When Alianne Cousland had accepted the position of Ferelden's Warden-Commander, she had known that would mean months apart from her husband. But her work in Amaranthine was too important, as was Alistair's in Denerim. So Aly had resigned herself to weeks upon weeks with no company at night but her hands and her memories.

Still, her husband was supposed to be there at Vigil's Keep on that first day to see Aly and her first recruit settled in, before setting off for Denerim in the afternoon. Aly had planned on arriving at the Keep early, getting Mhairi settled in, leaving her and Alistair an hour or two alone together once they'd gotten official business out of the way. Naturally, none of that happened, because the Maker was determined not to let her have nice things. She had arrived to find the prospective Gray Warden headquarters already overflowing with darkspawn from every orifice. Not only that, but the blight-cursed monsters were lead by a talking darkspawn, because of course that was just what the world needed after a Blight. When all was said and done, Aly had barely gotten five minutes and a kiss with Alistair before his other responsibilities had called him away. Their last night together in Denerim was going to have to tide her over for a very long time.

And now Mhairi was dead. Aly collapsed into her desk chair and buried her face in her hands. All while fighting to clear darkspawn from the Keep, she had prayed to the Maker to not let her bright eyed and eager young recruit fall to a random genlock arrow before she had a chance to become a proper Gray Warden. Well. The Maker certainly had granted that request, hadn't he? The poor woman had died at her Joining, never getting the chance to fight for the cause she had so eagerly jumped for.

At least Anders and Oghren had survived. Two out of three. And none of them had tried to back out at the last minute, as Ser Jory had. She hadn't been forced to kill anyone to preserve Gray Warden secrets. It was an improvement over her own Joining, wasn't it? She tried the thought out in her head to see if it reassured her.

It didn't.

Aly needed a drink. The Keep was unfamiliar to her, so she wasn't sure where she could find alcohol at this hour. Perhaps Oghren would be willing to share his supply? That thought made her laugh. If there was the slightest tinge of hysteria to it, at least no one was around to witness it. Maker, she really was in bad shape if drinking from Oghren's usual flask of latrine-aged piss was attractive to her. No. She needed a distraction.

Briefly, Aly entertained a fantasy of grabbing the Keep's fastest horse and tearing off after Alistair. He was only a few hours out from the Keep. She could catch up within a day, at most. They could spend a night together in the woods, perhaps recapture the glory days of their early romance. Lumpy bedrolls with the occasional spider, plus lewd commentary from Zevran when they made too much noise.

She grinned at her own folly. It wouldn't do for the Warden-Commander to go haring off after her king like a love-sick mabari pup. And Alistair's bodyguards would be far less accommodating of their alone time than even her previous traveling companions had been. Still, it gave her an idea. A letter dispatched on a fast horse tomorrow morning would likely reach Denerim before Alistair did. She pulled a quill and parchment out of her writing desk and pondered. What did one write in such letters?

As a child, Aly remembered snooping in her father's writing desk (How else was she to learn anything interesting?). She had expected to find correspondence with the king or the other great lords, about spies or perhaps another Orlesian invasion, or whatever it was that lords and kings were supposed to write about. Instead, she had found love letters, from her mother to her father, from early in their courtship. Bryce Cousland had been reclaiming the teyrnir at Highever after decades of Orlesian occupation, while Eleanor Mac Eanraig had been patrolling the Waking Sea with the rest of her family's fleet, defending against another invasion from Orlais. As far as Aly could tell, her parents had written to each other nearly every day during those months of separation. The letters from her mother were so unlike the stern and sensible woman Aly remembered, dripping with enough sappy sentiment to make any right-thinking ten-year-old vomit.

Aly swallowed a lump in her throat. As if she were not feeling maudlin enough as it was. Besides, her mother's terrible amateur love poetry didn't feel right for Aly and Alistair. In the end, Aly decided to keep it simple before she started crying over the blank parchment.

Dearest Alistair,

I love you.

-Aly.

She looked at her words and shook her head ruefully. The Alianne of two years ago would have thoroughly mocked such treacly sentiment. But something about Alistair- warm, funny, fierce Alistair- made her so soppy she dripped like a wet sponge. And she was in a sentimental mood tonight, so she put the note in an envelope and went to bed.

Alistair's reply arrived a week later. Aly was standing on the walls of the Keep, overseeing the repairs to the stonemasonry and wondering for the thousandth time what demon must have possessed her to convince her to make Arl Howe's son a Gray Warden, when a messenger arrived.

"Warden-Commander! A message from His Majesty!"

It was two messages, actually. One addressed to the Warden-Commander, one to Aly. One business, one personal, she thought. Neither were marked as urgent, so she thanked the messenger before tucking both envelopes into her belt pouch and resuming her task.

Aly didn't get an opportunity to look at either letter until evening, after supper. She opened the business letter first, saving the other as reward for herself. The business letter was mostly a summary of events at court since she left. There was also a request for her opinion on a trade issue that Alistair and Eamon had been butting heads over for weeks. She penned a reply, outlining the latest progress at Vigil's Keep, and offering her opinion on the trade issue.

Once that was squared away, she opened Alistair's other letter. The first thing Aly noticed was that it had a slightly lumpy feel to it. She found out why when a dried, pressed rose tumbled onto her desk. The accompanying note read:

Dearest Aly,

I was in the garden the other day and I thought I saw you, but it turned out to be this instead.

Love,

Alistair

Aly grinned stupidly. It was cheesy, yes, and cliched to the Void and back. But with Alistair, it somehow worked. Probably because she knew he was completely and utterly sincere.

She knew right then that she had to find a way to preserve this rose. The first rose he had given her had disintegrated to nothing long ago, to her eternal regret. She wanted to preserve this one. Perhaps she could press it between glass and frame it? No, that wouldn't be right. Roses had such a personal meaning between them, it would be wrong display this one where any visitor to her rooms could gawp at it. A locket perhaps? No, the rose was too big. Perhaps Anders knew a spell that could preserve it. Or perhaps that mad dwarf alchemist would have an idea.

Putting those thoughts aside, she grabbed a piece of paper and began to write furiously.

Alistair, you sweetheart:

When I get home, winter had best be ready to come in early, because your lamppost is getting such a thorough licking.

-Aly

She regarded her note, smirking at the mental image of Alistair's reaction to that little suggestion. It hadn't been too terribly long ago that he had managed to stop blushing at the mere discussion of sex. It filled her with gleeful pleasure, imagining his ears going going red, and him possibly having to stammer implausible excuses to his advisors so he could get some alone time. Yes, she liked that thought very much indeed.

Her reply came the next week.

Aly, you evil, evil minx:

Do you know when your letter arrived? Five minutes before the annual spring planting meeting. I knew it would be as exciting as watching paint dry, so when your letter arrived I thought: how lovely! A missive from my darling wife, to keep my spirits up during this ordeal of boredom.

Ha! Hahahahahahaha!

I spent the whole meeting with so many… images tormenting me I thought I was going to be possessed by a desire demon. I was so distracted Eamon pulled me aside during a recess to ask if I was well. I swear Teagan knew somehow. He saw me receive your letter, and he had this hideously knowing smirk on his face during the meeting. Or maybe crop rotation is just way more amusing than I ever suspected.

Regardless, you are clearly an agent of Ferelden's enemies, sent to undermine my kingly authority. It is my duty to punish you. I think Zevran recommended some books on that subject to me once. Perhaps our library has some?

With all kingly kinginess,

Alistair

Your most kingly majesty:

Alas, I am exposed! Prepare thy punishments, for I do most assuredly deserve them all. Of course, the punishment must be appropriate to the crime. Your humiliation occurred in the council meeting chambers, so it is only right and proper that my punishment occur there too. Possibly in front of all the same witnesses. Did you know that the table in that room is just the right size for a person to lie spread-eagled? I'm sure one so kingy as yourself can procure some rope.

Your most penitent queen,

Aly

Aly was packing her bags for a trip to the Wending Wood when Alistair's reply arrived. She pursed her lips. She wanted nothing more than to tear open the envelope and read it right now. But she knew she'd probably need… alone time afterward, given the direction her correspondence had been taking lately. And she needed to go to sleep soon if she was to rise before dawn the next day. In the end, she tucked it into a small pouch in her pack. Something to keep her company on a cold night in the woods.

Anders tossed in his bedroll for what felt like the thousandth time. Why in the Maker's name did the Wending Wood have to be so… so… woodsy? The hard lumpy ground kept digging its way into his back, no matter where he moved. The incessant hooting of owls and chirping of insects rang louder than chantry bells. Twice that night something unpleasantly crawly had made its way into his bedroll. Oh, and of course, there was the rotting corpse standing watch a few feet away, perfuming the whole area. That, at least, came with an upside: spirit-possessed corpses didn't need sleep, sparing the rest of them the need to set watches through the night.

Eventually, Anders gave up on sleep. He'd just have to make do with a rejuvenation spell in the morning. He knew he wouldn't be able to get away with that for more than a couple days before his body started demanding the bill (plus interest), but with dawn less than an hour away, he didn't have much choice.

Quietly, he got up and went to the nearby steam, absent-mindedly stroking the sleeping Ser Pounce-a-lot in his robe pockets. Returning with a full waterskin, he noticed that Justice was reading something. That made him stop short. Normally, when Justice had nothing to do, he simply passed the time by staring fixedly at nothing, apparently incapable of boredom. This was almost creepier.

Eventually, Anders' curiosity won out over his discomfort. "What are you reading?" He kept his voice low enough not to wake the others- not difficult when Oghren and the Warden-Commander (he had trouble thinking of her as just Aly, despite her requests for informality) were both snoring like sawmills.

"It is a piece of writing." Justice's voice was equally low. That had taken some effort on the Wardens' part: normally Justice spoke at the same booming volume he used to importune the unjust, with no concept of an indoor voice. As a result, the Wardens had learned that the Commander responded to being startled awake with a knife to the face. Anders had had an interesting time after that, figuring out how to heal lacerations on a corpse.

"Do you have to be so literal?" Anders sat cross legged next to the man… spirit… thing. "I meant what's on the paper?"

Justice didn't answer for a moment. Anders was starting to wonder if the spirit somehow hadn't heard his question, when he finally answered. "It is very puzzling. It is a letter from the King to the Warden-Commander, but it does not fit how others have described their relationship. King Alistair is quite determined to exact retribution for some offense, and he writes at some length-"

Anders regained enough of his composure to squeak: "You're reading the Commander's private correspondence?!" He glanced nervously at the still-sleeping woman, but she merely snorted and rolled over.

Justice frowned at him. "It was not private. It was lying on the ground."

Anders stared. "Lying on the ground."

"Yes. Right there." Justice pointed to a spot not far outside the camp.

Anders looked at the spot, then sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Look, Justice, the letter probably fell out of her pack by accident or something when we were setting up camp. I doubt the Commander would appreciate-"

He was interrupted by the malfunctioning-sawmill snort of the Warden-Commander waking up. Anders made a split second decision. "Right then, looks like everyone's waking up, I'lljustgomakebreakfastnow!" He said this last bit over his shoulder at a dead sprint towards the banked cooking fire. Anders knew he was being cowardly, but he wanted to be sure that the Warden-Commander saw him nowhere near her private correspondence when she woke up. He had seen how quickly she could go from zero to knife-to-the-face, and didn't want to be anywhere near her when that happened.

As he stoked the fire back to life with a small flame spell, he saw Justice march over to to the Warden-Commander, who was still thrashing herself awake. "Warden-Commander! I would speak to you!" The Fade spirit boomed. Anders groaned inwardly. They had managed to teach Justice that it was rude to wake people, but he still had trouble with the idea that wakefulness for many people was a process, not an on/off binary.

"Ngzit?" The Commander mumbled. She sat up, bleary-eyed.

Justice plowed on. "Have you wronged the king in some way?"

The Warden-Commander blinked again. "...Fuck are you talking about…?"

"The king, your husband. He goes on at some length about binding you to flat surfaces and using whips-" The rest of the camp slowly woke up as Justice proceeded to describe King Alistair's letter in appallingly clinical detail. Sigrun's eyes were round as saucers, slight smirk on her face. Oghren had a full blown leer on his. Nathaniel looked… well, he looked like he might rather be back in that cell the Commander had found him in. As their fearless leaders face got redder and redder, Anders marveled to himself: who'd have thought our blushing chantry boy king had that in him?

Dear Alistair,

I think we need to write our private letters in code from now on.

Love,

Aly

A/N: Something I wrote on AO3 a while back. Probably going to start posting more here too. The bit about Bryce and Eleanor Cousland's love letters comes from Worlds of Thedas, via the Dragon Age Wiki. Although the wiki indicates that only Bryce wrote letters to Eleanor, it worked better for this fic if Eleanor wrote back to him.