The letters arrived on the twins' fifth birthday. There had been an official celebration the week before full of frivolity and cake and nobility which the Ferelden royal family had weathered with varying degrees of grace. Today, however, was for family, so when the Queen's secretary appeared on the south lawn with two couriers, neither wearing livery, it was the King who rose to greet them.

"Forgive me, Your Majesty, but the seals both couriers carry are of the handful you told me to always bring directly to you or to the Queen." So saying, Leeds, Aalish's elven secretary, presented two small, thin, flat porcelain discs to Alistair. One was stamped with the likeness of a spider, the other with a likeness of the flower Andraste's Grace. He sighed and closed his eyes, briefly, before nodding at Leeds.

"You did the right thing, Leeds, thank you." He turned to the couriers, offering back the seals, and accepted the two letters he received in return with a nod. "If you would please go with Leeds, she will be happy to compensate you for your time and trouble."

Alistair did not watch them go, instead turning to where his family sat in the dappled shade of a thousand year old tree, the remains of their picnic still spread out on the blanket around them. The children he and Aalish had made were curled up on either side of her, leaning across so their foreheads pressed together. Crown Princess Moira, sweet and kind with a will of iron, whispered urgently, Prince Duncan, fierce and playful with a gentle heart, nodded sleepily, and Aalish gently carded her fingers through their brown and gold hair, her head bent to listen to their chatter. He could picture his children's faces: Moira's sharp, almost lupine face like her mother's, her eyes more green than gold but still his eyes in his wife's face, Duncan's softly rounded cheeks and stubborn chin, a picture of his father at five save those startling sapphire eyes, darker than Aalish's but no less potent for all of that.

His wife. His children. He wondered if the other child, somewhere, had his chin or his eyes, and knew that like Aalish, he had forgiven the sin so long ago. Forgiven, and ached to welcome the boy and his mother home, where they belonged.

They'd almost managed six years. Six years where their only separation had been when he traveled with Teagan to Kirkwall to see Commander Meredith's madness, the Champion's despair, and to encourage Fereldens to return home. Six years of watching their children grow, of Fergus's wedding to Anora, who bore him three children in three successive years, of family vacations spent on the shores of Highever, of politics and rebuilding and state dinners and the ability to hold each other anytime they wished, to love and be loved.

The letters he held meant their time was over.

Aalish looked up and surprised the look of anguish on her husband's face, the downturned mouth, the weary chameleon eyes more brown than green, the two letters clenched in a white knuckled grip. She took the letters and set them aside as Moira clambered up and rushed away, Duncan on her heels, as Alistair sank down next to her. She leaned her cheek on husband's broad shoulder, felt his warrior's hand stroke over her hair, as her own fingers curled over his thigh.

Tomorrow would be soon enough for sorrow. Today, today was for joy as their children raced over the grass, their brown and gold hair shining in the sunlight, as Alistair held her close and let her lean, just for a little longer, on his strength.

Tomorrow would be time enough to tell them goodbye.

OoO

OoO

In the years since the Blight, Aalish had been given more titles than were safe or comfortable. The Hero of Ferelden was a bard's tale and not easily shaken. Warden Commander of Ferelden she'd shed like a scab over an old wound, handing the reins to Nathaniel Howe when the healers told her she was with child. That he'd abandoned the post within a year had little and less to do with her life; she hoped wherever he'd gone he'd found some measure of peace. She had long ago stopped believing in the sins of the fathers. The Crown Matrimonial had been set aside by the Bannorn when Moira was named Crown Princess and the Arling of Amaranthine had been settled on Duncan to be held in stewardship until he came of age. These were duties she shifted rather than lost and was grateful to be only Queen Consort. Her favorite of all her titles was Alistair's wife, Moira and Duncan's mother, Fergus's sister, and aunt to Fergus and Anora's children.

The only title Aalish held that was known only amongst the Blight Companions was Raven.

Dearest Raven,

You know what is happening in the world, in Orlais and in Ferelden and in Kirkwall and with the Circles. Plots within plans within plots and even as Divine Justinia hopes for peace negotiations, she prepares for war.

There is a writ, hidden and safe, to renew the Inquisition of old. The Divine does not wish for her Hands to lead. Instead, she has sent the Right to Kirkwall, seeking the brave, reckless woman they've named Champion. Whatever the Right finds, you and I both know what she has asked of her Left. For all that I love Divine Justinia, for all that I have promised to obey her will in all things, in this, I cannot.

My fairest bird, my sweetest ally, my most loved sister. I will not ask you to pick up the burden of the Inquisition. Pack your daggers and bow, kiss your beautiful children and your handsome husband, and leave, now, this instant. Being Queen will not save you.

Let me do this for you, for all that you and your Bear have done for me. Do this for your Spider and her spiderling. Do this because you are loved and your sacrifices have been enough.

Fly. When it is safe, I will call you home.

There was no signature. Included was a commission with a mercenary company, already paid. Silently, Aalish handed the letter to Alistair.

The second letter was coded the same as the first and in a handwriting so familiar that Aalish's chest ached.

Sister,

The world has changed, has it not, while you sit on your throne and I wile away my hours in study in the place between? I find myself hoping you have forgiven me. We were so young, once, and foolish. Yes, even I, foolish and arrogant.

We have left our sanctuary and come to the Orlesian court. Empress Celene has asked me to stand as her court advisor on the occult, a silly title to be sure but it gives me access that I would not have otherwise. There is an answer, I know it, just beyond my reach.

They talk of you here, the Hero of Ferelden, and I have learned silence finally. Your secrets, our secrets, are not mine to tell. One day, perhaps, I will tell the boy. Will you allow me that? Will you be with us, help me as I should have asked you to help me that day at the eluvian? He is our child, the three of us, yours as much mine and as much as his sire's. Perhaps more yours, really.

Arrogant still, you can see, arrogant and alone, lonely as I never suspected I could be.

He is a good boy, bookish and kind and gentle, slow to laugh, slow to anger, more given to quiet contemplation than passion. Does he, I wonder, look like your children? Would they find kindred souls in each other as we once did?

I believe in no gods, but I believe in you.

I know the letter from the Left Hand has found you as mine has. I am still her Spider as you are still her Raven. Do what she demands of you. Please. When you come home, because you will come home, then so shall I.I shall come home and the Bear and the Raven and the Spider will be together once more.

Tell the insufferable Bear that I miss him, too, and my shame was never, will never, be his.

Go, sister. Go, so that we can both come home and love these children we have made.

Aalish watched as Alistair fed both letters into the fire of their chamber hearth as was their custom.

When he rose and pulled her gently toward their bed, she made no token protest.

They had said goodbye before.