The King's coronation ceremony was over, as was the Hero's parade. It had been a long and tiring day for the both of them.
Alistair was beyond exhausted. During the Blight he had experienced long days and nights of marching and fighting, in massive plate no less. But the past few days were different. He had been walking around looking dignified and acting kingly, whatever that meant. His humor had been foul the past few days as well.
Being king meant a lot of restrictions, a lot of silly rules and useless formalities. Like today, the day the Crown had to honor the Hero of Ferelden, even if technically, that honorable woman was the other half of that crown. There were speeches to memorize, the right gestures to be made. Posture, too. Alistair had to mind his posture. Head held up high, no crouching in defense, and most definitely no slouching whatsoever, he heard Lucilla's voice say in his head. The royal armor felt off, too, especially as he did not have the weight of his old shield in his back—Lucilla's family shield, to be precise, the one he had always used because she said it was good and it never really let them down.
Eamon had assured Alistair that there were going to be fewer occasions like this. Most days, he would be expected to sit down, listen and on occasion, participate in policy making.
Whatever "policy making" meant was beyond Alistair, at this point. He would have to trust his sort-of uncle to educate him, if Lucilla did not get to him first. He could almost hear her stern voice, telling him what to do, arguing with Eamon, Maker knew what else.
But he knew what he wanted. That was a start. Alistair saw how his nation was undone, not just by the Blight but by its own petty differences of class and race. He had to see the silver lining that it was the Blight that had unified Ferelden. And his efforts had been successful. That had begun, with the efforts in Denerim, and if his orders were heeded, in the Bannorn and the rest of the country. He also wanted a more liberal arrangement with the Chantry regarding mages and trade with Orzammar; for all the tyranny that King Bhelen exuded, he at least recognized his allies in the Crown of Ferelden. And of course, Alistair must see to it that the Bannorn and the humans recognize that elves were Ferelden citizens too. The Alienage had to be made better. Tons better. Worlds better. The Dalish could be reasoned with, he supposed, if he summoned Keeper Lanaya and worked out good terms with her. He would have to leave the delicate negotiations with Lucilla: she was the one who had a way with words, not him.
The King wanted to do these, and more. Not to just stand around and look dignified.
What had he gotten himself into?
Alistair walked over to his small bar, intending to drink some whiskey to help him sleep in that ginormous bed his counselors and his betrothed insisted upon "because it suits the King." He found that he liked the burning sensation in his throat.
But the glass had barely reached his lips when a loud knock. He tried to control his irritation as he told whoever it was to enter.
"Your Majesty," a maidservant entered and bowed. She was obviously harassed and scared. "I beg your pardon. But she wants to see you, Sire. She said, immediately."
And there was only one woman who would dare disturb the King at this late hour. He supposed he had to thank the Maker that that woman had already agreed to be his wife.
Alistair knocked at Lucilla's door, and heard her curt voice bid him enter.
Her room was lavish, he had to concede, but not excessively so. Maybe for his provincial and austere taste, her hardwood furniture, four-poster bed, elegantly carved dressers and trunks, and that enormous vanity were already extravagant. But they all suited her; and if Ferelden were more prosperous, he would certainly lavish upon her more of these fine things.
Lucilla Cousland, the Hero of Ferelden, was in a state of undress, and at that point her squire had just removed all the pieces of her ceremonial armor, leaving her clad in a thick grey undertunic that reached to her knees. Lucilla's hair was in disarray—one of her two elegant coiled braids was already undone, and she was undoing the other irritably.
The squire bowed quickly to them and scurried off, leaving the King and his betrothed alone together.
It was probably improper for Alistair to be seen with Lucilla inside her bedroom at night before holy matrimony, but they represented themselves to the realm as partners in love and politics alike. Surely, this one night would not be the basis of scandal. And Alistair had seen Lucilla this way innumerable times before; soldiers on the road often did not have privacy.
"What in the name of the Maker were you thinking?" Lucilla hissed when she was sure her squire was out of earshot. "Granting Amaranthine to the Wardens. Of all the Maker's jokes, Alistair—"
"I thought you might like it?" Alistair stammered. Maker, was this what was so urgent that she had to summon him in the middle of the night, while she was in her underclothes, no less?
What was wrong in granting Amaranthine to the Wardens? He had thought it a stroke of genius, and Eamon concurred the moment he had said it. The Howe family deserved no less than the stripping of all their titles and the lands that went along with it. He thought Lucilla would be the first to appreciate it.
"You fool," she said, jabbing her forefinger at his chest, her wavy hair caught in the breeze of her movements.
She was so close, he could smell her breath. That explains her abusive behavior, then. Lucilla was always even-tempered, even when agitated, unless she had alcohol. Then, her fury could be immense. But only ever with him. He had never seen her like this with anybody else.
"You've been drinking," he stated, and he took her hand from his chest, gripped it tightly and led her to her table. "Not that I haven't, Luce."
"Then get us another," she commanded as she sat down. "In the second cabinet to the right. And then you tell me why in the Maker's name did you cede an entire arling to a foreign order."
He saw his betrothed's collection of fine spirits and their glasses. Whiskey, brandy, sparkling white and red wines. He purposefully avoided looking at the sparkling wines; Fereldens, as a matter of principle, did not like anything fancy out of Orlais. But he knew another woman who was really fond of those, one for whom even patriotic Lucilla would drink with.
He tried not to think about Leliana, the woman Lucilla, his betrothed, would be spending her nights with. He had to focus on the rationale behind his granting of Amaranthine to the Wardens.
Alistair chose whiskey almost out of habit, and poured them both a glass. Lucilla immediately drank hers. She smacked her lips lightly, and it seemed that the tension between them was somewhat lifted.
"The Wardens need to rebuild, Luce," Alistair said. "We can't be the only Wardens in Ferelden. We need more. And we need help in rebuilding; we don't know anything about it."
"I'm sorry, Alistair," Lucilla said, and she sounded as if she meant it. Her eyes were kinder now, her voice less shrill. "But you made a mistake. Granting an entire Arling to the Wardens? Who would run it, if we were both at court? Would you invite Orlesians or Marchers to administer an entire chunk of the North? How could we justify this to the Landsmeet? And why didn't you tell me about it before?"
"I can rescind it if you want," Alistair said immediately, although he was not sure how. And it seemed to him that his surprise to her—meant to be his betrothal gift for her—was the one that irked her.
Would Lucilla draft another edict which he would just sign? But to whom should Amaranthine be given? And where would the Wardens rebuild? Would the old compound in Denerim have to do?
"I've seen that you've signed the order already, and concurred by your Chancellor, Eamon," Lucilla said. She motioned for him to pour her another glass. "It will not be becoming of you to flipflop on your own orders. Besides, you're right about the Wardens rebuilding. I'm just not sure that Orlesians should be doing it."
"Luce, I really thought that stripping Howe's lands and giving them to the Wardens to rebuild was wise," he said.
"It's proper to strip Howe of Amaranthine, yes," Lucilla admitted. "But granting his lands to foreigners, I'm not sure. Who are the Wardens who would rebuild in Amaranthine? Are they our loyal subjects? Will they bow down to the authority of the crown?"
"Then I will go in Amaranthine, as Warden-Commander," Alistair declared.
"You're not thinking straight, Alistair," Lucilla said, and this time she poured her own drink. "You're the king. You can't leave court for that long. You don't work for the Wardens anymore."
"Neither can you, Luce," Alistair said. "In case you forgot. You've a crown." He lightly touched her temple and smiled.
Must this man joke about everything?
Lucilla stood up, walked to her window and turned her back on Alistair. In Denerim, the moon shone full and beautiful, casting a soft glow on the quaint little houses and structures of the capital. In that light, it was as if the Blight never happened.
"Did I make a mistake removing Anora from that throne?" she whispered, wishing that Alistair would both hear and not hear her.
Lucilla respected Alistair, that was for sure. She knew how Alistair was with his people. How he put their needs before himself. How he thought he knew how he could make things better. How he was ready to die for them, over and over again. How he was her conscience, the voice of empathy and compassion for the people when she proved herself to be too harsh.
Can good men become good kings and princes?
Am I a fool for daring to replace Anora with myself and Alistair? Lucilla thought. Alistair, with his kind heart and empathy for their people. With his sense of justice, of what was right and wrong that was sometimes lost on me and the noble leaders of our country. And Anora, who never went out of her palace, never spoke with commoners although she herself was, the Queen who never knew what or whom she ruled. She was the queen of her own little world. I—and Alistair—are going to be the joint rulers of Ferelden and everything in it.
"We're both tired and intoxicated, Luce," Alistair said, following her. He held her lightly from behind, and he could not resist kissing her hair. Lucilla did not flinch. Emboldened, Alistair held her tighter, his hands just below her breasts. How he longed to touch her beneath that thick, grey fabric! He felt his groins stir.
"You are a good man, my King," she told him. "And for better or for worse, you are the King, Maker preserve us."
"And you will counsel me, right?" he asked her. "Guide me, my light. What is the proper thing to do?"
"Very well," she answered. She allowed him to hold her for as long as he wanted to—he would be more pliant, more attentive to her this way. But she thanked the Maker his hands did not dare fondle her breasts—good, he knew where he stood and he respected her.
"The Crown should be undivided," Lucilla proposed. "All policies would be decided jointly by us before reaching the Landsmeet—or anybody else, for that matter. We present an undivided front before all our people. No surprises, no secrets between us. Do you agree?"
Alistair ignored the fact that Lucilla was already clinging to power at this point. So soon, but not unwelcome. She was wise and learned in the ways of the nobility and the people.
"That is wise, provided you wear your half of the crown," Alistair said. As long as you are mine and I am yours and this crown unites us. "You really will marry me, then?"
"How many times must I say yes, Alistair?" Lucilla said tenderly. "Yes, yes, a thousand times yes, Alistair, I will marry you."
So this is how our marriage is going to be like, Lucilla thought. He will be putty in my hands for so long as I allow little intimacies. But why was she feeling tender towards him at this point?
Why did she suddenly find him attractive? And more importantly—was he having cold feet?
Maker, no, Lucilla thought. In the intoxicating haze of whiskey, the exhaustion of the past few days, and this discovery, Lucilla wanted to lean on Alistair. Wanted to love him, even. So strong, so different from Leliana's soft and supple body. Alistair, her golden king, her man through and through. And always, his heart was in the right place, even if he sometimes needed a firmer hand in his ruling. That could be learned in time, she thought, but a kind heart was something one was born with.
"Kiss me." It was not an order. It was an entreaty, a gentle lover's plea. One that Lucilla could not refuse, not this time.
In the pale moonlight, Lucilla thought Alistair looked handsome. Regal. Charming and irresistible. The lofty king, the only man worthy of her, the only person worthy of her hand in marriage.
Also in that moment, Alistair thought that Lucilla looked innocent and fair, her dark eyes shining and her mouth oh so enticing. His heart raced. His knees felt weak but strong at the same time. He wondered what she was seeing in him. In another world, one without Leliana, could Lucilla have loved him? If he were not king, would she even notice him?
She did not move. But Alistair could not resist. He tipped her chin and pressed a soft kiss on her lips, all thoughts, except that of his love for her, cast aside.
Lucilla tasted of whiskey, and now he craved it more than ever. No, he craved her, whatever she tasted of. He wanted more from her, and his heart leapt when she tilted her head, as if wanting more.
He no longer cared if Lucilla thought of another while his lips were upon hers. He cupped her face with his left hand while his right sought the small of her back. Lucilla's tongue sought his, and to his surprise she was holding him too with her strong arms.
He wanted to stay in that moment forever.
"I love you, Luce," Alistair whispered in between kisses. His arms still held her tight. "Come to bed now, dear wife?"
The spell broke, and Lucilla turned away from him immediately.
Lucilla was disgusted and angry with herself. She promised that she would not toy with Alistair's emotions. She owed Leliana and Alistair that. Besides, her marriage with him was only for convenience and position, so that the crown would be stronger than ever.
"Not yet," Lucilla answered, gently pushing his arms from her. She felt so guilty, suddenly unworthy of this man who loved her. I am not yet your wife, even if I am already the other half of the Crown. And the Crown is all about business, nothing more. "But we will discuss the Amaranthine situation tomorrow."