WHAT IS LOST
Authors notes: Oh hi there! Yes, another Dragon Age fan! I don't want to give too much away about the plot, but this takes place before, and after Awakening, so spoilers will arise. You've been warned. Aside from that, I hope you enjoy the story—a little exploration of the hazards of married life, and the temptation riddled between two warring pairs. Without giving too much away, expect a couple of other pairings on this expedition.
--Dagny.
Warnings: none.
The first time they lost a child, she fought to keep it.
The second, she barely felt (but she remembers the blood; Wynne muting her wail as she's cradled to her chest.)
Alistair is asleep behind the desk. The fire smoulders, crackling on charred wood behind him. His hair glows amber in the light. A petty scowl on his face tells her he's dreaming, (lately its politics, mutiny and taxes; less darkspawn, no archdemons) eyes darting behind closed lids. As she maps his face, Dorcas recognises the simmering thrill of attraction gnawing at the base of her gut. It's buried behind the weight of her growing stomach (she touches it, reaffirming that it's still there) and slinks away before it lulls her towards him. Instead, she stands stoic by the doorway, wonders why his face is lines free while she's becoming noticeably older every day. He tells her otherwise. She doesn't believe it. But, with a satisfied sigh she knows he hasn't been sleeping (the skin beneath his eyes are bruised with insomnia.) Zevran says he sulks outside her halls four times a week (used to be daily.)
Her stomach gives an uneasy jolt, and the retired Warden stifles a grunt of discomfort. The vomit piles in her stomach with a familiar wrench (Alistair stirs, from his seat, shoulders heaving) and she scurries from the room.
When he wakes, he catches the rustle of fabric, the clapping of footsteps rising over the haze of sleep. Rubbing his eyes, the biting winter cold hits him first; the heavy tongue, the burp that stinks of liquor (Oghren's, he's sure) comes after. He's fallen asleep again, he notes, this time on a political novella, Eamon lent him on his last visit. A puddle of dribble has blurred the ink. Dully, he arranges himself, pushes letters, messages, requests, scrolls, out from under him. The open door groans, swaying once, twice, on its hinges before stopping. With a frown he clears his throat.
'L-Lelianna?'
There's a pause.
'Yes, your majesty,' comes the cooing tones of the bard. She doesn't enter. Alistair studies her silhouette.
'Was it her?'
No response. Rising from the chair, he lets a hand wander under the slip of his robes. He scratches his chest idly, at faded war wounds now white with age. On the bed, the spare blanket lies on a neat pile. Untouched—with a bitter smile, he murmurs to himself—to Lelianna, who is ever vigilant.
'She always used to wrap me up, you know?' He trails away (rubs his mouth with his fingers, stumbles on a hoarse laugh) 'Woman was more terrified of catching a cold than darkspawn. Now—now I'm not sure what's she's afraid of.'
In the silence, he throws a sympathetic glance towards the door.
'You could go back to her. It's not treachery.'
Subtle movement follows. Alistair thinks she's fixing her hair.
'With all due respect, sire,' she begins, 'our commander is in the wrong. I'll stand by you until she has regained some of her former reason.'
He's warmed by the comment, but chills continue to race along his spine. At his leisure, he ambles to the empty bed, rolls under the lavish covers and wonders how they survived their travels under patchy cotton blankets.
'Besides, she has Zevran, and Anders protecting her. She's in good hands.'
Safe hands, she means to say—for Lelianna is anything but devoid of worry for her former leader. Alistair attempts to find solace in her words, yet his lips remain ever pursed, his folded arms, stiff with uneasiness. It doesn't last long. Sleep and fatigue wears away at his conscience until his mind goes blank to the crackle of fire.
The third time they lost a child, she slapped him.
When their fifth attempt fails, she says she's tired of trying.