AN and Disclaimer: Hey! This is my first fan fiction, but Dragon Age has always captured my imagination so here I am, putting those distant images into (hopefully) a clear storyline. Of course this world is not my own, that prestige belongs to the lovely people at Bioware. Don't hesitate to tell me what you think. Thanks! Winterborn.

"Sitting round, no work today

Try pacing to keep awake,

Laying round, no school today

Just drink until the clock has circled all the way."

-Bright Eyes, A line allows progress a circle does not.

Elaria Surana, Commander of the Grey Wardens and Hero of Ferelden ran her hand over her knotted, unkempt hair. Nimble fingers quickly found the aching part of her neck and gently massaged. In front of her sat the daunting pile of paperwork that had been unattended since the beginning of the Fifth Blight, neglected first by Duncan and then by Elaria herself. It had gone on too long. Accounts had to be settled, letters answered, actions explained and on top of all of this sat the everyday problems of running the Arling of Amaranthine. After the valiant death of Seneschal Varel it had become evident how vital the man had been in keeping her lands in check. She desperately needed someone to fill that very large hole but no-one even come close. It seemed this would be an ongoing theme in her life; loosing the men that she needed the most.

Elaria sighed. She had spent the last month within the walls of her study, only leaving when it was desperately required of her. A cot had been placed in the corner of the room; it was graced with her exhausted body far more often than the huge four poster bed just up the stairs. From the moment she saw it she had hated it. Its vastness mocked her small and lonely frame. Her study had been just as extravagantly furnished but when she had taken up residence she had sold most of the things, bar a huge iron-wrought brazier and the mahogany desk. Now she wished she hadn't. The bare stone walls of Vigils keep did not enough to keep off the damp coastal air and the fire constantly burning in her hearth did little to help. The tapestries may have been overly opulent for a Warden Commander's study but at least they kept off the cold. The minimalistic air of the cavernous room reminded her of the Circle and her long entrapment within that gilded cage. Being the Commander of the Grey, however more freeing it appeared to be, was just as much a jail. Imprisoned in a shrine of responsibility, duty and most importantly vigilance. In peace, vigilance. If this is what vigilance is then I don't think I'm cut out for peace. I'd take the blasted Blight again over all this bloody paperwork. Though part of her appreciated being absorbed in the writing, it put her thoughts on a leash so that they did not wonder to darker places.

Another sigh and somehow she found the motivation to pick up her quill. I am unaware as to why I did not perish when I slew the Archdemon. Perhaps your scholars could research this phenomenon...I am sorry to inform you that your son did indeed perish at Ostagar, you have my condolences. Know that his sacrifice will not be forgotten...I can spare you three masons and an architect for a month but no longer... Emissaries are the darkspawn mages. Their powers are mostly entropic and therefore concerned primarily with weakening their opponents...We will gladly accept any capable warriors who wish to join the Grey Wardens.

Hours passed with her head bowed down in concentration. The silence was only punctuated by the occasional moan or sigh that came unbidden from her lips and the scratching of quill on parchment. She deliberated over every sentence, sometimes re-reading what she had written, rolling the paper up and throwing it into the fire.

It was dark before she realised it. She had missed lunch and her stomach growled it's disapproval at her. Taking a taper from the brazier she lit three candles on her desk, attempting to ignore the protests of her body. Just two more responses then food, then sleep. If indeed sleep would come. The nights had been particularly difficult in this place. The wind howled endlessly around her tower room and her troubling thoughts were just as eternal and twice as loud.

A knock roused her from her work. Her unused voice crackled a hoarse, "enter."

Anders sidled into her solar. Elaria gave him a glance and went back to her letter to the Revered Mother of Amaranthine. The woman seemed uncomfortable with the thought of mages in her own words 'being unattended and in positions of great responsibility and care.' She had offered to dispatch a Templar for each of the magic users 'just to be safe.' Elaria was having a hard time being civil with the woman and was weighing every word, looking for unchecked spite. Anders coughed.

"What do you need Anders?"

"Need? Why does there have to be a need?" She gave him another look and noticed that he seemed unusually nervous. He had not taken the seat opposite but instead prowled the floor before her desk like a thespian onstage.

"Your countenance suggests..."

"The King is coming. He'll be here within the hour."

Elaria put her quill down and for the first time truly surveyed Anders. He had quit his pacing but it seemed his nerves had moved from his legs to his face. His lip was getting bit to the point where she worried he may draw blood.

"And why have you come to tell me this? You're a Grey Warden, a mage, not a messenger." Anger crept into her tone and he could feel her frosty green eyes cut through him as surely and as deftly as though she had wielded a sword.

"Have you eaten today? Hunger Demon's are a real threat you know..."

"Quit deflecting with humour. Why have you come to tell me this Anders?"

He took a deep breath which seemed to steady him slightly.

"I think you should tell the King."

She let his words hang in the air for a few seconds. For the first time since he'd entered his eyes found her own, and quickly looked away.

"I'm afraid you'll have to be a bit more specific than that."

"You know exactly what I'm talking about."

Her lips pursed without leave from her to do so. She felt her chest tighten and her throat go dry. Anders risked another glance, this time he met her gaze. She was the one to look away. Her hands reached for the wine decanter on her desk and she poured herself a large glass. She did not offer Anders one.

"You swore to me that you would never talk about this to anyone. Perhaps I didn't make it clear that this included me." He gapped at that, his planned retort turning into small noises of displeasure. The large gulp of wine was rich and velvety on her tongue but landed in her empty stomach like a stone. If the feeling had not been so familiar she might have retched. She took another sip to try and stop her shaking hands.

"But what if he can help you? He's the King he must be able to do something. To...to..."

"If Alistair is coming to the Keep without prior warning it probably means he will have more important matters to discuss."

Anders slumped, defeated. She wanted nothing more than to comfort him at that moment, to tell him that it would be alright, that she had it all under control, that she was his Commander, the Hero of Ferelden, slayer of abominations and archdemons and nothing would stand in her way. She couldn't. She didn't want to lie.

"Come on Anders. We've got a lot to do before Alistair gets here."

An hour was not enough time to get Vigils Keep ready for the presence of a King. If Alistair had known the chaos he had caused within her house he probably would have turned up unannounced. She had been told that the cook had gone wild with rage at the lack of good fare he had to feed the King. Several ornate Orlesian glasses bore the brunt of his fury but he seemed to have settled down now, if the smell of honey roasted parsnips was anything to go by. Silvia Renfish, her wizened elven housekeeper, was barking orders that could be heard echoing around the inner courtyard. It seemed the whole of her small household was in attendance. Servants and Wardens stood shoulder to shoulder, all pushing for a chance to greet their King. A mailed gloved hand hit her with slightly too much force on the small of her back, forcing her out of her reverie.

"All this fuss for that little pike twirler," Oghren grunted. He was swaying slightly, but that was not unusual. In his hand was a flagon of homebrewed mead.

"He is the King of Ferelden now, Oghren," though inside she couldn't help but smile.

"Aye but bet he's still twirling that pike," the dwarf snorted a laugh and took another swig, spilling some of the foul smelling liquid on his armour. "It's good to see you though Warden. They keep you so cooped up in there the men was starting to think you was dead. I told 'em you weren't though. " The dwarf burped heartily and Mistress Woolsey, who was standing in front of them, turned to glare at him disapprovingly. Before Elaria had to save Oghren from her chiding however the boy sent to the outer parapets to watch for the Kings arrival came running into the courtyard.

"The King's nearly here. Five minutes at most."

Suddenly she was surrounded by her friends and Wardens. Nathaniel and Anders stood to her left. Sigrun gave her a smile as the remaining Grey Wardens of Ferelden lined up to greet their King. Elaria was surprised at the silence; these people were genuinely anticipating his entrance. It often left her with a strange feeling that she could not place when people held her and Alistair in such high reverence. She knew he felt the same.

"All kneel for Alistair of House Theirin, King of Ferelden, the First of his name," the herald's voice rung around the walls of the keep as Alistair and his small retinue of Knights made their ascent towards the door of the castle. Her whole household kneeled as one with the exception of Oghren.

"I ain't getting my knees dirty for that sodding nug humper," he muttered so only she could hear.

As Alistair got closer she could see the discomfort wrought onto his face. He had settled down into his role of King much better than she originally anticipated, though how one is supposed to get used to a hundred people bowing at your entrance Elaria did not know. During the six months she had spent in Denerim they had talked many a wine fuelled evening away on the subject of governance and politics, but very little could prepare Alistair for the actuality of being King. He took the steps two at a time and stood in front of her.

"Your Majesty," she said a sardonic smile playing around her lips.

"Oh don't you start Elaria," he whispered to her. She surveyed him for a second, his new golden armour shone in the light of the fires, the Theirin coat of arms emblazoned on the breastplate in rubies. The burgundy cloak that fluttered behind him was travel worn and muddy from the autumn roads. His face was care worn, wrinkles had found their way to the corner of his eyes but as he smiled he looked ever the Alistair she had always known. He put out his hand and bid her and her household to rise. She took his hand and was surprised to find herself thrust into his armoured arms. She felt herself tighten at this unexpected proximity though her household seemed to approve this display of affection between their King and their Commander, from the great roar that went up. Alistair released her and turned to address her household.

"People of Vigil's Keep. I thank you heartily for you warm reception," another cheer which Alistair had to silence with a raise of his hand. "I'm sure my men will appreciate your food and fires, though I have urgent business with your Commander that must be attended."

Elaria met Anders' look with one that said; "I told you so."

Edited: 20/11/13