Bioware's Sandbox, I'm just playing with their toys.

Currently, this story is nearly intact on Bioware's Community Creations board. But I can put more smut in here.

Chapter 1

It had been two months without word.

Moira Surana sat in her study, staring at the flames in her fireplace. Perrin, her Mabari, sat with his great head on her small feet, snoring. Maker's breath she missed Alistair. It was still awfully cold at night and in the morning, but spring in Ferelden always had an uphill battle against the winter ice. The cold nights made his absence worse.

They'd argued, of course, about him answering the call of the Wardens at Weisshaupt. Moira knew it was a bad idea to send Ferelden's king on this errand, but he'd insisted.

"I know you're the Warden Commander, love, but they addressed the summons to me as Warden Commander. I need to go, at least to tell them they're mistaken," he held her much smaller hands in his as they sat facing each other on her bed. The rooms she kept in the palace at Denerim were separate from his. If only to put the lie to the rumors the king was sleeping with his elf-mage chancellor. The apartment was large with a sitting room and small room with a stone bath off to one side. The central chamber was where she slept in a giant four-poster bed that made her feel like a small child when he wasn't in it with her. And where he generally slept with her, the rumors be damned. His hands cradled hers as if he were afraid she'd break.

"They're going to want to know why we're alive, Alistair," she pointed out, looking down at their joined hands.

He ran a gentle finger along her jaw and tucked a lock of raven hair behind her pointed ear, then drew down to lift her chin to look her in the eye, "I know. And I'll play dumb, just like I said. Or blame it on Riordan. Let him be the hero."

"Maybe you should tell them," she had suggested. Shock widened his pale blue eyes.

"Uh, no, that's a bad idea. Bad, very bad. "

"Why? If something goes wrong, they'll at least be prepared to stop her," the elf mage pointed out.

"You suddenly not trusting the swamp witch, love?" His eyes crinkled at the corners, laughing at her.

She glared at him, "Of course I trust her. I'm just too suspicious and practical, both of which she would approve. All those books, they warp a girl's brain, you know." She stood up, she had to move around, talking of Morrigan always made her antsy, she missed her old friend. Her long robe covered her from neck to heel, but the soft wool still clung to her. She hated winter; she could never seem to get warm. Her long black hair was still damp from her bath, one he had yet to take, so she was colder than usual. She began to pace and could feel his eyes on her.

Moira knew Alistair loved to watch her move, her training as an Arcane Warrior had given her a grace she'd lacked as a clumsy, newly-minted mage, back when she'd first shown up at Ostagar. She'd tripped over her own feet more often than not while wandering the Korcari Wilds with him and Jory and Daveth.

"Take me with you, then," her voice was quiet.

"No. Both of us can't be gone," it tore his heart to say it, but it was true. They'd taken Morrigan's bargain, not just because Moira trusted the apostate woman, but because they knew without them both, Ferelden would fall back into the hole they'd dragged it out of. The mages and elves both clung to her as a living symbol of their struggles, and the humans looked to them to protect them. And there'd been no guarantee either of them, or Riordan, would make it to the Archdemon alive. When Riordan had fallen to his death, they had just looked at each other, through the smoke and the blood and the gore and the bodies. The ritual had been an act of desperation. Being together afterward, that was just a byproduct. "They addressed the summons to the Grey Warden Commander Alistair Thierin, not the Grey Warden Commander Moira Surana."

She made an impatient noise, "That's because they're idiots. They don't understand. Andraste's Ass, maybe it's because I'm an elf."

"I sincerely doubt that," he said, uncomfortable.

Moira changed the subject, knowing her outcaste-ness made him uncomfortable. Especially since she didn't rail against it, as he thought she should. But he was the one who'd decided to keep her as his mistress, after all, she was just playing by the rules that were still too entrenched to break. She knew he regretted not forcing their marriage down the Landsmeet's throat after the defeat of the Blight, but she doubted Ferelden could have handled a mage and an elf sitting beside a bastard king. She enjoyed being with the love of her life as often as his duties and hers, as Chancellor and Grey Warden Commander, would allow. He kept trying to figure out a way to marry her, now, but she knew it was an impossible dream, it was no longer her race, though, that was the obstacle. Eamon had pointed out the crux of the matter: Moira Surana had become too powerful an individual to also wield the title of Queen. Alistair was better off trying to find another of his father's bastards or one of his brother's if he needed an heir; her infertility was still a problem, after all. He refused to marry, and she didn't really want him to. Maker's breath, it might be worth it just to track down Morrigan for that child if he really needed one. But Moira, again, called herself selfish. Just to stay near him, she'd endanger his throne. They'd find a way around the obstacles. They always had.

From that first time in Lothering when Morrigan had taunted him about deferring to the older but junior female elf mage, the ultimate outcaste in Ferelden society, she'd never felt as if he were her subordinate. She'd consulted him at every step of their journey on each decision. She'd ignored his advice only twice, once when they'd rescued Shayle from her immobile prison and once when Zevran Arainai had tried to commit suicide by Grey Warden. Alistair had apologized, later, to her and to the two of them. Especially when one or both had saved his life many times over.

"On this, I'm right, and you know it, my love," he told her back as she still stood at the window looking out. He could see in the half-twilight that it was snowing again. "You're always saying we need to take advantage of those who underestimate you."

"But they're not supposed to be our enemies," she pointed out.

He shrugged his broad shoulders, "As you've pointed out to me many times, my love, an ally is an enemy who hasn't found a reason to betray you yet. You can only count on friends."

She laughed, in spite of herself. "Stop quoting me at me." He crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her, his chin resting on the top of her head. For some reason, she always smelled like roses and cinnamon.

"Why? You are entirely too wise for your years."

"I told you, it's all that reading. It's warped my mind."

They stood, watching the snow fall on the courtyard. He would be gone in the morning.

Zevran leaned in the doorway, watching the Grey Warden. Her beautiful sapphire eyes were focused on the flames in the fireplace, but he could tell her mind was wandering in the past. She'd done that a lot in the last month or so, when the letters from Alistair had abruptly ended. Her Mabari raised his huge head and looked at Zevran, assessed him and flopped back down on her small feet. She looked up at the door and smiled a greeting at the assassin. As always, Zevran felt his heart clench. Though to be fair, the bastard prince had won her heart long before Zevran had 'introduced himself.' Moira had only allowed Zevran's advances because Alistair had not yet made his move, and the mage, though confident in every other area of her life, had no clue about how to handle men. It had been dreadfully obvious to anyone who'd watched them those first months, though, what was happening. The elven assassin had wanted to throw his hat in the ring as a contender for her body, if not her heart, all the same. He'd lost, but retained her friendship. His one regret was that he'd not been the one to make her face light up as it did when the former Templar entered the room. He was, however, very glad when she'd offered him a place at her side when she stayed in Denerim. She'd even paid him well, while reluctantly sending him after a few of Loghain's more vocal supporters.

"Copper for your thoughts, my friend?" He asked, walking into the room.

Moira glanced up, "It's been too long. This isn't like him."

"This isn't like whom?" He played dumb, it usually got her angry. It was one of his few guilty pleasures left in regards to Moira. She was one of those fortunate women who got even more beautiful when she was angry. He was rewarded with a glare.

"Alistair, Zevran, Alistair. It isn't like him to stop communicating. The last note was merely a very terse, 'I've arrived,'" she told him.

"Yes, I know. And every letter prior to that has been explicit and detailed in what he intended to do to you upon his return, I know." He propped one hip on her desk, looking down at her.

She jumped up, startling her dog, "You read them! Zevran!" She was indignant!

He grinned, "But of course, m'Lady. It's my job to protect you, after all. That is one thing Alistair and I agreed upon when he departed."

She arched an eyebrow, "Protect me from what? Lustful thoughts? Lascivious letters? You realize I can shatter people with a word, right?"

"Nevertheless, I do what your king desires in this respect," Zevran said 'your king' deliberately. He'd never sworn to serve Alistair, after all, but if it had not been for the woman in front him, Zevran would have been friends with the younger man. But Moira turned them into rivals.

Zevran knew she valued his friendship highly. She saw in him a kindred spirit. Someone who didn't blink at her frequent ruthlessness. Alistair didn't blink, either, just tried to temper it, which he knew she valued even more. She wasn't comfortable with that part of herself and wouldn't allow it free reign. She'd been very uncomfortable putting that sociopath Bhelen on the throne, for instance.

"I don't actually care what he 'desires' in this respect. I'm leaving tomorrow. Arl Eamon is hanging around, he can make himself useful and keep the country from falling apart while I'm gone." Moira stood, her mind made up. Perrin scrambled to his feet, ready to follow her.

"And where is it we're going then, my dear Warden Commander?" the assassin asked, blocking her path to the door.

She looked up him. A glare crossed her features and he could almost hear her think, why did everyone have to be so much taller than she? Really, it was joke from the Maker. "I am going to Weisshaupt." The emphasis on the pronoun was obvious. "They can't hold the King of Ferelden indefinitely."

"They are not holding the King of Ferelden. They are holding a Grey Warden," the assassin pointed out, ignoring her pronoun usage.

"That's not the only hat he wears and you know it, Zev."

The tone in her voice made him step aside, "As you wish." He bowed at the waist, slightly. She glared at him one last time, before sweeping out of the room, her vibrant red fur-lined wool cape sweeping after her, her soft soled boots making no sound on the stone. He felt a moment of pride in that small achievement. That was something he'd taught her. However, no one could teach that dog to walk quietly, his claws clicked on the stone in her wake.

Moira found herself walking toward the armory. It would be good to have her armor and weapons again. The guard recognized her and unlocked the heavy doors for her, pushing them open. She stood for a moment, looking at the armor. The dragonscale armor she'd given Alistair before Landsmeet was gone, he'd worn it when he left, leaving that gaudy gold armor of the King of Ferelden behind. Her own armor hung toward the back, nearly hidden behind the guards' supplies. Shining silver, it was splashed across one shoulder with a stylized dragon as if painted in blood. The glowing green sword Starfang and and the shining silver sword Spellweaver hung crossed on a stand in front of it, she could really only use one at a time, but she carried both, just in case, with a long dagger for her off-hand. She supposed she could get a servant to bring it to her in her quarters. It would make packing that much easier. But she needed armor on. She felt too vulnerable.

It didn't take long to put on. It was much easier with a second pair of hands, though. Moira felt her face heat as she remembered the first time she felt secure enough in her abilities as an Arcane Warrior to finally put on armor. It took entirely too long because Alistair would stop after every buckle and tickle her wherever she wasn't yet covered in steel. She'd collapse in giggles and he'd kiss her thoroughly, only to start all over again with the next buckle. Oghren had eventually interrupted them by walking up behind them and belching loudly. While Alistair was kissing her. The rest of the armor went on quickly after that. As long as they didn't look at each other and burst out laughing again.

She was down to that last hard to reach buckle when Zevran walked into the armory.

"Following me?" she asked, straining.

"I told you once, I would to the Black City, if I had to," the elf replied. "Here, let me," He crossed the room quickly to help her reach that problematic buckle. Of course, he had to help her in the most suggestive way possible. He stood in front of her and reached around behind her, his hands lingered on the small of her back, his face less than an inch from hers. The buckle met and he grinned down at her.

She reached up and kissed him on the cheek, "Thank you. I have to talk to Arl Eamon, now," she picked up the two swords.

Zevran laughed, "You're awfully well armed to visit our friend the Arl."

"I guess I am at that. I suppose I should see him in the morning, then."

"I think that would be best, yes," he chuckled. She stepped around him, picking up her cloak and the heavy dress she'd worn earlier. She rarely wore dresses. She could almost hear his eyebrows raise.

She left him in the armory. The Mabari clicked along behind her, unquestioning. She did have a reason beyond insecurity for wearing her armor and putting her swords on her back. Zevran couldn't come with her, though he would try. Even now, she couldn't be sure he wasn't following her. But she'd have to sneak out somehow.

Fortunately, she'd already spoken with Arl Eamon that morning about being regent while she was gone; Zevran, of necessity, had been the last person she'd told of her plans. She did need to go back to her rooms, though. Her money was there, as well as her lyrium potion stash. The tiny vials were utterly necessary while she wore armor. Her magic was all that allowed her to wear it. Without it, she wouldn't have been able to lift even a greave.

She made it to her room and grabbed her pack with the lyrium and her money, and some changes of clothes, in case armor wasn't the fashion statement she needed to make as she traveled. The castle was silent this time of night. Only guards were awake, and none of them would stop her. Only Alistair could order them to stop her and well, he wasn't here.

Silently, she slipped out of the sally port, Perrin at her heels, and started walking. She'd buy what she needed on the road; the faster she traveled, the better.