The boat ride to Ferelden is shaky, the surrounding sea riddled with storms. It's crowded in the hull—it's always crowded—but the runaway apostate and his noble-born, knocked-up bride cannot complain. It's not Kirkwall—there are no Templars, and so they have nothing to fear here.
Well, except for the sea, and the crashing waves, and sickness.
If they were a normal couple, uncursed by magic, they could be spending their honeymoon in Antiva, basking along those naked shores, frolicking in skimpy bathing wear and enjoying their new matrimonial status.
Instead, a nearby elf vomits on Leandra's shoes, and Malcolm winces.
"I'm so sorry," he starts again, an apology he's given her at least a dozen time since she agreed to marry him. "When we're in Ferelden, it'll be better. You'll see. We'll—we'll start a life together. It will be fine."
"Yes," Leandra tells him, rubbing her swollen stomach and smiling. "I suspect it will be."
Not that he has any great hopes set on Ferelden, exactly—Ferelden smells of wet dogs, and the country is downright barbaric from what he's read—but there are fewer Templars and therefore, fewer chances for him to endanger his family.
"Why you wanted to marry me, I'll never know," he confesses, leaning his forehead against hers. He sets his hand down on her rounded stomach in time to feel a gentle kick, and his smile widens. "You could have a normal life. You're a noble—you could be living the life, not…squalling away in poverty with me. I can't even give you a decent honeymoon, much less a home—especially not something as grand as the Amell estate..."
But she pulls him down, kissing him deeply, reminding him why running away was completely and utterly worth it. "We'll celebrate our honeymoon when we reach Ferelden. You can make it up to me then."
It's a promise worth keeping.