Chapter 25
The Need For Distraction

The chamber was warm, cozy, with a fire crackling in the grate and Kestrel curled up in his old corner, the pillow he'd slept on for years bunched beneath his circled body. Unlike the other places they'd stayed, this was no suite. Sipping from her mug, Lyra gazed around the room in which she'd grown up. It was simple in comparison to the sprawling quarters they'd guested in over the past two months. Her old four-poster bed was snug for two, but Alistair hadn't minded, claiming that he'd just have to hold her that much closer as they slept. She'd grinned at him in appreciation, enjoying the slightly evil feeling of having a man in her childhood bedroom. So she was married now - so what? The trappings were the same, and she could almost imagine her mother having a conniption at the idea of the two of them there together. At the beginning of their physical relationship, she'd dealt with the guilt of betraying her morals, and ended up deciding life was too short, and her noble title a thing of the past. A teyrn's daughter did not dally. But Lyra had stopped being a teyrn's daughter when she had put the Joining Cup to her lips... or that had been her reasoning, in any case.

What would her mother say, she wondered, to see her now, married to the king, queen of all the land? Unlike her father, Eleanor had always been political, happy to play in the great game of status and importance. To hear them tell it, her parents had been in love, but Lyra couldn't help but wonder if Bryce Cousland's rank as second only to King Maric had nudged her mother into that amorous feeling all the quicker. She sighed...it was something she would never know. One thing was certain; Eleanor would have been thrilled to see her headstrong daughter married to almost anyone, and likely was dancing circles in the gardens of the Fade over Lyra's political rise. Odd, how I met my match by leaving home and joining the Wardens, she thought, eyeing Alistair over the rim of her mug of tea. Teyrna Cousland had been certain Lyra would only find a husband by staying home and attending social functions. Of course, that was how most young women met their husbands, so she really couldn't fault her mother's logic.

Lyra leaned back against the headboard, loving the way Alistair rubbed her feet. He stretched across the lower half of the bed, leaning on one elbow as he worked her tendons and muscles, tweaking her toes to make her giggle. She badly needed new boots; hers were finally wearing through. But new ones would hurt twice as badly until broken in, and so for now, she put it off. An extra pair of socks helped in the meantime, though Alistair tended to shoot her teasing glances when she filched his cushy gray ones. They were thicker, and therefore better. He would just have to put up with it; it was part of being married. The silver ring on her finger caught the light, and she twirled it, admiring the sparkle.

"He's pretty bad off, then?" Alistair asked, drawing her out of her reverie and returning them to the subject of Fergus and his earlier breakdown.

"I don't know..." Lyra sighed, her thumb sliding over the edge of her cup. "He misses them."

"Understandably," Alistair mused. "He needs distraction."

"He had distraction. He needs closure."

"Yes, but until then, distraction should do," Alistair dropped a kiss onto the top of her foot and scooted off the bed, kneeling by their packs in the corner. Lyra was still trying to decide whether or not to unpack.

"Did you just kiss my feet?" Lyra teased, glad that she'd had a good scrub before climbing into bed.

"I'd kiss every bit of you," Alistair grinned at her over his shoulder. "Especially after you've just bathed. You smell so delicious then."

"Mmm. I'll remember that," she chuckled. Her husband unfolded himself from his crouch, bringing his journal with him and flopping down beside her on the bed. She shifted over, folding her legs beneath her as Alistair opened the book and began writing. She peered over his shoulder, murmuring suggestions as he filled in the details of their journey from West Hill.

"There. Done," Alistair said, well-satisfied with himself. The graphite slipped from his fingers as he tried to set it within the book, landing on the floor with a bright ping. He leaned down to retrieve it, balancing precariously on the edge of the bed. The pages drifted, and Lyra's eyes widened at the sight of a drawing she had yet to see.

"What's this?" She lifted the book from his hand.

"Um, nothing, that's just..."

"Is this me?" Her fingers traced the curving lines. He'd caught her while she slept... perhaps he'd done it at Kinloch Hold? Maker knew she'd done enough sleeping there. The woman in the drawing was turned on her side, eyes lidded, one arm folded beneath her head, the other stretched beside her, fingers curling into the sheets. Her shoulder-length hair laid across her cheek, shaded just so.

It was a skillful rendering... far better than some of the artists she'd seen hawking their wares in the bazaars.

"I hope you don't mind," Alistair murmured, his cheeks flushed. "It sort of happened before I realized it."

"Mind? Are you kidding?" Lyra leaned in to kiss him, flattered that he would have drawn her, amazed at the ability that had gone into it. "I knew you sketched, but this is beautiful, Alistair."

"Thanks," he muttered, his mouth twitching into an embarrassed smile. "I thought it turned out pretty well."

"You should draw more," she said, handing the book back to him. "Did you teach yourself?"

"Mostly." He tucked the graphite into the pages and tied the book shut. "It's just something I've always liked to do. But once I left the chantry with Duncan, I didn't have the time."

"No, I imagine not," she mused, thinking of all the things they'd done in the past six months.

"So anyway... do you think we could put a tournament together?" Alistair hopped off the bed, dropping the journal back into his pack.

"A tournament?"

"The distraction," he reminded her as he sat on the bed once more. "For Fergus."

Lyra considered. "We could, I suppose. But when would you want to hold such a thing?"

"A few months from now? We could host it in Denerim, but if Fergus was willing, he could come back with us and head it up. Be in charge."

"He's already in charge here at Highever." Lyra sipped at her tea. "I don't think a tournament is what Fergus needs."

Alistair shrugged. "What do you suggest, then?"

Lyra shook her head slowly, about to confess to being completely at a loss, when an idea crashed down, larger and more powerful than a rockslide. "He needs a memory... Alistair, would you help me?"

"Of course. What do you need?"

"A drawing... but you never met Oriana and Oren, so I'll have to do my best to describe them to you."

.oOo.

The days drifted by, lazy but busy at the same time. There was no formal schedule, no audiences, nothing that required their immediate attention. All of Highever had been anticipating their favorite daughter's return home, and Lyra was coveted throughout the teyrndom. They spent days visiting, walking through the village, shopping at the bazaar, sampling sometimes two to three lunches each day at various homes. Lyra was in heaven, her never-ending appetite sated with the many small meals each day. Alistair had a more difficult time, and when their hosts weren't looking he often slid his portions onto Lyra's plate.

Aside from their time in Redcliffe, which Lyra had spent the majority of in training with her bow, it was the closest thing they'd had to a honeymoon yet. There were picnics, hikes over the coastal cliffs, entire days spent playing in the ocean. Lyra's skin darkened to a burnished tan, and Alistair freckled, burned, then finally browned, losing his tan-lines at last. The golden highlights in his auburn hair brightened, and Lyra loved running her fingers through the short lengths. Leliana, Wynne and Anders joined them from time to time as well, and even Fergus seemed to lose some of his melancholy when they talked him into joining them.

Maybe he does need distraction, Lyra mused as they sat on the beach, watching her brother chatting with her bardic friend. Anders had yet to give up on Leliana, and Fergus was chuckling at the dynamic the two of them created. A bit more life had come to her brother's eyes since the day they'd arrived, though he still seemed haunted. She resolved to find the time to talk to him about it.

.oOo.

Fear. It choked her, thick as blood clotting in her throat. She fought, the screams filling her ears, knowing that if she didn't run, this time she would die with them...

Lyra jerked awake with a gasp, her eyes flying open to stare at the heavy curtains swathing her four-poster bed. The smell of smoke swam in her nostrils, and from outside the door, strident voices shouted commands. Heart racing, she sat up to drag fingers across her sleep-sodden eyelids, not yet comprehending what she'd heard. Her dream had felt so real...

"Sweet Andraste," she whimpered, cold fright sweeping over her as she realized this was no dream. Highever was under attack! Trembling fingers grappled with the dagger she'd slipped beneath her pillow before retiring. Old habits died hard.

"Alistair," she quavered, shaking him. "Wake up!"

Her husband came awake as quickly as she had, a warrior's habit, though his eyes were wild at the fear in her voice, his words slurring. "Wha's wrong? Lyra?"

"Shh," she hissed, clenching his hand. She couldn't live through this again - she couldn't! "We have to get dressed. Something's wrong."

Alistair's hands pressed to his eyes, clearing away the sleep. "Is that... smoke?" He seemed to be concentrating, listening to the sounds in the hall. He trudged to the window, leaning on the sill as he peered into the courtyard below.

Why didn't he understand her? "Come on - your splintmail is just there." Sliding from the bed, she hurried to the corner where her old armor stood at the ready, hung neatly on a new armor stand. Deep breaths filled her lungs as she lifted the chestpiece, quivering fingers fighting with the buckles.

Gentle hands laced over hers, halting her movement. "Sweetheart, calm down. Everything's fine. Listen-"

"It's happening again," she gasped, wrenching her hands away from his to lift the armor over her head. "Highever... we're under attack. Just like when Howe killed them all. We have to get out!" Her voice broke as she struggled, finally looping her arms through the holes and yanking it down over her nightshirt. To her panic, her husband merely reached for her, attempting to slow her down. How dense was he?! "Armor, Alistair! Now!"

"Lyra..." Alistair planted his hands on her shoulders, "Stop. Listen."

How tempting it was to snap back at him, to spin out of his grasp and continue buckling herself into her leather and plate. Hot tears gathered in her eyes, her breath hitching as she fought for control. How was he to know how frightened she was, how this very scenario had haunted her dreams for months?

Alistair's arms encircled her, and she pushed against him. There was no time for this. He had to get dressed - she had to get armored - they had to get out-

"Lyra, there are voices in the hall. Listen to them." Alistair clamped her against him, his brawny arms caging her. One hand came up to cradle her head against his shoulder, soothing her like a fretful child.

Hiccupping, she forced herself to calm, seething inwardly at the effective way her husband had disabled her movements. She supposed she could kick him, but what she really wanted was for him to listen, for him to believe...

"Get more blankets. Sophie, fetch hot water. Cran, build up the fire in the family quarters... Yes, I hear them - we're moving as quickly as we can."

"There's more coming in - Teyrn Fergus, we can't possibly house them all. There are only so many beds-"

"Then spread blankets in the social hall. Tuck some of them into my mother's solar. By the void, give them my bed. Tonight, they all sleep under a roof."

"Alistair..." Lyra pulled away, the sound of her brother's confident voice settling her jangling fears. "What..." Her armor was thrown off, set haphazardly on the stand again before both she and Alistair sought the door. Kestrel still slept snugly on his pillow... she should have known. Hadn't her hound been the thing that had woken her that fateful night? Kestrel would never lie snoozing while their lives were in danger.

The hall was a mess of rushing servants, every lamp blazing, and amidst it all stood Fergus, directing the flow of traffic and answering questions. He looked more alive than he had in days, a fierce light brightening his heretofore dull eyes.

"Lyra! Thank the Maker," Fergus called, waving a hand at her. The servants halted, bowing and murmuring when they saw the king and queen, and Fergus clapped his hands. "Never mind that! Hop to it!"

"Fergus, what's going on?" Lyra dodged the servants, Alistair trailing behind her, their fingers interlaced. Her brother gestured for them to follow him, and the three of them scurried through the corridors leading to the courtyard.

"A shipwreck," he told her as they went. "A cargo ship, stuffed to the brim with refugees. Fereldan refugees - people who ran from the Blight."

"And they wrecked here?" Maker, it must have been bad. Highever boasted but one dock, and it was used only by the smallest skiffs - usually traders, leaving their ships in deep water to row ashore with stacks of goods for selling. The reefs surrounding the beaches were deadly; there was a reason Ferelden had never been a seafaring country.

"There's hundreds, Lyra - women, children, whole families," Fergus babbled at her as they pushed their way out to the courtyard. A shiver rushed over her... People, people, and more people! All of them milling about, some with blankets or towels around their shoulders, most of them wet to the skin. A cheerful bonfire had been built in the center of the courtyard, casting flickering shadows on the mossy walls. The source of the smoke she'd smelled... of course. Young parents sat with children in their laps, grandparents dandled babes, elder siblings cuddled young ones or sat talking to each other in quiet tones. Servants circulated, handing out mugs filled with steaming liquid - tea, soup, who could tell - something warm and nourishing to cut the evening's chill.

"Fergus..." Lyra was overwhelmed. "And you want them all to stay here?"

"It's what he's been saying," a sultry voice lilted, and Lyra turned her head toward the sound. The woman who sauntered toward them was familiar... Maker! The Pearl. Denerim. In a rush, it all came flying back - this was Isabela, the deadly beauty, the self-proclaimed captain from Kirkwall. In the firelight, her skin was even swarthier than Lyra remembered, her clothing scandalous in its brevity, her lustrous hair curling gently over her shoulders. A cocky grin teased the corners of her mouth, rich brown eyes glittering with appreciation. "Nice to see you again, kitten. Though I rather suspected I'd be seeing more of you... women like us don't just disappear, after all."

"Isabela... I... yes!" Lyra held out a hand, and the woman chuckled as she gripped it. Isabela's velvety eyes raked Alistair, who cleared his throat and shifted his weight. That self-satisfied grin grew, and Lyra suspected her husband had gone crimson.

"Your warrior's just gotten better looking, hasn't he? But then, I suppose you already know that..." Shrewd eyes skimmed Lyra's rounding figure, a telltale glance at Lyra's left hand bringing another chuckle to the woman's flirtatious lips. Lyra felt herself flushing, one hand straying to her abdomen. She wasn't showing that much.

"Isabela, allow me to present my sister, Lyra Cousland-Theirin, Queen of Ferelden. And her husband, King Alistair Theirin." A rakish smile hovered over Fergus' face, and Lyra couldn't help but giggle at his formal introduction. Just what was he playing at?

"Ahh! King and queen, is it?" Isabela stepped back, one hand rising to her chin as she inspected them, barefoot and in their night-clothes. She shrugged, arms crossing over her ample bosom, moving her... assets... into better view. "Could've fooled me."

"Please, tell us what happened," Lyra begged, unconcerned with Isabela's lack of respect for her title. "Fergus said there was a shipwreck - your ship?"

"Sadly," Isabela sighed. "Damned reefs. Knew there was a reason I'd never landed at Highever. But we were stuck - this was the closest place, and there was sickness on board. I couldn't make these people stay on for another day. They'd have begun dropping like flies, and that's just plain bad when you're on a boat." She sighed again, shoulders rolling. "I loved that ship... I inherited it from my husband, poor waterlogged bastard."

"Sickness? Fergus, get Wynne and Anders-"

"Already done, sister," he said softly, directing her attention to another corner of the courtyard. The two mages tended to a small group of people, flickers of blue and gold lighting the darkness as they worked their healing magics. Nodding in satisfaction, Lyra turned back to Isabela.

"So a big hole got punched in the hull, and those that could swam for it. Those that couldn't got loaded into the lifeboats, and we began trudging here. Teryn Fergus has been quite welcoming..." Isabela flashed him a white smile, cocking one hand on a curvaceous hip. The woman simply screamed sex, and yet Fergus only nodded, seeming blind to the the tempting morsel set before him.

"How could I refuse? Lyra, what she isn't mentioning is that these people had escaped Ferelden-"

"Refugees. From the Blight. You said," Lyra interrupted, but he shook his head.

"Yes, they were refugees, but they were promised passage home now that the Blight is over. Apparently, the man who arranged the transport - Castillon, she said his name was - intended to sell these people into slavery."

"Bit of a cock-up, no?" Isabela said lightly, seeming unconcerned. "My instructions were to take them to Antiva. Obviously, once I found out I wasn't about to let that happen."

"So she turned the ship toward Ferelden, and brought them here instead. Isn't that marvelous?" Fergus was over the moon, grinning like a fool. Lyra pressed one hand to her head... Fereldan refugees, being sold as slaves? What is the world coming to... she wondered. This couldn't be the only shipload. How many others had been lost, captained by someone less scrupulous than Isabela?

"Alistair," she mumbled.

"Isabela," he cut her off. "Is this something that's happened before? With Fereldans being sold into slavery?"

Isabela shrugged. "People always want to take advantage of people. More than these ran from the Blight... everyone here came from the Free Marches. Who knows how many others there might be?"

Alistair's eyes hardened. He opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off. "Teyrn Fergus," a voice called, and Fergus excused himself, running off to see to whatever it was that needed seeing to.

"Your brother's quite the man," Isabela said, her voice seeming far away. "Not many would take in hundreds at the drop of a hat. I'm impressed."

"Mm," Lyra managed, feeling a touch dizzy. The range of emotion she'd already experienced this evening was leaving her breathless. She gripped Alistair's hand, and he caught her as she swayed.

"Isabela, if you need us, have Fergus send someone to our room," Alistair said as he looped Lyra's arm around his shoulder. "My wife is a bit ill herself."

"Take care, kitten," Isabela called after them. "And come see me when you wake up!"

"This is bizarre," Lyra muttered as Alistair helped her back to their room. "Refugees being sold as slaves... Isabela... Alistair, I'm fine."

"You're white to the gills," Alistair said firmly. "You're for bed. Enough excitement for one day."

"I'm-"

"Stop it."

Lyra scowled, but allowed Alistair to tuck her into bed, feeling a bit mollified when he climbed in with her and cuddled her off to sleep. Being pregnant was supposed to be fun, according to some of what Wynne had been telling her. So far, it was mostly one big pain.

Though she did sort of like the attention.

.oOo.

The three of them were kept busy for the next several days, arranging transport for the refugees, keeping everyone fed, drumming up tailors and armorers and cooks. For Alistair and Lyra's part, they interviewed the refugees, finding out as much as they could about the man who'd tried to sell them into slavery. There wasn't much to go on - his name was Castillon, he was a smuggler by trade, and his operation was based in Kirkwall. One man mentioned a possible connection to the Qunari, though Lyra couldn't see how that might affect anything.

Fergus was a whirlwind of activity; the sheer amount of energy her brother poured into his project was incredible to watch. He rose with the sun, spent the day tearing around the keep, and dropped into his bed well after midnight, only to do it all again the following day.

When Fergus hired a crew to have Isabela's ship towed in from the bay, Lyra was staggered. Was there even anyone in Ferelden who knew anything of shipbuilding? Isabela threw her arms around Fergus and kissed him soundly when she heard the news, her eyes snapping with delight. Fergus appeared flustered by this, extracting himself as quickly as he could from the frisky pirate's arms.

"I told you," Alistair whispered. "Distraction."

But what would happen when the refugees left?

Fergus had little time for her. They saw each other briefly at meals and as he rushed through the castle, but he denied her the chance to speak about anything deeper. She shook her head - this wasn't healthy. Soon, she and Alistair would head back to Denerim, and she couldn't bear the thought of her brother being left alone with nothing to keep him busy.

Her attempts at getting Fergus to talk were met with rebuffs or avoidance. He knew what she was after - Fergus wasn't stupid, no matter how much she'd liked to tease him when she was younger. This was a purposeful campaign on his part not to open up to her. If he would just let it all out...

"Lyra, you can't pester him," Alistair told her. "He's dealing with things in his own way. Let him."

She gnashed her teeth. Men.

Isabela stayed busy as well, though she was happy to spend the evenings in their company, trading stories with Leliana and Anders and teasing Alistair until he blushed. Rory and Hilde were enchanted by her, and she and Fergus seemed to have struck up quite the friendship. Even Wynne warmed to the gregarious pirate, who charmed her with flattery. She sparred in the practice yard with Alistair during the day, and went a few rounds with Lyra after promising Wynne she would only block the queen's blows.

"How will she keep in fighting trim, unless she practices?" she pointed out, and Wynne had grudgingly agreed, but kept sharp eyes trained on them the entire time. For his part, Alistair was a sport about it, but watched just as closely, his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the castle wall.

The days drifted by, the air a bit cooler every morning, a reminder that summer was ending. One stop remained on their journey; they would pass through Amaranthine, and then it was home to Denerim. The idea of leaving Highever made her stomach twist. How she wished she could stay. It seemed like only yesterday that she'd left for the first time.

I suppose Denerim really is my home now... Mine and Alistair's. Surely mother went through something like this when she married father and moved to Highever... I suppose it happens to us all. Oriana left Antiva, for Maker's sake. It isn't as if I'm leaving the country. Lyra tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as she watched Alistair and Isabela dance through the yard, their blades catching the early afternoon sunlight. All part of growing up... so much to leave behind, so much to begin anew. Life is not as simple as it once was... but I don't believe I would trade it.

.oOo.

Lyra wrapped the shawl around her shoulders, crossing her arms to tuck it closer in to her body. The evenings were growing cool, and she really should have stopped to put on a pair of slippers before padding over the cold stone to the kitchens. Whoever had designed Highever a thousand years ago had concluded that rather than a huge structure divided into many rooms, it would be better to construct a series of buildings and connect them under an open sky. Romantic, and beautiful in the right weather, but it made for difficulty when one wanted a midnight snack during a blizzard. Fortunately, it was only early fall, and a few barefoot moments wouldn't harm her.

Winter in Denerim would be fun... she was looking forward to it. Satinalia especially. Perhaps there should be a tournament - something grand, something to mark Alistair's first winter as king. Memories of her mother's annual Satinalia ball filled her head. Without a woman to organize it, she doubted Fergus would keep up Highever's tradition... perhaps she should hold it instead. Humming tunelessly under her breath, she pulled open the kitchen door.

Fergus' cook Sophie had banked the supper fires, leaving nothing but a few low lanterns to cast their cozy light. Lyra ran her hand over the smooth wooden counter, recalling how nicked and scarred the old one had been. How Nan would have loved this new kitchen, Lyra thought, recalling the cook's constant complaints about not having enough workspace or storage. The old kitchen had been torn down when Fergus returned to Highever, the larder specifically. Freshly turned earth was all that remained there now, though Fergus had mentioned plans to turn it into a flower garden.

The secret tunnel leading from the larder had been collapsed, and a new escape route constructed from Fergus' new suite. Lyra had felt ill when she realized his reasoning... had Oren and Oriana had access to the tunnel, perhaps they might not have died.

Whether or not he ever intended to marry again was another thing entirely. But it was early yet; Oren and Oriana had only been gone a handful of months. Surely, he would get over them eventually, right?

Pushing such bleak thoughts from her mind, she crossed the floor and entered the larder. The smell of new pine hadn't quite left yet, the new shelves bowing under the weight of rows and rows of jars, pots and sacks. Lyra had breathed a sigh of relief upon seeing it for the first time - it looked nothing like the old larder. There were no reminders of...

Lyra gathered her sandwich materials and hurried back out to the counter, concentrating on slicing bread and layering cold chicken. Not bothering to accomplish anything more elaborate, she sank her teeth into the savory sandwich, groaning in delight.

"Make that sound again."

Lyra's eyes jerked up, her chewing halted at the sight of Alistair leaning against the wall, a teasing glint in his eye.

"Ha ha," she mumbled around a mouthful of cheese and onion-bread. "I can't wait to be done with this appetite."

"I dunno," Alistair grinned. "I like what eating does to you."

"I didn't like food nearly as much before I was a Warden," she complained, her thumb raising to wipe a bit of butter from the corner of her mouth. "It's indecent, the amount that I eat. I'm getting fat."

"You're not fat, you're pregnant," Alistair corrected her, exasperated.

"I feel fat," she grumbled.

"Well, you don't look fat."

"Hmm." She bit into the sandwich again, resisting the urge to sigh at how good it tasted. It was nothing fancy - chicken, butter and new cheese on onion-bread. Fast to make. And she was eating it much too quickly - she had maybe three more bites before she was out of sandwich.

Alistair pushed off from the wall, reaching for ingredients when he got to the counter. "Want another?"

"I'd love you forever." Lyra leaned in to peck him on the cheek, inhaling the soft scent of his skin. Maker, but he smelled amazing.

She began constructing a third sandwich even as Alistair finished making her second one, then took over her sandwich to allow her to eat.

"That's incredible," he murmured, setting the completed sandwich on the counter and sliding an arm around her waist. "You... inhaled that." One hand lifted to clear the hair from her neck, his lips caressing over her skin.

Lyra ignored him, concentrating instead on chewing. "I was hungry."

"Are you better now?" His warm breath ghosted over her skin, a shivery feeling racing along her spine.

"Almost," she said, taking another resolute bite. She'd be damned if they were going to make love in the kitchen.

"You know, Lyra, I just want for you to be happy... and maybe a little bit naked." Alistair was doing sinful things to her neck, turning her knees to rubber with skillful flicks of his tongue. She gripped the counter, her eyes falling closed as she fought the unreasonable urge to spin around and devour him for dessert. For the love of Andraste, what if someone walked in?

"I'm very happy. You made me a perfectly lovely sandwich, and when I finish it, I'm going to bed. Happy."

"Not naked, though," he mumbled, his hands sliding beneath the fabric of her shirt. "Not yet." His palms skimmed her abdomen, coming up to cradle her breasts. Resolve weakening, Lyra leaned back into him, her breath catching at the heat that poured from his body. Alistair growled into her neck, and she burst into giggles when his teeth scraped her flesh. "You're not the only one who's hungry." Alistair nibbled the ridge of her ear, and Lyra wriggled out of his reach, her cheeks heating as she glanced at the door, still afraid of being discovered.

"Alistair!" she hissed, affecting shock. His eyes glowed with lust, a feral smile tugging at his lips as he stalked toward her, a wolf on the hunt. She backed up with a hysterical giggle, then spun and ran, knowing he would be less than a step behind.

She grabbed for the edge of the counter as she rounded the corner, skidding in a tight circle. Alistair was hot on her heels, and she lost her balance as he snagged her around the waist, giving a shriek of mirth. Alistair backed her against the wall, nearly tripping the two of them over a couple of enormous sacks that might have been filled with onions, potatoes, flour - something large and bulky, at any rate. She smothered her giggles as he leered at her.

"Lyra, you're going to wake the whole house," Alistair admonished her in a loud whisper. Hazel eyes sparkling, his lips joined with hers, strong hands sliding around her back to pull her close. Lyra melted into him with a pleasured moan, fingers slipping into the waistband of his pajama pants.

"You're incorrigible," Lyra murmured when his lips left hers to seek the soft bit of skin below her ear. Somehow, she never quite knew, the two of them ended up on the floor of the kitchen, hidden mostly behind the tall sacks. It was a perfect little nook, and things might have progressed further than they did had the kitchen door not swung open with a telltale creak.

They froze, legs yanking inward to tuck entirely behind the bags. A voice... Fergus?

"Here, come on in. No one will bother us." The sound of boots ringing against the stone, a cabinet opening.

"If it were me, I'd say bugger the whole thing and just go into town. But I suppose Highever's teyrn can't just show up at midnight and get shit-faced, can he?"

Isabela, Lyra mouthed to Alistair. They were drinking together? When had this begun?

"You know, Fergus, a little indulgence won't hurt you. And there's no judgement here. Who am I to raise an eyebrow? You don't need to keep up this holier-than-thou act."

Fergus chuckled. "I've tried drinking myself to sleep... trust me. It just doesn't work. One, maybe two - it's my limit. Any more than that and I'm ill the next day."

"You just need tolerance. Getting drunk takes practice!" Isabela's throaty laugh sounded. "But as I said, no judgement. Just means more for me." The sound of liquid sloshing against glass. Silence... the clink of a cup being set upon the counter.

"You could go to the tavern if you'd like," Fergus offered. "You've been stuck here for long enough, Maker knows."

"What do you take me for?" Isabela demanded. "As if I'd leave you here by yourself."

Fergus chuckled. "I'm not much of a drinking partner."

"Then you can keep me company while I drink. I'll show you how it's done."

More silence, and then the slosh of a glass being refilled. Isabela's, Lyra hoped.

"Someone didn't clean up... Lyra, I bet. Her appetite is insane." She heard Fergus clearing the counter of her sandwich fixings. Footsteps, then the larder door swinging open.

"So is it true what they say about Grey Warden stamina?" Isabela's voice was mischievous.

Lyra felt her ears burning. Alistair tweaked her in the ribs, grinning.

"Maker, how should I know?" Fergus shut the larder door, his feet carrying him back to Isabela's side - or so it sounded, from the direction of his voice. "I guess she's pregnant, and that says something."

Alistair smirked, and Lyra smacked her hand against his chest.

"If my husband looked like that -"

"Can we talk about something else, please? She's my sister, it isn't something I want to think about, thanks."

Isabela chuckled. "Fergus, really. You've been great. These folks couldn't have asked for anything better."

"It's only the decent thing to do. I'm no hero. I have the means, so it only makes sense to do it." Fergus quieted, and Lyra imagined he'd taken a sip of his drink. The sound of wood creaking... leaning on the counter? "So, how did you become a sailor anyway? It's pretty much a male profession, isn't it?"

Maker, were they settling in? Lyra turned to look at Alistair, her eyes wide. He shrugged at her, his lips quirking. Their cozy nook was growing cramped. But to stand up and reveal themselves? I'd rather die, Lyra thought, and shifted as best she could into a more comfortable position. Fergus would finish drinking soon, and Isabela would probably pop out to the tavern to find her own brand of nightlife. And no one will be the wiser that I was about to get snogged on the kitchen floor.

"Oh, there are a few lasses like myself. Sea bitches, more like," Isabela sounded amused. "You can't be delicate and stay alive in my profession." A bit more silence. "My husband was a sailor. I sort of married into the trade."

"How did he die?"

"Assassinated."

"Oh... I'm sorry."

Another laugh. "Don't be. He was a son-of-a-bitch who beat me til I bled and offered me to his friends for their pleasure."

There was a sputtering sound, followed by the distinct slap of a hand against flesh.

"Better?"

"Sorry... yes. Didn't expect you to say that." Fergus' voice seemed a bit choked, as if he were continuing to clear liquid from his throat.

"Don't go dying on me, Fergus. I only like men dead when they've wronged me." Her tone was light and mirthful.

Maker preserve us. Did she kill her husband? Lyra swallowed, her curiosity burning.

"To your very long life, and may your ass of a husband wander the pits of the void forever."

"That's the spirit! I'll drink to that!" A bit more silence, and then a cup slamming against wood. "Fill it again!"

Fergus laughed, the sound looser somehow. Pouring. "Did you kill him?"

"You don't beat around the bush, do you," Isabela laughed. "No. A friend of mine did. As a favor to me."

"And you inherited the ship."

"Mm-hmm. And the rest is history."

More silence, then the gentle sound of cups being set upon the counter.

"What's your story, Fergus? There must be a reason why your sister is as worried as she is."

"Lyra's always worried about something." He sounded dismissive.

"She's a smart cookie. You don't end a Blight and become a queen by being stupid."

"She's just a worrier. You don't seem worried about anything," Fergus teased.

"Yes, but I'm not queen. I wouldn't trade places with her for anything. Not that her husband isn't scrumptious. For him, I might consider being trapped in a palace for the rest of my life."

Lyra's eyebrows shot up. She turned to Alistair, whose ears had gone scarlet. He shrugged at her, looking uncomfortable.

"It makes you wonder which of you is smarter." The grin was plain in Fergus' voice. "She's caught now, doomed to rule Ferelden for the rest of her life. No chance of escape... and she had the perfect out, too. She and Alistair could have ridden off into the sunset and been just Wardens, battling Darkspawn and being heroic. But no, they had to take over the country... and that is my sister for you. She can't let anything be - she has to stick her nose into everything, make certain it's fixed to her satisfaction. A born worrier."

"Long life and health to the monarchs," Isabela toasted. "May their hair never gray and their judgement never falter. Blah blah children health and all that other shit."

More silence. Lyra was more than a touch annoyed at Fergus and his cavalier words... was that how he really felt about her? That she was a naggy worrier who couldn't keep herself to herself? Better than being an empty-headed nit who can't keep track of his socks, she thought with a touch of venom. It was truly said that those who eavesdropped never heard anything good, and she was regretting her need for a midnight chicken sandwich.

"You're smooth."

"What do you mean?"

"You've completely avoided my question."

The sound of a slowly released breath, a glass scraping the counter... perhaps he was twirling it in his fingers. "I'm glad you came to Highever. It's kept my mind off things."

The sound of pouring, a clink of glass.

Silence.

"Her name was Oriana," Fergus began softly, and Lyra sucked in a breath. He barely knew Isabela - he was confiding in her? "We were married seven years ago... I met her in Antiva, when my father sent me there as an envoy. King Maric needed someone to go - a diplomatic thing, and my father couldn't leave... both mother and Lyra had scarlet fever that year. So I went in his stead."

Silence.

"That's where I met her. At this dinner, in some fancy Antivan house. She was a minor diplomat's younger daughter. She had this... skin. And a smile."

"Most women have those things," came Isabela's teasing voice. "Arms, legs, teeth. Hair. Breasts."

Rather than being offended, Fergus laughed. "She had them all."

"And they were fantastic, were they?"

"She was so beautiful."

Silence, the scraping of glass again. More liquid being poured, the sound of a male voice grunting a refusal.

"My mother was furious when I brought her home. Well, annoyed, in any case. There were a lot of talks. But mother gave in when she got to know Oriana... she had the sweetest soul."

"Was it a fancy wedding?"

"Fancy enough. Oriana seemed pleased, though mother fretted over the whole thing way too much."

"Women do that," Isabela agreed.

"Oren was born about a year later... Lyra always said he looked just like me." Fergus' voice had gone rough. A lump had sprung in Lyra's throat, and she swallowed, her eyes burning. Alistair drew her against his chest, and she sagged into him, letting the pain of Fergus' words wash over her. "He was so smart. Small for his age, but Oriana was a tiny thing. Lyra and my mother towered over her. She was so delicate, but she would joke about Antivan women and their poisons when she was annoyed with me."

"She sounds lovely."

"She was."

More silence, the sound of someone sipping a drink.

"You know, it's alright to miss them," Isabela said gently. "My husband was a complete waste of a man, but your wife deserves to be remembered. And your son as well."

A heavy, guttering breath, followed by racking sobs, and muted noises as Isabela hushed her brother, murmuring small soothing sounds. Minutes passed, her brother's pain easing, though Lyra's throat was aflame with the effort to remain silent. She huddled in Alistair's arms, beyond thankful to have him. What would it be like to lose the one she loved best in all the world? Her arm wrapped about her middle, thinking of what Fergus must be going through, imagining knowing her only child was dead.

The soft sounds continued, finally ending with Fergus blowing his nose.

"Thanks," he mumbled, sounding rather nasal. "Sorry..."

"Balls, Fergus, shut up. I've invaded your castle and brought two hundred of my closest friends. If that isn't enough to make a man cry I don't know what is."

Her brother's wry laugh, then the clinking of glass and a cabinet being shut.

"And thanks for the offer. I might just take you up on it."

"Do," Fergus urged. "Maker knows I could use a bit of company. I'm afraid there aren't many shipwrights in Ferelden... honestly, you might have chosen a better place to get stranded."

That silken laugh again. "I'll land on my feet. I always do."

Footsteps, and the sound of the door closing.