What We Must

by Psyche Sinclair

Sometimes, all it takes to change history is a single person speaking up at the right moment. Such a moment presents itself just as the two newest Grey Wardens approach the Tower of Ishal. (Extremely AU; all origins; many many OCs, including the narrator.)

14. Birthright

What We Must

Chapter 14: Birthright

---

The world returned to her in the form of a few vague impressions with great spaces in between. First, there was a sensation of movement; then, the sound of wheels turning, of stones and dust grinding beneath as if she was being lightly bounced about; then, the flickering movement of shadows beyond her closed eyelids.

Then she was sitting up, sputtering, and there was a shadow upon her, hands pressing her back into a prone position. "Shh," said a very familiar voice, grating despite what she knew to be the speaker's best attempt at "soothing".

"Anders?" She blinked rapidly, trying to clear what felt like a years' worth of sleep-induced blurring from her vision. "What—" Her voice was rough, and the words burned her throat as she forced them out, like wild creatures with claws making a desperate bid to escape a high-walled prison.

"Shh," the blond mage repeated, lips twitching as if they ached to form themselves into their customary smirk but did not quite dare, "You're dead."

"What?" Anders pressed a finger first to his own lips, and then to hers, and she found herself almost smiling— he'd always been particularly attached to the dramatic. She allowed the healer to ease her back into a prone position, and released her breath in a sigh as his magic washed over her.

"Well," he said finally, in the same tone of voice that he used to catalogue minor injuries, "There's no delicate way to say it, but— well, you're dead." Lorelei felt her eyes narrow, and she could make out the small lines around his eyes that indicated amusement, perhaps even repressed laughter. "You dealt the final blow against the Archdemon," he continued, as if he were discussing something benign, like the recipe for a simple burn salve. "So Warren and Teyrn Loghain thought it best to let the Orlesians think you were dead, since that was what they expected."

It seemed to strike her all at once, then, the realisation that she'd done the impossible— killed an Archdemon and lived. She chewed on her lower lip as she contemplated that, knowing that there was something about that, something that she should remember.

"We've been taking turns keeping watch over you, making sure that no one discovers that you're a bit too lively for your own funeral procession."

"Funeral—"

"Oh, don't you know? Of course you don't!" Lorelei rolled her eyes, but she was smiling despite herself. Anders always had been a bit of a card. "You're a hero now, and you're being honoured with a full procession, joined with the King's." He winced, then, and she echoed the expression. Cailan's last moments flashed, unbidden, in her mind, and they were no less painful to recall than they had been to witness first-hand.

"The Senior Wardens—"

"Gone," there was a gentle pressure as his fingertips danced over injuries that she remembered receiving but no longer felt, and he made a satisfied sort of sound. "Once the battle was won, Teyrn Loghain sent them away, along with those poncey mounted soldiers."

"I'm surprised that he let us stay," she mused, and Anders grinned wolfishly.

"He's a hard man, that Teyrn Loghain," he answered gleefully, "Told the lot that they were returning to Orlais, one way or another, but that if they wanted to do it in one piece, they'd best make quick work of it. It was beautiful to behold, actually."

"Who—" she coughed, and Anders sent another wave of magic over her, before he brought a waterskin to her lips and helped her drink. "Who survived? Who died?" Lorelei watched Anders closely, staring straight at his face until he finally met her eyes.

"All of us junior Wardens survived," he grinned then, for a second the irreverent young mage that used to flirt with the girls and charm sweets out of the kitchen, "Even your not-so-friendly giant, though he was a near thing. The little Elf girl, too— she's a tough little thing— and that red-head. I think she was talking about writing a song about you. Maybe she'll call it 'the meek little mage that could'."

"Anders."

"Yeah, yeah. The Dalish lost several hunters and a few of their animals—"

"Halla."

"Yes, those. The Dragon devastated the Chevaliers, almost like it was making a point. A few of the King's men died— Duncan with them, and eventually the King, of course, but you know that. Um, the Chantry lost some templars, but that's no big loss, of course— and some Tranquil, but they're basically dead anyway—"

It happened quickly; by the time she realised what she'd done, Anders's cheek was already red and his fingers were closed firmly around her wrist. She stared at his face without actually seeing it, and he stared back, looking like he couldn't decide between insult and injury.

"I'm sorry," she said finally, and after a few attempts, managed to free her wrist from his grasp. He raised a hand to his face, as if not quite believing that she'd actually hit him.

"Why?" She blinked several times, realising from the look on his face and the hurt in his voice that the question was a sincere one. It was a bit of a shock. Anders had a tendency to dismiss criticism unless he truly cared about the speaker; she had never once dreamed that she would ever be one of those people.

"Because dismissing people as worthless because they are Tranquil or Templar is wrong, and I can't just let something like that pass." Anders's expression morphed from one of shock to one of mutiny, and she held up her hands to stop his quick response. "It's hypocritical, Anders. We can't ask them to treat us like people if we won't do the same for them." She felt her eyes beginning to water, and the healer's expression softened, if only by the tiniest amount. "And given what the Tranquil are— what has already been done to them— I won't have anyone compounding that by treating them like trash. Not if I can prevent it." She did not make the point about the templars, who were also abused, raised and twisted into what they are and ordered about until they were too lyrium-addled to be useful. Anders was not ready for that revelation, not just yet.

"I understand," he said finally, and though she wasn't sure that he did— not entirely— she believed that he was at least trying to understand. Lorelei would take progress wherever and whenever she could find it, and this was progress, however minor it was.

She listened carefully as he began to resume his list of the survivors and the fallen. If either or both of them seemed relieved when certain names landed on one list or the other, they each did their best not to comment on it.

---

When Warren arrived to relieve Anders, Lorelei was struck by the contrast between them. The healer left the caravan with a bouncy, light-hearted sort of gait, embellished with a wink and a wave as he dropped the flap cut into the heavy tarp closed behind him. Warren's movements were heavy, solid, and solemn, each step falling hard on the wooden slats that formed the floor of the cart. Each creak and jostle was met with an unyielding suspicion, as if the cart were a horse threatening to buck and throw its riders.

"You would make a horrible pirate." The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them, and Lorelei wondered if, while unconscious, she'd been given some of that healing tea that soothed pain and left the patient with a pervasive good mood, sometimes to the point of idiocy. Warren, for his part, arched one dark eyebrow in response— the effect was ruined when one of the waggon's wheels hit a stone and he stumbled, cursed, and glared at the 'floor' as if it had intentionally wronged him.

"You appear to be much improved." His tone was glad, and for a moment, it threw her. It must have shown on her face, for he suddenly scowled at her. "Anders will be insufferable for some time, you know." She blinked, then smiled.

"Anders is always insufferable," she shot back, earning a smile around his eyes, "Though if he's been kept busy healing, he'll have been less so— perhaps you should thank me for the reprieve." Warren inclined his head, and Lorelei felt a pang— of regret, perhaps— as she realised that this light mood would not survive the subjects in desperate need of discussion.

"I know that look," he claimed the seat previously occupied by Anders and leaned forward, dark eyes boring into hers.

"Anders told me who lived and died," she said finally, "I would very much like to know what happened."

Warren was halfway through his reply when shouting drew their attention away. He rose, taking large, slightly wobbly strides to the end of the waggon and stuck his head out the back. Lorelei caught very little of the following exchange; it was enough that she recognized the voice.

"You let him think that I was dead?" Lorelei did not see the expression on his face, limited as she was to a very good view of his heavily armoured backside. "I want to see him, Warren." The heavy sigh, she heard, and she could easily imagine the face that went with it.

With a few grunts and squeaking protests— from armour, but also from the men wearing it— Warren stumbled back into the tent, pulling a very put-out Alistair along with him. Lorelei straightened, forgetting all at once that she'd been instructed to lie still and blinking back tears as her vision swayed and blurred.

"Maker's breath," Alistair said; his voice was rough with emotion as he stared at her, looking almost afraid to even blink, lest what he saw prove to be unreal. "You're— you're alive!"

Then he was in motion, and the space that separated them was suddenly gone, along with her breath as he embraced her tightly enough to chase the air right out of her and probably gift her with a whole set of new bruises for Anders to heal. Lorelei might have hugged him back, had her arms not been painfully pinned to her sides. Something small and wet hit the space between her neck and shoulder, and it took several moments before she realised that her comrade-in-arms was weeping, breaths coming in hitched, desperate gasps. She glanced over at Warren, who was looking away as if to grant some measure of privacy.

When Alistair pulled away, she did her best not to gasp her relief, drawing air— wonderful, beautiful air— into her lungs in slow, quiet pulls. He put one hand on either side of her face and stared, as if commiting each and every detail to memory.

"You are real," he breathed, though she couldn't tell if he was stating a fact or making a wish. "You are really alive. I thought—" He shifted, and his gauntlet pulled at her hair, making her wince. He withdrew all at once, mortified, settling into the seat vacated by Warren with a thud. "I've hurt you— Maker, I'm so sorry, I—"

"It's fine," she said at last, glancing briefly over her shoulder at Warren, who winced, presumably at her expression. "I'm fine, Alistair." She focussed on the man who had lost half-brother and father-figure both, and had thought he had lost her as well— the object of an infatuation that he hadn't had the time to properly shake. She knew why he'd been kept out of the loop, but still, it seemed unforgiveably cruel, and she didn't think she'd have been able to carry through with the decision, had she been in Warren's place— or Teyrn Loghain's, or Anders's. He was still staring at her, as if unable to believe that she was real, and not a dream or illusion. She pulled her legs toward her and winced as her hand landed on a still-forming bruise on her thigh. Alistair had removed his gauntlets and was wiping his face with the backs of his hands.

"How are you— Duncan," he swallowed, then forced himself to continue, "Duncan and Riordan told us that whoever dealt the final blow to the Archdemon would die."

"I think that is what normally happens, yes," she admitted, "I do not fully understand the things at play, but somehow I have survived." She tried not to flinch away from Alistair's naked admiration, laid out in detail across his face, thinking of her brief meeting with Flemeth. She frowned, then, realising that she felt like she'd only just awakened from that dream, and yet it had clearly been days, maybe weeks since she'd lost consciousness. "Is Morrigan still about?" Alistair made a face.

"She was gone by the time we found you," Warren supplied, "Does she have something to do with all of this?" Alistair glared at the him, but the former Captain merely offered a thin smile and spread hands.

"Perhaps," Lorelei said softly, drawing the men's attention away from each other. "I dreamt of Flemeth."

"That sounds about right," Alistair declared, clearly unhappy, "Morrigan and Jowan were sneaking around, the night before the battle, but he wouldn't tell us anything— even after." His eyes narrowed as they found their way back to Warren, "Though I guess he wasn't the only one being sneaky."

"We had to keep the Orlesians from finding out," Warren explained.

"I can keep a secret!" The former Chantry-initiate said hotly, "You let me— I thought I'd lost everything in that battle! Cailan and Duncanand—" Alistair drew in a sharp breath as he fell short of completing his declaration; Warren did it for him.

"And Lorelei," His voice was flat and unyielding, "I'm sorry, Alistair, but the Orlesian Wardens were watching us, and you especially. You would have given it away, despite your best efforts."

"I wouldn't—"

"You wear your heart on your face, Alistair," Lorelei could not bring her voice above a whisper, but both men heard her all the same. Alistair stared at her, clearly stricken— and proving her point far more convincingly than she could have voiced it, even if she'd had all the supposed eloquence of the Maker's Bride herself. "Warren's not saying that you would have let it slip intentionally, only that any attempt that you made to disguise your emotions would have been transparent, especially under close scrutiny." She tried to smile, "That's usually a good thing, by the way— not being an expert liar. I'm rather horrid at it myself."

"But why keep it secret for so long?" Alistair pushed, "Teyrn Loghain forced the Orlesians to leave within days— and we're nearly to Denerim!" Lorelei heard the hiss as she pulled in a sharp breath, air whistling past her teeth. Warren wobbled with the waggon as it made another jump, and Alistair sighed and gave up his seat, which the dark-eyed soldier took gratefully. The not-templar settled on the floor with some obvious discomfort, but made no complaints. In fact, he made no sound at all, which, combined with his refusal to remove his gaze from her— or even blink, as if she would disappear— made Lorelei a little uncomfortable. Well, a lot uncomfortable.

"I think it's time that I heard everything," she said finally, rubbing her temples with the tips of her fingers, "And then I believe I am due for a very long, very private chat with Warden Jowan."

---

"Morrigan said that no one had to die," Jowan said finally, and Lorelei reached out to give him an awkward pat on the shoulder. "I thought that I was doing something good— finally." The last word was whispered, and Lorelei had to take a shaky breath before she could trust herself to speak.

"There is no doubt in my mind that your intentions were good," she said softly, and Jowan snorted.

"But they always are, aren't they?" He stared at his hands as he spoke, still studying scars that were no longer there— scars that it had taken at least as much pain to heal as they had to receive. Lorelei could not blame him for the bitter note in his voice, or the tired look in his eyes when he raised them back up to hers. "Here I am again, making a mess of things. Does it even matter that I mean well?"

"It matters to me," she answered, and Jowan stared at her in disbelief, then dropped his head into his hands. "Jowan, Morrigan had her purpose before she even joined us. I have no doubt in my mind that she had a plan that she would have executed with or without you. That she appealed to you in the way that she did instead of simply seducing you speaks to your character."

"I'm—" Jowan studied her, tilting his head first one way and then the other, and then he laughed. "I was about to say that I was sorry, you know, but I just realised that I'm not." Lorelei frowned at him, confused. "I know that it could be some horrible thing that we've done, and that maybe letting Morrigan have her Old God Baby or whatever it ends up being is bad, but—" He shrugged. "Maybe it was worth it."

"Worth it?" She felt her brows knit together as she stared at him, "Not that I'm unhappy to be alive, Jowan, but how would that be worth it? There will be no telling what the price of your bargain is— probably for years."

"You're alive," Jowan said, and rolled his eyes when this didn't lessen her confusion in the slightest. "I'm glad that you're alive, whatever the cost turns out to be."

"I— thank you, Jowan, but I'm hardly—"

"If you tell me that you're not important," Jowan leaned in close, and Lorelei felt her eyes widen and jaw slacken in surprise as the apostate-turned-Grey-Warden actually managed to look threatening. She'd thought Jowan almost as incompetent at that pursuit as she was. "If you say that, I— well, I don't know what I'll do, to be honest, but I'll be very upset." He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. "You're special, okay? I'm not the only one who thinks so, so even if my judgement is suspect, I'm not wrong about this. I'm glad you're alive. I would done a lot worse than sleep with Morrigan to make that happen."

"You slept with Morrigan?" Jowan started as Alistair spoke, and Lorelei noted that he looked slightly green around the face. "Holy Maker! I'm never going to be able to get that image out of my head." He shook it, as if trying to do just that, and Lorelei covered her mouth with her hand as a tiny bubble of laughter escaped.

"I brought you some food," Alistair said, still staring at Jowan, "And I was going to eat with you, but I've lost my appetite— and let me tell you, when a Grey Warden loses their appetite it's no small thing."

"So you don't want that cheese, then?" Jowan reached out as if to snatch the item off the tray, and Alistair pulled back.

"It's for Lorelei."

"Lorelei hates cheese." Alistair stared at her, clearly scandalised.

"You can't hate cheese! It's cheese."

"I don't hate it, but I don't really eat it, either," Lorelei admitted, and Alistair watched Jowan through narrowed eyes before his gaze fell back to the platter. "You're free to fight over it."

"I'm bigger than you." Alistair told Jowan, staking his claim.

"But you said you weren't—"

"It's cheese," the bastard prince said, as if that explained everything, "All bets are off if it's cheese." Jowan laughed, and Lorelei couldn't help but notice that even Alistair smiled as the mage threw his hands up in surrender, then took his leave with a shallow bow. Alistair set the tray down and sat beside her, and then, after several dramatic glances around them, snatched the cheese— her portion as well as his— off the platter and ate it with obvious relish.

Despite his claim to having lost his appetite, the heaps of food on the platter were thoroughly demolished by the time the two of them were through with it.

---

"And then the Teyrn said—"

"Warden," Anders straightened, staring straight at Lorelei with a wide-eyed expression that she herself had worn many times, especially when dealing with the man in question, who now met her eyes over the healer's shoulder, one eyebrow and one corner of his mouth raised in amusement.

"Your grace," Lorelei supplied, somewhat surprised at how calm she felt as she watched Anders compose himself, then turn and politely acknowledge the Teyrn.

"We have arrived in Denerim," he said finally, "I have arranged for all of you to be escorted to your compound in the city, along with your— supplies."

"I understand that we have you to thank for securing them," Loghain inclined his head, just slightly, in acknowledgement. "Allow me to thank you personally."

"It was nothing, Warden," there was a flash of something in his eyes, and her mind sluggishly identified that something as— a sort of pleasure, not quite amusement and not quite joy. As Anders had been quite happy to part with an embellished version of the story, Lorelei figured that it probably had something to do with one-upping Orlesians, even if they were Grey Wardens.

"It was vital," she said slowly, "I can only hope that it will not cause you or the Queen undue trouble."

"Trouble appears to follow us both, Warden," Loghain's voice was rich with wry humour, "And when it does not find us, we find it." The tall man seemed to fling his gaze around the waggon that had, more or less, been Lorelei's home for the few days since she awakened, and several weeks before that. "If you will excuse me, I must report to the palace."

"Please give our best wishes— and our sincerest condolences— to the Queen," Lorelei found that she meant the statement in earnest, having heard a great deal about the Queen, including several rumours that brought out a sympathy that had surprised a few of her fellow Wardens.

Loghain's response was lost as he pulled his head out of the tent and began barking orders to his men, voice soon muffled by an increasing amount of distance.

"So how did you know," Anders said slowly, rubbing his hands together, "That allying with Loghain would work out? If Cailan and Duncan had lived, or if he hadn't taken to you, or if the Dwarves and Elves and Mages hadn't been—"

"Warren once accused me of having Andraste's own luck," Lorelei said carefully, watching as the blond mage's eyes lit up with interest, "I am beginning to think that he had the right of it."

"Well," Anders drawled, "That, and Warren is surprisingly crafty, for a meat-headed soldier. He and Loghain put their heads together and let me tell you," he whistled, "I wouldn't want to have either of them as an enemy, but together they are really, really scary." He tilted his head, eyes narrowing as he studied her— she caught herself wondering if she had an odd rash or something on her face. "You're not to be sneezed at, either. What is it that you have on that old bugger, anyway?"

"Who?"

"Irving," Anders drew the name out, as if trying to coat his tongue with it. Irrrrvinnnng. "He wouldn't have let me go, not for you, not unless you had something big. Like, secret trysts in the supply closet with Greagoir and half a dozen Tranquil big." Lorelei made a face.

"Ew, Anders." He spread his hands almost as wide as his grin, which was completely devoid of any sort of apology. "Ew."

"I'm here all week!" Lorelei groaned, then buried her head in her hands when he added, "And so is Oghren! And Faren! We have plans to start a club and everything."

"How about you finish telling me how Loghain managed to run off the Chevaliers and Grey Wardens both without letting them take anything from the Archdemon's corpse?" Lorelei didn't think it was even possible for Anders's grin to grow wider, and he added a dramatic bow before he began the tale again, interrupted only by the occassional cheer as the covered waggons (most of them carrying bones, skin, sinew, blood and— apparently— the fully intact head of the tainted dragon-god) Urthemiel— made their way through the streets of Denerim, with the all-but abandoned Grey Warden Compound as their destination.

By the time they arrived, Anders had completed the story, with time to go over his favourite parts— to the point of jumping up and acting them out— and Lorelei had laughed herself to tears more than once.

---

"Ah, Warden—" The Queen winced as her Elven lady-in-waiting struggled to help her into a chair, and Lorelei was across the room before she caught herself.

"May I offer my assistance, your Majesty?"

"I— yes, thank you, Warden," she said finally, voice a mix of surprise, pain and the sort of wariness that triggered an immediate feeling of sympathy, and perhaps sorrow. This was a woman who was not accustomed to being offered favours that did not come with a steep price. Lorelei glanced briefly at the Elven servant, and the woman stared back, offering a brief nod of understanding before they worked together to shift the heavily pregnant Queen into a comfortable position into the wide, padded chair. It looked like a recent aquisition— Lorelei noted that the other chairs in the sitting room were straight-backed and fine, but not particularly plush.

Lorelei did not allow her hands to linger on the Queen— when she was satisfied that she was safely and comfortably seated, she backed away and sketched a deep bow as if she'd only just entered the room. When she straightened, she noticed that Alistair had followed her lead, and that some of the Queen's suspicion had faded, replaced with a small smile.

"Thank you for seeing us, your Majesty," she said softly, sitting when the Queen indicated one of her very fine, straight-backed chairs. Alistair settled in the chair beside her, quiet and nervous.

"You are— Alistair, are you not?" The Queen was wearing a little frown as she examined the almost-templar from head to toe, and he blushed fiercely under her scrutiny. Lorelei realised that if she had been aware of his resemblance to Cailan, the Queen— the man's own widow— had surely noticed.

"I— ah, yes, your Majesty." He shifted in his chair, "Was I not supposed to be here? I was told—"

"I did request your presence," the Queen admitted, the edges of her mouth quirking slightly upwards. Perhaps she was seeing that Cailan's bastard half-brother was as different in personality as he was similar in looks. Lorelei had only been in her presence for a few moments, but she was getting the impression that the woman missed very little— much like her father.

"Well, uh, I— ah— good," Alistair squirmed, and Lorelei reached out and pressed the tips of her fingers into his shoulder, just enough that he glanced in her direction— and tried to give him a reassuring smile when he did so. She withdrew her hand and returned her attention to the Queen, who had clearly noticed the gesture.

"I understand that there is to be a Landsmeet," Lorelei spoke slowly, and with great care.

"Yes," The Queen straightened, and Lorelei wondered if perhaps it was customary for her to lean forward slightly when she spoke— it was difficult for her to do so at present, of course, but it was a mannerism that the Warden-mage had noticed was typical for her father, the Teyrn Loghain. "I was wondering, Warden— how much do you know of recent events in the north?"

"Very little," the admission was easy, "I had heard that there was a civil war, mainly in the northern Coastlands. There were rumours, of course, of the slaughter in Highever, but for the most part, we were occupied with the darkspawn incursion." The Queen didn't nod, though she did tilt her head forward, as if indicating assent. Lorelei echoed the gesture, and examined the woman more closely— something tickled the edge of her awareness, that strange sense that she had since realised was linked to her ability to enter the Fade at will, rather than being something common among mages or Grey Wardens.

"The Arl of Amaranthine turned on his liege lord, the Teyrn of Highever," Queen Anora explained carefully, "His armies slaughtered the occupants of the castle, right down to the children and servants— but the youngest son escaped."

"Aedan," Lorelei said softly, and the Queen nodded, then winced. Lorelei's fingers twitched, and she forced them still. She had a feeling that the Queen was annoyed enough that any weakness showed at all— it would not do to bring more attention to it. "He was at Ostagar, looking for his brother."

"Fergus was sent south with the bulk of Highever's army just before the castle was attacked," the Queen continued, "I was told that my husband, the King—" there was a flash of grief, then, and Lorelei did her best to give no sign that she'd noticed, though Alistair shifted slightly in his chair. "I was told that he promised to march north after the battle and bring Arl Howe to justice. When he was unable to do so immediately after the battle, the brothers and a very small group of Highever soldiers went north on their own, and most of the Banns sworn to their family rallied behind them. Those that did not sided with Howe— and when the Couslands prevailed, several seats on the Landsmeet were left empty." The Queen shifted, and then she winced and clenched her jaw tight. Seconds passed, and Lorelei shifted a few inches forward in her chair just as Anora relaxed, letting out a slow, soft breath.

"The Landsmeet," she continued crisply, "Is convening to— among other things— discuss what is to be done with those seats."

"Won't they also have to address—" Alistair started, then froze, eyes wide and seeking Lorelei's, as he realised what he'd been about to say, and to whom. The Queen arched one delicate, perfect eyebrow in his direction, and Lorelei's brother-in-blood-and-arms blushed bright pink. "I mean, with the King— and— oh Maker, I'm sorry, your Majesty."

"Thank you, Warden," the Queen said, and though most people might have assumed that she was annoyed with Alistair's fumbling, Lorelei thought that there was enough warmth in her tone to suggest that she was amused.

"You are not wrong," Anora admitted, "Though I believe that I have earned the right to remain on the throne, with Cailan's death, the Landsmeet must decide if I am to rule, and in which capacity." Her expression was speculative as she eyed Alistair, then Lorelei, then Alistair again— Lorelei had actually grown somewhat used to such scrutiny, but her Chantry-trained brother squirmed as if being prodded with heated irons.

"You asked Alistair here to find out if he intends to challenge your rule," Lorelei blurted the words out before she'd finished considering them, and she bit down on her lip as both Alistair and Anora turned sharp looks in her direction. Alistair continued to stare, but the Queen was much more quick to compose herself, and from her expression, Lorelei wondered if she was suppressing a smile— perhaps even laughter.

"Perhaps not how I would have worded it," the Queen said slowly, the wry humour in her voice confirming Lorelei's suspicions. "But essentially— yes."

"You mean you know—"

"I am not a fool," the Queen said, with enough of an edge to her voice that Alistair drew back as if stung, "Even if Cailan had not spoken of you— and he did, on several occasions— I would have known you for what you are as soon as I saw your face." Alistair's lips formed a thin line, and his hands tightened into fists before he forced them flat on his thighs. The Queen had not used the word bastard, but there was no doubting her meaning.

"Alistair has no designs on the throne, your Majesty," Lorelei said, then went abruptly silent when Anora lifted her hand. Lorelei frowned— not at the gesture, but at the Queen's swollen hand and fingers— and the fact that the Queen was not wearing so much as a wedding ring. The Queen was known to be a slender woman, and even with pregnancy, such swelling was— Lorelei put the thought aside, but did not dismiss it completely, as Anora began to speak.

"I beg your pardon," the Queen's voice was actually rather gentle as she addressed Alistair, and though her regard was piercing, it was not entirely unkind. "I would like to hear that from Alistair himself."

"I don't," Alistair choked on the words before he was able to reign himself in, "I don't want to be King. I don't know who told you otherwise, but—" He glanced over at Lorelei, and quickly looked away. They both knew who had to have suggested such a thing, but neither of them wanted to admit it— Lorelei, because the whole discussion was awkward and distasteful and Alistair out of a loyalty that Lorelei didn't believe Eamon even remotely deserved. "If you want to the throne, your Majesty, you're more than welcome to it as far as I'm concerned. From what I've heard, you're quite good at the whole—" He gestured expressively, and the Queen blinked, then smiled.

"Thank you," she said wryly, and Alistair blanched. The Queen held up her hand again before he could apologise. "I am glad that one rumour, at least, can be put to rest." This time, it was the Queen's Elven handmaiden who stiffened, then relaxed in a deliberate sort of way, eyeing both Grey Wardens with the sort of wariness that Lorelei recognised immediately. She'd seen it in the faces of Elves, mages, common-born humans: it was the wariness of one who knew they were in the presence of a person of higher standing or superior ability— someone who posed an inescapable threat to their very existence.

To Lorelei's relief— and Alistair's as well, if she was correct in the interpretation of his expression— the Queen spoke no more of rumours. Lorelei was glad, for she was no fan of such things, particularly when they were meant to destroy reputation or nerve or even the very being of a person. It was an even greater mercy that the Queen did not ask after Cailan's last moments, for Lorelei neither wanted to lie nor speak ill of the dead— nor reveal that the King's support of the Wardens had been angrily withdrawn moments before he'd been killed.

Alistair was halfway to the door as soon as the polite dismissal passed the Queen's lips, but something held Lorelei back— a sort of pull, not unlike the call that all healers felt when they sensed an injury.

"Lorelei, what—" Alistair's didn't finish; his eyes went wide and round and Lorelei turned just as the Queen let out a strangled cry and collapsed to the floor, dragging her handmaiden down with her. "Maker!"

"Alistair, call for the midwife— and if you can get him, Anders," Alistair's mouth began to open and close like a landed fish. "Do it now!" Lorelei had already crossed the room, and was helping the maid shift the Queen into a more comfortable position as she called upon her magic. It came with an ease and quickness that almost alarmed her, but she did not have time to consider what that meant.

Alistair's strong warrior's voice echoed back to her as he did exactly what she'd asked. Several servants came by to gape at them from the doorway, but scurried off when Alistair returned with the royal midwife, who told them quite clearly that they weren't needed, and that if they wanted to keep all their skin, they'd better not remain in her way.

"Will she be all right?" Lorelei blinked, taking a moment to look into the frightened eyes of the Queen's maidservant, who was not only Elven, but apparently Orlesian as well. Considering Loghain's opinion of Orlesians, Lorelei found that more than a little curious.

"Of course she will," she said firmly, just as the midwife settled on her knees in front of the Queen, to Lorelei's right.

"I imagine," the Queen gasped, "That it is unlikely that you would say otherwise within my hearing."

"Be that as it may," Lorelei said, surprised that her voice sounded so calm as the midwife began to call for servants and give clear, confident-sounding orders, "I assure you, your Majesty, that I am a terrible liar— so were my statement untrue, you would likely know it to be so." The Queen's response sounded very much like laughter, huffed and snorted between gasps of breath.

"You are a mage? Healer?" The midwife said, and Lorelei finally took a proper look to her right, where she found a plain-faced woman with stringy hair and a wide, stern mouth. She reminded Lorelei of a mabari, and it seemed oddly appropriate, somehow. Lorelei nodded, and the midwife winced— not a good sign.

"Are there concerns about the Chantry?" She asked, and the woman glowered— it was fierce enough that Lorelei actually drew back.

"There are always concerns with that lot," the midwife said finally, her mouth settling into a grim— almost angry— line. The hair on the back of Lorelei's neck stood on end as the woman stared, unblinking, into her eyes. There was a story there, and a challenge, and while there was no time for the former, she decided not to refuse the latter.

"I am happy to offer my assistance, if you'll have it," she said finally, "And that of my brother Grey Warden, Anders, if he's found soon enough."

"Grey Warden?" The midwife leaned back, studying her more closely, no doubt finally noticing the Grey Warden rampant on the sash that she wore over her robes. "Ah," she said, face almost transforming as she smiled. "You'll be the Hero of Ferelden, then, the Grey Warden Mageling Girl Lorelei." Lorelei winced, more at the 'Hero of Ferelden' bit than at the rest. She'd been addressed as 'mageling' and 'girl', and both together, many times.

"Well, now, her name isn't actually half that long," Anders drawled from the doorway.

"We don't have time to discuss my name," Lorelei snapped, gesturing to the Queen, whose eyes were beginning to roll back in her head. Lorelei glanced over at Alistair, who looked like all of the blood had fled his face and neck to hide somewhere under his breastplate.

"Alistair, report to Loghain and then to Warren— or both at once if they're together, which they might be," she said, and the templar disappeared down the hall like he'd been shot from a cannon. The Elven maid stepped away and Anders took her place, leaving the Queen with a mage on each arm, a midwife in front of her, and a nearly frantic Elven maid off to the side wringing her hands and praying softly under her breath in Orlesian.

Lorelei and Anders wove their magic together, and she was briefly aware of his spirit, brushing against her from the other side of the Fade. It became easier as they found their rhythm, and she was reminded of why, precisely, the Circle had worked so hard to convince Anders to stop trying to escape rather than just executing him or having him made Tranquil, for he really was a brilliant and powerful healer. Her fears for the Queen's safety all but disappeared— and it was not long before even the gruff midwife looked profoundly relieved. Then Queen Anora was conscious, and the real ordeal began.

By the end of the birthing process, Lorelei's respect for the Queen— and for mothers in general— had increased by a thousand times.

---

Lorelei hugged herself awkwardly as she waited in the doorway, unable, for some reason, to call Alistair's attention away from the items spread out across his bed— including a dagger, a shield, and several piles of correspondence. When Warren had told her, as people poured out of the Landsmeet chamber, that he had gifted all of Duncan's personal effects to the Chantry-raised Warden, she had felt compelled to find him in his rooms, following her darkspawn-blood-and-Fade-given senses through the twisting hallways of the Compound.

She found, now that she had arrived, that she did not know what to say, or what sort of comfort to offer.

Then Alistair turned, spotted her, then smiled— it was not unlike a stormy sky suddenly free of clouds, that smile— and rather than reassured, she was more nervous. It was silly, of course, but the declaration of— affection, infatuation, or whatever it was— still hung heavy between them.

"Hello," his voice was bright, but he lowered it as he stepped toward her, "How was the Landsmeet?"

"I think that it went rather well," she shrugged, just a little, then smiled despite her heavy thoughts.

"There weren't any problems? Because Cailan didn't—"

"Though Cailan never acknowledged the Queen's child," Lorelei said softly, "He did not refuse to do so, either. There were no direct indications that he believed her unfaithful— they were married, and by all accounts, the only indiscretions could be traced back to the King, not her Majesty. While there were some pretty nasty rumours, there was no actual evidence to back any of them up. And— well, the princess is the picture of the Rebel Queen, right down to the red hair and the Theirin nose, so that put most of it to rest." Alistair responded by fingering his own nose, then grinning.

"She'll discover the Theirin love of cheese soon enough, then," he said gleefully, and Lorelei covered her face with her hands, successfully hiding her expression but not the giggles that slipped through her fingers and bounced around the room.

"She'll be with a wet nurse for a while now— she's barely been named, and that was rushed, in order for it to be done before the Landsmeet."

"I heard— Deirdre Theirin," he said, sounding wistful, "It's a pretty name. Is it true that she was named for Teyrn Loghain's mother— and wasn't she murdered for Orlesians during the occupation? A bit impolitic, isn't it?"

"Yes and no," Lorelei held her hands out, flat, as if weighing two objects in her palms, "I think that Queen Anora chose the name to honour her father's mother, not to declare any sort of political agenda. And as you said, it is a pretty name." Lorelei couldn't help but glance behind Alistair, at his bed and at what remained of Duncan's earthly belongings.

"Warren gave me his things," Alistair said, following the path of her eyes, and his face became somewhat grave. There was no need to speak Duncan's name aloud. "I— I thought that if I had something to remember him by, it might be easier." He shook his head. "It isn't, not really."

"He was like a father to you."

"Sort of," Alistair shrugged gracelessly, eyes sweeping over his bed and grief pulling the edges of his mouth down. "He was the first person to actually care what I wanted. I miss him. After Ostagar— I thought I'd lost him, and then he was there— I just keep expecting him to walk through the door and ask me what I'm doing with his things." Lorelei nodded; Duncan had been formidable, to the point where he had almost seemed immortal. Lorelei would never have believed that she, of all people, would actually outlive the former Warden-Commander of Ferelden.

"Duncan told me, before we left for Redcliffe— he'd been having the dreams, you see." Lorelei nodded; she had attended him several times after Wynne and Anders had brought him back from the brink of death. "He said that he'd be going to Orzammar soon. I know that he would have preferred to die in battle." Alistair shook his head. "I was so mad at you, you know— you and Warren." He smiled, ruefully, "I hated that Duncan had to give up his turn at the Archdemon to fool the King, and keep him out of the way. He should have been the one to slay the Archdemon, end the Blight, and be honoured as the latest of only five Grey Wardens to do so."

"I'm sorry, Alistair."

"No, no," Alistair was suddenly aghast, as if he only just realised the full implications of his declaration (and, knowing Alistair, this was precisely the case). "I didn't mean—"

"I know what you meant," Lorelei patted Alistair on the shoulder, somewhat uncomfortable with the conversation but unwilling to deny her comrade, brother, and friend what he needed. "His sacrifice is what made it possible for the Blight to be ended, even if he didn't strike the final blow himself."

"Cailan still figured it out."

"Yes," she said softly, glancing away and seeing something very different from Alistair's room, sitting in front of her eyes. "I think that we underestimated the King's intelligence, in the end. But be that as it may, Duncan did his duty, as did Riordan. That neither of them drove a sword through the dragon's skull— not easy for a mouse of a mage, by the way— their support was crucial."

"I know that you didn't see him like I did," he shifted from one foot to the other, refusing to look at her face as he wrestled with a terrible grief— it wasn't just Duncan that had died, but that, in the days before he died, Alistair's shiny hero had been tarnished by hints of a not-so-perfect man underneath. "But I—"

"Alistair," she said softly, reaching out. She stopped at the crucial moment, unable, for some reason, to close the final inches of distance between the tips of her fingers and his smooth-shaven cheek. It was odd to see him so; while in Ostagar, he'd sported light stubble, and his resemblance to Cailan was all the more prominent for it. She withdrew her hand.

"I don't know how you survived," Alistair said, moving the topic of conversation away from the subject that he found most uncomfortable to the one that she did, "But I'm glad, even if it's blasphemous to say it." He smiled again, and Lorelei couldn't resist smiling back.

"I'm glad you survived, too." She ignored the implied question, and to her immense relief, Alistair didn't push the matter— instead, she let him regale her with stories that he'd heard from and about his former mentor.

If Alistair's version of Duncan seemed just a bit too virtuous, or more like a solid warrior than a quick-footed, roguish type, Lorelei said nothing. She gave no indication that she saw any inconsistencies at all between what she'd seen and what Alistair said. Duncan was dead; she thought it fine enough that he be, at least in memory— at least briefly— whatever her Chantry-raised, hero-worshipping friend needed him to be. She let Alistair tell it as he saw it, as he imagined it— and let him talk through it, turning his sense of loss into good memories and tall tales. Alistair had loved Duncan, and he had lost him— it was enough, she thought, that he had to struggle with that. Forcing him to sacrifice his admiration of the first person to ever give him a choice seemed cruel and unnecessary, and she would not— maybe could not— do it.

---

When her visitor turned to face her, Lorelei took a startled step backward.

"Your Grace," she said slowly, and the resulting expression was as much a wince as it was a smile. Before she could dip into the standard curtsy, strong hands closed around her shoulders and drew her back up.

"Please! I will not have the Hero of Ferelden bowing to me," he said wryly, "A mere mortal Teyrn." He flinched, just a little, at the title, even though he was the one who spoke the word. The last time she'd seen this man, he'd been unaware of the murders of his family, including his wife and young son. He'd also been unconscious, so she hadn't had much of an impression of his personality.

"I am very sorry, your Grace," she answered, and he stared straight into her eyes for several minutes before he released her and stepped back. For the barest moment, it was as if his soul were laid bare and displayed upon his face— then the faceless mask of a practiced politician reasserted itself. She straightened, recognising that the painful moment had passed, and that it was ill-advised to drag it out.

"What can I do for you, your Grace?" She asked, tilting her head to one side as she looked up at him. His reaction to the address was a subtle tightening around the eyes, but his smile seemed of the sort that came often and easily.

"Please, call me Fergus."

"I— that would not be proper." She could not help the last time she'd been asked to use a noble's first name, and it was not a memory with which she was comfortable. Fergus laughed, and leaned in— not close enough to be improper, just close enough to feel almost— conspiratorial.

"Just between us," he said, lowering his voice— and all at once, it occurred to her that the Cousland boys' reputation for being charismatic was well-deserved— "I like to escape the pompous posturing to which I was born whenever I can." His expression darkened, but only for a moment, "And as far as I'm concerned, since I was selfishly pursuing personal revenge in the North while you were saving all of Thedas, you out-rank me anyway, Grey Warden." Lorelei blinked at the mix of respect and shame on the Teyrn's face, and found herself gaping like a fish for several moments. Fergus Cousland straightened and, ever the gentleman, calmly waited for her to find her composure once more.

"I am— honoured, your Grace," he raised both eyebrows at her, and she felt her lips twitch towards a smile, "Fergus." His name felt completely different on her tongue than Cailan's had, and his smile was wide, bright, and full of good humour. It reminded her of— someone, but the impression was there and gone before she could pin it down.

"If I might have the honour," he said, "If it is not an imposition, I mean— may I use your name as well?" She couldn't help but smile.

"You may, of course, call me Lorelei," she said finally, discovering as she said the words that she meant them unreservedly. "There are not so many Grey Wardens in Ferelden, but there are enough that it might get confusing should you use only the title all the time."

"Especially here, in the Compound," he agreed, and she found that she quite liked his easy humour. It reminded her of Alistair, only without that puppy-dog quality— Fergus Cousland did not particularly need to impress anyone, he simply was. She imagined that he was as terribly in his anger and as bereft in his grief as he was joyous in his good humour, and it was refreshing to feel as if she was not trying to perform a dance without knowing the steps, or even the true disposition of her partner. He offered his arm, and she took it, knowing that she had no need to fear that he would interpret it as anything more than what it was. It was fine to know that the difference between their stations was there, without having to underline it as a protection against impropriety.

"I should explain my visit," he said finally, leading her expertly through the Compound's garden, which was clearly Orlesian in design, but populated with singularly useful plants— she recognised several that were used medicinally, some of them difficult to cultivate, some of them clearly not native to Northern Ferelden. The flowers were pretty, of course, but it was the melding of Orlesian fashion with Fereldan practicality that struck her most strongly. "I asked to meet you only partially for the honour of meeting the Dragonslayer," the reverence that he granted those two words was paired with an edge of irony, and she was reminded— oddly enough— both of Cailan and Loghain. "And it is a great honour, but I also heard that you were among those that treated me at Ostagar and I wished to thank you personally." There was something else, of course; Fergus Cousland was charming, open, and— if her judgement had not been sacrificed instead of her life when she'd slain the Archdemon— a mostly honest sort, but he was also one of the most powerful politicians in the country. He had been raised, from birth, to run his Teyrnir and contribute to the leadership of the country; had he been incompetent or shallow, his brother would have been named heir.

"It was nothing," she shrugged lightly; the answer was easy because it was true. "By the time I saw you, most of the difficult work had been done, by one more skilled than I." This was also true— though they used different methods, the Chasind healers that had cared for Fergus had been knowledgeable in healing traditions of which Lorelei herself knew nothing— save for the odd rumour or reference. She was careful not to mention magic specifically, though she started at Fergus's next declaration.

"Yes, Chani and her father," his lips twisted into a smirk that was odd in that it lacked the contempt to which she was accustomed, "They were a tremendous help to us, when we marched north. She, in particular, made quite the impression on Aedan." Lorelei blinked at the implication— she had met both Wilders, and knew them to be mages— and his face softened, seeming sad and happy at once.

"Are— will congratulations be in order, your Grace?" She realised too late that she'd switched back to the formal address, but rather than call attention to her nervousness, the Teyrn of Highever just smiled.

"I expect so," he answered, "I imagine that my brother's choice in bride will cause some shouting, but it will settle down soon enough." Lorelei frowned, wondering if he knew the truth of it— did he not realise that Chani was a mage? There was something in the twist of his lips that suggested that he knew that there was significantly more to it than the standard political fallout from a high-ranking noble marrying a commoner. Chani and Efraim were Wilders— barbarians, even— that alone would cause shouting. That they both had magic would cause an outright war within the Landsmeet; it carried with it the threat of an Exalted March. Fergus was watching her, and she realised with a start that this wasn't just a conversation with a Grey Warden.

It was a conversation with the one living Grey Warden who had met his soon-to-be sister- and father-in-law, and perhaps the one person outside of his family or command that knew them to be apostates.

"There is the issue of the nobility, of course," he continued, his manner slightly too smooth for it not to be intentionally so, "And the empty seats at the Landsmeet. Aedan and I have discussed the future of the Arling of Amaranthine in particular."

"In what way does this concern the Wardens— myself in particular— your Grace?" Her shift to the more formal address was deliberate this time; she suspected that he was about to offer her a title in exchange for her silence, and it was in honour of his shift to a more political creature that she made it. He stopped, and she narrowly avoided being jerked backwards by the suddenness of it.

"I have advised my brother in this matter," he said finally, and she wondered if he had loosed all of the air from his lungs in that one great breath that was half-huff, half-sigh. "But he will not be deterred, and— having had my chance at love, I cannot deny him his. If I could rely on your discretion, I would be willing to negotiate some substantial donations of lands and properties to the Grey Wardens of Ferelden. It will not be difficult to sway the Landsmeet, and— as you are no doubt aware— there are many empty seats within the purview of the Teyrn of Highever." Lorelei pressed her lips together as she considered his words, and the practical part of her argued that this was something that could be worked to great advantage. The other part of her— the larger part— was appalled at the whole idea. The Teyrn shifted slightly, and she blinked, realising that she'd been staring straight into him without seeing him. She'd been told that was a rather uncomfortable experience, and she smiled an apology.

"I am sorry, your Grace," she said finally, and he stiffened, "But I cannot in good conscience accept a— favour, especially one so great— for a silence that I had no intention of breaking." He gaped at her for several moments before he was able to recover, and even then, his speech was slightly stilted by shock.

"But you—"

"I am a Grey Warden," she said firmly, "As such, I do not involve myself with matters concerning the Chantry. I would ask that you please confer my sincerest congratulations to your brother and the lady both, and should you still wish to offer support to the Wardens, you would be well-served addressing the matter with Warren."

"I— of course," he hesitated, still searching her face for duplicity. In the courts of Orlais, even the most minor favours came with a steep price, and though Ferelden had thrown off the occupation, some of that influence remained— and this was not a minor favour. She found herself thinking back to her conversations— with Warren in particular— and wondering if she didn't have a rather odd sort of luck, after all. She was certainly collecting the gratitude, perhaps even admiration, of highly-placed Ferelden nobles at an alarming rate.

The irony was that the one noble who, perhaps, owed her the most, was the only one disinclined to offer her such consideration. Alistair had been summoned to the Guerrin estate in Denerim several times, and, from his disposition upon his return and his refusal to attend the Landsmeet, it had not gone the way Eamon had wanted. Lorelei remembered that Eamon's face had been particularly pinched-looking as Anora had asked him who should rule if not she, at the very least as Regent for her daughter. She remembered the tiny twitch at the word daughter, and how Teagan had seemed shocked at something his brother had said, under his breath.

She came back to herself to find Fergus wearing a bemused expression, and she waved off his inquiry after her condition.

"I apologise," she said softly, "I sometimes get lost in my thoughts."

"They looked like rather heavy thoughts." He would know the sort, she suspected— the stories of the death of the disgraced Arl Rendon Howe were not pretty ones, and they paled in comparison to the rumours surrounding the massacre at Highever. The forces loyal to the Couslands had at least offered a fair trial to anyone willing to be taken prisoner— Howe's soldiers had buried everyone, from noble to servant, in a mass pit, not even allowing the families the dignity of claiming their own dead.

"I— I was wondering," she said, finally settling on a question, "There was some murmuring about what happened to the Howe family. Did you—"

"I did not," there was a harsh note in the reply, but then the Teyrn seemed to deflate and disappear, leaving a grieving man in his place. "I did not kill them in a fit of rage, if that is what you are asking. His son, Thomas, hanged himself while awaiting judgement, perhaps assuming that I would insist on avenging my dead family in kind." He winced, and rubbed his forehead absently with his free hand. "Whatever sickness turned their father into a monster, it was plain that Thomas and Delilah were not afflicted. Aedan argued that Delilah should be sent to the Free Marches, and after— after some time, he was able to sway me. I can only hope that she is able to find her older brother, Nathaniel, and convince him that further bloodshed can and should be avoided. Our families were— very close, once, and my father considered Rendon to be one of his dearest personal friends." Fergus Cousland wore his agony out in the open, and she found herself again reminded, in an odd sort of way, of Alistair. "I am loathe to admit it, Warden, but this is a large part of why I came to Denerim and left the rebuilding of Highever to my brother." Lorelei nodded.

"I am— glad that you were able to show temperance," she said softly, "It is not an easy thing to do." Indeed it wasn't— had she not been aggressively raised to be meek, she imagined that her reaction to Isolde's torture of Jowan— or Irving's allowances for Uldred, which led to that whole mess and probably several others— would have been much, much different.

Then again, Uldred was dead, and not at the hands of darkspawn. She flinched at the thought, and the memory of hushed conversations and secret manoeuvring. Some day, she would have to face the truth of what she'd put in motion, and how she'd used people to do it. Her innocence had been stripped from her in the shadow of the Blight, and there was no going back to who she had been.

"The Couslands always do their duty," Fergus said dryly, then smirked, "Well, except for our tendency to marry for love."

"Your wife was Antivan, was she not?" Fergus nodded, and though there was still pain in his expression, it was eclipsed by a sort of remembered happiness.

"Yes, she was," he said softly, "Oriana was from a wealthy merchant family, so of course the marriage brought increased trade to Highever, but— she had the most incredible mind. She used to help my parents with the accounts, and my mother adored her." She realised, then, that Fergus Cousland was a very handsome man— he had a rougher sort of charm than his more finely-featured brother, but his eyes were bright and clear and startlingly blue and his smile was wide and full of good humour. "She was beautiful, of course, but it was more than that. I had hoped—" He glanced at some unseen landscape over her shoulder, and she saw in his face a wound that would never completely heal. "I miss her."

She possessed no salves that could soothe that ache, and so Lorelei settled for a light, brief touch of fingertips against his shoulder and a silence to honour his loss, which was so much more than two lives ended too soon. Fergus came back to himself slowly, almost like he was awakening from a dream. He smiled at her absently, as if not quite remembering who she was. She smiled back.

"Well," he said finally, "I have wasted enough of your time." He kissed the back of her hand— not as flamboyantly as Cailan would have, but with enough flair to mark him as being a bit of a— not untalented— flirt. "May I call on you again, my lovely Warden?" She knew instinctively that he was teasing her more than really flirting with her, but she still flushed uncomfortably.

"I am always honoured to receive you, your Grace." Fergus wrinkled his nose.

"Fergus," he said, and she was aware of something changing between them— a change that made friendship a distinct possibility. It was not a feeling she was familiar with. The few friends she'd acquired had been like a sudden revelation of a previously established order.

"Lorelei," she answered, and his smile could have outshone the sun.

"Just so," he declared, and took his leave with a bow. She refused to allow it to go without answer, and there they were, following the protocol while making a mockery of it. When she finally turned to re-enter the Compound proper, Warren was there, with his arms crossed over his chest and one eyebrow sharply arched.

"Don't you start," she warned him, though her voice sounded more tired than menacing. She stepped around him, and his low, throaty chuckle followed her all the way to her rooms, where she asked the bewildered girl in the mirror, "Dragonslayer? Hero of Ferelden?"

---

"You will let me pass at once!" Alistair had been about to offer a greeting, but as soon as the raised voice reached them, his smile promptly fled from his face, taking his greeting with it. He looked around, as if for an escape, and then took several steps back into the kitchens. Lorelei followed him, motioning for the cook— an Elf who had once served as the much-abused assistant to the Arl of Denerim's cook— to close the door behind them. He did so, offering her a rare smirk, and they fled through the larder entrance into the practice grounds, from which Alistair had come.

"Please don't make me go talk to him," he said, and then followed it with an explanation so rushed that Lorelei had to urge him to slow down and put space between his words before she could catch much of his meaning. "I know that I shouldn't have just— ignored him, but—"

"Wait," she held both hands up, "Please let me catch up." He smiled sheepishly, and she took a slow, steadying breath. "When did you start ignoring the Arl's messages?" The combination of guilt and fear on his face struck her as particularly alarming; she was used to the guilt, in some form, but he was looking at her like she was a hurlock about to remove his head from his body. "Alistair..."

"It wasn't like you'd think," he said, then stopped, as if suddenly remembering to whom he spoke. "Well, I'm not sure what you'll think, actually, but he said— Eamon, I mean—"

"Alistair." She spoke more sharply than she'd intended, and he flushed brightly.

"Eamon has been trying to convince me that I should—" he swallowed, "A few days ago he was talking about having Anora removed, and I couldn't— I haven't spoken to him since." Lorelei wondered if all the blood had been somehow syphoned from her body, the chill was that intense, and Alistair's face twisted into a grimace that she knew only too well. "Shall I..?" She nodded, and he moved forward, grabbing hold of her just as the cleanse hit her, humming over her skin and draining the magical energy away. She took several deep breaths as the tingling sensation faded, then stepped back from him as he released his grip.

"Thank you," she said softly, still trembling slightly as her mana came back to her and the rushing in her ears subsided, replaced with the soft whispering of the Fade, ever-present at the edge of her awareness. She realised, then, that Alistair was staring at her, wearing a very strange expression.

"Lorelei," his voice caught, and she blinked, somewhat confused by the look on his face.

"What is it? I've recovered from a cleanse before, I—"

"That wasn't a cleanse," he said, and she started, trying to remember which gestures he'd made, and in which order— and then her breath caught in her throat. "That was— Maker's breath, Lorelei, that was a full smite!" Which meant that she shouldn't have recovered nearly so quickly— Alistair had learned not to send her flying, but it should have hurt, at least a little, and she should have been helpless for more than a few seconds. That was the point of a Holy Smite: incapacitate the mage. That she was barely inconvenienced by something that should have left her helpless was more than a curiosity; it carried with it some very frightening possibilities.

"We'll have to deal with that later," she said, loathe to put the matter aside but knowing that it could wait, unlike Alistair's predicament. "We need to talk about Eamon right now."

"But—"

"Alistair," she said, "We can talk about my— condition— at any time. It is unlikely to change, and we don't know enough about it to make any conclusions." Alistair nodded reluctantly, and she continued, "I need to know exactly what was said before you left."

"But it was just talk—"

"Alistair," he wasn't able to meet her eyes, and she winced, then softened her tone. "Talk is very, very dangerous, especially if it's treason. I need to know if he's trying to involve you or implicate you." Alistair's eyes were wide with shock.

"Eamon would never—" It was physically painful to watch the transformation that took place as Alistair's mind put the pieces together, firm conviction turning into tenuous hope. "—Would he..?" Lorelei blinked back tears of helpless rage as she realised that she would have to shatter that hope, and probably what was left of her friend's innocence.

"I am sorry, Alistair," she said, keeping her voice firm with considerable effort. "But I believe that he would."

"Maker," he whispered, and she was grateful that there was a bench ready to catch him as he slumped onto it, burying his head in his hands. When he looked up at her again, his eyes were bright. "Is this how it is, then? Everyone out for themselves, even if people get hurt in the process?" Before she could do more than take a step forward, he looked away from her, fists tightening around his knees in a bruising grip. "You must think that I'm a complete idiot."

She didn't plan it; before she even realised what she was doing, she had closed the distance between them and placed her hands on his, sending the tiniest amount of healing magic through them and into his legs, disappearing finger-shaped bruises before they could form. He jerked slightly, and she almost lost her balance— and then he looked at her, and she realised that they were so close that their noses were almost touching.

"I think that you are probably the most beautiful idiot that ever lived," she whispered, hoping that she was able to make her point before all her courage left her, taking the words with it, "I think that it would take the rarest sort of person to be even half worthy of the faith you put in people, and that it would take lifetimes of saintly behaviour before someone like me could be someone like that. I think that you could be anything you wanted, and be wonderful at it, be it Priest or Prince or Grey Warden and I think that anyone that doesn't realise what a treasure you are is a fool of the highest order." She started to pull away, but she was barely standing before he leapt up and grabbed ahold of her shoulders, almost dragging her into his lap when he sat back down. She braced herself against his chest with her arms, unable to break eye contact until she caught her breath. She had not meant to say that much— she had hoped to keep Alistair from beating himself up, and had instead revealed a depth of feeling that she hadn't been willing to admit that she had.

"I think," she continued, trembling as her body realised that flight was not an option, "I think that it is Arl Eamon who is an idiot, Alistair, and I think that he always was." And perhaps she was quite the fool herself, too certain that she could not possibly deserve the feelings that Alistair claimed for her to realise that perhaps she had feelings, too.

"I—" Alistair worked his jaw fruitlessly, and she smiled thinly, all too familiar with the feeling herself. "—Wow."

"We really have to talk about Eamon, Alistair," she said finally, and he turned— she hadn't realised that this was possible— an even brighter shade of red as he remembered their proximity. He let go of her arms, and she straightened, then took a seat beside him.

"Do you really think he would—"

"Yes," she made the interruption as gentle as she could, "Yes, Alistair, I do. Eamon has been watching his influence erode exponentially for years. I suspect that he never had the kind of influence that he desired. I honestly believe that he was grooming Connor to be Cailan's heir, and that he held on to your loyalty, even after sending you to the Chantry, as a— contingency. I imagine that even if he were to convince you to oppose Anora, if, as King, you did not then put him in some high-ranking, almost-king position like, say, Chancellor— well, I think that he would have yet another plan, this time with you as the one that needs to be removed." Alistair winced.

"You— really don't like Eamon, do you?"

"I don't like bullies," she answered simply, "I don't like people who seek to advance their position and don't care about who they hurt to do it. I don't like people who claim to be noble but are willing to ignore their responsibilities to those around them. I don't like people who make promises while trying to think of a way to avoid actually honouring them. No, Alistair, I do not like Eamon. I do not like Eamon even a little bit."

"But it was Isolde who sent me to the Chantry," Alistair protested, and Lorelei shook her head.

"You know well my opinion of the Arlessa Isolde," she said softly, "But I do not believe that she ever had that kind of power. Perhaps she asked Eamon to send you away, but if he indulged her, it was because it served his own purposes to do so." Alistair shifted, and when he looked at her, it was with an expression that she'd hoped never to see directed at her— most especially not by him— one of mingled shock and horror. Then he spoke, and she realised that the expression was not actually for her.

"You don't think that he intentionally let her believe that I was his bastard, do you?" She didn't answer, and Alistair, true to form, turned his horror into guilt. "Maker, all this time, I thought she was just— evil— but if Eamon— how she must have felt— but why would he do that? I mean, he loved her, didn't he? That's why he married an Orlesian—"

"Alistair," she would have regretted being so sharp with the interruption, but not only had they wandered from the more urgent discussion, this direction was bringing no small amount of pain to her friend. "We need to focus on what Eamon is doing now, not what he has done. You need to tell me everything, so we can decide what to do."

"—We?"

"Yes, we," she said, watching his face as he realised the import of her declaration, "You are a Grey Warden, and the Ferelden Grey Wardens face everything as a team, be it darkspawn or political intrigue." Her lips twitched slightly as she added, "And I think that you and I work rather well together— don't we?"

"Yeah," he said, a ghost of the Alistair-that-was showing briefly through his smile as he reached out and squeezed her hand. "We really do."

Then, turning uncharacteristically solemn, he began to tell her about his meetings with Eamon, and she realised that not only was the Arl of Redcliffe was precisely the sort of man that she'd feared he was, but that Alistair had been struggling with himself even before the last battle with the Archdemon. The signs had been there, and they'd all ignored them in favour of more urgent problems.

Lorelei wondered if she would ever think of a sufficient apology for that slight.

---

"Thank you for agreeing to see me, your Grace." Fergus Cousland wrinkled his nose at her as he dismissed the servants from the room and ushered her towards the table, where he took pains to seat her as if she were a noble lady.

"Fergus," he corrected, pushing her chair in and then taking the seat opposite her, "Unless, of course, you are here on official business— in which case, I am absolutely devastated by your coquettish ways, my dear Warden."

"Broken-hearted, I'm sure," she said dryly, cataloguing the food on the table. It was a pleasant surprise that everything could be easily— and politely— eaten with one's hands. Fergus put his hand over his heart and feigned death, sagging in his chair, but he was straight-backed and grinning in a flash. She suspected that he quite enjoyed flirting, especially flirting that carried no potential or expectations. "But I did want to discuss a matter of some delicacy with you."

"What is it?" The boyish flirt was gone with a startling suddenness as the practical Teyrn asserted himself without an instant of hesitation.

"A question," she shifted slightly in her chair, then looked towards her plate for a distraction. She picked a piece of bright red fruit and began nibbling on it absently as she tried to phrase her question so that it didn't seem quite so inappropriate. She failed, sighed, and settled for the direct approach. She stared him square in the eyes and said, "What usually happens to the bastard children of a highly-placed Ferelden noble?" Fergus dropped the piece of cheese he'd been about to eat, and it bounced off the table and into the waiting maw of a very happy wardog. He eyed the dog for a few moments, then returned to Lorelei's question, rubbing at the bridge of his nose with the tip of his finger.

"You don't ask the easy ones, do you?" He said ruefully, and she smiled thinly in response. "It depends on how high-ranking the noble, frankly. For an Arl, or a Teyrn, or— Maker forbid— a King, the child would likely be placed with the family of a lesser noble. This family would be paid a stipend to secure the child's education, training, lodging, food, and clothing, and would be expected to treat him or her like a member of the family— perhaps they would be squired out or given some other position that suits their skills. I've seen bastard children become knights, soldiers, merchants, craftsman and city guards, but they very rarely become servants— and when that happens, it is usually because they are the child of a very minor Bann who cannot give them greater station without sacrificing what would be granted to his legitimate heirs— there was a case like that, once, where the offending Bann was challenged in the Landsmeet for begetting bastards and refusing to support them. He lost his title, and his lands and properties were divided amongst his bastards, save for the land that belonged to his wife."

"That was— Bann William, wasn't it? Of Black Point?" Despite the grim subject matter, Fergus grinned.

"You know your Ferelden history," he lifted his wineglass, as if toasting her for her cleverness. Black Point was north of Kinloch Hold, sandwiched between the northern tip of Lake Calenhad and the Waking Sea, where it stretched its watery fingers into Ferelden. It fell within the Arling of West Hill, absorbed when all of the disgraced Bann's descendants had died, most under suspicious circumstances.

"That's in your Teynir, isn't it?" She said suddenly, and Fergus raised his eyebrows at her before he nodded. "It just struck me as a particularly well-placed location," she explained, and his expression turned speculative, "I understand that it has been abandoned for some time, but—"

"I will have to ask Bann Franderel," he said softly, "But it is something to consider, once we are past the immediate needs of the kingdom." He tilted his head. "Why did you ask me about bastards? Are you— considering a wild affair with a highly-placed noble?" He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, and she laughed, shaking her head.

"I was just—" she stopped, realising the corner into which she'd put herself. She considered Fergus Cousland for a few minutes, then she sighed, studying her plate as she spoke. "What would you say if I were to tell you that a bastard son of a high-placed noble lived in the stables of a lesser noble for several years before being shipped off to the Chantry, with great pains taken to convince him that he was to amount to nothing? That he was told of his origins, but forbidden to ever reveal them?" When she looked up again, she started at different Fergus Cousland suddenly looked, though he had all the same features. There was a darkness, there, a heaviness in the air that Lorelei realised was a living, deadly anger. She closed her mouth and carefully placed the biscuit that she'd been working on— a distant part of her noted that she'd already devoured several of them— on the edge of her plate. Her magic hummed around her, and she realised that she was disturbed enough that she was readying herself for battle. She took a deep breath and pushed her power back into the Fade, where it belonged, clamping down on the fear that had sprung up in response to the teyrn's reaction to her question.

"I would say," Fergus said finally, each word clipped at the end as if he had cut them with a blade, "That the nobles involved did not deserve their titles— and that, should any of them or their heirs still be living, the accusation of that behaviour would be a very dangerous— and damaging— accusation to make." She was very aware of his eyes on her as he spoke, and she wondered if he was willing her to make some sort of confession.

"Such things are, I've heard, not uncommon in Orlais," she said finally, wincing as she realised that of all the things she could have chosen to say, that was perhaps not the wisest.

"That's because the nobles in Orlais have all the power," Fergus answered evenly, "In Ferelden, the nobles only have power as long as they foster the loyalty of the Banns, who have their power because they court the loyalty of the freeholders. Though some of the Empire's influence still remains, most nobles realise that we serve our people just as they serve us. My family, in particular, tries to remember its less glamorous roots: the first Cousland who took stewardship of Highever was the Captain of the Guard, until the Bann was killed and his bloodline ended."

"That was— Bann Conobar Elstan, correct?" Fergus nodded.

"Aldous would have loved you," his eyes lost some of their shine as he spoke, and she realised that Aldous must have been one of those killed by Howe's attack on Highever. "Yes, that was Bann Conobar, known to history as the man who married, and would later be killed by, a beautiful mage named Flemeth." His mouth twitched, then, and as she contemplated the woman-of-many-years-and-many-forms-including-a-dragon, Fergus clearly thought of other things. "Now, Captain of the Guard is a title that I would not be surprised to see carried by a bastard, perhaps of the liege-lord of whomever he served." He winced, "But I wish that I hadn't thought of that. The Elstans were cousins of the Howes, and back then, Highever was a beholden to Amaranthine." Lorelei nodded, understanding that, with the recent past, it would be a painful thing to imply that the first Cousland to hold a title might have been the bastard child of a Howe.

"I did not mean to upset you," she said, and, after a moment of hesitation, took her first sip of the wine. It was— sweeter than she expected, with a slightly salty aftertaste. Fergus waved off her apology, and too late, she noticed the dangerous light in his eyes as he leaned forward.

"You were speaking of someone specific," he said, "And forgive me, but I must inquire as to his identity— one of your fellow mages, perhaps?"

"That is not my secret to reveal, your Grace," she paused, allowing her use of the formal address to sink in, "I must, of course, impose upon you for your discretion."

"Of course," he searched her face until he found something that satisfied him— she had no idea what it could be, but she was glad to be free from the increased intensity of his attention. "You can depend on that, at the very least." She smiled, then, and he smiled back.

It was a disconcerting moment indeed when she allowed herself to consider the possibility that the Teyrn of Highever might someday be her friend.

---

Lorelei let her breath out in a huff, realising that she'd kicked her slippers under the bed and out of her reach in her hurry to rise and answer the knock at her door. She considered blasting the culprit and door both, but the idea was dismissed as soon as it occurred to her. She pulled her robe tight and knotted the sash at her waist as she approached the door in little jumps, feet shying away from the cold stone floor.

"I'm sorry, Lorelei, but I— oh," Alistair went from guilty to bashful, and before he looked away, she managed to follow his gaze downward to her chest, where the thin dressing gown did nothing to keep out the cold and very little to hide her figure— what little figure she had, anyway, as Lorelei had never been voluptuous. "I'm sorry. This was a bad idea." She made a face at him, though he didn't see it as he was still studying the empty corridor.

"Come in and close the door behind you," she said, noting that her voice sounded— understandably— tired as she skipped across the room and sat on her bed, folding her legs underneath her and wrapping a blanket around her chest, under her armpits and over her legs and feet. Alistair remained in the doorway, still looking scared to look anywhere.

"I really didn't mean to—"

"Alistair, it's the middle of the night," she cast a minor fire spell, just a spark to light the fireplace in her room, and gestured for him to take the chair at her writing desk. "I'm awake now, so let's have it, whatever it is that you want to talk to me about." She felt her mouth twitch, just at one corner, and she added, "Unless you thought someone else was in this room?" Alistair didn't come up with a witty response, which was a warning in and of itself, but he did finally enter the room and shut the door behind him. His cheeks were flaming red, and the papers that he held in his hands were crumpled, almost to the point of tearing. "What is it?"

"Duncan's letters," he said softly, sinking into the chair with a dull sound that made her wince, "These are— well, maybe I shouldn't have been reading them, but I—" She held out her hands, and he surrendered them. She smoothed them as best she could, and had read several lines when she glanced up at her comrade in alarm.

"These—"

"They're from someone named Fiona, at Weisshaupt," he explained, "There isn't much information to be had in them, but she did mention being Elven, and a mage, and a Warden, and— Orlesian." Lorelei blinked at him, stunned.

"Maybe Duncan mentioned you? He did seem rather fond of you."

"I thought that at first, too," he ran a hand through his hair and stared out the small window by her bed, "But the date— it's before I was recruited. And there are other letters— earlier letters— that mention a boy in Redcliffe, right about when I was—" he gestured with his hands, and Lorelei nodded, more in acknowledgement than any sort of agreement or understanding. "It's as if— as if Duncan was checking up on me, before— why would he do that?" Lorelei frowned, having some trouble fitting the pieces together in her mind. "And who is this woman and why would she even care? In some letters, she even mentions King Maric, as if she knew him!" Alistair jumped up from the chair and strode quickly the door, turned, and began pacing back and forth. He stopped suddenly and turned to her, eyes wide and dark in the moonlight streaming in through the window.

"Do you think that Eamon lied? I mean, about my mother?" The missing piece fell into place with a tinkling sound as Lorelei and Alistair had exactly the same thought: "Do you think that this Fiona person might actually be my mother?" Alistair sat back down, reaching out for the letters, which Lorelei carefully handed back to him.

"Lorelei," he said, voice barely above a whisper, "Lorelei, who am I?"

---

She and Alistair stepped aside to let a servant— Elven, pretty, red-haired— pass them, and the girl approached them as if they were a gauntlet of untold horror. She looked like she might shake herself apart— and her many small braids right off her head— with her trembling, but she bowed her head and passed them, taking obvious pains to walk, not run. As she brushed past Lorelei, the mage noticed a sort of light in her eyes— a steely determination that suggested deep reserves of raw animal courage, in the face of what she instinctively recognised as a terrible fear.

The Elf paused, catching sight of the Grey Warden emblem that she and Alistair wore, and Lorelei had the impression of a complex calculation taking place as she contemplated the dangers of addressing a shemlen overlord. Lorelei supposed that, of all the Grey Wardens in the Compound— all nine of them— she was probably the most approachable.

"Is there something I can do for you?" Lorelei asked the question carefully, aware that there was no proper way to phrase it and not seem threatening. There was something familiar about her features as she swallowed, shifted, and lifted her face to look Lorelei directly in the eyes.

"I had heard— I was wondering if you had news of my cousin," the words came out in a rush, and by the time her mind had parsed them properly, the Elven maid had already finished speaking, "My name is Shianni— Shianni Tabris." Alistair and Lorelei both started at the name— the former because he recognised the last name, the latter because she realised that she did, in fact, recognise both.

"You are Kallian's cousin, then." Shianni whirled, eyes flashing, and Lorelei actually took a step back in surprise. The Elf stared at her for what felt like a very long time, hope and fear and rage waging war on her face.

"You— know Kallian?"

"She fought alongside the Wardens against the darkspawn— against the Archdemon, actually," Alistair said helpfully, and Shianni jumped at his voice, then glared at him, as if unsure whether to attack or flee. Lorelei made a small gesture to Alistair; he nodded and fell silent.

"Kallian Tabris was part of a small party that faced the Archdemon in the final assault," Lorelei said evenly, "She was one of three that survived, the others being my comrade Sten, and— well, myself, in fact."

"Kallian is alive?" Shianni's pinched expression relaxed, and she suddenly looked years younger.

"I believe that she travels with the Dalish at present, but yes, she is very much alive, from what I have—" she ended her statement with a squawk, instead of the word 'heard', stumbling back and smacking against the wall, staff jamming into her back uncomfortably as the woman tackled her in a bruising hug that had all of her weight behind it. She was barely able to comprehend what had happened when Shianni had pulled away, mortified and teary-eyed. She was grateful that the Elf-girl was slight, or she'd probably have caused actual injury— and wouldn't that be embarrassing?

"Oh Maker, I am so sorry, I didn't mean to— I just— oh Maker!" Shianni was breathing too fast and fumbling as she tried to help Lorelei up and straighten her robes all at once.

"It is fine," she said firmly, and Shianni became even more pale as she stared at Lorelei's hands, pushing her dishevelled hair behind her ears. That would serve her right, for wearing it loose.

"Oh Maker, I thought you were an Elf. I'm so sorry, I—" Lorelei managed not to scowl at the comparison, though Alistair smirked— not unkindly, just like he was about to make an unfortunate quip.

"Shianni." The maid froze, staring up her with wide, wide eyes of a muddy green colour that was not unlike her own. "It is fine, truly." Lorelei whispered a minor healing spell on herself, and then, after a brief hestitation, on Shianni, who straightened in surprise, embarrassment, and— indignation? Lorelei diffused it with a rushed introduction: "I am the Grey Warden Lorelei, and this is my brother Warden, Alistair. We are both honoured to meet you." Alistair bowed, and Shianni blushed pink as she curtsied.

"You? Honoured to meet me? You must be kidding me— you're the bloody Hero of Ferelden!" Lorelei didn't realise that skin could actually go that white, and for a moment, she feared for Shianni's health. Her fingers itched as she resisted the urge to cast a diagnostic spell.

"Bloodier some days than others," she answered, then winced at the Elf's disbelieving expression, "As you can see, I'm rather horrid at telling jokes, so... I am indeed honoured to meet you." Lorelei smiled, hoping that she looked just a bit more enigmatic than loony. Shianni's eyes narrowed, signalling that she'd failed miserably and Kallian's cousin thought she was one Archdemon short of a Blight— perhaps she even muttered something to that effect as she curtsied again and excused herself, rushing off to return to her duties, whatever they happened to be— and the thought of being any Archdemons short of anything made her want laugh, though she couldn't quite find the words to explain why.

Then she noticed that Alistair was looking at her with some concern, and that it would not do to keep the Queen waiting when she herself had requested the meeting. She gestured for the templar-trained Warden to lead the way out of the Compound and to the Royal Palace, and he did so, albeit with obvious reluctance.

One Archdemon short of a Blight. That shouldn't be particularly funny. Why was it so funny? The reason was there, just out of her reach before it slipped away, almost laughing at her. She was reminded, somewhat strangely, of Flemeth's laughter— low, menacing, and a touch mad— and she shuddered.

---

"And you— would renounce your claim and ask for nothing in return?" The Queen's face was artfully blank, but her stance was rigid with distrust and— perhaps shock. Alistair flinched away from her sharp, unbelieving scrutiny, still a bit of an innocent in a world where nothing was without price, and he shot Lorelei a look that begged her to save him. She shook her head; in this, Alistair had to speak for himself or not at all.

"I haven't really any claim to renounce," he said finally, shoulders drooping and back bending forward as if the words left him deflated, "That was all made very clear to me, right from the start, and that's fine— like I said before, your Majesty, I don't want to be King. I want no part of this—" he gestured wildly with his hands, "I'm happy as a Grey Warden. I belong, and that's important to me."

"If you've no claim," Anora said carefully, "Why come to me at all?" Alistair looked up, meeting her keen gaze with an open, guileless expression that Lorelei couldn't imagine being faked— except perhaps by Leliana, and Alistair was no bard.

"There's been— some talk," he said haltingly, forcing himself straight, "I just wanted— I just wanted to make it clear, that's all. Maric's forgotten bastard isn't trying to elevate his status." Both of the Queen's perfectly maintained eyebrows shot up at that, and when she spoke next, her voice was not without sympathy.

"Whatever you may believe," Anora said slowly, "You were never forgotten." She rose, and though there was a tiny wince, probably left over from the stress of the birth, it was clear that she was a graceful woman. Lorelei smiled at Alistair, and he smiled back weakly, until the rustle of paper startled them both. The Queen was holding a stack of bound volumes, lovingly wrapped and cared for. She crossed the room slowly and deposited the lot in his arms.

"These," she said softly, "Were King Maric's journals. My father— kept them for some time, though I do not believe that he ever actually read them. I—" she paused, and for a moment, Lorelei caught a glimpse of an uncertain young woman before the Queen once again asserted herself. "I have read them, and so I know that while he was alive, King Maric thought of you often." There were no words for the look on Alistair's face, not even in Lorelei's mind, so she tried instead to burn the image into her brain.

"I—" Alistair swallowed thickly, then straightened, "I think there is something that I want, your Majesty." The Queen started, but it was barely a ripple in the smooth wall that was her composure.

"Yes?"

"I would— really like to meet the princess. Just once, I mean, if that's okay." Alistair probably would have kept stumbling over himself if Anora hadn't held up a hand— much, much thinner than it had been before the birth of her child— and brought him to a red-faced, puppy-dog-eyed halt.

"I think," she said softly, "I think that can be arranged."

Alistair's smile was blinding, and Lorelei wondered if the Queen's smile wasn't warmer, just from exposure.