Author's Note: Here we are, chapter four. It's a bit later than I would have liked, so I've divided this chapter into two parts to have an update ready now.

Enjoy!


Alistair finds it hard to look at Anora throughout the rest of the day. A feast has been scheduled, a full twelve courses over what feels like as many hours, though, in reality, the celebration stretches six hours, bringing the official wedding events to a close as twilight lingers over the rooftop of Denerim. Performances and speeches fill the spaces between courses, a stage set opposite the high table in the feast hall. Musicians serenade the party-goers, and actors even recite a (much-dramatized) ode to the Theirin line and the glorious history of Ferelden.

It's all a bit tiresome, really, and not even the elaborate cheese course does much to cheer Alistair's petulant mood. Anora is quiet beside him, making polite chitchat with Arl Eamon and graciously accepting the well-wishes of the lords and ladies who parade before their table. Alistair says nothing and picks at his food. His dejected mood (obvious to anyone with a passing skill of reading emotions, as Alistair knows he wears his feelings on his sleeve) earns him questioning glances from the guests, but he hardly cares.

No one he would have invited is present. With the exception of the two Arls Guerrin, everyone he cares for is dead or gone. After the Battle of Denerim, Wynne, Leliana, even the assassin Zevran and the witch Morrigan have all gone their individual ways. He is the last of the Wardens in Ferelden, and the thought of who should have been left to be Commander has him reaching for his wine again, swallowing down the lump in his throat. The wine tastes just as bitter, but he keeps returning to his glass, servants keeping it always full.

Alistair glances up from his goblet to see Fergus Cousland offering him a wan smile. "Congratulations, Your Majesty, and all of my best wishes as Teyrn of Highever are extended to you for your -" he begins, but the King interrupts the teyrn with a scoff.

"Oh, spare me the niceties, Cousland," he says, dismissing with all formalities and proper titles. His voice might ring a little loud, since Anora stiffens at his side and whispers something about going easy on his wine, but Alistair ignores her. "The only reason you're here as Teyrn anyway is that Elissa is dead."

He doesn't think he's slurring his words, but maybe he is. He can't remember how many cups he's had anymore. Anora bristles at his side and whispers another urgent plea: "Alistair, please."

Fergus, for his part, takes the insult in stride. "Your Majesty," he maintains etiquette, even as his voice lowers in volume. "My sister died a hero, and I know she cared deeply for you. She would want nothing more than your happiness -"

"If that's all she wanted," Alistair interjects again, his words too loud in the hall. Conversations patter to a halt, and all eyes are turned to the royal table. The dance troupe on stage falters mid-leap but continues on, though no one is watching the performance any longer. "Then why did she die and leave me -?"

He notices the silence, the way his pained voice is the only one in the room. Part of him registers that he's being inappropriate; part of him notices that Anora has withdrawn into her seat, her cheeks burning and her eyes downcast. Part of him realizes that he's being cruel; Fergus lost Elissa too, lost his entire family - parents, wife, child - but the new Teyrn has accepted his duty without complaint. So Alistair snaps his mouth shut.

Fergus clears his throat. "Congratulations, again, Your Majesty. Maker watch over you," the teyrn bows quickly and returns to his seat. Conversation slowly builds again in the hall, and gazes revert away from the spectacle of the King.

Alistair retreats into his wine glass again, thankful that no other guests interrupt his misery. Elissa should have let him make the final blow, be the sacrifice that slew the Archdemon and ended the Blight. They'd promised themselves to each other, and now, all he's been left is no time to mourn, responsibility he doesn't want, and Anora as his replacement bride.

No, Alistair, decides, he can't look at her. Not for another few hours at least.


So my experiment to channel Alistair's POV ran darker and a little more off-track than I thought it would, but we're still on trajectory for the upcoming wedding night scenes in the next chapters.