Alistair and his wife, Brenna, have been trying to conceive a child of their own for several years with no success. At the end of my story, Unforeseen Melodies, Leliana gives Alistair two things: A small bottle of the same potion Morrigan used the night of the Dark Ritual and instructions on how to use it.
Charting the Days
Two weeks. It had been two weeks since Alistair had performed his own very private ritual, drunk the potion and made love to his wife. He was not usually a morning person, but lately he'd taken to waking before dawn and spent the time before Brenna woke lying quietly with his thoughts.
After Rory and Grace left for Highever with their parents, Brenna had been bereft. She had cried, unashamed, when Aedan and Leliana departed Denerim, their two young children in hand. He and Brenna had watched over Rory and Gracie for a month and despite the horror of that time – the plague, the discovery of Deep Roads beneath the city, the Mage – there had been so many bright moments. Memories of the children's tantrums and bouts of tears, the few sleepless nights, paled in comparison to the bright smiles and laughter, the games, the stories, the feel of a small hand in his and the look on Brenna's face as she tended them as if they were her own.
Alistair was tempted to tell Brenna about the potion, but he did not. If the ritual failed, he would bear the disappointment alone. And so far, though not entirely privy to the secret goings on of females, he'd detected no change in his wife's demeanor. She smiled as sweetly as ever, seemed to bound with energy and her body remained svelte.
Looking for some sign things had… progressed, Alistair peered at his wife, his eyes narrowed and calculating. The vague early morning light played over her pale skin, giving it a soft, pearly glow. Her hair looked darker, her lips more red. Did she seem paler than usual? Were those dark smudges beneath her eyes due to fatigue, or just shadows? He'd heard women got very tired when pregnant, and moody, and round! Her green eyes opened and widened beneath his scrutiny.
"Are you well, Brenna?" he asked, his tone a little too anxious. "How did you sleep?"
She returned his look with a quiet laugh and replied, "Better than you, I think. Why are you looking at me like that?"
Thinking quickly, Alistair smiled, his visage spontaneously softening. "Because you are beautiful, love."
His wife regarded him suspiciously a few seconds longer before easing her own expression, a smile curving her red lips. "Well that's nice to wake up to."
Brenna's arms slipped around his shoulders, pulling him down, and Alistair forgot about his questions for a while…
The queen worked tirelessly to further the position of elves within Ferelden. One aspect of her work included spending several mornings a week at the chantry in Denerim where she conducted classes for orphans of all races. She often spoke of her work there and Alistair always listened. She would talk about this child or that and Alistair always detected the mingling of joy and longing in her voice.
"What would you think of allowing maybe one or two children, the orphans, to stay in the palace from time to time, as a treat?" Brenna asked one afternoon as they sat in the large and empty central garden of the palace together. It was three weeks after the ritual and though Alistair tried not consciously keep track of the time, sometimes even counting the days to when Aedan had left Denerim rather than the days to when he'd drunk the bitter fluid, both dates were circled on the mental calendar within his mind and he could not help but count forward every morning as if marking off each new day with an 'x'…
Looking out over the formal hedgerows and neatly tended flower beds, Alistair sighed. He knew what Brenna really wanted to ask and he wondered why she had taken this route. "I have no objection to it, Brenna. You can organize for as many of the orphans as you like to tour the galleries, play in the gardens and visit the kitchens. I know Bettina will make sure not a single one leaves without a bag of cookies." He turned to her and took her hand. "But to have them stay overnight…" he hesitated and paused.
Alistair thought back to his own childhood, the various places he had slept. The stables at Redcliffe, the occasional night by the hearth in the kitchen when he could get away with it, the single night in the dungeons of the castle when he'd been fool enough to get trapped down there. And then at ten he'd been sent to the chantry. He'd spent the next eleven years in dormitories not unlike those the orphans shared. Rows of narrow bunks with inadequate mattresses, thin blankets and the grumbles and snores of others. A single night somewhere as grand as the palace might have seemed a wonderful treat, but he couldn't help wondering what his bunk would look like afterwards: spare, grey, hard, cold.
Brenna touched his cheek and Alistair realised he'd become lost in his memories. He tried to clear his expression. What had she seen in his eyes? "Oh, Alistair, I… I forgot. I'm sorry. How insensitive of me." She'd seen it all then.
"It's alright, love. I have you now, and the best bed in the palace," he said, keeping his tone light. Slipping an arm about her shoulders, he hugged her close. "I want to do as much for them as you do, love. Really, I do – children being the future and all that." And he had the added incentive of his own childhood... "But one night is not going to change their lives." His brows drew together in thought. "You and Leliana were drawing up plans for a new orphanage were you not?"
Nodding gently, Brenna said, "We were, but have yet to find a suitable location or the funds for it. Now, in the aftermath of the plague…"
They both fell quiet a moment. Everything came down to coin, even the most human of dramas and awful tragedies eventually got broken down into lists of figures. Alistair had been astounded by the cost of restoring Denerim following the siege and as King he'd had to listen to pleas from all over Ferelden, people asking for lumber, stone, medical supplies, food, tools, wool, even shoes. And those had been the simple favours. There had been disputes and the inevitable requests for gold. On the surface, recovery from the plague would not cost as much, but there was a hidden price: more orphans. Many had died, either of the sickness or in defense of the city.
"What about one, Alistair? One child. There is a boy…" Brenna started and Alistair turned to look at her once more, and his chest tightened. This was what she'd been angling towards, he felt sure.
Tightening his hold about her shoulders in a gentle hug, he said gently, "Tell me about him."
She told him about Henric. "He is sweet natured and has been at the chantry his entire life, so he does not suffer nightmares like some of the older children. Though luxuries have been scarce, he has always known the care and the kindness of the sisters. But as he does not talk, the sisters think him dim witted. I don't think he is, Alistair. I watch him and he watches everything and he sees it all, I know he does. I think he is waiting for the right moment and then he'll tell us it all at once, everything he wants to say."
Brenna's face became animated as she talked about Henric. Her eyes sparkled and her lips curved. He could almost feel her skin tingle and vibrate beneath his fingers as he touched her hand. Brenna wanted this child, not just to visit, but to be theirs. She wanted one for her very own, one she could love every day, not just several mornings a week. But to adopt an orphan? Personally, Alistair did not oppose the idea, but he wondered what Ferelden would think of it. This would be more than an adopted son. Would Henric be a legitimate heir to the throne? One who didn't… speak?
"Brenna, I admire your purpose and I understand it." His voice dropped. Would the potion work? It had only been three weeks. How long should he give it? He and Brenna had talked of adoption before, vaguely, as something to consider, if and when. There still might be an 'if', there could be a 'when'. How could he ask for more time without telling her about the ritual? Alistair hated keeping a secret from his wife, but he didn't want to raise her hopes and then watch them fall day by day, just as his seemed to be doing as time passed and she showed no signs of being pregnant. "Will you, can we… wait? Just a little longer, love." He needed to give her something more tangible. "But, I will come visit with Henric, get to know him."
She beamed like the sun and wrapped her arms tightly about him and Alistair fought with the absurd urge to cry.
One month. It had been one month since Alistair had performed his own very private ritual, drunk the potion and made love to his wife. Laying there in the predawn light, he marked the day off on his mental calendar, the imaginary 'x' darker than those preceding it.
He kept his promise and visited her at the chantry. When he saw the way she looked down at the upturned faces of the children, his heart twisted. They should have their own; Brenna should have her own child! He picked Henric out right away. A small child with a placid face, brown hair, brown eyes and a liberal sprinkling of soft brown freckles across his pale skin. Alistair could see how the impassive expression could be mistaken for lack of thought, but he could also see how the boy's eyes moved about. Henric saw everything. Then Brenna moved into view and the boy's mouth quirked up in a tentative smile.
A small finger pointed out the king and Alistair stepped forward to greet his wife and her young charge. After kissing Brenna's cheek he crouched down to shake the solemnly extended hand. "Good morning, Henric," he said quietly. "How do you do?"
The brown eyes met his for several seconds and then Henric simply nodded and tugged his hand away. Alistair had not expected him to talk and so he took no offense. He simply sat back and watched the boy interact with the others. He played normally and the other children did not fault his silence, they merely talked to him and for him and in the intuitive way of children, seemed to get it right most of the time.
Alistair tried to imagine seeing the boy every day, he studied the small face and tried to imagine it becoming familiar. He found that he could. But still, he wanted to wait. He gave Brenna the only excuse he could think of, he needed time. She seemed to understand. He needed to help Denerim recover from the plague first. She told him she would be patient.
For the next two weeks Alistair invested himself in his work, burying his thoughts beneath the constant stream of paperwork and duty that never seemed to abate.
Once again, Denerim had to recover from the darkspawn, this time a tainted plague. The newly appointed Arl of Denerim had proved to be a good administrator. Years of negotiating with his sister had made Garrett of South Reach both a good listener and concise speaker. Days after taking up residence at the Arl of Denerim's estate he had already cleared the house of its cobwebs and shadows, even taking up a broom himself. A man of action, but not without thought, he had also taken proper charge of the city of Denerim, had effectively removed it from Alistair's care. Though his manner sometimes seemed abrupt, his policy and effectiveness proved his worth. Alistair was pleased with the appointment.
Besides the continuing expeditions beneath the ground, the chantry had shown great interest in recovering any Tevinter relics and artifacts, the structure of Fort Drakon required repairs due to the quakes. Fissures had appeared in smooth rock walls that had soared above the landscape of Ferelden since before the city of Denerim had surrounded it.
Alistair retained the services of Voldrik Glavonak, the master stonemason who had repaired Vigil's Keep. The stout dwarf regarded the tower reverently for several long minutes, Oghren and Alistair waiting patiently at his side.
Oghren's patience ran out first. "Out with it man, can ya fix it or not?"
Apparently dwarves were capable of withering looks. Voldrik's features scrunched even further beneath the already deep furrows and creases lining his face and he glared at the Commander a moment before turning on his heel, choosing to ignore his fellow dwarf entirely. He eyed Alistair up and down. "The Warden found me a source of proper stone."
Alistair blinked at the word proper. Wasn't all stone… proper? He understood there might be good stone and bad stone, but proper stone? Did he mean real stone? As opposed to… his thoughts were cut short by the dwarf clapping him on the shoulder, a wide grin stretching his features.
"Yes, I can fix it, but we'll need to quarry stone from the Wending Wood, unless you know of a closer source of granite?"
"Ah…" He did not know. Stone to repair the city had been quarried from the southern cliffs along the bay leading up to Denerim. Good stone, normal stone. He had no idea if it was proper stone. "I don't think so. I can send some men out to scout for some?"
"Good idea. In the meantime I'll draw up plans." The dwarf clapped his meaty hands together and whistled softly. "This is a job. This is worthy of my talent. This…" he pointed to tower of proper stone, "is stone."
Alistair left him to it. After walking a few steps, he had to return to retrieve Oghren, who had started to argue with the mason over his sense of stone. Given that both men were surface dwarves and that Voldrik had dwelled above the stone longer than Oghren had, Alistair might have sided with his commander. But, he had a fort in need of Voldrik's skill, Voldrik's sense of stone, a sense that had obviously not become impaired by his years beneath the blue and awesome sky. Dwarves could be such a contentious lot!
The king pulled his commander aside and looked at him a moment. He had a question to ask, but decided to borrow Brenna's tactic of leading up to it. Instead he said, "The city seems to be getting back on its feet. Denerim is already much recovered from the plague. People are calm and happy again, the elves have a vote," here he introduced the subject of change, something out of the ordinary, "the nobles are quiet…" would they remain so if he even hinted at putting another bastard on the throne?
Oghren, of course, put it his own spin on things. "Well, if Garrett turns into another Vaughan we'll just sling one of those amulets around 'is neck, eh?"
Alistair was too shocked to respond. He changed the subject.
"You hear the men talk, Oghren. Tell me, how do you think people might react to Brenna and I adopting a son?" He had good reason to ask Oghren. To dwarves, bloodlines were important, but Oghren had been a 'surface dwarf' for over five years now and he had married and had children of his own. And while the soldiers respected their commander, they also enjoyed his company. Rarely did they drink or game or celebrate without their stout leader. Oghren had the ear and the hearts of his men. He would know what they thought.
Without pause, Oghren said, "Folks always find something to grumble at. Adopt a boy the day before you promote another elf, or invent a new tax, or decide to become friends with the King of Antiva." The dwarf laughed at his own humour a moment before sobering. "You can't make everyone happy, eh? Sometimes you need to just think of yourself. And there's nothing wrong with raising a possible heir."
Though Alistair had hoped for a more concise and pointed answer, he appreciated what Oghren tried to tell him.
Six weeks. It had been six weeks since Alistair had performed his own very private ritual, drunk the potion and made love to his wife. He'd not slept at all the night before. Rolling over, he gazed at Brenna's sleeping face. Did her cheeks seem a little rounder? Had the smudges beneath her eyes deepened? When he sensed her stirring, he closed his eyes and pretended to sleep, aware that she found his scrutiny curious and more than a little disturbing.
Days passed and Alistair watched. Brenna noticed.
"Why do you watch me so intently, Alistair. Will you tell me what you are thinking?"
Every woman enjoyed flattery, but even a good thing in excess could turn bitter. Alistair chose instead to skirt the truth. "I was thinking about Henric." He had been, sort of, on and off, in between daydreams of what their own child might look like, be like.
Her rose red lips curved into a beautiful smile and Alistair felt both guilt and pleasure colour his cheeks.
Continuing, before she could ask more specific questions, he said, "I asked Oghren's opinion. I hope you don't mind."
"Not at all, love, Felsi and I have spoken of it." Of course they had, women spoke of everything together, Alistair had learned. Oghren's wife sometimes brought her children, the young Aedan and Alistair, to the chantry for lessons. "What did Oghren advise?" Brenna asked.
"He seemed positive." He had, hadn't he?
Evenings could easily be Alistair's favourite time of day. Particularly the ones he spent alone with Brenna, in their rooms. Sometimes they played a game together, sometimes they read, and sometimes they talked. This particular evening Brenna proved to be in an amorous mood, something Alistair never objected to. He watched her undress, glad for the excuse to let his gaze linger on her body, taking in all of her curves. Did she look any thicker about the waist? Did her bosom appear fuller?
She slipped into bed beside him and as he kissed her, he slid his fingers down over the dip of her waist and over her abdomen, feeling for subtle differences his eye might not see. Brenna giggled. "You are tickling me."
Laying his palm flat across her equally flat belly, Alistair apologised with a grin. "Just making sure you are all there, love, same as before."
"Why wouldn't I be?" A frown creased her brows. "Alistair, will you tell me what is on your mind? You watch me and touch me as if you expect me to disappear. What is it you fear?"
"That I cannot give you what you want," he answered quietly, not able to meet her eyes, looking instead at his hand.
The green gaze of her eyes followed and they both looked at her belly a moment, each of them wrapped in sadness. Alistair half expected her to bring up the little orphan boy, to ask for him, but she did not, instead she drew him close and held him tightly. "You are all I want, Alistair." The right words, just the right words.
Two months. It had been two months since Alistair had performed his own very private ritual, drunk the potion and made love to his wife. He studied his own reflection this time, staring at his face in the mirror. His normally ruddy skin looked pale and he had dark smudges beneath his eyes. His lips seemed to lack colour and his eyes warmth. He found it difficult to sleep and he felt tired, defeated.
It had never been a sure thing, the ritual working, but he had naively thought that his need and desire would somehow make it so. That whatever drove the forces that made these things happen would be stirred and captured by his emotions. He had wanted it so desperately; did that not count for anything?
Depression clouded his thoughts like a fog and Alistair moved through his day, nodding at greetings, signing off on papers and listening to petitioners. When in his study he looked at the empty chairs across his desk, both Leliana and Teagan being away, taking care of their own affairs, and actually felt grateful for their absence. Teagan would see his sadness and press. Leliana would know his sadness and be helpless against it.
He decided to visit the chantry, to see Brenna and maybe Henric. She still talked of the small boy, though not over much, aware that he still seemed to be considering… things. Stepping inside the large hall that housed the classroom where Brenna spent most of her time, Alistair paused in the shadow by the door. A column obscured the entrance somewhat and he stepped behind it so that he could observe her unnoticed for a time. He didn't see her. He saw Henric and he watched the small boy as he waited for his wife to reappear.
Alistair decided that he liked the child. He liked the colour of his hair and eyes and the quiet manner in which he conducted himself. He agreed with Brenna's assessment that the boy might begin speaking one day and offer up complete and coherent opinions on everything. He merely bided his time. Children only babbled before the age of three, really.
A movement at his elbow caught his attention and Alistair turned, expecting to see a child, or perhaps one of his guards with a message. One of the sisters stood there.
"Your majesty, thank the Maker!" She had a pinched expression and her hands plucked nervously at her robe. "We just sent word to the palace!"
Alistair felt his stomach drop, the blood drain from his face and his world quickly coming to an end. "Brenna," he whispered. "What happened, where is she?"
"In the Reverend Mother's office. Come."
Brenna lay stretched out on the couch, her arms folded over her abdomen, her eyes closed, her skin and lips pale. Alistair stopped in the doorway and tried not to choke. "What happened?" he finally coughed out.
Mother Perpetua stepped forward and took his hands, her skin warmer than his, despite the coolness of her old and wrinkled skin. "Your majesty, she fainted." Thank the Maker, he'd thought… he'd thought… "Please, come sit. I have ordered some tea and a healer will attend us presently."
Brenna roused before the healer arrived. Alistair had crouched beside the couch, finally sitting on the floor despite the protests of the sisters. He'd held his wife's pale hands in his and had touched her cheeks and her forehead. He kept checking for the pulse in her throat, only partially comforted by the strong and steady beat his fingertips always found. After a few moments of this, she opened her eyes and blinked.
"Brenna," he said softly.
Rolling her head to the side, she looked at him and then frowned. "Alistair. I'm sorry…"
"Why are you apologising? No, don't sit up yet," he said as she tried to get up. "Nicholas is on his way."
"I just fainted, Alistair, I will be alright. I did not feel well this morning and so did not have much breakfast. I am a little tired."
Not well in the morning? Little appetite? Tired? And she had fainted…? Alistair felt his heart begin to pound and he squeezed her hands before helping her to sit.
"You seem pale," she continued, touching his forehead. "Perhaps we both have something? An early cold?"
Perhaps we both have something, Alistair thought again to himself, but dared not repeat the words out loud. Where was Nicholas?
The young mage finally arrived, his hands flailing and his robes flapping. He sat on the other side of Brenna, her diminutive stature making it difficult for him to treat her otherwise, and placed a hand carefully over her forehead. His lips moved and Brenna closed her eyes as he worked. Nicholas then glanced down at her abdomen. A flush swept across his face and he looked to Alistair then Brenna before asking, "May I?"
Brenna frowned, but nodded. Alistair thought his heart might leap from his chest, or into his throat, or simply stop still as he waited.
"When did you last have your courses?" Nicholas asked quietly, his voice pitched for their ears alone. His palm hovered over the middle of her dress, fingertips brushing the material and his lips moved again as he waited for Brenna's answer.
Lips pressed together, brows drawn down, Brenna considered the question. She did not look embarrassed, she looked… surprised. Then her face cleared and she looked shocked. Her eyes immediately found Alistair's and her mouth dropped open.
"Alistair!" she exclaimed softly.
He could only nod, this throat had locked closed.
Nicholas removed his hand and regarded the pair of them. He smiled. "You are with child," he announced.
Alistair couldn't stop the tears if he tried. He swept his wife into a crushing hug, then remembered her 'delicate condition' and loosened his hold. She trembled in his arms and he pulled back to kiss the tears from her cheeks. He cupped her face with his hands and whispered, "Thank you, thank you..." his words meeting the same gratitude from her.
The chantry, the quiet study, faded into the background as Alistair's world narrowed to one person and one moment. Neither he, nor Brenna noticed when everyone quietly left the room, leaving the royal couple to celebrate their news privately.
Two months. It had been two months since Alistair had performed his own very private ritual, drunk the potion and made love to his wife. It had worked. No single word could describe the emotions he felt at knowing it had worked. He held Brenna reverently in his arms as they lay down to sleep that night and gazed calmly at her face. She looked the same, just the same.
"You will make a wonderful mother, Brenna," he whispered softly.
"I won't be alone, love, I will have you. And you will be a wonderful father."
Closing his eyes, Alistair flipped the page on his mental calendar and started a new course of days. How long would it take for her belly to round? Would she become moody? When could they talk of names? Before he could continue charting the days, his mind flew free and he slept.