A/N: The world and characters of Dragon Age belong to BioWare, and I offer that company my deepest thanks for encouraging community creations.
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Bryn fondled the fine lace and satin of the gown she would wear on the morrow. She couldn't quite picture herself wearing it, despite having donned it earlier at Leliana's insistence. The bard had oohed and aahed, then proceeded to test out different ways for Bryn to wear her hair. Alistair had come by in the middle of Leliana's fawning, his face lighting up appreciatively. She'd expected a trademark smart comment about how she'd never be able to sneak around in full skirts, or perhaps a suggestive question about where she'd hide her daggers--but, instead, he'd simply smiled at her, his eyes shining, his visage free and open and full of hope that the future they'd fought for would actually come to pass. She wished she could be so certain.
Her lips pressed into a thin line and she let her hand fall back to her side. "Am I doing the right thing, Wynne?"
The white-haired mage chuckled from her seat near the fire. In many ways, Wynne had assumed the role of grandmother for Bryn--a darkspawn-conquering, indomitable grandmother, perhaps, but a grandmother all the same. The Fade Spirit that kept the old mage alive was waning, though. Bryn could see it in the dimming of Wynne's bright blue eyes, in the added lines across her forehead and around her mouth. It wouldn't be long before her most trusted advisor, her most trusted friend, joined the Maker. Tears pricked her eyes at the thought, and she turned her mind away.
"What do you think, my dear?" Wynne brushed the blanket draped over her lap, smoothing away the wrinkles.
"What I think…is not the same as what I feel."
The mage sighed. "It rarely is."
"We won't have children." The words tumbled past Bryn's lips faster than she'd intended, bringing with them heartache. To never know the joy of creating life… Duncan had said the Grey Wardens paid a heavy price to be what they are, and he'd barely touched on it. Tainted, her life would end in its prime. There would be no one left to carry on her legacy, or Alistair's. No, there would be Morrigan's child; not that the swamp witch would ever tell the child from whence he or she came. Bryn's heart twisted. Bitterness arose, but she wouldn't allow it to settle in her chest. Morrigan had saved them all. Her price had been steep, but Bryn couldn't fault the outcome.
Wynne pushed up from her chair, moving more slowly than she had even a few months ago, and walked across the room to lay a hand on Bryn's shoulder. "I wish my magic could help you, my dear. Perhaps I could try calling the spirit--"
"No!" Bryn spun and gripped the old mage's hand. "Promise me--promise me you won't do that, Wynne. Please. It's not worth it."
"I am a healer, child. If I could heal you of this, I would do so in an instant, without hesitation," she said, cupping Bryn's cheek with her free hand. "But it's not something that can be cured. I know this. You took the taint within you to do what needed to be done. Don't punish yourself for that action, my dear. Because of it, you saved Ferelden. All of Thedas. You deserve what happiness you can find."
One corner of Bryn's mouth quirked. "Weren't you the one telling me that love was selfish? That, as a Grey Warden, I needed to do my duty?"
"And you did it. As did Alistair. He is King, and I cannot think of a better queen for him than you."
"Even though marrying me will ensure he can never carry out his duty as King?" Bryn swallowed past the lump in her throat. Wynne had been right, that time at camp so long ago. She was selfish. At the Landsmeet, she'd announced herself to be Alistair's queen--a fact he'd readily accepted, but their talk afterwards had always remained near the forefront of her mind. It was the King's duty to produce an heir. Two Grey Wardens could not have children. If she truly had the best interests of her nation at heart, if she were to do her duty first as her father bade her with his dying words, she would have backed down from her proposal right then. She should have released Alistair so he could find a more suitable wife, one who could bear him a child and prolong the Theirin bloodline. But her heart clenched at the thought of living without him. That was why she'd convinced him to do Morrigan's ritual, despite his protests. When Riordan had announced that a Grey Warden must be sacrificed to end the Blight, Alistair had glanced at her, then quickly looked away. And she'd known. Despite her insistence to the senior Warden that she would take the final blow if necessary, she'd known Alistair had no intention of letting her do so. So when Morrigan had offered her solution…
The Hero of Ferelden. Maker. If the people knew how weak she actually was, they'd turn on her as quickly as they had Loghain.
"Oh, child." Wynne drew Bryn into her embrace. "You and Alistair have conquered every challenge you've faced. This will be no different. There are other means by which to declare an heir."
"But the Theirin bloodline--"
"Actions speak louder than blood." Wynne drew back and looked Bryn in the eyes. "I've told both you and Alistair that you're good for each other, and I stand by that. Don't give up on yourself. Now, I must get these old bones to bed. Tomorrow will be a full day. Rest. Calm yourself. Be happy."
A smile quivered on Bryn's lips. "Thank you, Wynne."
"Anytime, my dear. Anytime."
Bryn turned back to the gown as her friend left. The jade-green fabric swam in her blurred vision. Her heart felt as though it was buried under the tons of rock that surrounded Orzammar and the Deep Roads, crushed. Her mind pulled her in one direction--duty--while her love insisted she continue with the path she'd laid before herself. Consequences be damned.
She needed to speak with Alistair. There were no lies, no half-truths between them, something they'd agreed upon after they'd visited Redcliffe for the first time and he'd revealed his parentage. Their relationship had still been new then, filled with tentative looks and flirtatious comments, but one thing they both knew, even then--they were partners. The last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden, they needed to work together or their beloved nation would fall. And that meant they had to trust each other.
Bryn threw a wool coverlet around her shoulders to protect herself against the castle's chill and slipped into the hall, heading toward the King's chambers. Not for the first time, she wondered at her impetuous decision to hold the wedding at Highever. Sentiment had played a role in the decision, no doubt; something about holding this event in her childhood home felt so right. But there were so many memories here, and the good barely outweighed the bad. She had yet to bring herself to enter the larder, for fear she'd see evidence of her parents' deaths stained into the stones. In the great hall, she could still envision Ser Gilmore's ghost bracing himself against the gates. Those were the images that floated first to her mind, but others, older ones, were starting to emerge. Practicing her skills with her parents watching proudly; sparring with Fergus as word reached them that their armies were to head south to support King Cailan; and others from her childhood, mostly ones of listening to the old sage and Mother Mallol deliver their knowledge and wisdom. She wished she'd listened harder. If she'd known her time with them was limited…
Bryn allowed herself a small grin. She still wouldn't have listened. She'd been too eager to be elsewhere, too focused on the present to pay any attention to the future or the past. And isn't that what childhood should be?
Habit kept her footsteps light and soundless, skills she'd learned from Zevran, the assassin elf, and Leliana, the Orlesian bard. She almost found it more difficult to walk normally now…and, of course, there was the added benefit of startling Alistair and laughing at him as he railed at her for catching him by surprise. Again. Of course his mock tantrums often led to other…events. The smile on Bryn's lips died as her mind was brought back to what she needed to discuss.
"I'm not going to listen to this, Eamon."
Bryn paused at the doorway to the rooms her brother had assigned to the King, automatically drawing the shadows about herself. Alistair's voice was harsh, far harsher than she'd ever heard him speak to the man who'd raised him.
"You have a duty, son." Fatigue strained Eamon's voice. Bryn poked her head around the jamb, seeking out the wizened arl. Like Wynne, his face showed more lines than it once did. All of Ferelden had seen enough pain and anguish in the last two years for everyone to be prematurely aged. Once King Alistair's regent, it had been many months since the arl been back to Castle Redcliffe. There were rumors floating about that Eamon was thinking of abdicating in favour of his brother, Teagan. Not a bad thought, Bryn believed, particularly in light of the leadership and nobility Teagan had shown during the siege of the village of Redcliffe.
"I am not your son. A fact that you made very clear during my childhood, as I recall." Alistair's reddish hair gleamed in the firelight, and she wondered if she'd ever get used to seeing him in the regular clothes of a nobleman, instead of the shining gold armor that marked him as Ferelden's King. Bryn's heart kicked in her chest, as it always did at the sight of her betrothed. He stood at the window, his back to Eamon where the older man sat at the conference table near the fire. He turned his head to level those glittering hazel eyes on the man who'd sheltered him after his mother died, his brows drawn low. Bryn recognized that look. Alistair was easy-going, popular with the people because of his laid-back nature and gentle humor, but beneath the sometimes goofy façade dwelled a warrior, a man who would always stand up for what he believed was right.
"Be that as it may, it changes nothing. You have a duty as King, as Maric's son. I had hoped that after the last time we'd spoken, you'd changed your mind."
"You think it's so terribly easy to just turn away, do you?" Alistair crossed his arms and his glare deepened. "Could you do the same? What if you'd known Isolde would produce a mage child? Would you have been able to turn off your love for her so you could marry someone else who'd give you a clear heir?"
Bryn's breath froze in her throat. Of course Eamon would be here, talking about this. A last effort before the wedding took place. As it weighed on her mind, obviously the subject of Alistair's heir--or potential lack thereof--burdened Eamon's thoughts as well. He'd never been pleased with their betrothal, and she knew he had pressured Cailan on the same matter after he and Anora had failed to produce an heir after five years. Eamon was a traditionalist, unable to see beyond the need to have Theirin blood on the throne. Maybe he was right.
"It's not the same, and you know it, Alistair. Redcliffe is important, yes, but I have no misconceptions about its place in the world. Ferelden needs the Theirin blood. You know this."
"And it has it."
"For now."
Alistair sighed, and his shoulders sagged. "Isn't that enough?"
"No." Eamon laid a hand on the table before him and studied the surface. Emotions played over his face, expressions that Alistair, with his eyes turned back to the window, didn't see. But Bryn did. She wondered if Alistair had ever had the conversation with Eamon about his mother's amulet, how the Arl had fixed it. She wondered if he knew how much he meant to Eamon. "She is the Hero of Ferelden, and no one doubts her abilities to lead your armies and this nation. But the two of you will not produce an heir. It's impossible."
"Unlikely," Alistair corrected, but without much conviction.
"Impossible. I was there when you spoke to the Orlesian Warden Commander on this. I haven't forgotten what was said."
"Nor have I."
A note of defeat crept into Alistair's voice, and Bryn laid her forehead against the doorjamb, her heart breaking. Bryn had been purposely busy elsewhere when the Orlesian Commander had visited, avoiding him and the questions they knew he'd bring. Alistair had told her little of that conversation, only that the Warden Commander had confirmed his conclusions that Grey Wardens were all but infertile.
Jaw set, the King turned to Eamon. "I won't do it. I am not Cailan."
Eamon looked at Alistair for a moment, his eyes shadowed. "No, your Majesty. You are clearly not." He rose, then paused, one hand on the back of his chair. "She is a good match for you, in everything but this. I wish…"
Alistair nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the window. Eamon continued out of the room, never seeing Bryn hidden by the door.
She let the shadows fall away and made sure her footsteps sounded on the stone as she entered the room. Alistair glanced at her, unsurprised. "I thought I saw something shadowing my door."
"You should have called the guards, then. It could have been an assassin." She crossed her arms over her chest. Her voice was strong, far stronger than she felt. Far stronger than she was.
"Luckily it was my assassin." His brows rose as he stepped away from the window, a smile bending his lips, but his expression darkened as he took in hers. "You heard that, I assume."
"He's right." Bryn coughed as her throat clogged, and she shook her head.
"Bryn--"
"I forced you into this. I announced it to the Landsmeet. You had no choice--"
"As our dear friend Morrigan was prone to pointing out, there is always a choice, my love." He strode across the room and laid his hands on her shoulders. "I want this. I want you. Do not doubt it."
"But I--"
"Do you remember that time in camp, on the road to Redcliffe after the Landsmeet? You asked me what our future would be."
Bryn nodded.
"And what did I say?"
She took a breath. "King or no, you'd find a way to make it work."
"I was thinking more of the 'I won't let you get away' bit, but that works too." He smiled down at her, lines crinkling into place at the corners of his eyes. "Do you love me?"
"You know I do."
"It never hurts to hear you say it."
A smile curled her lips to match his. "I love you."
"That's better."
"But you can't deny that Eamon is right."
"Eamon is not right." His eyes narrowed. "He knew that putting me on the throne was a risky proposition. I am a Grey Warden first. With a Blight or not, that means an early death. Even if I tried to have a child…with someone who wasn't a Grey Warden…it might not be possible. Grey Wardens are not supposed to be makers of babies, after all." His face lightened. "Killers of darkspawn, yes. Uniters of kingdoms, apparently so. Daddies? Not so much."
Bryn leaned her head against his chest and sighed as his arms closed around her, pulling her close. "I should say something to make you hate me enough that you'd be willing to put me aside."
"It could never happen. You made the mistake of listening to all of my bad jokes and even laughing at some of them, so I know what you really think." He kissed the top of her head. "Ignore Eamon. I plan to. He put me on the throne, so now he has to live with the consequences. I have a much better idea with which to occupy that brilliant mind," he murmured, a mischievous smile curling his lips. "Come to bed. Let's escape for a little while."
Bryn looked up at her husband-to-be. His eyes gleamed in the firelight, his interest plain. Once again, she thanked the Maker for him, for bringing the two of them together, for letting them remain so. She had to have faith. They'd make it work, somehow, despite everything conspiring to keep them apart. She nodded and let him lead her to the bedroom.