Guess who is being very bad and starting a new story rather than working on the ones with way overdue chapters…

This plot snuck into my head a few months ago and I've been fiddling around with it since. I finally have a solid plan for where I want the plot to go, so I've decided to have a crack at it. Hopefully it'll be worthwhile. Updates for my Jaiden Tabris story and Carver/Merrill are being worked on, I promise!

-Genjutsu-Dragon-

Nobody had ever told him that crowns were heavy.

Apparently Cailan's head had been a bit bigger than his as well. Alistair felt the band of hammered metal slip down his brow for the umpteenth time and tried to subtly push it straight while concentrating on what the man kneeling in front of the throne was saying. He couldn't even remember who it was, and felt his chest tighten in panic. He was expected to say something at the end of the man's declaration of fealty, but what?

He was saved his embarrassment. When the man finished talking, he opened his mouth and promptly shut it again as a commanding female voice to his left said his words for him, a lot more confidently than he would have.

"Your vow pleases my lord husband, Arl Wulffe. We thank you for your loyalty and determination over the troubles Ferelden has suffered in the last year, and you will be rewarded with the following bannorn to be added to your lands." One of the stewards read out a name, one that Alistair had never even heard before, but it bought an appreciative gleam to the Arl's eyes so evidently it had been well chosen. Perhaps it would be better to concentrate on trying to look regal and let his wife do the talking.

His wife. She was not a prize Alistair had expected to receive as a result of helping defeat the Blight, and she would be furious to be referred to as such. It was a sensible political choice, allowing somebody who knew how the country needed to be run to remain in power while also pleasing those who apparently fell apart if a descendant of Calenhad wasn't on the throne. All the same, Alistair would rather it had been anybody other than Anora.

There was no denying the fact that she was pretty, beautiful even, had a clear head on her shoulders and was practical enough to not let her father's death influence her decisions following the rout of the darkspawn. But when she looked at him, there was no tenderness or warmth to her expression. He'd wanted to eventually marry somebody who was happy to see him and made him happy to see her, but that choice had been taken out of his hands when the decision was made for him that he should be king.

It had taken a long time for him to forgive Nia for pushing him towards the role he'd been so strongly resisting. It felt like they'd only just repaired their friendship when she was taken away again – this time for good.

Nia hadn't tried to persuade him to perform Morrigan's ritual, but he'd overheard the offer and Nia's refusal to talk him into it. At the time Alistair had agreed with every argument Nia made – saving one or two lives was not worth unleashing an Old God in the body of a child on Thedas. He'd also been furious on her behalf as Morrigan tried to manipulate the mage into compliance by using her relationship with Leliana. At that point Nia had told her to get out.

Alistair had been proud of her in that moment. He could have gone to Morrigan himself and offered to go through with it based on what he'd overheard, but he'd had a better plan. He didn't want to be king. He would fight alongside Nia until they came up against the archdemon, and then he would take the killing blow. He would perish but Nia and Leliana would have each other.

As if she had known what he planned to do, Nia had left him and her lover behind. It had been wrong, so wrong. Out of all the people that should have been on the rooftop with her at the end, it should have been her fellow Warden and her lover. Instead, Nia's heroic sacrifice had been witnessed by a drunken dwarf, a lecherous elf and an old woman who had driven Nia around the bend with her lectures, however well-meaning they had been.

Alistair knew he wasn't being fair to Zevran, Oghren and Wynne. But it hadn't seemed fair to them either. He'd known Nia was gone from the moment the archdemon's soul exploded out of its body, and Leliana had looked him in the eyes and had known. It was with that knowledge that they'd had to fight through the last of the darkspawn and up to the top of Fort Drakon, and still some shard of hope had been present in both of them. Alistair found himself regretting that he hadn't gone to Morrigan. If he'd only known that Nia would stop either of them from being present…

Would he have gone through with the ritual? Would he have risked whatever it was that Morrigan meant to create? Possibly. He would have done a lot of things to prevent having to see Leliana falling to her knees beside Nia's body, and hearing the howl of pain and grief that had followed.

The funeral had been reverent enough, and probably unprecedented in the amount of respect shown to an elven mage. But it hadn't seemed like enough. Barely was the ceremony over and the Wardens come to carry Nia's body away to Weisshaupt when Eamon had started making arrangements for Alistair's coronation. He'd felt like a boy again, watching decisions being made about him without being consulted, and he had sat through the meeting when the gathered nobles had decided on the compromise of him wedding Anora feeling completely numb.

And now…this was his life. Trying not to embarrass her and to remember what he was supposed to say and do. There was so much to being a king and Alistair hated every minute of it. It was a relief that Anora had not insisted on his consummating the marriage just yet, although it was only a matter of time. For the moment, he suspected she still saw Cailan's face in his own. Her husband's infidelities had been a source of serious discomfort – and he suspected some feelings of inadequacy, if Anora could ever feel that – and it might take her a while to realise that Alistair was not the same.

He might not have wanted to marry her, and he might not love her, but he was determined to do right by her. She had thus far prevented him from making a total fool of himself and he was grateful for that. She hadn't even sought to punish him in subtle ways for his involvement in her father's death, something he had been particularly concerned about in the beginning. Instead she concentrated on settling the affairs of the kingdom and Alistair concentrated on learning his role.

He had other responsibilities besides a country, however. While it had been Nia's unique skills of persuasion that had assembled their group as they travelled Ferelden, almost all of them had stuck by him while he struggled with the initial burden of the crown and his own grief at losing one of the best friends he had ever had. He wanted to show his gratitude to all of them, and above all, he wanted to keep the promise he'd made to Nia when she had bid him goodbye at the gates of Denerim.

"Look after Leliana for me."

Only that was a very difficult thing to do seeing as the bard had vanished not long after the coronation. Alistair had had it in mind to offer her a court position so he could keep an eye on her, but he never got around to making it before she disappeared without a trace.

He feared for her. At the funeral, Leliana had not cried, but held Nia's hand so tightly that Alistair had been forced to prise her fingers away when it was time for them to leave. The look she had given him haunted him still. It was as though she had nothing left to live for. For all Alistair knew, Leliana had willingly gone to follow her lover into the dark. All he could do was circulate his description to the people he trusted to keep eyes open throughout the kingdom, and hope to find her again.

He was thinking about this again when he felt fingernails digging into his arm. Anora had taken it in a gesture of affection, but her fingertips pressed hard into his elbow. "My lord." Her voice was pointed, clear indication that this was not her first attempt at getting his attention. "We are finished." Alistair looked around the throne room and realised to his shock that most of the nobles were gone. "I suggest next time that you try not to drift off when we are supposed to be rewarding subjects for their loyalty."

"Sorry, Anora." He hung his head like a boy as she gave a sharp huff.

"Please make an effort, my lord." How in Thedas did she manage to make that title sound like an insult? "There is a messenger waiting to address you, in particular. I suggest you do not doze off if you want to salvage any respect for yourself."

Despite being stung by her tone, Alistair took her advice and straightened up. Maker's breath, had he been slumped in his seat like this since Wulffe had been talking? No wonder Anora looked annoyed. "Show him in." The slight crack on the last word make him wince in embarrassment, and his wife looked away. The steward called the man in.

Alistair wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but it certainly hadn't been news to do with the Wardens.

"The garrison from Orlais has arrived and been settled at Vigil's Keep, Your Majesty." Alistair raised his eyebrows. Orlesian Wardens in Howe's old fortress. Some people were not going to be happy about that. "As Warden-Commander of Ferelden, they ask you to please attend them and discuss what you want to do regarding the Fereldan branch. As you know, recruits from within Ferelden are somewhat thin on the ground." In other words, there's just one of me. And I'm kind of busy being king. "It is suggested that you pass on the role to another as you are otherwise engaged. There are several experienced Wardens amongst the Orlesians; there may be one you deem suitable to act as your replacement."

For the first time in two months, Alistair felt a stirring of excitement. He'd missed being part of the Wardens. Those six all-too-brief months he'd spent with the Order before Ostagar was the most cherished time of his life, and while a group from Orlais would not be the same – and probably would be very disapproving of the fact that he'd taken a title – he wanted to see if he could find even a hint of the camaraderie he hadn't known since Nia died. Cautious of Anora's feelings, he looked to his wife first.

"I must confer with the Queen before I decide to go. If you'll give me a moment?"

The messenger looked surprised, but nodded and was escorted out. Anora was giving Alistair a cool look, and he gave her an awkward smile in return. "So. Do you think you can stand a month or so of me not being a prat while you try to run the kingdom?"

"It will be a trial." Her tone was so dry that for a moment she reminded him of Morrigan. Yeesh. That's not a good thought. However, for the first time since they had wed, she actually looked a little amused. "I think you should see to the Wardens. As the messenger astutely indicated, there is only one Fereldan Warden alive, and I don't think that the citizens of Amaranthine will take well to having the seat of the Arl occupied by Orlesians. I suggest you do some very quick recruiting and try to make the Orlesian presence at the Keep unnecessary."

Like father, like daughter. Given that Cailan had been revealed to be trying to engineer a marriage between himself and Empress Celene, Alistair was hardly surprised that Anora would be prickly on the subject of Orlesians. He focused less on that, though, and more on the fact that soon he would get to go to Amaranthine and not be King Alistair for a while. He could be a Warden again, albeit one just there to tie up affairs rather than fight darkspawn.

Hopefully, when he came back, Anora would start seeing him as Alistair rather than Cailan's brother. He would be completely faithful to her while he was away; he wouldn't even allow a chance for a rumour to spread to the contrary. When she learned he was capable of not emulating his father and brother in all aspects of his life, maybe she would warm to him a little. It would certainly make the next twenty-five years or whatever he had before his Calling easier.

He cleared his throat and instructed the steward to retrieve the messenger, trying not to look too excited. Apparently it didn't ever do for a king to look too excited about anything. It was as if somebody was deliberately trying to make this royalty thing boring.