Perhaps it was the first day that women servants had ever entered the castle of Vasandoral. Their excited chatter echoed like the hooting of owls in the early morning darkness, as the gatekeeper orc lifted the portcullis for them.

Dina stood at the window of her tower chamber, watching as the sun rose slowly behind the hills. She could not see the people living below, but subtle signs hinted that the entire city would be in a stir that day.

In her stomach churned a peculiar excitement—a mix of fear and joy.

When the women crossed the walls of Logan's keep, the bustling life and chatter they had brought with them fell silent at once. They gazed around in awe, feeling the shadowed atmosphere of the stronghold, and entered Dina's dawn-lit chamber with heads bowed, silent as a prayer. Their wide eyes were filled with curiosity as they took in the sight of Dina standing in the centre of the room. She inclined her head to them in return.

What followed was a curious, measured, yet purposeful flurry of activity.

Her wedding dress was brought forth: it was entirely black. The upper part was lace, form-fitting, with a wide neckline that revealed her shoulders. Dina raised her arms, allowing the women to slide it over her. The tight sleeves ended with loops that hooked around her fingers—strands of lace that spread across the pale skin of her hands like the legs of a spider or the radiating rays of a black sun.

The women encircled her, carefully adjusting the dark tulle skirt that flared out from the waist, cascading to the ground, layered with petticoats that gave it the appearance of being hooped. On her feet, they placed elegant dark footwear.

They then seated her at a table and began brushing her hair. Her white tresses were woven into a tasteful, braided bun. She sat quietly before the mirror, her figure swaying ever so slightly under their ministrations.

"Careful not to pull the prophet's hair!" one woman whispered to another. Dina's gaze swept over them.

They were afraid of her. Though they served her with a kind of reverent joy in preparation for the celebration, a deep, unspoken fear lingered in their hearts.

Dina said nothing to them. She offered no reassurance. It would have rung hollow, for she herself was just as afraid.

Instead of a veil, a sheer black fabric was pinned into her hair, trailing down to her shoulders. Then came the tattoo: painted across her face from her forehead, over her temples, beside her eyes, and down to her cheeks. The black, non-figurative garlands mirrored the day itself—beautiful in their curves yet harbouring an air of ominous darkness.

She gazed silently into the mirror at the striking face adorned with black henna that stared back at her. It felt as though the person in the reflection wasn't her.

By late morning, she was fully prepared. One of the women offered her hand; Dina accepted it, rising with solemn dignity. She moved slowly, her fingers clasped together at her waist, fidgeting slightly. As she glided down the corridor like a spectre, she glanced into Züiya's open doorway.

"Is she to be the bridesmaid?" she heard the women murmuring behind her. The little girl stood in a similarly beautiful lilac dress, her hair pinned up, surrounded by several helpers bustling about.

But Zevran was nowhere to be seen.

Morrighan and Leliana waited in the hall, elegantly dressed, standing among the assembled soldiers. Dina wished to look at them, to smile at them, but the guards obscured her view.

Ahead, Alistair stood to attention, saluting in knightly finery, unmoving.

Logan and Caentrin, too, were dressed for the occasion.

The wedding procession began, led by Dina, followed by a smaller crowd. First came the women, who, as they exited the stronghold, veiled their faces with sheer black shawls like Dina's. They then erupted into wailing cries, loudly lamenting, "The maiden is gone, the maiden is gone..." It was clearly their role, yet the sound still sent shivers through Dina.

Behind them came Logan and Caentrin, then Alistair, Züiya, Morrighan, and Leliana, followed by the guards and soldiers, and finally the thronging townsfolk who joined the procession.

As they moved through the streets, Dina saw wide-eyed faces and gleaming gazes, joy and fear etched into their expressions. Combed hair and humble but fine clothes marked the occasion.

Vasandoral, being a northern province, showed its typical grey sky that day, more Vasandoral grey than the ancient Perubian blue Dina was used to.

The temple stood at the town square, its towering spires and massive beams projecting skyward, giving the structure its distinctively northern style.

As the procession approached, the mournful cries of the women gave way to joyous, excited cheers that broke out amidst murmurs of wonder.

Then, at last, there was silence—an eternal, timeless stillness broken only by the wingbeats of a lone bird overhead.

Dina's heart was pounding. She gathered up her skirt and ascended the stone steps of the temple first. Two peasant men stood at the door, dressed in their finest clothes, watching Dina with astonished expressions. Their stubbled faces were contorted either by reverence for the prophet or the sheer weight of life itself. Yet now, as if trained dancers, they moved in perfect unison, pushing the heavy double doors open for her.

The bride hesitated for a moment, struck by the scene before her. The vast interior of the temple stretched out, empty yet profoundly serene. The oppressive greyness of Vasandoral had been banished from within these walls. The temple of the God of the Forest was intimate and tranquil, its walls adorned with images of nature and the four seasons. Living trees, serving as pillars, stood in the hall—a customary feature. Though these trees had not yet pierced the ceiling as they had in Euthoria's Great Temple, they stretched skyward like slender saplings, four in total.

At the front, in the ornate sanctuary, a handful of temple aides sat in green and white robes. On the steps leading to the altar stood a familiar figure, his back turned as he awaited the arrival.

Zevran.

Dina felt an overwhelming urge to run to him. He, too, was dressed in black, wearing layers of finely tailored ceremonial garments that accentuated his broad shoulders and gave his upper body the appearance of a welcoming meadow one might blissfully lie upon.

Behind Dina, Logan and Caentrin elbowed their way through the crowd of women, the latter whispering a commanding "Go on..." into the air.

Dina stepped forward. She paid no attention to the throng behind her. Her entire focus was on Zevran, and the closer she drew, the clearer she could see the proud smile he directed at her. The distance between them shrank, her heart beat louder, and her own smile grew wider.

At last, she came to stand beside him, gazing at her groom with a trembling smile. Zevran looked utterly captivating. His golden-blond hair had been braided along the sides of his head, leaving the hairdo slightly raised to project a sense of formal masculinity. Over his black shirt, he wore a vest-like jacket adorned with thick, garland-like lace motifs that echoed the patterns of Dina's skirt.

But it was his gaze that captivated her most—the tender, proud, and genuine admiration with which he looked at her. His light brown eyes, glowing even brighter in the candlelit darkness, shone with such sincerity. The tattoos on both their cheeks stretched slightly as their smiles widened.

Zevran extended his hand, and Dina placed her fingers into his without hesitation. A temple servant approached them, winding a thick white stole around their hands before tying it with a soft knot.

The moment was interrupted by the pushy presence of Logan and Caentrin, who barged into the sanctuary with self-important expressions, a space where they had no rightful place according to the ceremony. Yet Caentrin began speaking to the gathering crowd, his voice buzzing with a smug enthusiasm. Dina barely registered what he was saying—something tedious and boastful about Logan and their own authority and benevolence.

What drew Dina and Zevran's attention was the arrival of a small elderly elf at the side door of the sanctuary, a bent-backed, hunched-over, elderly elven monk, supported by a white-robed temple servant. He walked slowly, very slowly, careful of his shuffling steps, lest he fall, the boy who helped him brought him his gnarled walking stick. His basic clothing was simple, just a grey cloak, yet it was adorned with wonderful and clear symbols, all of which referred to the service of the God of the Forest – as if the elf himself were just a skeleton that the deity had adorned for himself with brown and green, a crown woven from branches and a beautiful bark shield in front of his chest. His monastic, holy life was symbolized by everything he wore. Simplicity, yet wonder surrounded him – like nature itself.

When he reached the centre of the sanctuary, the elderly elf nodded gratefully to his young aide. "I'll manage now, my boy," he said, then suddenly called the servant back. "But don't take my staff away, will you?"

His voice, both wise and endearingly warm, made Dina almost laugh aloud. She simply felt joy at his presence. Looking to Zevran, she saw a similar amusement on his face.

The monk's arrival silenced Caentrin mid-speech, leaving him visibly startled. Perhaps he knew that this elder would not tolerate inappropriate behaviour.

"My sons, what are you doing in the sanctuary?" the monk asked kindly. Though familiar with the lord's antics, his words carried no malice, only a gentle curiosity.

Logan averted his gaze under the old elf's questioning eyes, while Caentrin stammered something about a brief introduction, a small gesture of promotion...

The monk chuckled softly. "Oh, my sons! The God of the Forest needs no fanfare! Off you go now... shoo, shoo." With a mere flick of his fingers, he dismissed the lord and his advisor as though they were unruly cats.

Dina and Zevran lowered their heads to hide their smiles, while murmurs rippled through the crowd. Logan's servant had to secure them seats in the front row, though Caentrin's tight-lipped expression betrayed his simmering frustration. Even he knew better than to challenge the elder monks, who were not subject to worldly authorities.

The old elf, seemingly unaware of the commotion, shuffled over to the young pair and squinted at them, examining them thoroughly.

"Yes, yes... very good," he muttered with nodding approval.

Then his voice transformed, deep and resonant, filling the space as though amplified by the temple itself—or perhaps by the God of the Forest.

"We have all gathered here today to celebrate the prophet and her groom..."

As his words lingered, his gaze drifted towards Züiya, who was seated nearby. His tone faltered momentarily, and he murmured something under his breath while maintaining eye contact with her. A hint of disdain flickered in his glance toward Logan and Caentrin, but he quickly recovered. The young servant boy returned to him.

"Is something amiss, Father?" the boy asked.

"No, no, my boy. Back to your place now."

The elder then turned his attention back to Dina and Zevran, beckoning them closer with a gesture. "Come now, my children. Step forward—You're too far away."

They obeyed, stepping nearer as the monk reached out to touch their hair—not quite the top of their heads, but gently to the sides. Dina closed her eyes, feeling warmth and a strange energy emanating from his hands as he murmured a blessing over them. Peeking for a moment, she saw Zevran's eyes were also closed, his expression serene.

"...May all ill intentions, curses, or oaths spoken against you in the past or present be nullified by the power of the God of the Forest..."

At these words, Zevran squeezed Dina's hand beneath the stole, and she returned the gesture.

They opened their eyes. The old monk smiled at them silently, as if to say, Now, we can begin. He raised his hands above them again and spoke to the gathered crowd in his resonant voice.

"We have all come here to celebrate this betrothed couple."

Logan glared at Caentrin, furious that the monk had not said the word prophet, but he could do nothing.

"Before all present, you now join your lives together. The dignity of this sacred marriage, however, demands sincerity of intent. Answer truthfully."

The elderly monk turned to Zevran.

"You, an elf named Zevran. Have you considered the purpose that brought you here?"

Zevran may have reflected on his own impulsiveness, for the question seemed to startle him. He had always been spontaneous. Yet the fact that this impulse had endured until now strengthened his resolve. He nodded.

"Yes, I have considered it."

"Has anyone compelled you to come here?"

Zevran smiled, thinking, Only my own love compelled me.

"No, no one."

"Do you love the woman standing next to you, Dina?"

Zevran looked into her eyes and answered directly.

"Yes. I love her."

"Do you promise to love and honour her until death parts you?"

Dina barely registered the end of the sentence. Death was not an option in her mind. But Zevran's eyes shone, and she saw nothing else.

"I promise."

"Will you remain faithful to her for the rest of your life?"

Yes, it meant no more conquests, no more fleeting indulgences. Zevran smiled. He said it easily.

"I will remain faithful to her."

"Will you stay by her side in sickness, poverty, and hardship?"

"I will stay by her side," Zevran nodded.

"Will you accept the children with which the God of the Forest may bless you?"

Dina had not yet even considered such a thing. Children? Hers and Zevran's?

"I will accept them."

A brief silence fell. The old monk nodded slightly, as if to say, Very well, and shuffled over to stand before Dina.

"And you, an elf named Dina. Have you considered the purpose that brought you here?"

Dina thought back to how she had told Zevran not long ago that everything was over. And yet, now she nodded.

"Yes, I have considered it."

"Has anyone compelled you to come here?"

Logan's and Caentrin's scheming had brought her here, but Dina did not see that as coercion.

"No, no one."

"Do you love the man next to you, Zevran?"

She turned to him, speaking her answer directly to him.

"Yes. I love him."

"Do you promise to love and honour him until death parts you?"

"I promise."

"Will you remain faithful to him for the rest of your life?"

Why would she ever need another?

"I will remain faithful to him."

"Will you stay by his side in sickness, poverty, and hardship?"

Sickness, poverty, hardship. How much trouble and danger might someone like Zevran face? And yet, she nodded.

"I will stay by his side."

"Will you accept the children with which the God of the Forest may bless you?"

"I will accept them."

"Well then, very well..." the elder murmured to himself kindly, then raised his voice again.

"Now that you have made these promises, declare them before the God of the Forest and all who are present. You, Zevran, do you wish to take Dina, here present, as your wife?"

"I do."

"Then repeat after me. Dina..."

"Dina, before the God of the Forest, I take you as my wife."

Emotion swept over Dina, and she felt an urge to laugh and cry at once. In the end, she simply gazed lovingly into Zevran's light brown eyes.

"And you, Dina. Do you wish to take Zevran, here present, as your husband?"

"I do."

"Then repeat after me. Zevran..."

"Zevran, before the God of the Forest, I take you as my husband."

A proud smile spread across the young groom's lips.

"Very well, very well... This, too, is good. By the authority entrusted to me by the God of the Forest, I declare this marriage valid. This bond between you shall never be broken. All present bear witness to this union, and I bless it to be holy and complete." He added, "Yes... very well..."

Dina smiled quietly.

"The painted marks upon your faces today will stand as witnesses to this moment. Remember them when even if they are washed away and let them remind you, every day of your marriage, of this sacred bond."

Dina had not realised until now that the unique wedding tattoos in Vasandoral held such meaning. Elsewhere, it was not a tradition; the henna marks would wash away, lasting only for the day of the wedding. But Zevran's was no henna. Dina gazed silently at the mark on his face that would remain forever.

"Zevran, touch the mark Dina wears on her face, and repeat after me..."

Dina closed her eyes for a brief moment, savouring the gentle touch. She didn't want to miss even a single moment of Zevran's gaze.

"Wear this mark on your face today as a sign of my love, and remember it every day of your life."

"And now you, Dina, touch the mark on Zevran's face and repeat after me..."

"Wear this mark today..." She swallowed. "...today too as a sign of my love, and remember it every day of your life."

As she drew her hand away, her own gaze lingered in Zevran's meaningful eyes. She had never imagined that one day his tattoo would hold such profound significance.

"Good, good... this, too, is good," the elder almost exclaimed. "And now, all of you who are present, answer together: May the God of the Forest keep this young couple in a living unity!"

"May they live long!"

"May their lives be abundant and full!"

"May they live long!"

"May peace dwell in their hearts and in the hearts of all who enter their home!"

"May they live long!"

"May no untimely death befall them, and may they meet again in the afterlife at the close of their days!"

For some reason, Dina agreed with this wish most of all. She, too, cried out,

"May blessings also descend upon us, who have taken part in this ceremony!"

"May we live long! May we live long!"

The crowd in the temple erupted into joyous shouts, barely waiting for the elder's next question. Those seated in the pews turned to one another, shaking hands and embracing. Everyone expressed their joy in their own way. Morrighan was approached by little Züiya, surprising her at first, but then she laughed and hugged the child. Alistair gazed longingly at Leliana, who returned a brief glance.

The cheerful sounds of the crowd filled the hall. The monk, leaning on his staff, had just begun to turn away when something occurred to him. He turned back and winked at Zevran.

"Oh... and now, if you wish, you may kiss your wife." His aged features took on a mischievous expression that even Zevran couldn't help but laugh at.

And he didn't need to be told twice. He stepped forward, took Dina's face in his hands, and kissed her amid the cheering crowd. Dina nestled into him, holding tightly to his arm.

Then they made their way toward the door, the bells in the tower ringing. Dina looped her arm through Zevran's, casting a slightly anxious glance around. Would someone attack her new husband immediately? But it seemed the soldiers were eager to join the evening's revelry. Dina found some comfort in Caentrin's assurance that, for the sake of appearances, Zevran would be left alone for a short while after the ceremony—at least long enough for a wedding night. She gripped Zevran's arm tightly and hoped it would be so.