Pillow Talk
Twenty-five of Kallian's soldiers had died in the latest darkspawn ambush. She had twenty-five letters of condolence to write and deliver to twenty-five families, families she then had to add to a list so the Crown would give their widows and children compensation for their loss.
She'd lost twelve soldiers in the last darkspawn battle. Fourteen in the one before that. Once, only a month after the Blight, she'd lost two. She'd actually thought that was difficult.
Kallian rode straight for the palace without announcing her presence, though her drakeskin armor, her bow, and the kladdis-covered mabari at her side did that for her. It was late in the day; she caught the seneschal just as she was closing up her office. The seneschal tried to engage Kallian in light conversation as she took a copy of the list of the dead, as if Kallian had gone on some sort of pleasure tour of the coastlands instead of led good men and women to their deaths.
There had been two elves on the list. Kallian interrupted whatever stupid thing the seneschal was saying. "See that Adahn Liric and Ianarra Eammond's families are compensated the same as any human's, will you? I know their families; if they get one sovereign less than they should, I'll hear about it."
Seneschal Probably-Beats-Her-Elven-Servants turned bright pink and sputtered. "What—? I—young lady, the king and queen of Ferelden will not cheat the good men and women who fight to cleanse their homeland. Every Fereldan is paid what they are owed..." her indignation became a worried frown and conspiratorial tone, "though there have been more late payments than I would have liked, considering the state of the royal coffers..."
Twenty-five letters of condolence to write. "Just see to it, ser." She'd almost called the seneschal 'shem,' but the Hero of Ferelden couldn't talk like a street rat. However, to get a rise out of the seneschal, she quite unnecessarily said, "Shartan, come," as she left.
How some Fereldan humans must hate an elf with one of their prized wardogs—a dog named after an elven hero, no less. Perhaps Seneschal Fat and Greedy wasn't actually one of those humans. Perhaps she truly meant what she said about elves being treated the same as humans, but right now she was a pimple Kallian ached to pop.
She went straight to her room at the palace with a quill and ink and got writing. By the time she called for a second candle, she'd gotten through two letters. It's been five bloody months! When is this going to get easier?
Shartan must have sensed her agitation; he put his massive head on her lap. His head was larger than both her thighs put together. "Thanks, boy." She scratched between his ears and his stubby tail wagged.
Something was happening in the courtyard. In the sun's dying light, Kallian caught sight of golden hair and golden armor, and her heart skipped a beat. Alistair! She made for the door to greet him, then stopped. She always hated greeting him in public, crossing her arms before her chest and bowing when really she wanted to leap into his arms and kiss him. The queen would still be on her tour of Orlais...perhaps she could give Alistair a more private greeting?
She stripped out of her stinking armor, scrubbed herself down quickly with soap and the pitcher of water at her bedside table, then went to choose an appropriate outfit.
"What do you think, boy? I could be," she held up a set of her nicer servant clothes, "a lady's maid so overcome with gratitude for being saved from the Blight that she just has to thank the king personally... Or," she held out a confection of silk, ribbons and lace that was little better than small-clothes, "um, this thing Shianni dared me to buy. This one's a bit more...obvious."
Shartan barked happily.
"I could be talking about neutering you and you wouldn't care, would you boy?" She examined the outfits, and settled on the fancy small-clothes beneath the servant's clothes.
As she finished getting ready, her gaze fell on the letters sitting on her writing desk. Fighting back a surge of guilt, she shoved them into the drawer. I'll get to them tomorrow. No one can fault me for that.
She slipped out of her room and made her way to the royal bedchamber, keeping to the shadows so expertly that she didn't even need to pretend to be the servant she was dressed as. Listening at the door, she heard servants moving about, and waited until they'd left and their footsteps had receded. The door was locked, but, thanks to the small thief's kit in a hidden panel in her servant's dress, Kallian easily overcame that.
She'd never been in Alistair and Anora's room before. A fire blazed in a fireplace, and the room smelled pleasantly of sandalwood. A gorgeous tapestry of Ferelden armies fighting Orlesian chevaliers covered the wall opposite the bed. King Maric rode a white warhorse, brandishing his famous glowing blade. Loghain rode behind Maric on a roan charger. Obviously, Queen Anora won the battle of the wall decorations. There were touches of Alistair here and there—the sheets on the bed were his favourite shade of blue, and the small statues and idols Kallian had given him as gifts decorated a chest of drawers and a writing desk.
A writing desk which also had, to Kallian's surprise and disgust, a gold inkwell. No wonder Ferelden's coffers are empty if their leaders need bloody gold inkwells! Even if it's just gold-plated, that could still feed a family for months.
Seems King Alistair needs a reminder about the value of money. Her heart beat faster; now was the perfect time to take it. She reached for it, but a thought stopped her: No, later. After. Let's see if I can snatch it right from under Al's nose.
Footsteps were approaching. Grinning, Kallian turned to the door—and her grin vanished when she realized she heard two sets of footsteps. A woman spoke. Kallian often heard that voice muffled by walls or doors, or from afar, across a crowded courtyard or room, for above all she tried to avoid Queen Anora.
Andraste, you bitch! Kallian bolted for the nearest wardrobe. She got the wardrobe door open and made space between fine shirts, breeches, knee-high boots, and managed to spin around and yank at the wardrobe door just as the bedroom door opened.
The wardrobe door didn't click shut. There was still a crack of light, giving a view of the pillows on the bed. Kallian had terrifying visions of Alistair noticing—or worse, Anora. Instead, the king and queen were rather distracted: Alistair chuckled as the door closed, and the sounds of kisses and rustling clothes followed.
I know where your ashes lie, Andraste. Don't think I won't go back there and spit in them. Awkward as the situation was, Kallian didn't close the door all the way. She couldn't help it—she'd always been curious. As a child, she'd often pretended to sleep after her parents tucked her in to hear what they talked about when they thought she wasn't listening. She'd hung around Alarith's store long before she'd been old enough to make use of his smuggler's skills herself, simply to see what she could see.
She'd never asked Alistair about the queen, but now that she could learn a bit about how they interacted firsthand...she couldn't pass it up. I bet she calls out Cailan's name. That would be hilarious!
As if to rebuke her for that thought, Andraste and the Maker made her listen to the sound of Anora's mouth on Alistair's cock, and the sounds Alistair made in response. Kallian was both irritated and impressed—she'd never imagined a noblewoman knowing such a technique. Then she remembered that Anora had been married to Cailan for five years; she was probably more experienced at it than Kallian.
She felt irritation only after that.
After what seemed like an eternity (stupid Grey Warden stamina, Kallian thought more than once), Alistair thickly muttered, "Um, I'm going to..." When Anora didn't pause, he murmured a slightly-surprised "Well!" followed by a loud climax. Heat pulsed through Kallian at the sound.
Their bodies sank to the bed a few moments later, and more kissing followed. Anora lay her head down on the pillows; the sight of her swollen lips made Kallian lick her own as her pulse sped up. She ripped her gaze away, trying to focus on anything else.
To her surprise, Anora's hair was undone. Of course—she has lady's maids who'd stab each other for the right to braid the queen's hair. Now freed from the two coils at the back of her head, her hair flowed long and golden over the pillows. There were pink bite-marks, of all things, on the alabaster skin of her neck. Kallian swallowed a whimper.
She hoped Alistair's face would cover the queen's, that they'd kiss for some time; instead, she had a perfect view of Anora's face as Alistair did what Kallian had taught him to do so many months ago. She'd trained him well. You're welcome, my queen.
Anora was loud. Her public face was so poised, so controlled—Kallian hadn't thought much about it, but found she'd expected Anora to be a quiet lover. Dignified. Refined. One who didn't even sweat. She was wrong on all counts.
"Oh! Yes! Please, there! Don't stop. Never stop! Ah—!"
As the queen's pleasure peaked and then faded, Kallian tried desperately not to think about what Anora tasted like.
Alistair's friendly voice provided a welcome distraction. "Might make council meetings awkward if I never stopped. Not sure what the arls would say about that. Would liven council up, certainly."
A few replies flashed through Kallian's mind. If they did through Anora's, she didn't say them; she just chuckled softly and pulled Alistair close. He looked rather pleased with himself. The two lay there kissing, skin so pale, hair so gold, the perfect couple. No dusky Rivaini skin, no pointed ears.
Two humans. It's how things are meant to be.
Anora said, "It occurred to me today that all our intimate encounters have been so dutiful. Oh, pleasant—please don't misunderstand me. But the same act does wear thin after a time. I thought we might both enjoy a change."
"Well, it's hardly a terrible duty. Slaying the Archdemon, saving the Circle from abominations, fighting werewolves—those were all terrible duties. Not that change is bad, of course."
She smirked. "Knowing you, you'll be prepared for duty in a few minutes."
Alistair's stomach growled.
As Anora rolled her eyes, Alistair snickered and said, "Or when I'm back from the kitchens. Want anything?" He stood and Anora sat up, leaving Kallian with a view of the pillows once again.
"Some grapes would be lovely. But, please, Alistair, send a servant. You know it disrupts the kitchen staff's routine when you show up."
He started putting on his clothes. "Come, now—if they can't handle me, how are they going to handle something big, like a fire? An explosion? Some sort of cheese disaster?"
A comeback sprung to Kallian's mind immediately. 'What kind of cheese disaster are we talking about, here? Magical cheese? Darkspawn-tainted cheese?' If Anora thought of anything, she didn't respond.
"I know, I know: I'm a very odd man. Besides," she could hear the grimace in his voice, "I could use a walk to the kitchens."
Kallian felt a twinge of guilt. She'd started teasing Alistair about gaining some weight, and just assumed he was laughing it off the way he laughed most everything off. Note to self: he's not just vain about his hair.
Anora huffed, exasperated. "Alistair, you're the most handsome man in court. When you pass by, every woman in my retinue is all a-flutter for moments afterwards. You should see the blushing and giggling; it's most disgusting."
"Mm. Nobody flatters me that much unless they want something. You're hoping for some lemon cakes, aren't you?"
Anora, once again, didn't come back with anything. 'After pulling out my best flattery material? I'm hoping for a bottle of '31 Antivan red.' Come on, Anora, work with him a little. Not everyone got Alistair's sense of humour.
Anora said, her voice rich with promises, "The sooner you leave, my lord husband, the sooner you can return."
"My lady wife," he purred playfully before he left.
Not that everyone connects through humour. Obviously. Kallian pursed her lips. I'm the mistress! I'm supposed to be the sensual one!
With a light sigh, Anora got up and slipped on her own clothes. She lay back on the pillow, giving Kallian a view of her furrowed brow. Kallian's initial thought was that she was thinking hard about something, but as she watched she realized Anora was worried.
Maybe she always looks like this when she's alone. Interesting. That was an easier thought to handle than the suspicion that Anora was worried about something related to Alistair.
That suspicion grew when Alistair's footsteps sounded and Anora breathed deeply, as if steeling herself for battle. The worry smoothed away, became a small, seemingly genuine smile. When the door opened, she sat up, depriving Kallian of the view.
"No lemon cakes, unfortunately." Kallian knew what Alistair would have gotten: some bread, grapes, and a selection of those fancy Orlesian cheeses he loved so much. Water or wine was poured into two goblets, and the king and queen drank.
After she'd taken a long sip, Anora said, "What would you think of naming Bann Teagan's son as your heir?"
Alistair coughed and needed a few moments to catch his breath. Kallian winced, struck by a sudden need to be elsewhere. "Um, what?"
"It's been five months and I've had no child by you. It was five years and I had no child by Cailan. Ferelden needs an heir should anything befall us."
"So that's why you...earlier...you've given up?"
"I'm facing the reality that the Maker has other plans for me than bearing children."
"It's only been five months." Kallian knew, from his own mouth, that no Grey Warden had ever had children once they'd completed their Joining. "Though, now that you mention it, I...ah, did, sort of, have a thought about...our situation, actually." Anora must have looked interested, for he continued less hesitantly. "So, I was at the Dancing Dragon the other day—"
"The what?"
"It's a tavern by the docks. A lot of our guards go there."
"Ah. Might I say that your little tavern visits are a clever touch? It's a brilliant way to set yourself up as one of the people."
Exasperated, Alistair said, "It's not some political maneuver, it's—" he interrupted himself "—but you meant that as a compliment, so that's how I'll take it. Anyway, the point is, one of our castle guards looks a bit like me. His name's Gwareth. Blonde hair, same build. Seems a nice fellow—and unattached, too, so it's not like he has some wife waiting up for him, either."
Kallian was surprised Anora hadn't ripped his face off yet.
He cleared his throat. "Perhaps, if you could bring yourself to—"
"'Bring myself to'?" Her laugh was short and sharp, a rebuke. "Alistair, I'm as common-born as any guardsman, and I assure you I would have fought the Archdemon myself if I'd had the appropriate training and ability. I would do anything for Ferelden. Only, the risks don't seem to be worth it. Even assuming that the problem is your seed and not my womb: what if he talked?"
"I figured we might pay him to keep his mouth shut. We might not have enough money to commit all our troops to the north, but we have enough for that, surely?"
"Give someone money once, and they come back for more. Surely you've noticed that in all your dealings with the nobility? The amount of secrecy that would be required would hardly be worth it. If anyone found out, if anyone suspected... All it would take was one tongue to wag, and the child's future—should a child even result—would be in jeopardy, and we would be the laughingstock of all Thedas."
I suspect that being a laughingstock concerns her much more than her hypothetical child's future. Not that I can't understand valuing her reputation, Kallian admitted. It's all someone like her has.
Damnit. I do not want to understand Anora.
"It was an interesting thought, Alistair."
"Always so surprised. I have a brain, you know."
She continued as if he hadn't spoken. "But I think it's time we look at things more practically. Now, I've been assuming you'd support any issue of Bann Teagan's, but if you have any other thoughts, I'd like to hear them."
The only sound from Alistair was chewing, then a sip of water, then a long sigh.
"I—I'm sorry I can't give you a child, Anora."
Her voice was ice. "Don't."
"Er, don't what?"
"Don't you dare pity me, Alistair Theirin."
Alistair was silent for only a moment before words started pouring out of him. "Yes, because how dare I express a human emotion! How dare I wish things were different! It's not pity, by Andraste's pyre! Not everything is an attack on your bloody pride."
Kallian felt immensely cheered up.
"Do you expect some confession about how I yearn to hold a babe to my breast?" Anora said with asperity. "How I could scream with jealousy when I see other women with their round bellies? Shall I weep, Alistair? Is that what you want? Tell me what reaction you feel is proper for me—what reaction you deem human enough—and I'll endeavour to give it so we can continue having a conversation about what actually matters."
"How can you be so cold? I thought we were..." he fumbled for a word before landing on "friends! Could you put down that armour of yours for one moment?"
"My armour?" She sounded surprised and indignant. "I've had almost six years to get used to the idea that having a child is not what the Maker planned for me. In truth, the thought that I'll never be a mother doesn't crush me. It frustrates me, it disappoints me, but that is all. I care for you enough not to feign what I don't feel."
Kallian realized she was gaping and closed her mouth. To hear someone say out loud what she'd so often thought... Alistair couldn't understand. How could he? He wasn't a woman. Kallian had felt the same way about having children with Nelaros. It would be something she'd do because people expected it of her, people she loved deeply and couldn't bear to disappoint, but her heart had never been in it.
Oh, Maker, I think I'm a bit in love with her.
A very tense, awkward silence followed. Kallian itched to be able to see their faces or body-language.
"You couldn't have brought a carafe of wine?" Anora said. It was a weak joke, and Alistair only gave her a pity-chuckle, but it seemed to set something right. They began eating again.
"I'd make Bann Teagan's issue heir to the throne, of course," Alistair said.
"He wed a commoner, though."
"Says the common-born queen."
"My situation is anomalous enough. It took all my resources to hang onto what little power I had once Cailan died. I'd not see that repeated if I can help it. We can't afford to antagonize the nobility further; one can't flout their traditions then turn around, cap in hand, and beg for taxes and troops. A bastard prince who helped slay the Archdemon, one with the love of the common people, is one thing. Another commoner on the throne is, I fear, pushing the issue too far."
"You have someone in mind."
"A few candidates of families I've known all my life. By all reports they're fair and just, even if their connection to the blood of Calenhad is thinner than is ideal."
"Let's hear them, then."
Anora rattled off some names that meant nothing to Kallian. Alistair interrupted now and then, having seen so and so at some court function or having heard a vile rumour about that one.
"That one whips their elven servants," Alistair said, and Kallian started paying attention. "The new bann of the Alienage brought it up, remember?"
Not only was Kallian pleased that Alistair objected, she was pleased that Shianni was fighting the good fight in her absence. Good one, Shianni. Hold these bastards' feet to the fire!
"A human lord is hardly responsible for everything that goes on in his estate. A head servant got overzealous, and, should the bann's legislation get passed, will be justly reprimanded."
Kallian resolved to remember these words if she ever again felt a bit in love with Queen Anora. Noble bitch.
"I'm sure you've got candidates who aren't connected in any way with whipping elven servants. Let's start there."
Alistair didn't even bother to ask for a noble who actually treated their elven servants well. Really pushing yourself to be the best possible king for all your citizens—which elves are, by the way.
He'll never understand. Not truly. Stupid shem.
"Well, I'll think some more on this," Alistair said after a while.
"It's not a decision that should be rushed. If it helps, you'd be ensuring that Bann Teagan doesn't face the same difficulties we are when it comes to choosing an heir."
Alistair grunted in reply.
After a few moments, Anora said, "I had this conversation with Cailan, you know."
Oh, and you were doing so well, too! Alistair seemed to agree; he abruptly said, "Do you hear someone at the door? I should go see—"
"Cailan's response was much different than yours. He dismissed me—with a joke, with a kiss, but still a dismissal. As it ever was. He'd leave me to carry out his dirty work while he paraded about in his golden armor.
"Would it surprise you to hear that I appreciate our marriage much more than I ever thought possible? And, save that Cailan was in love with me, I—"
"Damnit, there's that knocking again—"
"—I would call my time spent with you more satisfactory. Love is sweet, for a time. But love without respect... I've drunk that wine once and I don't care for the taste. If I have to trade love for respect..." she trailed off for a moment, then said, "It's not so terrible."
Alistair sat down on the bed, close enough to the pillows that Kallian could see his face as he looked at Anora across from him.
He smiled wryly. "I get to be 'not so terrible' at this marriage thing. Pity terrible's such a hard word to rhyme—the bards will have a hard time working that into the songs."
Unbearable flashed through Kallian's mind.
He reached out—holding Anora's hand, perhaps, or touching her arm. "I gave up being a Grey Warden to become king. During our initiation ritual, we call our oath 'the duty that cannot be forsworn.' And I forswore it. For Ferelden, for my people, I gave up my life. I gave up," he swallowed, "my heart. I have to make being king worth everything I lost. And with you...I feel like it can be."
Alistair's smile, the warmth in his gaze... He looked at Kallian like that. Stop this. She forced herself to breathe slowly and calm the fear chilling her skin. You're imagining things. So they had a serious conversation, so they've grown fond of each other—that means nothing. She wasn't at Ostagar. She doesn't have a Grey Warden's dreams. She didn't give him his mother's amulet.
If Anora replied, Kallian was too busy recounting every loving moment between her and Alistair and weighing it against Anora's charms to catch it.
After a few moments, Alistair leaned out of Kallian's view and kissed Anora. Hah! So that was the look in his eye. Just lust. Nothing to worry about. Relief surged through her so strongly that she felt a bit lightheaded.
"Now," he murmured in between kisses, "let's see if I can't convince you to give Bann Teagan's issue another look, hmm?"
Anora scoffed. "You don't mean to say that you think clever bit of love-making will get me to change my mind?"
"Of course not, you infuriating woman. I'm trying to play a game, and you're ruining it by taking it far too seriously."
"Oh. My apologies."
He jerked his head back, giving Kallian a view of his teasing grin. "Mmm, nope. You've gone and spoiled the moment."
Then Anora's hands stroked languorously along his inner thighs. "Bann Alfstanna's youngest would be the better choice."
"Um."
I really shouldn't watch this, Kallian thought as Anora leaned in and kissed Alistair's chin. She kept watching.
For all that Alistair was now a king, in the bedroom he let his partner take charge. The queen was patient, and delicate with her caresses at thigh and belly, mouth and ear—far more so than Kallian could ever be. And she was effective: it was nothing more than a cool breath over the flushed skin of Alistair's neck that had him mumbling, "Ah...what bann, again?"
She nipped at his pulse; he and Kallian both shivered. "Alfstanna."
He said something like "That could work," though the words came out as if he'd drunk Oghren's special brew. Anora considered that surrender acceptable; smirking, she pulled him down the length of the bed, leaving Kallian watching their feet.
Kallian's hand was on the wardrobe door before she realized that opening it to get a better view was a very, very stupid idea. She brought her hands tight to her sides. Tension coiled tight and hot beneath her skin; to distract herself she played a game she invented in her days as a sneak-thief while waiting for marks to leave their houses: she twitched first one muscle group, then another. From fingers she moved to lower arms, from lower to upper, from upper to shoulders.
She'd exercised every muscle in her body twice over by the time the king and queen were finished. Kallian caught herself sighing audibly and startled; it didn't appear either of them had heard, but it was a good reminder to keep quiet.
Either Alistair or Anora inhaled, as if they were going to speak, but remained silent.
A lazy "Mm?" came from Alistair.
"Once we've decided on an heir..." a pause of a few heartbeats—how unlike Anora, "if we could continue our liaisons once in a while, I would appreciate it. Appearances must be kept."
Alistair yawned. "Um, sure, of course. Just because a king chooses an heir doesn't mean that he stops trying to produce one. Anybody would understand."
"Maker's breath, but I am so weary of trying." Beneath the disappointment was a hint of the vulnerability he'd accused her of not having. It quivered in her voice, made her swallow before she asked, "If it were more like tonight...?"
A snort. "Since I hardly plan to open the bedroom door and let palace look in on us, that sounds fine by me. More than fine, really."
Silence grew between them, broken by Anora's dry, "Well, I suppose I'll see if the Warden-Commander feels similarly in due time."
Alistair probably grew much more awake, then.
Anora was clever. The seduction to relax him, the faint quaver in her voice... Kallian only now realized how well-laid the trap had been. Well, I didn't keep her on the throne because I thought she was bad at manipulation, did I?
"Kallian? Um. Well. We're husband and wife. And...she brokered this marriage, didn't she? I don't see how it's any of her business. She'll be fine."
And Alistair played right into her hands, without even realizing he'd been played. He could still be so dense sometimes.
Kallian could imagine the dubious expression on Anora's face. The queen would have been right to have it; Kallian's jaw was clenched so tightly that she swore she could hear her teeth crack. I'll show you 'fine,' you dumb, fat shem jackass!
She visited various painful agonies on him in her imagination as the two finished off the last of their food and water, extinguished the candles, and fell asleep. Kallian slowly crept out of the wardrobe.
Alistair grunted. Kallian froze—all except her pulse, which beat frantically. Another grunt followed. A nightmare. She forced herself to breathe evenly. Maybe a darkspawn dream. She kept moving, though not towards the door.
The golden inkwell was in her hand before she realized it. She paused, then made herself put it back, though the act physically hurt. This was no time for petty revenge. Old habits made her listen at the door, and she was grateful for it when she heard the soft clank of someone in armor moving slightly. The royal bedchamber would be guarded at all times, of course. Maker's breath, how do I get myself into these messes?
Please don't be facing the door, please don't be two guards, Kallian prayed as she turned the door handle with aching slowness. Sweat gushed down her back and sides as she slowly opened the door a crack; she was already thinking up excuses to tell Alistair and Anora.
The guard didn't appear to notice. Kallian released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. From the thief's kit hidden in her clothes, she pulled out a marble and threw it.
It clattered against stone further down the hall. "Who goes there?" the guard, a young man, said. "Hello?"
Praise the Maker, he went to investigate. Kallian ducked out from behind the door and slipped off down the hallway. She blinked in the torchlight, suddenly sure that the armoured figure behind her would sense her; only great effort kept her moving stealthily instead of bolting. Even when she'd reached the shadows, she didn't relax until she'd turned a few corners.
Guards always fall for the old marble trick. Terrible breach in security, really. Still, this is a nicer ending than me threatening to have him killed if he talks, at least. Always a good day when I can avoid that.
As she snuck back to her room, her sharp, jagged emotions wouldn't let her bask in the glow of a successful escape for long. Alistair was right: Kallian had organized his marriage to Anora. At the time, Alistair had grumbled about how he trusted Anora as much as he trusted her traitor father and Anora had stifled a frown every time Alistair was mentioned.
Times change. She remembered Alistair's face as he looked on Anora earlier that night. Had it just been lust, truly? Or had it been the start of something more?
Once she got to her room, Kallian couldn't get to sleep—not only because of the love in Alistair's expression, but the lust in Anora's. She debated going to the Pearl, then decided against it; the walk was long, and alone she could whisper the queen's name without worrying that it would become brothel gossip. Unfortunately, her body's satisfaction meant nothing to her heart, and she tossed and turned for what seemed like hours more.
She fell into darkspawn dreams: Bloody hunks of meat on fresh spring grass. A farmstead burning. A small figure ablaze, running from the farmhouse, beating futilely at their body even as their hands blackened. Screaming. Footsteps like the rumble of thunder. A large band, moving, leaving behind blood and burned flesh and weakening screams.
When she jolted awake, Kallian lit her candle once more and sat down to write the final twenty-three letters.
She finished the letters at sun-up and spent the rest of the day delivering them. Part of Kallian wished Wynne were still in Ferelden; she would have been proud of how dutiful Kallian was.
It was almost worse when people didn't cry, and there were always a few. When they tried to be polite, to act like she was a guest in their home, to find some bland thing to cover up the utter horror of what she was here for.
No one screamed at her. No one accused her of failing. No one needed to.
As usual, Shartan kept her sane: every now and then she ducked into an alleyway to give him a good petting, luxuriating in his uncomprehending brown eyes and soft, scratchable ears.
At noon, she stopped by the carpentry shop where her father worked to take him to lunch. When she first saw her father, she wanted to run and throw her arms around him, but that would be as good as admitting something was wrong, and he worried too much about her already. She made herself walk.
"Oh, my dear girl," Cyrion said, kissing her cheek. "It's always a surprise to see the new you—the fine armour, the weapon. You need to stay more, so I can get used to you."
"I'll tell the darkspawn next time I see 'em, Dad. 'Evil fiends, enough, I need some daddy-daughter time.'"
Beside her, Shartan woofed and wagged his tail as he looked up at Cyrion. Her father hesitated but eventually put his hand out for the dog to sniff. He'd probably always see Shartan as larger, more dangerous kin to the vicious street dogs of the Alienage.
"What—?" snapped Elgan, her father's boss, as the shem looked up from a chair leg he was sanding. "No mabari allowed!" His annoyance vanished when he saw who owned the mabari, became a greasy smile that made her wish her drakeskin armor covered more of her chest.
Kallian suffered through a few minutes of chit-chat with the old shem who'd expected Cyrion to work on the day of his wife's funeral. Once they left, Kallian checked the urge to spit.
"So," she said, "I guess Shianni's eating bon-bons and buying pretty dresses instead of helping her people. I haven't seen a single knife-ear selling their wares in the market since I got back." Like you should be.
"Oh, she won us that right, after four months of speeches and knocking on doors...and, so rumour has it, a bribe or two." He sounded weary, as if the idea of corrupt nobility disheartened him. Her father had always been a soft touch.
"Then why don't I see any elves at their stalls? They let dwarves in!"
"Your cousin changed the law of the land; the law of men's hearts is a different thing altogether." He chuckled. "You're too impatient, my dear. This is the first step. A small victory, but a victory nonetheless."
It wasn't much of a victory if it didn't change anything. "Where is my no-good cousin, anyway?" A night of drinking with her cousins, telling lies and spilling secrets, sounded amazing right now.
"She's at Highever, talking to the hahren there about trade between our Alienages. I'm not sure when she's coming back."
Kallian bit back a sigh. Sorry, Soris—I guess you have to listen to my girl-talk.
They ate at the Gnawed Noble Tavern, the only elves. They talked, and though neither mentioned death or darkspawn, Cyrion ordered a pot of lavender tea, her mom's favourite. The smell alone gave her a small bit of comfort.
Before she left, Kallian once more forced herself into a losing battle. "Think of it, Dad—Tabris Carpentry and Woodworking. Coin that lines your purse, not that greasy bastard's."
"I'm fine where I am, dear—and I'd thank you not to speak so of my employer. He's strict, but he's always treated me well." It made Kallian want to scream that 'well' meant 'not being beaten'. "I'm not cut out to be a salesman, to drive bargains."
"Oh, Soris can handle that."
After a moment, Cyrion admitted, "Soris did look into renting a space, actually. But it's much too expensive if you want to do things properly, so humans will take notice." And to repair the damage the human merchants will do to an upstart elf, Kallian supplied.
Kallian had more than enough money to help her father out—but, as she opened her mouth, the money conversation seemed like one battle too many. He'd be polite, he'd be kind, but he'd still refuse to take a copper from her. She had to save her strength for the letters, which weighted down her purse like lead.
Something must have shifted in her expression—Cyrion squeezed her hand. "I'll think about it, dear. I promise."
Kallian pretended to believe him. Soris will take my money, she thought as she hugged her father goodbye. I'll get him to set it all up. Dad will forgive me eventually; he just needs a kick in the pants.
It was back to letters after that.
When Kallian returned to the palace, Oghren was training with the soldiers in the courtyard. "Hey! Warden!" he bellowed, after giving instructions to one of his commanders.
Shartan reached Oghren long before Kallian did and began licking his face in between cheerful woofs. "Get off! Stupid sodding mutt! Call him off, Warden!"
"Why? This is the closest you ever get to a bath." She let him suffer a moment more before saying, "Shartan, settle."
Oghren passed her a flagon once he'd wiped the worst of the spittle off. "Was saving this for myself, but, shit, you look like you need it."
Whatever was inside smelled like honey. It didn't seem as if it'd strip the skin off her insides, like his usual offerings, so she took a swig. It had a hellishly bitter aftertaste.
"That's my girl," Oghren approved. "Like I always say, I can be the one to deliver these letters, if they need delivering by someone official-like. Me being a general, after all."
"Like I always say back, prove to me you can't fart or belch during the speech."
"Who's to say these poor widows and children don't need a little comic relief, eh?"
"And by the way, 'Good news lady, you're single,' is not the speech."
"You used to be fun, Warden. What happened?" His gaze focused on something behind her. "Ah, here's the little nug-humper." A quick glance over her shoulder showed Alistair walking on the outside of the courtyard, deep in discussion with Bann Teagan. A discussion about snatching up his yet-unborn children to be heirs to the throne, perhaps? "Well, old Oghren knows when he isn't wanted. Go on, run off, make googly eyes at the pretty-boy like always."
"Nah. He's busy."
"Oho! Trouble in adulterer's paradise, boss?"
Sometimes the dwarf could be annoyingly astute. "Just don't want to hear him and Teagan yap away about politics. Ugh. Stab me if I ever start talking like that." Seeing the twinkle in his eye and knowing how his mind worked, she quickly said, "With your sword. Not your dangly bits. Although...now that I think about it, I'm not sure which would be more painful."
Oghren roared with laughter as she took another mouthful of the honey liquor and looked out at the training field. "So, General Oghren, how are the latest recruits looking?"
"Here now, don't you go poaching my best and brightest, too," Oghren grumbled. "Vigil's Keep sent another request for men, and King Beardless Little Pike-Twirler volun-told me to choose five. I'm taking them up to the keep in a few days. You're welcome to come with, Warden. It's your keep in your arling, after all."
"After the next sortie, maybe." Not only did the thought of being functionally an arlessa of an entire arling utterly bore her, no way was she going near more Grey Wardens—ones who might have questions about how the Hero of Ferelden slew an Archdemon without dying herself. She didn't want to test the Grey Warden tolerance for the ends justifying the means just yet.
Particularly when those means might be playing a part in why the darkspawn haven't retreated yet. Who knew how long it took to bear a child with the soul of an old god? Who knew how long it took to raise such a child, with Morrigan's vast magic and dark rituals at her command? Darkspawn were supposed to retreat after a Blight. They hadn't. The rules had shifted somehow. Perhaps because the rules of the old gods that commanded the darkspawn had shifted?
The rebuttals came swiftly. Morrigan doesn't want darkspawn in Ferelden any more than I do. And she seemed like she was telling the truth about the ritual. Alistair's bouncing baby godling probably isn't even born yet.
But maybe that's just what she wanted me to think.
Oghren shook his head. "You know what your problem is, Warden? You're too sneaky. Saw it on the battlefield, and I see it here. Whatever's got your panties in a twist, just face it head-on. You took on an Archdemon, by the Stone! What—is small-talk about the best way to kill an ogre too much to handle?"
"I already know the best way to kill an ogre: point the drunken dwarf at it."
Oghren chuckled, then shrugged. "Hey, I said my piece; you do what you want with it." He looked out on his soldiers. "Happy to see fewer of the Warden-worshippers in my team. The training yard is littered with puddles of piss every time you walk by!"
"Oghren, most of those are probably yours."
"Well, that's the booze, not respect!"
"Speaking of, I'm thinking about a booze-up at Dad's place this Thursday at sundown. You're in, right?"
"Bah! You call your surfacer sewage alcohol?"
"Then bring something good! The Crown does pay you, right?" Footsteps were approaching; she caught Alistair and Bann Teagan out of the corner of her eye and steeled herself. She always tried to get Alistair alone when she returned from the field. He'd know something was wrong if she didn't.
But after last night, she wasn't sure what she wanted from him.
"You wouldn't know it," Oghren grumbled, "all the sodding times I've had to pay weapon and armor repairs out of my own pocket."
She loudly said, "Any complaints about wages should be directed to Alistair Theirin, King of Ferelden."
"King Should Be a Man and Grow a Beard, you mean?"
"Woah, woah, he can't grow a beard. That would confuse everyone. They'd think King Cailan survived Ostagar." A low blow—she knew how Alistair hated being compared to his dead half-brother—but Kallian couldn't help it.
"So nice to be among my dear, dear friends," Alistair said dryly. Her stupid heart beat faster.
Kallian made her gestures extra broad. "Al! And Bann Teagan. Hey!" She opened her arms, as if to hug them both, the made herself look embarrassed and bow sloppily. "Congrats on the wedding, Teagan! Argh, I hate that I missed it!"
"Thank you, my lady. Kaitlyn and I couldn't be happier. And thank you for your wedding present, though you'll forgive me if I say I hope we never need them."
"Heyyyyy, magic anti-cold amulets are useful!" She leaned into Teagan's personal space and poked his chest. "Warding off frosty glares! Tell me you haven't gotten some from all the noble ladies you've disappointed." She leered up at him for effect.
Teagan appeared unflustered. "I never thought of that," he said with a chuckle.
"A drinking competition in the middle of the day?" Alistair said fondly. "She and Oghren used to get up to that sort of thing all the time back at camp," he told Teagan as he nudged her away from him. "Then it was dirty limericks and bad Alienage poetry all night."
"I am not drunk, Alistair. Listen to how clear I'm speaking. Not. Drunk."
Oghren, bless him, played along. "She's drunk off her ass. Someone get her up to her room before she vomits on your fancy shoes."
"I'll help," said Alistair. "Where's your room, again?"
Oghren guffawed and Teagan looked like he was fighting back an eye-roll. But she and Alistair kept up the charade through the courtyard and the palace, an appropriate amount of space between them, Kallian acting obviously drunk so that, when he put his hand on her arm, it could be interpreted as nothing more than him steadying her.
Kallian took another mouthful of the honey liquor before she opened the door of her room. After last night, he felt like a huge, clumsy oaf. She wanted to scream at him and shake him and slap him, but instead she forced herself to kiss him and stroke him and cry out his name.
And it was all for nothing: he sensed something. "Is everything all right, love?" he asked as they lay together, catching their breath.
She kept her head tucked underneath his chin so he couldn't see her face. "Part of me is still delivering letters to those families, I suppose."
He kissed the top of her head. "I wish you'd let someone else do that. No one can fault you for dedication, but—"
"Every child deserves to hear how their parent died, if they want to hear it." She thought back to her fourteen-year-old self, angry and scared by everyone saying her mother had died but never telling her how or why. Alistair knew why this was important to her—why was he arguing with her?
He sighed, then kissed the tip of her ear. "You're sure you won't go to Vigil's Keep? There are a dozen Orlesian Wardens and loads of potentials who can share the load. If you're worried about questions about how you survived, just shrug and act dumb. Maybe the Maker reached out to save the woman who rediscovered his divine bride's ashes? Or one of our companions was a maleficar—maybe she used blood magic completely without your knowledge or consent? Who knows. All a mystery, really."
"Seems like going there will solve that problem but give me a hundred new ones," she grumbled. "I'm not really one for politics."
"From one reluctant leader to another: you can do this, love. Who won the Landsmeet? Who put a king on Orzamar's throne? After all that, a few nobles are going to be child's play. Even I can do it, so it can't be that difficult."
She should lighten the mood a little. Forcing herself to smile, she leaned up and kissed him. "You could issue a royal decree, I suppose. I'd have to obey you, my king."
His stupid chuckle grated on her nerves. "I hate to admit it, but I do kind of like it when you call me that. Oh, speaking of, Anora's back from Orlais early. You might want to talk to her if you're worried you won't be a good ruler. Helping people rule is kind of what she does."
"Maker, no."
Alistair fell silent for a moment, looking unusually serious, then said, "That reply doesn't have anything to do with the fact that my door guard was lured away from his post late last night, does it?"
Her stomach dropped. "Huh?"
"The noise that had caught his attention was a marble. Once he saw it, he realized he'd been duped and had to rush back to my bedroom—with a lit torch—and check it for intruders."
"Ouch, awkward." So the guard was smarter than she'd thought, Blight take him. "Was anything stolen?"
"Mmm, no. Buuuuut," he stroked his chin mock-thoughtfully, "you know, I couldn't help but remember you showing off your thief's kit to Leliana and Zevran during one of your little rogue bonding sessions. I mean, a marble, not a stone you could pick up anywhere. That's something a specialist would have."
Alistair trying to make her sweat, she could handle. "I'm not the only person who's ever thought that up, Al." What she couldn't understand was him taking her overhearing private conversations so cavalierly.
Suddenly, a smile broke across his face. "I'm not mad, Kallian. I know you love being 'kin to cats and night / the soundless stalking shadow.'" Kallian glared at him; he smirked back. The bastard knew how much that line from Leliana's Ballad of the Hero of Ferelden embarrassed her. "And what better challenge than breaking into the king's guarded bedroom?"
Oh, of course! He thinks I was sneaking in, not sneaking out. Maker, thank you!
He kissed her nose. "Just send a note next time you want to see me, all right? You know I'd much rather stay in your bed than hers."
She felt a sudden, wild urge to tell him the truth, and clamped down on it. She'd hidden things from him before. Her night with Leliana, the crimes she'd committed in Denerim, that the ritual with Morrigan would create a child... What's one more secret?
She had to say something funny. Or something tender. Or bring up some other topic of conversation, at the very least. As she opened her mouth to speak, her thoughts flashed to one of the families to whom she'd delivered her letter of condolence. A young man had dropped to the floor and sobbed, so achingly, so painfully, and all she could do was watch.
Her throat grew thick.
Suddenly, everything felt too heavy—her muscles, her skin, her bones, Alistair's ugly shem arms around her, the covers of her bed. "Your room stank like a brothel. I only had my head in a moment, but even I noticed it."
"Is that—? Well..." he shrugged helplessly, "we have to make an heir."
Kallian frowned. And now he's lying to me. Admitting that he enjoyed sex with the beautiful, surprisingly sensual woman he'd married was understandable. Maker, if I was in his position, I'd say the same thing. But the lying...what else is he hiding...?
"You see her every day. You go to bed with her every night."
Alistair barked a laugh. "Seems I'm doing this affair thing right, then. I'm betraying the woman I see every day for the gorgeous, exciting, hilarious—"
Kallian began tearing up. Alistair's eyes widened and he quickly said, "And—and I'm going to stop talking right now, because I'm the biggest ass—"
Stifling a sob, Kallian pulled him into a kiss. I love you, you stupid shem. I forced you into the darkest bit of blood magic I'd ever heard of so we could both survive killing the Archdemon. Wynne was right—love is selfish. I was selfish. And maybe, just maybe, it's doomed the world.
And even if it hasn't, if there's some other crazy-evil magic that's keeping the darkspawn on the surface... If I go to Vigil's Keep, if I'm away for too long, I might lose you anyway.
A few more sobs shook her, and soon she wasn't only crying over Alistair, but that poor man who fell to the floor, at the children who stared up at her with round, fearful eyes when they opened the door and saw her with her damn letters, for all the Fereldans out there being eaten or dragged away by darkspawn even now while she cried.
She sniffled, and wiped away her tears. "You're the stupid king. I want a stupid ship. Bound for Rivain. And you'll come with me, too. We'll stay in some little dockside tavern in Llomerryn. Okay?"
Alistair's own eyes brimmed with tears. "It...sounds beautiful."
"We'll eat shellfish every day, and we'll feed our leftovers to the stray cats."
"Stray cats? Not for long—we'll adopt them." He sniffled, wiped at his own eyes. "Shartan needs some feline friends."
"Ugh. Fine, but you're taking care of the wretched beasts. And...and we'll do nothing but watch the sunrise, and watch the people, and watch the sunset. Well, and make love. And maybe I'll pick a pocket or two, to support us."
"I just stand around and look handsome, I assume?"
"Play to your strengths, Al." Her eyes were finally drying up. "If you ever feel like telling anyone I cried about you, just remember how many poisons I can make."
He caught her gaze with his and cupped her face in his hands, so she couldn't look away even if she wished to. Kallian was swept back to the days of long talks by the campfire, flirting while setting snares for the evening's meal, not-so-accidental touches while handing him a healing potion—it had been the height of bliss to gaze into those eyes, once.
"You know I love you, right? If haven't said that much lately, it's because I'm an idiot. There's nothing between me and Anora. Like an idiot, I assumed you knew that. Because, again, the idiot thing."
He seemed to be telling the truth. He probably even thought he was. Whatever Kallian had seen in his gaze when he looked at Anora might be buried so deep that he couldn't even acknowledge it.
He had a secret, too.
"In fact, you want me to give the queen her own room? It's done."
Kallian recoiled. "Oh, Maker, no. She'd send the Crows after me."
"I'm serious. I'd even stop trying for an heir, if you—"
Now he was just being dramatic. "Don't. You have to live here, not me. I'm not going to be responsible for messing things up between you and her." She reached up and slowly ran her fingers through his hair. "I don't care who shares your bed. I care who holds your heart."
"That's you. It has always been you. It always will be."
Kallian had said words like that to Leliana, too, and meant them; she'd still broken Leliana's heart. Alistair wouldn't mean to hurt her, but feelings were fire. Wild. Uncontrollable. Changeable.
She kissed him and weighed the smell of his skin against the smell of charred flesh, the touch of his hands on sensitized skin against bestial eyes and fanged maws.
You know the right thing, Kallian. Time to stop being selfish: leave for the Vigil. If Alistair waits for you, he waits for you. If he doesn't...
The pain at that thought brought tears to her eyes again. And what's your pain compared to all the grief you saw today? Your heart will break. Their lives have been broken.
When her tears fell, he kissed her cheeks, taking their salt on his lips.
"Poisons," she croaked. "So. Many. Poisons."
"Ah, yes, I forgot. The Joining leaves us utterly incapable of weeping. We become emotionless death-dealers. Lose our smile muscles, too."
How did the idiot always know the perfect thing to make her chuckle? It was uncanny. "I love you, my king."
He winced. "Ah, changed my mind: no more of this 'my king' stuff—just call me Alistair."
"Being the king of all Ferelden sure had made you bossy, Alistair."
As he kissed her, she began composing a letter to Vigil's Keep in her mind.
THE END