There is a pattern to his life. Typically he will wake early in the morning and make his way to the salle, and go through all the exercises that keep him in at least decent fighting trim. Sometimes he asks the weaponmaster for a bout, or to find someone else to spar with him, because all the exercises in the world won't help you win a fight even if they do keep you in shape. There's no need for this, no call for him to keep training as a warrior. He's not an active Grey Warden anymore, he has bodyguards to protect him from assassination, and even if there was another war he would not be needed in the field. Very likely he will not be required to fight again until the day the darkspawn taint in his blood calls him to the Deep Roads.
But swordplay is one of the few things in his life-possibly the only thing-that he feels is his, has always been his, and he keeps at it. It grounds him for the rest of the day.
Breakfast happens next, and he's usually free to take that on his own as well. His preference is to wander into the kitchens and eat there. This scandalized the servants at first, which he took a small pleasure in; he's always enjoyed upsetting the status quo. They're used to him now, and again, it's something that comforts him. When he was a child he used to filch food from the kitchens all the time. He doesn't need to filch anymore - is it even possible for a king to filch, he sometimes wonders, given that arguably the food is all his anyway - but he enjoys being there. And by now the servants have learned to ignore him, so long as he doesn't get in their way.
After that the real work begins, whatever political requirements are the order of the day, the word games with whatever nobles are visiting the court, arrangements, dealing with whatever problems have arisen. He doesn't have to take part in this - Anora would probably prefer that he didn't - but the original reason that he agreed to this marriage was that he thought she needed some curbs, and as king he's the only one who can provide them. He may not like the game of politics but he's learned how to play it. And while mostly he is king in name only, he does what he can, because it's his duty.
The pattern of his life now is duty. Those few short hours in the morning are his, but the rest of his life belongs to duty. It's not such a change. Duty to the Templars, duty to the Grey Wardens, duty to the kingdom...that's always been his life, one duty or another. He tells himself this is no different.
There is still no sign of an heir, which does not surprise him. He has told Anora why an heir is unlikely; he felt it too important not to tell her, and he dislikes deception. If there is any good thing about his relationship with Anora it is that they do not deceive each other.
To his surprise, she was adamant that they keep the fact secret, at least for now. He has no doubt that she could and would use the knowledge to depose him in favor of a different husband if she felt it in her best interests, but for now it suits her to keep him as her king. She mostly has her way in ruling the country, which pleases her, and if he sometimes pulls her up short when he feels her ruthless political manipulations are crossing a line, she has come to realize that perhaps she needs such restraint. They've learned to function as a team. There is no affection between them, but there is cool respect and civility. It is something they can both live with, and indeed prefer to other alternatives.
But because there needs to be at least the pretense of trying for an heir, he goes to her rooms once a week and...does his duty. During those times they don't look at each other, don't speak. It is a necessity, nothing more. And that's fine.
They each have their own sets of rooms. To his relief there was no need to arrange this, it was traditional; few political marriages are love matches, and it's always been deemed prudent for the royals to have their own chambers. If he had to sleep next to Anora every night, act out the pretense of intimacy constantly...that would have been agony.
But it is not required of him, or her.
He still tends towards sarcasm and jokes in conversations, but they are no longer a defense mechanism; he has nothing to defend, not since the day his most passionate emotions were ripped out of him, displayed to the whole of the Landsmeet, and dismissed. He has nothing to guard within himself, just duty. That's all he is now. And that's fine.
Fine.
Today, duty means meeting with various foreign ambassadors. First the Orlesian ambassador, which means a great deal of fencing with words; much more difficult and less enjoyable than fencing with swords. They've been tip-toeing around the subject for months. Orlais wants to know if the current Ferelden king has any evidence of certain negotiations that might unofficially have been taking place between the previous Ferelden king and the Empress of Orlais, and moreover if the current Ferelden king might have any interest in continuing those negotiations. Discreetly, of course, no need to embarass the queen with...idle speculation.
The current Ferelden king has no intentions of the sort, and the still-current Ferelden queen knows perfectly well what's going on and has advised him to stall as much as possible, while she negotiates for particular rights involving a strip of land between their countries; it helps her for the ambassador to be distracted and off-balance with wondering what she knows. Alistair often wonders what would happen if he refused to play these games and went back to blurting out whatever was on his mind as it appeared in his mind. It would probably be immensely satisfying.
As the Orlesian ambassador takes his leave, Alistair remembers, suddenly, a conversation he had years ago with Leliana. He'd told her about the silence in the monastary, and how sometimes he'd scream at the top of his lungs, partly to fight the quiet and partly to see what would happen.
He wishes he had the liberty to do that now. Or at least, someone to complain to about the lack.
And even when the day's collection of courtesies and protocols and loaded conversation is done with, he won't be finished. There's still the evening feast to look forward to, which means three hours of indeterminate conversation punctuated by food. He hates the feasts.
Duty.
At least he should have an hour or so beforehand, ostensibly for "preparation", though he refuses to even pretend to take an hour to bathe and change for dinner. But first, the Antivan ambassador, who should at least be easier to deal with. The Antivans are interested in very little beyond not being interfered with. Alistair sighs and walks over to the sideboard, pouring himself a glass of wine.
"Wine, Alistair? I didn't know you indulged in such civilized pleasures. I remember you as being more of a beer man."
Alistair spills half the wineglass as he whirls around, flabbergasted. "Zevran?" he sputters. "What are you doing here?"
The elf grins broadly, pulling back the hood on his cloak. He is dressed in silks of Antivan style, very expensive and in the finest taste. "Why, paying you a visit, my dear Alistair." He joins Alistair at the sidebar and pours himself a glass of wine without waiting for an offer, which is just as well because Alistair has completely forgotten all the court manners Anora has worked so hard to make automatic. "After all, I have an appointment, do I not?"
"But my appointment is..." Alistair grasps for logic, his head spinning. "You're the Antivan ambassador? An assassin?"
"All high-ranking Antivans are assassins. It's our national occupation, after all. Ah, but I forget, I should be calling you your majesty, should I not? My most sincere apologies for the oversight."
Alistair groans. "Zevran, seriously, are you the ambassador or do I need to send men looking for a mysteriously murdered Antivan in a river somewhere?"
"My dear majesty, I am, as you so rightly point out, an assassin! I kill no one unless I am paid to do so. And paid very well, might I add. No, truly, I am the ambassador. I must say I am enjoying the job." Zevran sips at his drink and raises an appreciative eyebrow. "For one thing the wine is much better than I usually experience when I'm working. My compliments."
Alistair lets out a snort that's half-laughter, half resignation. "You haven't changed at all, I see."
Zevran eyes him. "You have."
The directness catches Alistair off-guard. He remembers and was even used to the elf being flippant and shallow, treating life and death both as a game; an honest observation from him is something new. Then the statement sinks in, and Alistair finds himself oddly shaken. "So, ah," he says, taking a seat and gesturing for Zevran to do the same. "What does Antiva wish to discuss with Ferelden, then?"
Zevran declines to take a seat, preferring to lean against the wall by the sideboard, and waves his hand vaguely. "Oh, the usual nonsense, I'm sure you know the type. Policies of non-interference, questions about legal technicalities, a few subtle offers to kill people you might find problematic, which you would of course refuse, being an upright and moral individual who dislikes such pragmatism. Why don't we just pretend we've already discussed it all and move on to more interesting topics?"
Alistair smiles, enjoying this despite himself. It is so good to talk to someone else who will dismiss politics as 'the usual nonsense.' And he's surprised to find that he's pleased to see the elf, though he's careful not to follow that train of thought too closely as it would lead him towards...memories he'd prefer to forget. "That certainly saves a lot of time, but what's left for us to talk about?"
"Old friends, perhaps?" Zevran gently twirls the wine in his glass. "I happened to see the beautiful Leliana recently. That was a pleasure."
Alistair leans back in his chair and crosses his legs, beginning to relax. "Leliana...she stopped by here a few months ago. I thought she was on her way back to Orlais. How is she?"
Zevran sighs and puts on an expression of self-pity. "Alas, as cruel as ever."
"Which is to say she resisted your dubious charms."
"My charms are anything but dubious, my dear majesty! As I would be delighted to prove to you, if you wished. True, I am not exactly your type, but think of the expression on your lovely wife's face if she heard about it and perhaps the idea will appeal."
Alistair can't help it; he bursts out laughing. "She'd have apoplexy!"
Zevran grins. "Just so! Come, is the idea not a little tempting, if only for that?"
Alistair holds up his hands. "No, no no no no no. I like my head attached, thank you. And like you said, you are really not my type."
"Oh, but imagine the scandal! The King of Ferelden and the Antivan ambassador! It would give the people months of conversation, and is that not what the nobility is for?" Zevran raises his glass in a toast.
Alistair snorts. "Funny, I thought we were here to make laws, dispense justice, govern...all those things that keep a country from falling apart." Bitterness creeps in for a moment, blighting the conversation. Duty.
"Bah! You Fereldens are all so joyless. No sense of fun. Mixing business and pleasure is an entirely proper way of doing things. The Warden knew that."
There is a moment of complete silence.
Alistair long ago taught himself how not to flinch at any mention of her. But it still comes as a blow to the gut, leaving him briefly breathless, even if he doesn't show it.
The Warden. No one says her name; no one has to. There are over fifty Grey Wardens in Ferelden now, but if anyone says The Warden it's immediately known which one is meant.
Zevran is watching him, and he has to say something. "So, Leliana," Alistair manages, trying to wrench the subject back to something less painful. "What's she up to?"
"Our Warden has been very busy lately. Leliana happened to run into her and was concerned, and came to seek my advice."
Alistair clenches his teeth; so much for changing the subject subtly. "I really have no interest in talking about her."
"I'm sure you don't," Zevran says dryly. "Very well. Shall we discuss you instead?"
"There's nothing about me to discuss," Alistair says sharply, suddenly suddenly sure that this meeting can go nowhere good and wishing he'd thrown the elf out as soon as he realized who it was. He doesn't want any reminders of...that time.
"It seems we have run out of conversation then. A pity. But that reminds me, I have something of yours. I've been meaning to return it to you for some time." Zevran places his wineglass on a nearby table and begins rummaging in a pouch at his belt, then pulls a small packet of cloth and tosses it over.
Alistair catches it automatically; it has barely any weight or form, and he relaxes his grip at once to keep from crushing it. "What could you possibly have of mine?" he asks, doubt and curiosity distracting him. He unfolds the layers of cloth.
It's a rose. Alistair frowns, confused. Then realization hits like a thunderbolt. He looks sharply at Zevran, and the slight smile on the elf's face is enough.
It's the rose. He remembers clearly, after the coronation, the moment when she handed it back to him. Without a word; by that point there were no words left, or perhaps so many that they blocked each other and couldn't be spoken, he's never been sure which. He'd given her that rose as a gesture of friendship and gratitude and the beginnings of love, and she gave it back in silence as a gesture that she knew - that she accepted - he would never forgive her for what she'd done to him, that she knew there was no way to recreate what they'd had. He'd held it in his hands, resisting the urge to crush it outright, as he watched her walk away towards a world that approved of her actions, and then thrown it away as soon as he'd had the opportunity to do so unseen. Or at least, he'd assumed he was unseen.
Damned stealthy assassin.
"How did you get this?" Alistair hears the quiet menace in his own voice and hopes it disguises the rioting emotions underneath. Shock, fear...he'd almost forgotten them, they're so unfamilliar now.
"I came across it somewhere," Zevran shrugs. "It was too lovely a thing to abandon, don't you think? The enchantment to keep it fresh and blooming is a work of art; that alone should render it priceless."
Enchantment. Yes, Wynne had worked with Sandal on that. He'd been so proud of thinking to ask if it were possible, so pleased that it was.
Alistair can't think of what to say, how to express his...indignation? Grief? Confusion? "I threw it away for a reason."
"Undoubtedly. But may I speak seriously for a moment?"
"Do you know how?"
Zevran chuckles. "Just because I choose not to do something does not mean I am ignorant of the technique. Yes, I can be very serious. I wish to speak to you as a friend."
Alistair stares at him, and finally asks. "Zevran, when were we ever friends?"
Zevran waves this off. "As a former comrade then; that, you cannot deny me, no?"
"I most certainly can, and I really don't think I want to hear anything you have to say on this subject."
Alistair stands up, fully intending to leave the room, but Zevran is between him and the door before he can get there, and wearing his most stony expression. "I was not actually offering you a choice in the matter, and I'm not leaving until you listen to what I have come to say."
All the old fury rises in him again, still hot and burning even after years of being banked. "Listen," he explodes, throwing the rose across the room, where it bounces off the wall and falls limp to the floor. "After what she did? Duncan's murderer...she made him one of us! All his sins and betrayals, brushed aside like they didn't matter. All those deaths! How many men died at Ostagar because of what he did?" Alistair realizes he's shouting, and quickly tries to rein in his temper; an interruption would be very, very bad, and an eavesdropper carrying tales to Anora worse. They both know to never talk about her father. "All of it forgotten because he died a hero again, fighting the Archdemon." He sneers the word hero; it no longer has any meaning for him.
Zevran shrugs. "The Archdemon was defeated, the Blight ended. Tens of thousands now live who would have died. Would not your Duncan have wished this?"
"Not at such a price! Nothing was worth that price." Alistair catches himself short, knowing that much...isn't true. No matter how much he hated Loghain, the Blight threatened the entire continent, arguably the entire world. Duty. The word pulses in him, and he rubs his forehead in a futile attempt to banish the headache growing there.
"You deceive yourself. Well, I know about that also." Zevran sighs. Alistair is about to protest, but at that moment Zevran looks directly at him, and the naked emotion in the elf's face stops him dead. He has never seen Zevran look like that, ever. "My friend - yes, I dare to call you such, I have known too few friends in my life to take any of them for granted - listen to me. I know what it is to be unable to forgive yourself or others, to be unable to forgive the world for being...what it is. To be eaten alive by emptiness. It led me to seek my own death, albeit by indirect means. That is not your way, but you are drowning all the same. I can see it. Leliana could see it. You cannot keep living this life."
Alistair steps back as though struck. He tries to recall his anger, but can't quite grasp it, he's too overwhelmed. Eaten alive by emptiness... He backs up and falls into his seat again, staring at the ground and breathing hard.
There is silence for a long time.
"Even if you're right - and that's a big if - it's too late," he says finally. "I'm king now, remember? It's not as though I can just walk away from the things that happened that day, even if I wanted to. It's not as though I have anywhere else to go to, even if I could walk away."
He doesn't look up, but can hear Zevran moving across the room, bending over to pick up the rose again. "As an assassin I am used to laying traps for my prey, and doing my best to make them inescapable. But there is a way out of any trap, any cage." He walks over, places the rose on Alistair's bended knee. Alistair doesn't look up. "Even the ones we build around ourselves. Another thing our Warden taught me."
With that Zevran executes a quick, perfect bow, turns, and leaves the room. Alistair makes no move to follow him. Instead he looks at the rose, then reluctantly picks it up. He turns it over in his hands, thinking.
You Fereldens are all so joyless.
Joyless. He hasn't looked at it that way, but the accuracy of the term is undeniable. Joyless. There is no joy in his life, no laughter, no lightness. Even when he'd been training to be a Templar, one of the most paranoid jobs in existance, he'd been able to find or make laughter. He'd played pranks on the other initiates, joked with them, sassed his superiors, and even if under it all he'd been discontent he was able to take it in stride by laughing at things.
And then he'd been recruited, and for six brief months he'd had everything he'd wanted: comrades who were also friends, a vocation he not only was good at but valued, and Duncan, leader and father-figure.
Loghain had taken all that. Not just taken it, but besmirched it. And by recruiting Loghain, she'd done it again, but his loss was even greater the second time. Because that time, even in the midst of grieving for Duncan and the other Wardens...he'd still had comrades, friends, vocation, laughter.
And she'd been there laughing with him, and that had been a joy he'd never imaginged, and then couldn't imagine living without once he'd known it.
Maker, he'd loved her so much. So much. And she'd thrown him away.
Or had he thrown her away? Did it even matter, compared to the enormity of what had been lost?
There has been nothing truly good in his life since the day of the Landsmeet. Even the defeat of the Archdemon...it had been a relief, a lessening of guilt, for even then, at his most furious, he'd wondered if he'd really done the right thing by refusing to assist, even as he'd known he could never, ever have fought by Loghain's side. But he still hadn't been able to celebrate with the rest of the world. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd felt like he had something to celebrate.
He never expected his life to be a fairy tale. He just hadn't expected it to be so empty of everything.
Alistair holds the rose in his hands and stares at it for a long time, until someone comes to fetch the king for dinner.
Author's note: An image/idea that just wouldn't let me go. I think there will be a sequel oneshot sometime, once I've gotten all the DA2 fic out of my system. It will probably involve a lot of arguing. Many thanks to A for betareading, as always.