Antivan Imports
Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to the Dragon Age Universe
A/N: I had this idea and it wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it out. It's set somewhere between the wedding and Awakening. Hope it's enjoyable. :)
Harris had done well in his life, were he to look back. After a decade of trying, risky service in the court of Denerim's secret affairs network, he had seized a golden opportunity when the late King Cailan had assumed the throne and become filthy rich in the process. On the eve before the battle of Ostagar he had been blessed with a secure income, the king's trust and dependence, a superior position among his former coworkers and considerable power over the menial staff in Fort Drakon. He had earned it all by himself and fortune had always smiled upon him.
It appeared the Maker favored him still, he thought to himself with quiet satisfaction, meticulously flattening the hems of his chemise as he stood. He had put a king on Ferelden's throne once more. Cailan's 'brother'.
A married king.
Nobody knew where he would've ended up if King Cailan's widow had been decreed Queen. The girls had been worried sick and would sometimes neglect to care for their well-being. Although, he thought idly, maybe that had also had something to do with some of their relatives dying in the Alienage or something. Who really knew?
He left his study and strode through the dimly lit corridors of Fort Drakon. There were servants all about, scraping on their knees, scrubbing and swabbing and cursing under their breaths. Months had passed since the Archdemon had been slain, yet the Fort had only recently been made fit for housing again. Harris swore that the foul scent of darkspawn still lingered. It was a shame to see this place so run down. He knew the palace like the back of his pocket.
"Elf! Attention!" he cried displeased as he passed by an elderly elven man, barely avoiding a large puddle of grey-brownish water on the stony floor. "Be quicker to clean up this mess. You're not paid to sit with your mouth wide open, catching flies. " The servant bowed his face even lower to the ground and resumed to scrub with a fastened pace, a frown etched into his wrinkly forehead. Keeping his watchful eye on the delinquent as he sped on, Harris bumped into one of the washing maids. A large red roll of curtain material dropped to the floor. He barely made out her mumbled "Shem'alas." as she bent down to gather it up and he certainly didn't understand it either, but he brutally pushed her to the ground for good measure, anyways. The elves were mucking up nowadays, after one of their own had ridiculously been appointed a Bann, and he didn't like it one bit. They needed to be put into their place.
The elven tart gasped, when her head made bloody contact with the floor. Whispers ran around. There were more 'Shem'alas' and even some daring 'bastards', but he paid them no heed. Like scrambling ants the elven servants gathered around the maid and helped her to stand. Harris readied himself to walk away from the scene, when a scornful female voice caught his ear among the choice words.
"Whore master!"
His head whipped around. An icy cold expression breached his face.
"What was that?"
Hushed silence befell the crowd.
The few human maids present slowly backed out of the floor. Harris' tone grew sharp and cutting. "Who said it?"
A slight rumble went to the crowd, but no response came.
"Answer now or I'll have all of you thrown out of the city!"
"'Twas her." A timid voice spoke and all heads turned. Harris stretched his neck, but saw nothing. A wave of approval suddenly encompassed the elves and they all nodded, agreeing, confirming, and shouting at the same time: "It was her, her, 'twas her!"
A thin, small blond elven girl was pushed towards him, her pigtails trailing after her. Harris looked at her incredulously. She seemed barely older than ten or eleven years, a typical elven urchin when it came to her features, but noticeably better dressed than the other servants. A plain, rough looking maid came forward and put her hand on the girl's shoulder.
"It was little Amethyne here, Master Thorne. What would you do with her?"
Ice-cold ire coursed through his veins as he perceived the smug glibness in the knife-ears' voice. He'd heard the name 'Amethyne' passing between the staff before – for some reason or another, the Queen had taken personal interest in a shoddy elven orphan and had her trained into becoming a personal maid. Slighting her was tantamount to slighting her benefactress and the knife-ears knew it. He stared them down, a vein in his forehead pulsing. Drawing negative attention towards himself by punishing them all for their lies would ruin his plans to secure his –at the moment- uncertain position in the palace's court. He pursed his lips tightly together, trying to ignore the shameless merriment of the lowlifes before him.
"Just don't let it happen again!", he bellowed and turned sharply on his heel, storming down the hallway. His ears burned with the elves' laughter and cheerful praises of the orphan's name. They would be celebrating their small victory over him for weeks to come.
It didn't matter, he told himself. He had a job to do and do it, he would.
Harris Thorne, highly distinguished agent of the king's mistresses, took his responsibilities very seriously. Knife-ears be damned.
.
"My deepest apologies, your Majesty, but I must humbly ask for an audience."
Alistair jumped in his seat at the sound of his study's door creaking open. Somebody had just said 'your Majesty'. That was his cue, right? He whirled around, pushing the complicated Antivan trading treaties he had been reading over and over for at least an hour now, aside. Where in the Fade was Eamon, anyhow? His 'advisors'? Or his wife for that matter? They'd be much, much more entertained with this tiresome task.
Oh right. He'd decided to learn how to do this properly on his own.
Well, blast it.
A willowy, grey-haired man in fine clothing and steel-blue eyes entered his view. Alistair hectically racked his brain whether he had seen that guy before, lest he had ignored yet another matter of protocol he hadn't even known existed. These days, there seemed to be a ton of important people he'd 'always needed' popping out of nowhere. It was entirely unfair that his noble bard of a wife did not only always seem to know about them before him, but also always had their names memorized already, like a walking encyclopedia of names. He'd be glad enough if he could safely relate their faces with their functions in court. If he took yet another informant for kitchen staff, his wife was going to hurt him.
"Err…Do come in. Please." Wait, did you say 'please' as king? "I mean…audition- audience, audience …uh…granted?"
Maker, he was still so not used to this. 'Your Majesty', the curtsying and the bowing, he was starting to stomach, but this whole etiquette thing on his side eluded him. Maybe he should ask his wife about it. She seemed perfectly content with wearing her nose up high and looking at others in that way, that way, that you just felt infinitely small and tiny. It was part of her charm, because you knew that she enjoyed acting the shrew far more than she should, but sometimes it was downright terrifying.
The man stepped forward and bowed swiftly, gracefully in a way that reminded Alistair unpleasantly of Zevran's antics when he passed him by in the hallway. The assassin was still creeping around in the palace somewhere by his wife's plea and seemed to find it the greatest riot ever to see him try ordering others about.
"My eternal thanks, your Majesty. I am aware of my audacity to approach you in this unseemly manner, but your generosity truly seems to know no limits."
Yep, definitely Zevran-esque. Only, this guy actually seemed to be serious. Alistair remained seated, uncertain of how to go on from here, casting an uncertain glance at the stuffed book cupboards at the walls of his wide study, the lavish carpet, the intricate paintings, vases, busts and thousands of other trinkets he wasn't sure what to do with. People seemed to love throwing expensive stuff at him these days.
"Err…and you are?", he launched in intelligently, because, damn man, was it so hard to give him a clue?
"Forgive me, your Majesty, I should not have kept you in obscurity. " The words rolled off smoothly the elder man's tongue. "I am your humble servant Harris Thorne and I have been in the court's service for well over a decade now."
"You…have?" Maker, but he had never seen that guy before. How long had they been running up and down the palace now? "Well, I am glad you've served this kingdom so… long."
Thorne inclined his head. "Most kind of your Majesty. I deal in…delicate matters and I have been glad to secure the late king's –Maker watch over him- trust and gratitude for it. If I may be forward enough to reveal my cause: I have come to you in the hopes of extending the same services to you."
Alistair blinked. "Delicate matters?"
He didn't like the sound if this. Whenever somebody came to him and spoke of delicate matters he either went out with a headache or… an even worse headache afterwards. It was bad enough when it concerned foreign relations or the stabilization of Ferelden (or in Zevran's case smug advice), but funnily enough these heavy topics didn't seem to concern people most of the time. If this was about yet another pointless flower arrangement in the palace's gardens as the last two had been, he was going to…to…do something. Did nobody remember that Ferelden had just had a Blight to contend with?
He folded his hands. "Well, I truly appreciate the offer, but I can assure you, that my gardens are most well-cared for."
Surprise flickered over Thorne's face. Uh-oh. So it wasn't about flower arrangements? Argh, where was a Darkspawn horde to throw yourself into, when you needed one?
"I must confess that I am astonished at your quick grasp of my business, Majesty, and, if I may, thoroughly admire your colorful use of metaphors." Uh…okay? "But I can guarantee you that nobody in this city manages these affairs as efficiently and clandestine as I. King Cailan always put his highest trust in my work."
Alistair squinted at the man. "Clandestine? You mean you perfomed…secretive tasks? For Cailan?"
The man paled, obviously flabbergasted. "Oh no, no, your Majesty, not I, most certainly not! I merely concern myself with the… acquisition and trustworthy care. Over the past five years, my contacts and I have established an extensive network that spans all over Thedas' finest places, made fit to suit any tastes and wishes."
"Aha. Okay." Alistair tried to figure him out. "So… you're procuring 'goods' a king can't 'get' otherwise, in …underhand dealings, do I understand correctly? Isn't that …very, very illegal?" He accompanied his conclusion with gestured quotation marks.
"Not at all, your Majesty. I've always taken extreme care that the contracts were a clean business and free of any complication as not to burden the King. Nevertheless, I pride myself in successfully satisfying any craving he may have had."
Alistair thought of the fantastic Orlesian cheese he'd snatched by chance in the kitchen of Redcliffe castle as a boy, when nobody had looked. Maker, he'd never tasted a cheese that heavenly ever again, but he hadn't caught its name back at the time. It was quite obnoxious, actually, that he still had no clue how to get his hands on it. Wasn't he king now?
Now there was an idea. He leaned forward in his chair, his voice slightly hushed with anticipation.
"Even…even Orlesian…?" Shaking his head, he interrupted himself.
It would be embarrassing to ask a well-dressed stranger to fetch him cheese of all things, just like that. He didn't need more rumors about the infamous Grey Warden appetite circulating through the palace. That one maid who'd surprised him one night in the kitchen had been mortified- and chatty!- enough.
A thin smile graced Thorne's face. He looked oddly…predatory. Or maybe Alistair was just starting to become paranoid. Being king could do that, he'd been told.
"Absolutely, your Majesty. I understand how precarious that particular …preference is, given the…err…situation." Alistair frowned. Err, thanks for calling him a pig? "Am I to believe, then, that you are inclined to make use of my services?"
"Well…" The prospect of Orlesian cheese was certainly very tempting. But he wasn't sure that engaging in smuggler-esque activity was the best way to kick off his rule. Ceridwen would certainly love to rub that moment of weakness in his face for years to come. He'd frowned at her often enough when she would do…less than legal things during their travels.
Thorne seemed to sense his hesitation. "I do not intend to rush you, my King. Perhaps you will allow me to offer you a sample of my inventory- no strings attached- before you decide whether to remain faithful to your other….sources or whether you prefer my employ."
"Uhm…that'd be…okay, I guess." Yes, he was a weak, weak man. So what? "Just…the once, right? To see how it goes?"
"My words exactly, your Majesty. Although I must humbly confess that it is not within my power to acquire an Orlesian…product right now. But I am confident that an Antivan piece of art will enrapture you just the same. Just the once."
Oh. Art, not cheese. Sounded more like something Ceridwen would like. Well, whatever, why not? For the longest time in his life he hadn't received any gifts whatsoever.
"Sounds good to me. Just let…uh…somebody drop it off in my private quarters, when you have it." He shrugged. "Would that be all then, Thorne?"
Thorne bowed again. "Your Majesty's patience is eternal and I shan't abuse it any longer. However, for reasons of 'discretion' I fear I must be audacious and inquire when exactly it would be convenient for your Majesty to receive the gift. It would be most advisable to keep the risk of disturbing the Queen as little as possible."
"Well, it won't kill her to open the door when it arrives, will it?" Alistair asked, somewhat confused. Of course, they were 'royalty' (and Maker, didn't that feel weird?) now and people fell all over themselves to pamper them, but it wasn't as if they were unable to perform the simplest acts of normal behavior. Well, he wasn't. Perhaps with Ceridwen it wasn't quite the same- that woman was simply born a noble at heart, Hero of Ferelden or no. But still, she wouldn't bite anyone's head off over someone delivering a package while he was away, right?
"I'm sure she'd like to have a look at it, anyway. She has a liking for Antivan handicraft. Her late sister-in-law was from Antiva, too, I think."
He completely missed the utterly horrified expression that flickered over Thornes' face in the shortest of moments. "But…ah…I guess that's none of your business, right?"
"Your Majesty…" the other man's voice sounded somewhat choked. "At the risk of straining my liberties too far, I must insist for the sake of public propriety….and make no mistake, your Majesty, the late King put his highest trust in my preserving discretion…it would be very inadvisable to…involve the Queen in these proceedings."
"Ah, you think she would disapprove, don't you?" Well, Alistair could get behind that. It wasn't really the time to task others to supply him with fine things, not when a quarter of Denerim still lay in ruins and his rule was but a little more than a few months old. He didn't want this 'Antivan piece of art'; anyway, he just wanted the cheese. Oh, that heavenly cheese.
Perhaps Ceridwen really didn't need to know.
"Most definitely, your Majesty, most definitely. It is why the service of someone as …inconspicuous as I is required, after all."
"Alright.", he conceded and reached for his quill and those damned Antivan trading treaties again –and why was everything so Antivan today? He should be on the watch out for that blasted assassin. "She's visiting her brother over in Highever sometime in the next weeks. Just ask…that woman with the blond…no was it red…? Mae-Mina-Mis- In the…ah…well, just ask someone important about it. If they give you a straight answer, count yourself lucky."
"Of course, your Majesty. Too kind, your Majesty. I shall not disappoint." Thorne bowed one last time, slowly backing away. Alistair returned his eyes to the papers and started to skim over the passages.
"Hmmm…"
"Good day, your Majesty. Long live your Majesty."
"Hmmm…" Alistair's quill leaned against his cheek. Much too many numbers and figures for his liking. Somehow this almost felt like lessons in the Chantry again. Except for the totally unrelated subjects, of course. "Feel free to go. I mean…dismissed?"
The other man left the room quietly and quickly, like a ghost.
Alistair stilled as his eyes caught sight of a table detailing the most common imported Antivan goods and flushed.
Dear Maker. What were those Antivans trading in? And…Ferelden people actually bought that?
Suddenly he had a very bad feeling about the deal he had just made.
Antivan 'piece of art', indeed.
.
"Ah, greetings, oh great King of the great Land of Dogs!"
Alistair restrained himself from sighing. Maker, sometimes he hated the fact that his wife just had to befriend a smarmy assassin. He hated even more that it was actually a pretty good idea to keep said smarmy assassin friend around to guard their backs while things were still fresh and new.
But that didn't matter now, anyways. Glancing over his shoulder and finding himself for once, once, unwatched, he gestured for Zevran to slide over to the back entrance of the throne room with him.
"Zevran. Psst. Zevran."
"Yes?" the elf said with only a hint of confusion. Alistair shook his head, urging him to go on until they had reached a more secluded corner, making oh-so-casual strides forwards.
"Don't turn around." He spoke out of the right corner of his mouth, comically trying to appear nonchalant while being awfully fidgety. "Do you see that servant over there?"
There wasn't even the slightest hint that Zevran had looked past them, yet he seemed to spot her perfectly well. "You mean that exquisite specimen of a well-endowed elven lass? Ah, but she is a delectable feast for the eyes."
"She's totally creepy." The king of Ferelden whispered frantically. "She turns up scrubbing the floor everywhere I go, always going over the exact same motion. She even says the same thing every damn time somebody talks to her. It's like those nobles in the Free Marches. They say they stand around in their Viscount's palace for years, continuously complaining over the same thing. It's just unnatural!"
"That would seem a little awkward, I assume, but I am not sure I understand what it is you wish to tell me." Alistair leant in closer, his voice almost conspiratorial. "I have the feeling she's watching me." He flinched, when the servant glanced in their direction.
Zevran led out a hearty laugh. "Well, you are the king, no? It tends to attract attention. Surely you will not have noticed this only now. Put a man in a shiny armor and give him a precious crown and a woman's eyes are bound to linger on him. It almost does not matter what the man inside looks like. You should consider yourself lucky, yes?"
"Ouch, you just cruelly stabbed my manly, manly pride. ", Alistair said flatly and scowled at the assassin. "But that's not what I meant. It's like she's assessing what I do. Like…gauging an animal ready for slaughter. Creepy."
Zevran's body tensed and his fingers brushed his daggers ever so subtly. All humor was gone from his voice as he spoke. "How long has that been going on?"
"Uh…about a week, I think. She just popped out of nowhere, I don't know. The other servants won't talk to me! You know, me being king and all that."
"Are you quite certain?"
"Positive. I think even Eamon commented on her once."
"And here I was starting to think Fereldan court life was just as terribly tiresome as Fereldan poetry." A sigh escaped Zevran's lips, somewhere between nostalgic and resigned. They both quickly turned away as the suspicious servant's gaze crossed theirs. "Oh well. I shall endeavor to make inquiries about our nicely bosomed spy over there."
Alistair lifted an eyebrow.
"'Inquiries'?"
"Only the pleasant kind. Or the unpleasant one. But only if she is willing to go for it. Never let it be said that I am one to ignore a beautiful woman's needs."
"Zev…"
"Ah, do not lose your kingly head over this, my friend. Just grant me a favor and keep your lovely wife's nose out of it. Her uncanny ways of slighting others into submission with questionable wit might complicate my proceedings."
"You're asking me to keep that from Ceridwen?", Alistair laughed incredulously. " You know she always finds out stuff like this. She could probably run this place all by herself."
"Alas, my inherit tactfulness forbids me to agree, but I must insist. Just use your imagination. Surely by now, you must have learnt at least some ways to distract her, yes?"
The expression on Alistair's face took a slight turn to downright murderous, but his reply was cut short by a messenger running towards them. The young man bowed, his words coming out in a rush.
"The Queen and her honored guests just arrived from their visit in the city again, your Majesty."
"Ah… yes, thank you." The messenger bowed again and darted for the door.
"Saved by the Queen herself!" Zevran laughed, took a step back and weaseled away faster than Alistair could call after him. Out of sight, out of mind.
Maker, he hated that damn Antivan. Okay, hate was perhaps an overstatement. But extreme dislike actually came pretty close.
He shook his head and turned to pass through the renovated throne room in order to receive his wife and her 'honored guests'. More social calls and awkward conversation with people neither of them could stand for hours to come. As if he had nothing else to do. Yay.
As he left, he felt the burning stare of the elven servant on him and he quickened his pace almost immediately. If he didn't know better, her gaze seemed almost …sensuous. Not in the 'good' way though…rather in the way the…err…workers at the 'Pearl' might have looked at him, while calculating how many coin he had with him.
Creepy.
.
"Alright, I must confess it. This woman is a professional." Zevran exclaimed days later, putting his hands up in defeat as he slumped down next to Alistair on a bench in the newly arranged palace gardens. Alistair still didn't quite know how he had managed to squeeze these few precious minutes of leisure into his tightly-packed schedule, but he had been curious enough to hear Zevran's finding. Which seemed to be nothing at all. "Nobody knew anything of substance, yet too much for her to appear suspicious. She would not tell me a single thing other than what we already know. Somebody must have trained her well."
Alistair snorted. "Perhaps you just aren't as irresistible as you always claim."
"It is much more probable that somebody has trained her really, really well."
"Riiight."
"For years, I am most sure of it."
"Of course. Not. I'm so onto you, you can't fool me. Oh, how the mighty crumble."
"Speaking of which.", Zevran retorted swiftly, his ever-present cheeky grin still in place. "I could not help but notice that Ceridwen looked particularly well rested today. She almost… glowed in the aftermath of a long good night's sleep. Are you… feeling alright?"
Alistair kicked the dust with his fine court shoes that felt entirely too light and flimsy.
"Maker, I hate you so much."
.
He was never going to put more than three nobles together in the same room ever again. Never again. His head was still aching with all the screeching, roaring and screaming that had ensued as soon as the assembly hall's portal had shut. It wasn't that Ferelden's nobility hated him. They just hated to let him keep his sanity. After a few more, eternal minutes of 'Yes, your Majesty', 'Sure, your Majesty' he finally pushed open the doors of his and his wife's private quarters and heaved a great, exhausted sigh. Silence. Finally.
He had already found that wasn't all that bad to be in charge, actually. But it would be so much better if everyone else just shut up for a while.
He trotted over to the large, fluffy bed that just seemed to scream his name and fell unceremoniously on top of the thick, embroidered blankets, stared up at the ceiling. What a day. What a day. It didn't exactly help that this enormous, almost much too comfortable bed was very much empty, of course. Ceridwen was still with her brother in Highever. She'd put this visit off far too long, now, afraid of facing her former home and the dreadful memories of her last moments there, even though she would not admit it. But he got that. Returning to Ostagar that day, reviving these horrors, had been a …harrowing experience.
He closed his eyes, exhaustion claiming him. Maker knew, he had endured day long marches through any kind of climate and vegetation, he'd lived through constant battles on the road and even through sex with Morrigan, but a handful of cranky nobles was sufficient to drain all of his energy. If darkspawn so much as thought of disturbing his sleep tonight, he was going to run his poor, neglected sword through something. Or someone. Preferably Bann Ceorlic, after today.
His thoughts were just about to drift over into oblivion as a faint knock at the door made his eyes shoot open. Andraste's sword, what was it now? Luckily he was still dressed.
Alistair reluctantly lifted himself off the bed and walked over to the richly carved door. It was a shame his wife had taken Cahan with her to Highever. That Marbari would've been pretty useful to frighten anyone away who tried to keep him from getting his well-deserved rest. Sleep was important to warriors. Even more so for kings.
"Yes, yes, what's the matter?", he mumbled in a most undignified way, opening the door. It was perhaps a foolish thing for a king to do so himself, but he wasn't exactly helpless and he was pretty sure he would've noticed a fight taking out the guards in front of the outer doors of their quarters. For everything sneaky and dangerous…well, that was why they kept Zevran around.
He was greeted by the sight of his stalker elven servant and froze.
"Err…"
"Greetings, your Majesty." Faster than he could blink, she pushed herself between doorframe and door, putting a hand suggestively on her hip.
She was quite a beautiful woman with a lightly tanned skin, curly black hair and those infamous large green elven eyes. Only it had never been this obvious, because until just now he had never seen her in anything but the plain clothing most maids wore around the castle. Now however, she was clad in a richly adorned, tight-fitting red silken robe that strongly emphasized her curves. Which weren't all that many in comparison to a human woman's, which, again, were all he was familiar with, really. It was an absurd thought to have right then and there, but most human women had the strangest figure actually, his wife included. Thin necks, thin limbs, small waists, even the warrior ones, but comparatively enormous…assets. How they supported that weight seemed quite impossible, but it worked. Not that he complained.
Anatomy lessons aside, he was quite lost as to why the persistent elf was standing before him dressed like a very….self-assured noblewoman. And smiling at him so strangely. Almost like a hunter. His wife was a ranger, so he'd seen that expression before. In Ceridwen's case, however, it had almost always ended with one creature dead.
"What…what are you doing here?", he asked lamely. If he went down as the worst speaker of Ferelden's kings he wouldn't be much surprised. The elven woman laughed coquettishly, her white teeth flashing in the low light of the room. She leant forward and, almost immediately, he stumbled one step back.
"Master Thorne has sent me." Sweet perfumes filled his nose. "I am Lizabetta."
"Uh…aha." Alistair tried to focus on where he had heard that name before and not on how the servant invaded his personal space with her protruding body parts. "The….The Antivan delivery, right? That was it, wasn't it?"
"Why, yes, your Majesty." It was only then that he noticed her accent. It wasn't as full as Zevran's, but clear enough.
It dawned on him then.
She had stalked him and refused Zevran's advances. She had turned up dressed in a small nothing in front of his bedroom, trying to lull him in. She had not brought a delivery of any kind.
She spoke with an Antivan accent.
Maker's Breath, the elf was a Crow.
Alistair recoiled from her intrusive form, his mind reeling. She was a puny little thing and he could take her out easily with one blow. But he'd seen Zevran fight many times and if there was anything he had learnt then, it was that the Crows fought dirty, with incredible dexterity and enormous amounts of poison. One suspicious movement and she was most likely to poison him to death with one tiny cut, before he came to land a punch – he was unarmored, after all. He cursed in his mind.
Where was that damn assassin, when one needed him?
He scooted further back, subtly etching towards the cupboard on the far left of the bed on which the sword he had wielded in the Battle of Denerim was stashed. Warriors could be very swift with a sword, too, if needed.
"I am so very glad to meet you, your Majesty." Lizabetta, as she had called herself, cooed, batting her eyelashes at him. Okay, he knew he was in the process of someone trying to seduce him, but this was really weird. And surreal. But mostly weird. It was the sort of behavior Leliana had described to him once as a 'bard's practice'. Seemed to apply for Crows as well.
For a split-second he tried to picture Ceridwen pull of that act and failed horribly. Luckily.
His bard of a wife loved to manipulate others by using their egos and weaknesses against them, not her own sexual appeals. Thank the Maker for that, or he may not have survived the Blight. He wasn't even sure if he would survive these and the Crow was not even close to his preferred type of woman.
"I've seen so much of you already, all these long, lonely days."
"Ah…aha. I see." Alistair's eyes widened in apprehension as she reached out for him, this sickening sweet smell overwhelming him and he flinched away. He was not going to die by poison. Oh, no, never like this.
The Crow tilted her head, a curious gleam in her eye.
"Is your Majesty not satisfied with me?"
"You should hope so, mi hermosa. His wife is secretly the insanely jealous type."
A wave of mind-shattering relief washed over him as Zevran's smooth voice rang out into the room. The assassin stepped out of the door's shadow, his daggers glinting silver. Lizabetta gasped, as she whirled around.
"Qué….?"
"The real question now, I believe, is what you plan to do with Ferelden's King."
.
It was late, late into the night, only a couple hours before dawn, when she arrived at the Palace. The journey had been uneventful, but tiring all the same, even if she'd had the luxury of a personal carriage. There were only few lights still burning inside of Fort Drakon. In the dark of the night it almost looked as dreadful as it had, when she had been imprisoned in its vaults. Unpleasant times.
The Queen of Ferelden strode quickly trough the shadowy corridors, trying not to think too hard on the gloomy feeling in the pit of her stomach. Highever had been hard enough. But would it kill anyone to put up more torches in this Maker-forsaken place?
Faint voices and high-pitched laughter reached Ceridwen's ears as she approached her personal quarters and she frowned. She hoped the guards did not take to abandoning their duties or she would have to have words. Night watch was no time at all for philandering, especially not in times like these. She would know.
But as Ceridwen made out the outer doors of the royal quarters, she found the guards on their posts as always. They greeted her politely, even if the expression on their face seemed strained. Bemused, she brushed past them. Light shone before her, from her and Alistair's bedroom.
It was also where the cheery voices came from. She stood, a jolt running through her body.
What in the Fade was going on here?
"…an' he made me call myself 'Lizabetta', too…" A slurred, female voice echoed through the hallway. "S'stupid name, issnit? I's just…I was jus'…Laina…but he said….he says: Laina's stupid…name…too elv…elf-y. So's I…changed…"
"You don't say. I am deeply aggravated on your behalf, mi hermosa."
"Zevran?" Ceridwen mouthed voicelessly, her brows furrowed in confusion. What was Zevran doing with a strange woman in her bedroom?
"…hey…where'you goin'…shemlen…kingy? 'Snot Morning, yet, issit? "
"Uh…I think I've had enough. More than enough, actually."
"'Ssuit…your…self, then. Hrmpf. Is he…always so…stuck up…Zevvie?"
"We call it sadly underdeveloped, actually."
"Ha, ha, very funny, very funny." Alright, that tone and attitude was familiar. Ceridwen cautiously tipped nearer, but before she reached the room, the door flew wide open and light flooded the entire corridor. A well-known figure staggered into view. She squinted for a moment.
"Alistair?"
"Ceridwen!" The figure came nearer and enveloped her in a crushing hug. "You're back!"
"And you're…drunk." She assessed with a frown as she recognized the faint, lingering scent of alcohol. "In the middle of the night."
"Just a little. Zevran's fault. He and that elven woman…ugh. It was alcohol or jumping off the roof, really."
"I…see." More laughter rang from inside their bedroom. She loosened his grip on her and clicked her tongue. "And Zevran is having a cozy little party with an elven woman in our bedroom, why…?"
Alistair chuckled, his tone only a slight bit off. "It's a funny story, really. She was to bring a delivery from Antiva, only there was none. So I thought she was a Crow, so Zevran made her drunk, so we found out she wasn't a Crow and so…he was being Zevran with her and so I had to drink."
"What? That makes no-"
The laughter stopped abruptly and the royal couple's eyes widened as an entirely new series of sounds started to ring out into the night. Quiet at first, but very quickly increasing in volume.
"Uh oh."
Ceridwen slapped a hand over her mouth, her cheeks slightly flushed, her eyes almost round. "That's…not actually happening, right now, is it?"
Alistair seemed even more mortified. "In our…our…No. Maker. Maker! That's just not right."
Their gazes met, both of them equally flustered. With a start, they fled the hallway quickly, stumbling out into the dark corridors with little care for directions.
"We're burning those sheets, tomorrow." Ceridwen called as they ran.
"And we'll buy a new bed."
"And we'll move our quarters to the other side of the palace."
"And…Oh Maker.", Alistair faltered and stopped dead in his tracks. "In our bedroom?"
"Well…" Leaning against him, Ceridwen grimaced. Their breaths went raggedly. "At least now… we know… how it must've been for our party at camp."
"Oh great." He covered his face with his hands. "But still…in our bedroom?"
"Hmhm."Ceridwen gasped. She barely noticed anymore how tired she'd been moments ago. "Wow. What a welcome."
And then… she laughed. A pure, full, cheerful laugh that seemed almost foreign coming from her, who always tried so hard to act poised and collected, keeping people away by affronting them with dripping sarcasm. The kind of laugh that had so rarely resurfaced even before her life had changed so dramatically. It bubbled forth with an irresistible force and it was most contagious.
When at last they did calm down again, there was still the remainder of a mirthful twinkle left in Ceridwen's eye.
"One problem, though."
"Oh?"
"Where do we sleep now?"
.
Harris Thorne was absolutely horror-stricken. He blazed towards the king's study, his well-kept burgundy chemise flattering in his wake as he twisted his mind to find out just where he could have possibly gone so wrong. The scornful chuckles and giggles of the servants he passed seemed to burn his skin. This was his walk through fire. The ultimate shame.
Why?
Lizabetta had been one of his finest finds. A well-grown elven beauty, experienced, but neither vulgar nor flighty. The perfect sample to forward to a new king- it was a well-known fact that most noble adulterers took to taking elven mistresses. She had been so responsible towards her cause, too. Maybe, he thought bitterly to himself, that was just another proof for the fact that knife-ears couldn't be trusted. He was the fool for believing otherwise.
And now he was doomed.
There had been several guards and servants who'd seen her leave the royal couple's bedroom together with that fiendish elf who had paraded around the palace as some sort of bodyguard since King Alistair's coronation. He could only imagine in which state the king must've left the scene. And if that was not enough of a deathblow already, there were several other servants who swore upon their very grave that they had seen King and Queen sneak out of a lumber-room together, their clothes slightly disordered. On hearing this, Harris had been close to despairing.
He had promised the King a most satisfactory service for this night, but instead it had led to the king having to lay with his wedded wife instead of a luscious, well-trained mistress. In a lumber-room, no less. Marriages were a matter of convenience and the conceiving of an heir, but not of pleasure. A simple calculation, in Cailan's case as in the new king's one. Theirin heirs and a teyrn's daughter. No more, no less.
'Twas why people like Harris had to assume the position of a well-meaning 'advisor' who pushed their clients towards satisfying relationships and took care to keep the entire affair under wraps. It had worked so well with King Cailan for years. Why would he loose his touch all of a sudden?
"Who's gonna get kicked out of the city, now, eh Shem?"
"'Just don't let that happen again', right?"
"Na-ah! Don't you know? He's done with anyways!"
Harris clenched his teeth and took a deep breath, willing himself to stay calm. Closing his eyes as to gather his courage, he pushed the door to the king's study open.
.
"Your Majesty…I cannot even begin to tell you how devastated and undeserving of your forgiveness I am."
Alistair looked up from his papers, a small smile on his face. No jumping this time. He was in a good mood. Tired, but in a very good mood.
That strange Master Thorne practically groveled inches above the floor. Why, what a surprise. He'd wondered whether or not he would turn up here today. Luckily he'd finished his counsel with Eamon half an hour ago. It would have been quite awkward to have that conversation with the Arl present. A shame that Ceridwen wasn't around, though- it would have been pretty funny to see that little guy squirm under her gaze.
"Thorne.", he addressed him neutrally. "I guess this is about the …uh…'Antivan delivery'?"
"Quite right, your Majesty, quite right. What happened there was the greatest tragedy I ever-"
Alistair frowned slightly, if amused. "That's somewhat of an overstatement, don't you think?"
"—and the depths of my sorrow truly know no ending-"Suspicious choking sounds came from the back of the man's throat. "But this was an atrocity I never, not in my wildest dreams, never, ever anticipated…."
"Hey, calm down, man, calm down." Alistair held up his hands as if to block the sudden onslaught of self-deprecating comments. "It's not your fault the goods never came."
"But they did come!", lamented Thorne heartbreakingly. "Only they came to the wrong address."
"All the more reason not to blame yourself. It wasn't necessarily nice…or… " He shuddered and decided to end that line of thought right there. In his bedroom, really. The first one he'd ever owned. Damn the assassin. "But it's all done with. Laina explained."
She hadn't really explained why on Thedas she had been so damn creepy about her auxiliary income as Thorne's delivery woman beforehand, but who knew? You never knew with Antivans. Maybe they had an innate hunting-mating season and Zevran was just chronically thrown into it.
Thorne seemed confused. "Laina?"
"The woman you tasked with the delivery? Laina? Uh…or 'Lizabetta', I guess."
"Lizabetta, yes." Ice-cold fury dripped from the man's voice, before he returned to whining. "Please…Your majesty, I know I can never make up for-"
"It's alright, aren't you listening? It wasn't your fault. I wasn't paying for the delivery anyways, right?"
Thorne seemed speechless. "So you would…you would…your Majesty!"
Alistair still held the idea of tasting that fantastic Orlesian cheese again close to his heart, he wouldn't lie. And if Thorne was so desperate to make up for Laina's questionable choices in coupling, anyways…
"I would be willing to give your services one more try, Thorne. If you can in fact…you know…'get' it."
"Oh anything, your Majesty, anything you desire!"
"Well, it's this really great Orlesian cheese. I'd really love to have me some of that."
Thorne hesitated. "Cheese, your Majesty? Your…use of metaphors truly speaks for an active mind."
Alistair's eyes glazed slightly over. He barely registered Thorne's words. "It was a bit older, too, they have that technique in Orlais…it looks shriveled, but it has a kick, phew!"
The other man paled. "Shr-Shriveled, your Majesty?"
"Yes, completely shriveled, and stinky, oh Maker, it stinks!"
"Stinks?"
"Yes, don't you know?" Alistair nodded forcefully. "Those with the most unbearable, nastiest stench taste the best."
There was a loud thump and faster than he could blink, Thorne had passed out on the floor. Flabbergasted, Alistair straightened in his chair.
"Uh…" That had not happened before; he had to give him that. "Was it something I said?"
"He wasn't trying to supply you with actual goods, love."
Alistair started pretty unkingly and whirled around, raising his arms protectively over his face. His hysteric gaze fell on his wife who stood a few feet away from him, leaning casually against a book shelf. "Ceridwen! Where did you come from?"
"I've just discovered that I've actually been a mage all along and I've been practicing my teleporting spells.", she drawled with the faintest of smiles. He stared at her. Not because he believed her nonsense, but because where by Andraste's flaming sword had she just come from? She sighed.
"Uh, rogue, ranger, bard here, remember? Take your pick."
"Well…" he muttered, putting a hand on his fluttering pulse. "Just…Don't do that again. It's bad enough when Zevran does it, but he's a sneaky assassin, so he kind of gets away with it. When you do it, it's just…creepy." He blinked and gestured over to the unconscious Thorne.
"And what do you mean he wasn't trying to supply me with actual goods?"
She walked over to his desk, hips swaying beneath the blue, shimmering velvet of her dress. It had been very strange to see her out of armor during those first weeks, but she actually preferred it this way and he had to – albeit grudgingly- admit, that this impractical clothing had its benefits. He reached for the hem of her long right sleeve and pulled her down to his lap. She leant against him, casually remarking:
"He wanted to make one of his charges your mistress. Someone like Laina."
"M-Mistress?" he sputtered, shell-shocked. But they had never even mentioned any women during their conversations, had they? At least not in that way, right? "What? Why would you say that?"
"I made Zevran run a background check on him this morning, lined up the servants to tell me more and snooped in the remainders of Cailan's journals in the attic." She replied, not batting an eye. "…And I asked Laina. Mostly just that, really."
"But…we never even talked about…you know."
"Harris Thorne has set up most of Cailan's relations out of wedlock during his reign. He's searched for appropriate candidates – the mistress type, not…ah… the womenfolk in the 'Pearl', made sure the women were well-cared for and concerned himself with keeping the entire thing discrete lest it blemished Cailan's or Anora's reputation." Ceridwen recanted as if she had learnt the entire thing by heart, shuddering ever so slightly when she mentioned the 'Pearl'. Alistair shook his head.
"The more I hear about my 'blood relatives', the more I wonder…." A disbelieving laugh escaped him. "Wow. Talk about a misunderstanding."
"It was a misunderstanding, though. Right?"
He pretended to think very hard on this one.
""Because I am not going to be all acceptant of—"
"Are there any Archdemons near that need slaying?"
"….What? No. Of course there aren't, you know that."
He snaked his arms around her waist and laid his chin on her shoulder. Her buns of hair tickled awfully as he spoke:
"Well, then I guess I'm going to leave sinful midnight trysts to Zevran. But he should take them to his own damn room, next time."
Ceridwen chuckled, entangling herself from his grasp to stand, and put a hand on her hip.
"Seems good enough to me. Now come, your Majesty. I've passed at least a dozen people desperate to speak to you on the way here."
He followed after her, sighing. "Maker, if they call for another assembly this week I swear, I'm going to…hey, wait. What do we do with Thorne here?"
She shrugged. "Someone is going to pick him up right? Eventually?"
"Yeah, you're right." Alistair shut the study's door behind him, nodded at the guards and began to speed down the hallway. He was greeted with hasty bows, stumbled addresses and even more biddings and complains right away, just like any other day. At least the elven servants seemed pretty peachy for some reason.
A quiet mutter passed between his lips, as he and his wife entered the throne room.
"Damn shame about that Orlesian cheese, though."
.
..
...
A/N: I had Zevran stay in Denerim for a while after the Archdemon was slain, so yeah. I didn't romance him, so why wouldn't he go for a night with a pretty Antivan elven maiden? It was bound to happen. :D Also, I wish Couslands would've had the option to do something about Amethyne. At least talk to her or something. Oh well, in my headcanon, my Cousland did help her after the Blight. Also, I didn't mean to diminish Cailan or something. Just poking fun at the whole thing, really. The rest was just...a spur of the moment thing. Pretty unrefined, but whatever. I just wanted to get it out of my head and I thought, why not post it up? Someone might get a chuckle out of it.
I will cherish any kind of feedback dearly, so if anyone did read this, please don't make me think I'm spamming the site with my useless ramblings. :)
-Meduse