sort of solemn reverence in his heart, if only for a still moment.
But life proceeded apace, and he didn't linger long, straightening his cuffs a bit unnecessarily. The tradition was for members of his house to be married in formal uniform, so he was wearing the crisp charcoal-grey of the chevaliers' parade regalia, the bars and medals of his rank and accomplishments pinned to his chest and sleeves accordingly. His crown, a band of glittering silverite, sat relatively comfortably on his brow today, fortunately keeping his hair tidy, as it only rarely stayed that way of its own accord. He'd elected to shave entirely—or rather, have a professional do it for him, which was something he'd probably have to get used to.
Taking a deep breath, he let his eyes sweep the front rows of the seating. What little family remained was there, of course, but mostly the very closest rows were occupied by friends, his and Sophia's, old and new. By some instinct, they found Ashton first; Lucien half-smiled, unable for a moment not to think of the very conspicuous absence here. Someone he would have wanted beside them all, if he'd had any say in the matter at all.
The same thought must have passed through Ashton's mind, because his smile wasn't initially as bright as it normally was. However, it lasted only a moment before he forced it into his usual wide, lopsided grin. Ash approached Lucien with an exaggerated saunter, making a big show of looking around and taking in the grandiosity of the cathedral. He whistled and appeared impressed by it all at least. "You know..." Ashton started with a shrug, "I don't know what I expected," he said with another wry grin. "I guess Emperors don't get to really do simple, huh?"
"It seems not," Lucien agreed, expelling the rest of the breath in a sigh. "Not that I could risk asking. I already had to persuade a few people that it wouldn't be horrifically gauche to seat all my 'common' friends in the front. It's not done, you see." But there had been exactly no chance that he was going to allow them to be relegated to the back so that a lot of dignitaries Lucien hardly knew and Sophia definitely didn't could occupy what was usually their place at the forefront of the public festivities. None of this was about politics, regardless of what anyone thought.
Not that he needed to elaborate for Ashton's sake. No doubt that was all obvious enough. "How long do we have you for? I know some of our other guests will have to depart as early as two days hence." He nodded slightly in the direction of the Inquisition. They'd be remaining to see Séverine anointed and then no doubt making haste back to Skyhold. Joyous as the occasions were, it was hard to forget that there was still a very pressing war to deal with.
"A while still, I'd say. Kirkwall's in good hands, even with Sophia and I out," he noted, cradling his hands behind his back as he rocked on his feet. Even a royal wedding couldn't intimidate him it appeared.
Ashton undoubtedly spoke of Bran and his Lieutenant taking their respective places while they were out of the city. "Figured after all of the celebrations and appointments are done, I thought I'd take a little time for myself. A vacation of sorts. I haven't taken any time off at all since... Well, you know," he said with a deep melancholic frown. Nostariel. It made sense that he'd throw himself into his work so that he wouldn't have time to think about it. That was exactly the type of thing Ashton would do.
"She'd be so happy for you two, you know," he said with a smile, bringing his arms around to rest atop each other, one of his hands rising to absently rub at the groomed stubble at his chin. A glint off of one his fingers revealed the wedding ring that he still wore. "I mean, I am too, of course," he added quickly, with a wave of his hand, "But Nos was your biggest fan," he said with a chuckle.
Lucien had to smile at that, even if it was a bit melancholy. "She was—the best of friends." He took in a deep breath, reaching over to clap Ashton on the shoulder lightly. "But I think she'd hate it if we spent today dwelling too much. I apologize for putting you through the formality of this part, but it should be a little more fun afterwards. Or so Rilien tells me." He turned halfway aside to include his heretofore quiet shadow in the conversation. Sometimes, Lucien wondered if he'd ever stop doing that: assuming the automatic positioning of a bodyguard. It wasn't that he minded, exactly; only that it didn't do Ril enough credit as his friend.
“I do not recall making any judgements as to relative amounts of entertainment." The tranquil, arms folded characteristically into his sleeves, was dressed in very dark green. Where exactly he'd procured a House Drakon steward's uniform was unclear, since Lucien hadn't given it to him. But it wasn't inappropriate, and did allow him to pass places an elf might otherwise have been barred, so perhaps it was only logical. “I only said that I have arranged for the informal dining room to be closed to intrusion for the duration of the evening, and that the food and drinks were being prepared now."
"Exactly what I said," Lucien replied, a touch more facetiously. But the activity around them had begun to shift, guests moving to their seats with a tad more urgency, and the music changed to something slightly more stately, a sign that little time remained before the ceremony began in earnest. With a smile for both his friends, Lucien excused himself to his place at the altar, noting that the occasion's jewelry—the rings and the diadem the officiant would place on Sophia's head as she was given the title Empress—were already in the right spot.
The officiant herself was the present Revered Mother of Val Royeaux. Though this was normally the sort of thing a Divine did, the fact that Séverine's ascension would take place after the wedding meant there was technically still no such person. While a delay might not have been uncalled for, he'd elected not to put her at the forefront of a very formal, ritual sort of ceremony she didn't yet know how to conduct. She was coming to the position from a post with the Templars, not the clergy, after all. It seemed better to give her the time to settle in, and from the little he'd spoken to her, Mother Heloise was accustomed enough to this sort of thing. The elderly woman offered Lucien a warm smile as he came to stand in front of her and to the right.
"Almost time, Your Radiance." She smoothed her hands down the embroidered golden drape over her formal whites.
For once, he didn't insist on informality. He was getting better about that, and really his titles would be used so many times before the day was over that there wasn't any point. Instead, Lucien nodded, folding his hands neatly behind his back as the last of the guests finally took their places. Of course he'd start to feel a little off-kilter now, but he chalked up the sudden urge to fidget in place to thinning patience rather than nervousness per se.
He'd been waiting for this for a very long time, after all.
A shift in the music signaled the arrival of the bride, and every head in the Grand Cathedral turned to the double doors behind them. They swung open to reveal Sophia, smiling at the sight of them all. If she was at all nervous, she certainly wasn't showing it. She was perhaps the more naturally regal of the pair of them after all.
She still looked the part of the Queen, as well, her slim golden crown resting atop slightly lighter colored hair that was braided back, evenly framing her face. Free Marcher brides went without the veils, so Sophia's face was already plain for all to see. To hide such things would've made it more difficult to be proud, after all. The dress was nothing overly complicated, clean white with a square-cut neckline and full sleeves, the most extravagant part about it being the train, appropriately lengthy for one holding the rank of Queen, and about to become Empress.
It was a long walk to reach Lucien, but Sophia took it steadily, not hurrying or dallying. It went without saying that if her father were still alive he would be walking beside. Instead Sophia led the way on her own, the very image of her city's pride. She wasn't entirely alone; ten of her Companions flanked the aisle on either side behind the train, dressed in their own crisp uniforms, with coats of crimson trimmed in gold after the style of Sophia's house. They bore no weapons, not even ceremonial ones, in a gesture of peace and celebration of the union about to be made.
As she reached the alter the Companions departed from the aisle, taking up positions on the sides of the hall. Sophia took her position across from Lucien, meeting his eyes. Up close he could identify the subtle signs of her excitement, hidden in regality from a distance. Neither of them would have chosen a setting such as this if it were up to them, but clearly Sophia was enjoying it all the same. A chance to celebrate the great many things they'd earned, for all the world to see.
He was sure his expression reflected the very same feelings back to her, making them alike in this as they were alike in so many things. Unclasping his hands, Lucien took Sophia's, only just barely aware of the Revered Mother beginning the formal words of benediction that started the proceedings.
Being the traditional event that it was, it lacked some of the personal touches of the last wedding Lucien had attended. The biggest difference was the addition of relatively frequent prayers, blessings, and benedictions, in which those in the pews were asked to beseech the Maker not only for the union itself, but for the prosperity of Orlais, something that anyone present could recognize was tied tightly to the match. Though it had been the furthest thing from political, it would have ramifications of a political nature—theirs was for better or worse the kind of union that would decide a great deal of history to come.
Oaths and rings were exchanged; it wasn't until Lucien actually had to pick up the small band of silverite meant for Sophia's finger that he realized his own bore a fine tremor—he managed not to drop it, but only just, mouth twitching into an involuntary smile. He didn't think anyone had seen that but her, but he wasn't paying much attention to anyone else to know for sure, really.
The pronouncement of the pair of them as husband and wife was followed by a crowning rather than a kiss; it wasn't every day Emperors were actually in love with the people they married, after all.
Lucien reluctantly released Sophia's hands when the Revered Mother asked for her to kneel and relinquish for the moment the crown of Kirkwall. It was placed carefully next to the Orlesian one: a light diadem made intricate by the fact that its strands were worked into the likeness of lush flowering vines, leaf-tips serving as the uppermost points. Mostly set with emeralds and serpentstone, diamonds glinted along some of the thinner tendrils. The revered mother set it carefully on Sophia's head, then motioned for her to stand.
"It is my honor to present to those assembled the Emperor and Empress of Orlais, Their Radiances Lucien and Sophia Drakon."
The crowd cheered their approval as they turned to face them, none more enthusiastically than those with seating at the front. Some of them looked strange indeed in their best finery, when they were so commonly dressed only for practical concerns, but unlike at the Winter Palace, here the eyes were only on the pair at the altar. Sophia's hand found Lucien's again. She glanced at him, almost breathless, eyes slightly brimming. She was beaming.
"Shall we take a walk?" she asked, now that the hall wasn't silent and only those immediately around her would hear. "Dear husband?"
It was that of all things that brought a lump to his throat. Lucien swallowed past it as well as he could, though his voice was hoarse when he answered. "It would be a pleasure." The processional was meant to take them through much of the city's central districts, which had been all but cleared out for the occasion. But it was easy to forget that, really—to think of it only as a pleasant stroll, buoyed by the heady euphoria of the moment.
"My beloved wife."
But though activity fluttered around him—the musicians settling into their places and beginning to play gentle ambient music, the officiants assembling themselves at the front, the guests milling about and beginning the slow, social process of making it to their seats—he felt himself rather... centered.
The Grand Cathedral was certainly fitting for an event of this magnitude, he supposed, but he'd never been especially intimidated by the grandiose or the large scale. He'd been raised to that. If anything, it was the more intimate and personal things that tended to throw him. Where he'd historically been less certain of himself. But he felt no unease about the much smaller gathering to follow, either. Perhaps it was just that he'd done the difficult part of all of this already. He had no doubts about whom he'd chosen to marry, and though some still-existing self-deprecatory instinct wondered a little more at Sophia's selection, well. In the main he knew it wasn't a bad one. And the happiness he felt that she'd chosen him was more than enough to silence what traces of anxiety might have otherwise remained.
He turned his eyes up to the vaulted ceiling for a moment, then angled it to the grand, massive circular stained glass window making up most of the west wall, to catch the light of the setting sun. The edges of the panels seemed almost kissed by fire, no doubt the architect's intention, given Andraste's association with the same. Though he was not an especially religious man, some combination of the majesty of it and the occasion this building was to host inspired a sort of solemn reverence in his heart, if only for a still moment.
But life proceeded apace, and he didn't linger long, straightening his cuffs a bit unnecessarily. The tradition was for members of his house to be married in formal uniform, so he was wearing the crisp charcoal-grey of the chevaliers' parade regalia, the bars and medals of his rank and accomplishments pinned to his chest and sleeves accordingly. His crown, a band of glittering silverite, sat relatively comfortably on his brow today, fortunately keeping his hair tidy, as it only rarely stayed that way of its own accord. He'd elected to shave entirely—or rather, have a professional do it for him, which was something he'd probably have to get used to.
Taking a deep breath, he let his eyes sweep the front rows of the seating. What little family remained was there, of course, but mostly the very closest rows were occupied by friends, his and Sophia's, old and new. By some instinct, they found Ashton first; Lucien half-smiled, unable for a moment not to think of the very conspicuous absence here. Someone he would have wanted beside them all, if he'd had any say in the matter at all.
The same thought must have passed through Ashton's mind, because his smile wasn't initially as bright as it normally was. However, it lasted only a moment before he forced it into his usual wide, lopsided grin. Ash approached Lucien with an exaggerated saunter, making a big show of looking around and taking in the grandiosity of the cathedral. He whistled and appeared impressed by it all at least. "You know..." Ashton started with a shrug, "I don't know what I expected," he said with another wry grin. "I guess Emperors don't get to really do simple, huh?"
"It seems not," Lucien agreed, expelling the rest of the breath in a sigh. "Not that I could risk asking. I already had to persuade a few people that it wouldn't be horrifically gauche to seat all my 'common' friends in the front. It's not done, you see." But there had been exactly no chance that he was going to allow them to be relegated to the back so that a lot of dignitaries Lucien hardly knew and Sophia definitely didn't could occupy what was usually their place at the forefront of the public festivities. None of this was about politics, regardless of what anyone thought.
Not that he needed to elaborate for Ashton's sake. No doubt that was all obvious enough. "How long do we have you for? I know some of our other guests will have to depart as early as two days hence." He nodded slightly in the direction of the Inquisition. They'd be remaining to see Séverine anointed and then no doubt making haste back to Skyhold. Joyous as the occasions were, it was hard to forget that there was still a very pressing war to deal with.
"A while still, I'd say. Kirkwall's in good hands, even with Sophia and I out," he noted, cradling his hands behind his back as he rocked on his feet. Even a royal wedding couldn't intimidate him it appeared.
Ashton undoubtedly spoke of Bran and his Lieutenant taking their respective places while they were out of the city. "Figured after all of the celebrations and appointments are done, I thought I'd take a little time for myself. A vacation of sorts. I haven't taken any time off at all since... Well, you know," he said with a deep melancholic frown. Nostariel. It made sense that he'd throw himself into his work so that he wouldn't have time to think about it. That was exactly the type of thing Ashton would do.
"She'd be so happy for you two, you know," he said with a smile, bringing his arms around to rest atop each other, one of his hands rising to absently rub at the groomed stubble at his chin. A glint off of one his fingers revealed the wedding ring that he still wore. "I mean, I am too, of course," he added quickly, with a wave of his hand, "But Nos was your biggest fan," he said with a chuckle.
Lucien had to smile at that, even if it was a bit melancholy. "She was—the best of friends." He took in a deep breath, reaching over to clap Ashton on the shoulder lightly. "But I think she'd hate it if we spent today dwelling too much. I apologize for putting you through the formality of this part, but it should be a little more fun afterwards. Or so Rilien tells me." He turned halfway aside to include his heretofore quiet shadow in the conversation. Sometimes, Lucien wondered if he'd ever stop doing that: assuming the automatic positioning of a bodyguard. It wasn't that he minded, exactly; only that it didn't do Ril enough credit as his friend.
“I do not recall making any judgements as to relative amounts of entertainment." The tranquil, arms folded characteristically into his sleeves, was dressed in very dark green. Where exactly he'd procured a House Drakon steward's uniform was unclear, since Lucien hadn't given it to him. But it wasn't inappropriate, and did allow him to pass places an elf might otherwise have been barred, so perhaps it was only logical. “I only said that I have arranged for the informal dining room to be closed to intrusion for the duration of the evening, and that the food and drinks were being prepared now."
"Exactly what I said," Lucien replied, a touch more facetiously. But the activity around them had begun to shift, guests moving to their seats with a tad more urgency, and the music changed to something slightly more stately, a sign that little time remained before the ceremony began in earnest. With a smile for both his friends, Lucien excused himself to his place at the altar, noting that the occasion's jewelry—the rings and the diadem the officiant would place on Sophia's head as she was given the title Empress—were already in the right spot.
The officiant herself was the present Revered Mother of Val Royeaux. Though this was normally the sort of thing a Divine did, the fact that Séverine's ascension would take place after the wedding meant there was technically still no such person. While a delay might not have been uncalled for, he'd elected not to put her at the forefront of a very formal, ritual sort of ceremony she didn't yet know how to conduct. She was coming to the position from a post with the Templars, not the clergy, after all. It seemed better to give her the time to settle in, and from the little he'd spoken to her, Mother Heloise was accustomed enough to this sort of thing. The elderly woman offered Lucien a warm smile as he came to stand in front of her and to the right.
"Almost time, Your Radiance." She smoothed her hands down the embroidered golden drape over her formal whites.
For once, he didn't insist on informality. He was getting better about that, and really his titles would be used so many times before the day was over that there wasn't any point. Instead, Lucien nodded, folding his hands neatly behind his back as the last of the guests finally took their places. Of course he'd start to feel a little off-kilter now, but he chalked up the sudden urge to fidget in place to thinning patience rather than nervousness per se.
He'd been waiting for this for a very long time, after all.
A shift in the music signaled the arrival of the bride, and every head in the Grand Cathedral turned to the double doors behind them. They swung open to reveal Sophia, smiling at the sight of them all. If she was at all nervous, she certainly wasn't showing it. She was perhaps the more naturally regal of the pair of them after all.
She still looked the part of the Queen, as well, her slim golden crown resting atop slightly lighter colored hair that was braided back, evenly framing her face. Free Marcher brides went without the veils, so Sophia's face was already plain for all to see. To hide such things would've made it more difficult to be proud, after all. The dress was nothing overly complicated, clean white with a square-cut neckline and full sleeves, the most extravagant part about it being the train, appropriately lengthy for one holding the rank of Queen, and about to become Empress.
It was a long walk to reach Lucien, but Sophia took it steadily, not hurrying or dallying. It went without saying that if her father were still alive he would be walking beside. Instead Sophia led the way on her own, the very image of her city's pride. She wasn't entirely alone; ten of her Companions flanked the aisle on either side behind the train, dressed in their own crisp uniforms, with coats of crimson trimmed in gold after the style of Sophia's house. They bore no weapons, not even ceremonial ones, in a gesture of peace and celebration of the union about to be made.
As she reached the alter the Companions departed from the aisle, taking up positions on the sides of the hall. Sophia took her position across from Lucien, meeting his eyes. Up close he could identify the subtle signs of her excitement, hidden in regality from a distance. Neither of them would have chosen a setting such as this if it were up to them, but clearly Sophia was enjoying it all the same. A chance to celebrate the great many things they'd earned, for all the world to see.
He was sure his expression reflected the very same feelings back to her, making them alike in this as they were alike in so many things. Unclasping his hands, Lucien took Sophia's, only just barely aware of the Revered Mother beginning the formal words of benediction that started the proceedings.
Being the traditional event that it was, it lacked some of the personal touches of the last wedding Lucien had attended. The biggest difference was the addition of relatively frequent prayers, blessings, and benedictions, in which those in the pews were asked to beseech the Maker not only for the union itself, but for the prosperity of Orlais, something that anyone present could recognize was tied tightly to the match. Though it had been the furthest thing from political, it would have ramifications of a political nature—theirs was for better or worse the kind of union that would decide a great deal of history to come.
Oaths and rings were exchanged; it wasn't until Lucien actually had to pick up the small band of silverite meant for Sophia's finger that he realized his own bore a fine tremor—he managed not to drop it, but only just, mouth twitching into an involuntary smile. He didn't think anyone had seen that but her, but he wasn't paying much attention to anyone else to know for sure, really.
The pronouncement of the pair of them as husband and wife was followed by a crowning rather than a kiss; it wasn't every day Emperors were actually in love with the people they married, after all.
Lucien reluctantly released Sophia's hands when the Revered Mother asked for her to kneel and relinquish for the moment the crown of Kirkwall. It was placed carefully next to the Orlesian one: a light diadem made intricate by the fact that its strands were worked into the likeness of lush flowering vines, leaf-tips serving as the uppermost points. Mostly set with emeralds and serpentstone, diamonds glinted along some of the thinner tendrils. The revered mother set it carefully on Sophia's head, then motioned for her to stand.
"It is my honor to present to those assembled the Emperor and Empress of Orlais, Their Radiances Lucien and Sophia Drakon."
The crowd cheered their approval as they turned to face them, none more enthusiastically than those with seating at the front. Some of them looked strange indeed in their best finery, when they were so commonly dressed only for practical concerns, but unlike at the Winter Palace, here the eyes were only on the pair at the altar. Sophia's hand found Lucien's again. She glanced at him, almost breathless, eyes slightly brimming. She was beaming.
"Shall we take a walk?" she asked, now that the hall wasn't silent and only those immediately around her would hear. "Dear husband?"
It was that of all things that brought a lump to his throat. Lucien swallowed past it as well as he could, though his voice was hoarse when he answered. "It would be a pleasure." The processional was meant to take them through much of the city's central districts, which had been all but cleared out for the occasion. But it was easy to forget that, really—to think of it only as a pleasant stroll, buoyed by the heady euphoria of the moment.
"My beloved wife."