This is the sequel to King of Me which I have made a standalone. There will be a third one-shot which will be their confrontation. Thank you for reading! Chocolate chip cookies to Melismo for the beta!
Lore, characters and settings belong to BioWare
The Grey Commander
There wasn't a day that went by that his mind did not wander to thoughts of her.
Be it in the interminable, lonely silences of dawn and midnight, or in the undertow of political machinations of court, or the tinkling of cutlery during meals, no moment was immune to her image, her voice, her scent, brought fresh to his mind by workings he could not control or suppress.
So many things reminded him of her, things so unrelated, detached from anything and everything he was before that fateful Landsmeet, but it was as if his subconscious was locked in secret battle with his ego, forcing her into the fore of his imagination, his thoughts.
Even his senses seemed to be in rebellion, attacking with visions, smells, tastes, textures and lilts of voice. It was subtle, yet completely disarming.
He would see her from afar, her figure slight and delicate, Spellweaver strapped to her bodice. Her scent, lyrium, books and Blood Lotus, would waft up into the early morning chill, insidious and awakening, sometimes forcing him to search for a phantom source. Her voice would slither into his thoughts, at times as sigh full of longing in the shape of his name, other times, a harsh admonition jolting him out of reverie and daydreams.
He knew it wouldn't be easy. No, Alistair, not by a mile. Not by the span of all Ferelden. You're an idiot if you think you can forget her just like that.
And if Alistair Theirin was sure of one thing, it was that he was an idiot.
But could he? Could he even begin to erase from his mind her eyes, blue and fathomless, her smile, a thing of beauty, her touch, deceptively calm and sexually disastrous, her magic, understated in its casting and unrelenting in its damage.
Could he bring himself to forget the way she moved, in the heat of battle and the cool of night? Was it even possible to lose from memory the way she said his name, in so many ways, each one plucking at a heart he swore to turn into Stone.
Alistair, you need to change your socks.
Alistair, you're on third watch tonight.
Alistair, keep them off me!
Alistair, smite it!
Alistair, you're bleeding!
Alistair, let's go to bed.
Alistair, it hurts.
Alistair, I can't take it anymore.
Alistair, please, Alistair.
Alistair. Alistair.
No, he would not be able to forget. Even in his mind, hearing her voice chant his name, he would answer her, Neria, Neria, Neria, in the same fervent tone. Then the feel of her wrapped around him, her tiny, treasured body encased within his arms would be an unstoppable image burned beneath his vision, and his arms and thighs would quake with treacherous desire for her, no weaker than the last time he remembered.
Maker's breath, man, after all she's done, you still want her?
He knew the answer to that question. Knew it completely, concretely, irrevocably, but he dared not utter it. He dared not even think it. Allowing even a shred of affection, or weakness for her, he feared he would unravel, come apart like a drained spell, and be nothing but a pile of hopeless need for her.
And he couldn't have that. He was the King of Ferelden. He couldn't be a pile of hopeless need for her, or for anyone. He needed to run this sodding country, he needed to get a grip on himself, he needed a strong, stiff drink.
But sometimes, he failed. He failed as much as he dared to, and it always amounted to an unanswered letter. He did not know if he was glad she did not answer it, so he felt bolder each time he wrote one, deviating from the King of Ferelden concerned with the Grey Wardens, to Alistair and Neria. No reply was ever sent back with any messenger, even when the messenger was their common Antivan friend. A formal report in the tone of the Commander of the Grey was what he received every month, but he was sure it was not in her handwriting or even in her own words. It bore her personal seal, though, and Alistair supposed this was the best she could ever give him.
They had not parted under good terms. If one could call the aftermath of that Landsmeet a parting at all. Looking back, the King of Ferelden thought he was rather harsh, unforgiving and a complete ogre for turning on her like that, simply for the fact she spared a man's life.
But oh, it hurt, what she did, it hurt like darkspawn wound, festering and corrupted. She had betrayed him, knowing that closure for him could only come with Loghain's disgraced death yet she denied it him by the prodding of another Warden, one she barely knew when he had traveled with her, assembled her army for her.
It still shook him, how she could disregard his feelings in the name of duty. He was prepared to do anything for her, even take her as his wife against all odds, and if not, ask her to be his mistress if she would have him that way, as long as they could be with each other in any form. But thoughts like that were quashed by her own doing, by her own nature as a Warden.
And when she had descended from Fort Drakon, her own tiny body bearing that agent of regicide slumped on her shoulders, borne by ancient elven magic that he helped her discover, he could not be more disgusted. Even when he felt the Archdemon's death, something that surprised him, the Taint in him rebelling and quieting in the same moment, he hated her so much he would not even go out to kill any darkspawn. She had Loghain, and it seemed he was more than enough, for none of their companions had died, and the old fool had even gotten himself killed to be made a hero yet again.
It could have been him who was up there with her, it could have been him who slew the dragon for her, and once, just once, he could be her Knight and she his princess, and he would have had the home he always wished for. It would have been beautiful, and they would have been dancing right now.
He still hated her, fiercely, but it only affirmed to him that he loved her just as intensely as his hate allowed him to.
She was still a Warden, the best of them, now he knew, for he would not be able to decide as she had, set aside his emotions in such a precipice of a moment and…and…
Do the right thing.
He had admitted it to himself not long ago that what she did was the right thing, and he should have seen it coming. She always did the right thing, with Connor's Desire Demon, the Sloth Demon in the Fade, in the Gauntlet of Faith, with the Werewolves and Zathrian, with Branka and Carridin, her eyes straight and true as an arrow of Andraste. It was why he loved her like dying man.
Before Wynne came with them, she rarely slept a full night even without the burden of a watch, often healing him best she could, changing his bandages, cleaning his wounds, magic pouring out of her just as fast as she could get her lyrium down. She accompanied him to see his shrew of a sister, judged neither him nor Goldanna. She held his hand at Ostagar, dressed and cleaned his half-brother's body with him. This was why Alistair knew he was an idiot, because he knew now she only did what she thought was right, and had expected him to understand that, to trust her as he always did, and always watch her back. But instead, he spat on her in her greatest time of need and hid like a scolded child.
If that wasn't being an idiot, then Oghren was probably smarter than Morrigan.
But what you did hurt, Neria, it hurt worse than anything anybody ever did to me. You must have known it would, but why did you still do it? Did you not love me? What am I, darkspawn fodder?
Shaking himself, he called on one of the servants, and was brought a flagon of ale, which he downed with one tilt of his head backward. The liquid wasn't strong enough to burn, but he felt pleasantly warm and relaxed afterward. The dangerous train of thoughts he was entertaining was halted and he was able to watch the Feast without becoming too broody for conversation.
He found that he could be King for the rest of the night. Yes, he very well could, he could enjoy Teyrn Fergus' off-key singing, Bann Alfstanna's sisterly teasing and especially the array of fine cheeses spread out in deference for his own tastes. There were good things about being King, and Alistair thanked the Maker he had so shallow a place in his heart that woes could be chased away by a few hunks of expertly curdled milk.
Then she stepped through the heavy doors into the Great Hall, flanked by a dark, lean, vigilant man who reminded him of Rendon Howe and a tall, blond mage. She was dressed in a high-necked gown of deep purple, calling even more attention to her blood-red hair which hung about her shoulders in soft waves, so unlike the unkempt ponytail she wore in battle he remembered.
He watched her, hoping his jaw was not on the ground as surely as he felt. He was surprised that she met his eyes, but only to nod curtly and refuse the steward an introduction with him.
So that's how it's going to be, Neria. Why did you even come?
Well, you did invite her, idiot.
Eamon made the guest list.
But you double-checked it and spent a whole day debating whether you'd cross her off.
I sent an invitation to the Wardens.
She's the Grey Warden Commander. It would be an insult for her not to come.
She's done worse.
Only because you let your big fat mouth get ahead of you before thinking. You know about that? Thinking? You should do it more often.
Alistair sighed and reached for more cheese, popping a sharp West Hill goat's milk variety into his mouth before rising and walking down the dais so he wouldn't constantly see her when he was up there.
There was only so much a man can take in one night.
But he realized again his mistake when his eyes involuntarily strayed to where she was, always, always in the company of some male noble fawning over her. Truly, he could not blame them, with how her gown hugged her slender body so tightly, and the way she would turn with a shimmy of her—Maker's breath, her back is completely bare Teagan you old sot don't you dare touch her she's…she's..!
Before Alistair knew it, he had ended his conversation with Bann Alfstanna, almost rudely, and began walking a straight path towards Neria, pushing anyone in his way roughly aside. Looking back, he could not say what came over him, but Teagan's errant touches to the exposed skin of her back dimmed his vision and made something in him snap.
When Alistair realized what he had done, Teagan was waving at him from a fare distance rather sheepishly, and he remembered just how small she was when she stood next to him in full plate.
The world fell away like a house of cards, and all that was left were broken pieces of him facing her.
"Your Majesty." he heard her voice, for the first time after so many months, calling him something he loathed. But he did not miss a beat.
"Commander." he tried to suppress his growl. His hands felt like hitting something hard with a shield, but his brain knew not why.
"Yes?" she passed her goblet to someone, and smiled up at him, her eyes shining. It took all his discipline not to crush her to him. He had not been this close to her since their last night together. Even in Amranthine, she had stood as far away from him as possible even during their single private conversation.
"We have to talk." his treacherous hand moved and grasped her shoulders. He thought he could feel the heat of her skin through the metal of his gloves. His ceremonial armor felt hot and heavy all of a sudden.
"We can talk here." her voice lowered, but he did not know whether it was a dismissal or a challenge. His eyes wandered over her face and neck, and he saw several scars he knew she did not have when he was with her, counting four on one side and one on the other.
What happened to you, Neria? Who hurt you?
The question in his mind felt so intimate, coupled with scars signifying dreadful injuries, Alistair almost blurted it out. But he stopped himself just in time, and used royal nonchalance as a shield.
"No. We can't. Not about…" he waved his hand to effect, hoping she would see the distraction in his eyes as a sign he truly wished to speak freely with her.
"About what, Your Majesty?"
But the look she gave him was filled with venom, and he knew this was the look she gave the darkspawn she found at Ostagar. It made him a little scared and his mind scrambled to remember why he had come plowing through a sea of Fereldan nobility to confront her like this.
Maker, was I asleep when You were handing out sensibility?
He groaned, and his fingers worried the crease between his eyebrows, and when he looked up, he saw her Wardens flanking her again, dark Nathaniel Howe glaring openly at him and the rakish mage whose name escaped him tugging threateningly at the Veil, his Templar senses coming to life.
Of course, she must have them eating out of her hand, just as he used to be. Witch.
"May we speak privately, Commander?" he said, evenly, this time, the memory of Loghain rising up to stand beside him in this very same Hall a vision he held onto like Starfang in the Deep Roads, his grip the surest it had ever been, because he had sworn to himself he would not let the Broodmother touch her.
When she turned to her Wardens, for that's what they surely were, Wardens completely loyal to her, he felt his breath catch.
The Howe smiled at her, and she smiled back in one way he loved (but he loved every one of her smiles, even now), feral and hungry, a smile he only saw her show him in the muted light of his tent.
Then the blond mage laid his long, tapered fingers around her tiny waist and whispered something in her ear that made her face flood with becoming color.
"Neria." He felt the weight of months of turmoil in her name, and it came out in nothing but a tired, pleading whisper. He saw her eyes narrow at him.
"Of course, Your Majesty. Forgive my manners…and my Wardens…" she told him distractedly, her eyes on the Howe and the mage. Maybe he understood why the Wardens were exiled from Ferelden in the first place. Surely he could not let someone as powerful as her run free in his own kingdom? "Lead the way, I will be happy to oblige you not only as the King of Ferelden but also…as a brother."
Glad that she acquiesced but still incensed how the two men flocked immediately to her side, all he could do was nod and turn around, not even waiting to see if she would follow him. He saw Oghren, and the dwarf belched loudly and fixed him a pointed stare and said something he could not understand.
All the nobles stepped out of his way, and it was only then that Alistair realized they had probably seen his little exchange with the Commander of the Grey. It came as a surprise that it didn't matter in the least. He was sure Eamon was somewhere in the crowd, looking suitably displeased with him, but he did not care either.
It all came down to him and her, Alistair in his ornamental armor that was sorely unfit for battle, and Neria, in a gown that showed too much skin for his liking, locked in his private study, trying to understand how they betrayed each other in the space of a single Landsmeet and the life of one man.
At that moment, Alistair truly did not know why he asked to speak to her alone or what he would say to her, but he knew there was something deep inside him he wanted her to understand, and that the mere sight of her had unraveled him so thoroughly that he forgot he was King and she was Commander.
He hoped she would forget that as well, if only for a few minutes. In the silence of his study, inside his own palace, he hoped she would forget the distance between them and remember an honesty they shared a world away, under a starry sky, atop their own bedrolls, in a shared tent filled with nothing but a love that defied the Taint itself.
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