This will be a small collection of post-game slices of married life between Anora and Alistair with his mistress, the female Warden. Mostly in Anora's perspective. Includes a hardened, and therefore angsty, Alistair. The chapters, each their own short story, will be somewhat connected but aren't actually in any specific or chronological order (so it may be confusing? I hope not.)
Important tip: read slowly cause they're really short.
First one: on loveless sex.
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Duty
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o
Duty is the proper word for it now.
There is no intimacy, no wavering hands or soft eyes, no whimpers or sweet words, no kissing. There is a quiet in the dim room during these times, where the air is penetrated only by the rustle of linen and involuntary sounds from an instinct long buried within.
Anora does not mind him during this duty. She has long forgotten (and perhaps misses) times of caresses and hot breaths with her last husband. There will be no more late night—early morning—conversations, when her hair was down and neither had a crown to attend; when she and Cailan would speak of simpler things such as the flowers in the garden, the cooks' recent pastries, or the features of the heir that eluded them (with her nose and mouth but his gentler eyes).
During these nights, she takes note of Alistair. She studies his shut eyes, his mouth in a faint frown, his eyebrows furrowed at his efforts and perhaps frustration. Sometimes, he buries his head on her shoulder, in the crook of her neck, on the pillow.
He does not look at her.
After they finish, he moves to his edge of the bed, immediately gathering his trousers and a thin robe. Anora remains on her back, pulling the sheets up to her chest, gazing at the ceiling above. Sometimes he sleeps, as far from her as the bed will allow. Most nights, he leaves their sanctuary of linen, stokes the fireplace once or twice for her, and exits the room with a quiet 'goodnight.'
It is during these nights that the room is coldest.
"Am I that revolting to you?" She asks one night, after a session of their duty. She has managed to pluck up the will to ask, even though she already knew the answers that lie ahead. He turns to her, already standing and half-dressed. His face, usually with a mask around her, was cracked with worry (or guilt), like an adulterous lover, caught.
"No," was his answer laced with caution as he continues to don his robe. This night, he is slower and more deliberate as he nudges the dying flames of the fireplace. The ceiling does not offer the same solace this night and she turns, facing away from him as she hears his steps make their way towards the door. She notices his hesitation at the door.
"You are the queen, and I your king, Anora," He says heavily, as if he had been preparing—dreading—this for a while. "But she…she is my all."
He takes his exit, with no 'goodnight' this time and his words sealing a silent confession and conclusion between the two (plus one) of them of the future to come. A breeze enters the room but it is not why Anora shivers.