Chapter 37
The Aftermath

Alistair slanted back against the door, shutting them into their room at long last. Hours since the ball had devolved into a writhing mass of chaos. Hours since they should have gone to bed, since Lyra should have gone to bed. His wife looked exhausted. Weary circles ringed her eyes, her hair tousled and mussed, the red wine stain on her skirt joined by gravy, creamy frosting and a smearing of chocolate cake crumbs. His own doublet had suffered similarly. If he hadn't been so worried about why the gentry had begun throwing food at each other, he might have just joined in and said damn the consequences.

Unfortunately, he hadn't been able to enjoy the few moments of food fight the way his less mature side had wanted.

"You've got apples in your hair." Lyra reached for him as he crossed toward her. Gentle fingers plucked sticky fruit and crust from his head, a loving smile tugging her mouth upward. "I bet you taste as good as you look, though."

"We should take a bath," Alistair suggested. "I could have Anders fill the tub and warm it up. No waiting for hot water."

Lyra's eyes slipped shut, a blissful look crossing her face. "You spoil me."

"I love you," he murmured in return. "You can't know how much." Capturing her hand as it smoothed along his temple, he pressed a kiss to the edge of her palm. "Get undressed," he mumbled against her skin. "I'll be three minutes."

In truth it was a bit longer than that, but Alistair slipped back into the room as soon as he could, a quickly fashioned runestone gripped in his palm. Anders hadn't been able to take himself away from the chamber they'd set up for minor injuries, a few unfortunate party guests having been the victim of more than just pie and cake. Though every attendee had been searched for steel before they were allowed entry, some folks had gotten creative in the face of danger. Mostly the ones who weren't so gently born. The Dalish in particular had rushed to defend their keeper, and he was certain he'd seen Larkin brandishing the broken stem of a wineglass. Fiona had torn a curtain from the wall and hurled it over a group of hotheads, frost shooting from her fingertips in an effort to protect Elder Valendrian. It had taken Anders to halt the madness, casting multiple paralysis glyphs over the room, literally freezing people in their tracks before - more - blood could be shed.

Alistair sighed. What a mess. And who got to clean it all up?

"Alistair?" His wife's voice brought him out of his bleak thoughts. "Is Anders with you?"

"Just me," he called in return. She sounded as if she was already in their bathing chamber, her voice hollow as it echoed off the stone walls. But even had she not spoken, Alistair would have known where she was. The beacon of warmth tugged at him, Lyra's Warden signature announcing her location to his inner sense.

He worked his shirt over his head, tossing the soiled cloth into a basket beside the bed. The beacon moved, and he turned, his breath hitching at the sight that met his eyes.

Lyra lounged against the doorway of the bathing chamber, her eyes aglitter. Bare toes gripped the gray stone and led to shapely calves, continuing up to smooth knees and then to silken thighs. Dark curls nestled at the juncture of her legs, the swell of her belly only adding to her allure as his eyes made their slow journey upward. The breasts he so adored rested upon her crossed arms, her white skin a tempting contrast to the fading tan of both hands. The sultry line of her neck called him next, and he traced north, coming at last to her face.

Beguiling eyes blue as forget-me-nots twinkled, a pleased smile tickling the corners of her welcoming mouth. Chestnut hair tumbled around her ears, a tangle of tired ringlets that demanded he run his fingers through them.

"Are you coming in?" she teased. "Or do I have to drag you in here against your will?"

.oOo.

Without a doubt, the bathtub had to be her very favorite place.

Lyra sighed, tipping her head back to rest upon Alistair's shoulder. His lips grazed her ear, and she hummed in contentment as his hands wandered over her body. Warm water lapped at them, cradling with soothing heat. The tub was sanded wood, laid with a length of fabric to protect from splinters. Definitely different from the stone tub in the mage tower, but still large enough for two, and Anders' runestone kept the water at a much more even temperature than they would have normally experienced. She felt utterly spoiled, pampered, and loved.

"We should wash," she said in a languid voice. "That was the point of this, wasn't it?"

"I thought the point was to relax," he replied. His right hand held a soft cloth, and he skimmed it over the front of her body, trickling water over her skin. "And here you've got me all worked up."

"All I'm doing is laying here."

"That's all you need to do." He nibbled her ear, his voice husky. "And maybe let me touch you."

"I don't think I could stop you..."

Alistair's fingers found her nipple, rolling it between his fingers. Their intimate contact had already fanned the flames of her own desire... being naked in the warm water in Alistair's embrace was enough on its own, even without his stimulating touch. There was something so sensual about it. "Remember after we killed the dragon," she murmured. "That hot spring?"

"Mmm."

"Maker's breath, Alistair, I was so afraid you were going to die that day." Turning to face him, she cuddled her arms around his neck, nestling into his chest. "And then again, tonight... Our lives are never going to be simple, are they? I can't believe Celene might have killed you... just like that, and you'd have been gone."

Alistair said nothing, simply held her, though a sudden bout of tension had hardened his shoulders.

Lyra lifted her head. "Doing okay?"

"Hm? Oh. Fine." Alistair offered her a quick grin, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Let's not talk about Celene."

"What are we going to do about all of this, though? Celene isn't the only problem here. There's the elves, I mean... and Arl Urien."

Alistair's hands lazed along her back, a frown smoothing the dimples from his cheeks. "We need to know what happened, from Zevran if possible. Lyra... he is an assassin. Do you suppose he killed Urien?"

Lyra hesitated, considering. "I guess he might have gotten a contract without us knowing it. But he's supposed to be dead as far as the Crows are concerned. There's no way he'd want to screw that up, especially if this thing with Kallian is serious." She shook her head. "No. My money's on Kallian."

"But you said to Eamon-"

"I know, but... I just don't know who else could have done it. She had the opportunity and the ability."

Alistair was quiet for a time before he spoke again. "I suppose we can't really be lenient with her on this, can we?"

"No," Lyra said, her voice sad. "Even if she didn't do it, the evidence is stacked against her. And we can't seem to be partial... not now. All eyes will be on us and how we handle it. It's serious, Alistair. If Kallian can't be proved innocent... she'll have to be executed."

"Execute - but... kill her?" Alistair's voice rose, distressed. "Really?"

"What else can be done?"

"Well... oh! Lyra! She could become a Warden!" he offered hopefully. "Pascal did it for Larkin, right? Why not Kallian?"

Now it was Lyra's turn to hesitate. "Normally I'd agree with you..."

"But?"

"But this is pivotal for us," she pointed out. "The nobility are watching. Whether or not we can hold the throne will be tied up in how this plays out. Alistair - if we swoop in and conscript her, it's a way around that. I don't think the nobles will appreciate a criminal being saved that way... and besides which, the Wardens are supposed to stay out of politics. We can't be Wardens sometimes and king and queen at others. We have to choose."

A deep sigh escaped her husband. "Damn it."

His distress worried her. Alistair was too often troubled. "Look, we need to know more, first." Lyra dropped a kiss on his chest, the damp skin cool where the air had touched. "We need to see the scene, and talk with Zevran and Kallian and... Soris, I think his name was. Maybe there's something that can be done. But don't go running to Pascal just yet... it's an option, I'll concede that - especially if Pascal does it and not us. But not yet."

"Fair enough." The words were glum, colored with melancholy.

"You can't save everyone, you know."

"You sound like Teagan."

"He's a wise man." Lyra's mouth dragged along his skin, hoping to distract him. "So, no more about the elves. Celene..."

"I'll handle that," Alistair said in a firm tone. "I don't want you involved. Do that for me? Please?"

Lyra blinked, a touch taken aback at the forcefulness in his voice. "Um... okay?"

"Thank you." His fingers touched the edge of her chin, tipping her mouth toward his own.

As his lips touched hers, a low flame kindled within Lyra's body. A pleasant shiver tingled through her, goosebumps rippling on her skin. The mood had changed... heightened, and Alistair's fingers played over her, sliding south to her most intimate spot.

Chills coursed through her, drawing a gasp from Lyra's lips. How she longed for this, each slow brush of his fingers sparking her fires ever higher. She moaned, losing herself to his mastery, shifting her body to allow him closer. Anything, if he would only touch her that way.

Breath catching, Lyra wound her arms around his neck, kissing him with renewed fervor. The taste of him intoxicated, the loving he accomplished with his mouth and hands leaving her breathless. Teeth scraped the tender flesh of her lips as Alistair nipped, thrilling her with the slow intensity of his kiss.

Her hands sought his length, hoping to give him at least a fraction of the pleasure he was giving her. But beyond that, she itched to touch that smooth steel, to feel it alive in her fingers. His skin seared under her caress. Alistair shuddered, a helpless whimper swallowed as she stroked him. He was so ready for her...

Desire ran rampant, sizzling in the very air. Alistair's arms circled her waist, their kiss deepening as she swung one leg over him, her knees hugging his hips. His ardor was more obvious than her own, warmer still than the water that surrounded them both. Til now they'd been teasing, their touches soft and filled with promise. Something seemed to break within Alistair then, his mouth hungry on hers, his hands needy. Such feelings he brought forth within her, her want growing with every movement of his tongue and fingers. Lyra melded her body against his as she matched his fervor.

Alistair groaned, one hand rising to fist in her hair. "Maker, woman," he growled, turning into her neck to kiss her skin.

Lyra said nothing, her fingers raking through the short hair on his head. She pulled his face back to hers, catching his mouth once more in an effort to prove how starved she was for him. Deep within, her yearning pulsed to the beat of her heart. All she wanted was to have him inside her, for him to fill the aching void that craved him so badly.

There was no more patience. It took the aid of a few fingers to guide his length into her eager depths, but oh, the completion that came with joining... Mouths parted as their bodies slid together, Alistair's eyes rolling back as she rested her forehead upon his. Lyra's heart raced, her flesh pleading for a release she wasn't yet ready to grant. Amorous fingers trembled as she smoothed them along Alistair's jawline, contenting herself with this at least, with the gratification that came from fulfillment. She wanted slowness, not frenzy... it would be better if it lasted longer...

"Don't stop," he begged, his hands squeezing the flesh of her hips. "Maker's breath, don't stop."

His words tore down the fragile control she'd been building. Lyra silenced him with another kiss, the heady feel of him stealing any words she might have responded with. The dance began in earnest, perspiration darkening their hair as they moved together, cheeks flushed with exertion in the steamy heat of the chamber. The bathing room echoed with the erotic sounds of their lovemaking, exhilarating passion voiced only to each other and the humid walls.

Alistair's eyes closed, his head tipping back with a shaky breath. His end was close; the telltale signs were there as Lyra's fingers dug into his shoulders, the rush of her own impending pleasure sweeping through them both. Impelled onward by his finish, she gave in, and Alistair's voice joined with hers as the world fragmented into unbearable bliss.

When they finally rested in each other's arms, the tension in Alistair's eyes had been smoothed away. Breathing slowed, arms curved around each other, and her husband rested his cheek in the arch of her neck. Lyra feathered a kiss on his brow, their skin beaded with sweat as they drifted down from the heights, relishing the satisfied drowsiness that came with such completion.

.oOo.

"The law stands," Alistair's voice carried over the gathered assembly. "Any citizen of Ferelden, be they elf, dwarf or human, may openly carry a weapon. Any citizen of Ferelden may join the guard or the army, and serve their country with skill of arms. Pay shall be regulated based upon ability and not race. You have made me your monarch. My word is law, and the law stands."

"What of Urien's death?" a faceless voice shouted from the gathered mass.

Alistair swallowed. He'd been dreading this - the crux of the problem. "Arl Urien served Ferelden faithfully all his life, and his death is a tragedy to all. As such, every attempt will be made to uncover the truth of his death, be it murder or natural causes." He stopped for a breath, thinking of Zevran and Kallian in the cells at Fort Drakon. He and Lyra had yet to speak with them... "If murder was Urien's end, rest assured, his killer will face justice. This I swear as your ruler."

"And if the elf did it?" A female voice yelled.

A pin could have dropped in the hall, so still did his audience grow.

"Then she will hang." Alistair's voice did not falter over the words, though his heart withered. The idea that he would be the one to sign her death warrant, that he would watch as she struggled at the end of a hempen rope... he shoved it aside, his stomach lurching. "Any who commit murder shall face the consequences, be they of humble or noble origin. I cannot abide any who take the law into their own hands. Urien's funeral will be held in a few days. We invite any who wish it to stay on and attend the service."

A low rumble of discontent swept through the nobility, though there was also scattered applause and a few yells of approval. Lyra's hand squeezed his, and Alistair shored up his flagging confidence, well aware of the hundreds of eyes that were glued to him. "This matter is closed. We invite you to join us for lunch."

A grand buffet had been assembled in the next room, and everyone filed out to fill their plates and whisper about the king's ruling. Alistair doubted he'd be able to eat, so sick was he over the stress of his first public disaster. To make matters worse, Empress Celene had stationed herself in the very center of the room, her cool green eyes boring into his throughout his speech. Delicate hands had remained folded in front of the lavish pink gown she'd chosen, showing no outward sign of whether she approved his methods.

Just how Alistair got through the next hour he could never remember. There was a lot of nodding and smiling, and Lyra's hand in his. Eventually they managed to excuse themselves, fleeing to the safety of their personal quarters.

Alistair fell face-first onto their bed, whimpering into the comforter, his pathetic noises muffled by down and fabric. "This is... I don't even know what this is. Something really, really bad."

Lyra said nothing, though he felt her weight depress the bed beside him, then her touch as she rubbed a tender hand over his back.

"I can't do this," he continued. "We were fools to take this on. Why did we do this?"

"Because there was no one else," Lyra said in a soft voice.

Her words brought him up short. Six simple words, but how they changed everything. Because there was no one else. Because he'd been the right one for the job, was still the right one - the only one - for the job. What had begun as a pity-party shifted into something else entirely.

One of Alistair's favorite things about his wife - even if at times it could also be maddening - was that she stayed the course. Lyra considered the angles, chose her path, and stuck to it. If there was a thing that needed doing, she didn't shy away. Not when they'd been faced with abominations in the Tower, not when werewolves had threatened their very lives. She was noble.

And so was he.

And if he was ever going to be worth a damn as king, he'd better start living up to that idea.

Enough. He'd won a throne - through no choice but his own. Eamon had pushed, certainly, but Alistair hadn't fought the idea... not the way someone who truly didn't want to be king should have. The old Alistair might have whined, pointed out that he'd had no choice, that he'd never wanted it, that he'd been manipulated into taking the crown. But nothing could be further from the truth. Destiny was what you made of it. Fate had chosen him, and he'd run toward it with open arms, willing to accept all that holding the throne entailed. Though he'd played the rube when he was younger, that had no place in his life anymore.

Ferelden needed him.

"So... tell me one thing," he said slowly, the world remaking itself as his ideals rearranged. "How people do this, and not go crazy? Cailan, and before him, Maric... how did they keep up?"

Lyra considered. "Experience, I think. You get used to it. My parents did a certain amount of it, though it wasn't as extensive. And Cailan had Anora, don't forget."

"And I have you." Alistair's mouth curved upward, one hand coming up to stroke the back of his fingers over her cheek. "I just need to whine sometimes. Don't listen to me."

Love and levity twinkled in Lyra's eyes. She might have said more, but an urgent knock on the door interrupted her train of thought. "Come," she called instead, standing to greet their visitor.

Not one, but many. Leliana, Oghren, Wynne and Anders came tripping into their room, all talking over each other, all of them demanding something be done for Zevran, and done soon.

"He's in prison," Leliana said desperately.

"Probably wounded," Wynne interjected. "I can't leave him there like that!"

"I'm a better healer than she is," Anders railroaded them both. "Take me with you."

"I beg your pardon?" Wynne's eyes went frosty.

"Beg all you like, you're the old one who passed out in the Alienage," Anders shot back.

"Sodding shut it!" Oghren roared through the hullabaloo. "Lemme say it!"

Silence for a moment as Wynne shot Anders a murderous look, Leliana's hand clasping hers as if to prevent violence. "Very well, Oghren..." the mage's very air was motherish, a harried matron vying for patience. "Speak your piece."

Oghren hitched his trousers, one hand dragging across his generous nose. "The elf don't deserve ta be there. You gotta get'im out. Hear me? Or we'll go in an' get'im."

Wynne's eyes sought the heavens, a belabored expression creasing her forehead. "Lyra, Alistair, there must be strings you can pull, arrangements you can make."

"Please," Leliana put in, her blue eyes filled with worry. "He shouldn't have gone to the manor, I know. I tried to tell him! And he will not leave Kallian. You have to get both of them out! Please!"

Alistair sighed, not looking forward to this conversation. Apprehensive fingers combed through his hair, standing it on end. "Here's the thing. The Chantry isn't happy with me right now. Turns out they get touchy if you arrest their Templars, even when it's deserved. And now the nobility are howling like maddened dogs. Urien's death at the hands of the elves... Denerim wants justice. More specifically, they want blood. If we take Zevran out of there... everyone knows he's a friend of ours. It would be favoritism. We're skating on thin ice - we could lose the crown."

"So, whut? You won' do it?" Oghren's face darkened. "Nug shit! You gotta!"

"Oghren, this is Ferelden we're talking about," Lyra said, trying to explain. "We'll-"

"And this is Zevran!" Oghren bellowed in return. "What's yer precious throne compared ta that?"

"We'll get him out," Lyra said loudly over the raving dwarf. "But it has to be done by the book. He's got to be innocent from every angle. If that's the case... there'll be no problem."

Oghren grumbled. "Damn protocols. What good is knowin' the king if you can't get a man outta jail?"

"I've often wondered that myself," Alistair said in a dry voice. "Seems silly, doesn't it?" As king, he had less power than he'd ever anticipated.

"We'll take care of it," Lyra promised. "Today."

A grudging agreement settled over the group, who turned to shuffle out.

Wynne lingered, and Leliana with her. "Please, come and see me before you go to Fort Drakon." The healer's face was lined with worry, her voice fretful. "I feel like this whole thing could have been prevented, if only I'd..."

"Nonsense." Leliana spoke firmly. "You aren't Zevran's keeper, Wynne. He is a grown man who should know better."

"But perhaps Anders is right," Wynne continued, her shoulders slumping. "Perhaps I am getting too old for this."

Alistair's heart twisted. Their favorite mage was living on borrowed time - Maker only knew for how much longer. Leliana had spoken of it many times, how Wynne's energy had dropped, how magic was harder for her now. The spirit that had chosen to assist her must be weakening at an alarming rate. She'd done so much good in her life, and it clearly frustrated her to be so inactive now. Alistair could empathize. His own mortality had felt up-close and personal the last few months. He and Lyra had come to a mutual agreement to enjoy every day to its fullest... life was all too uncertain. But without reasons to live, why not die now and just get it over with?

He didn't want that for the mage who had saved their lives time and time again, for the woman who'd been part mother, part friend and part mentor to all of them.

"Wynne," he said. "I have an offer for you."

Wynne's head snapped up, a light brightening her eyes as one eyebrow quirked. "An offer."

"The Alienage is enjoying more freedom than it has in, well, ever. A school is being built there, and I know the Chanters usually take on the roles of teachers. But I think I'd rather you do it."

Wynne's shoulders lifted, a bit of her old sparkle returning."You want me to be a teacher. To the elves."

"Who better to help them? You've taught countless children who were frightened and uncertain. You're a natural teacher - far better than most of the women I learned from."

"You'd be brilliant," Lyra agreed, her eyes shining. "It's a wonderful idea!"

"And honestly... Wynne, I'm a bit hesitant to have the Chantry taking charge of our schools. After the display I had from Mother Perpetua..." Alistair shook his head, the memory irking him. "There's a reason why Ferelden's citizens hold certain prejudices. I think you could be instrumental in helping the next generation be wiser than its parents."

Wynne gave a slow nod, her eyes gleaming. "I'm intrigued, I'll admit. Allow me a day to consider?"

"Absolutely. Take your time." Alistair stood to wrap her in a hug. "The school won't be built for another few months anyway. Probably about the time the baby comes."

Wynne kissed his cheek. "Don't worry, Alistair. You'll not lose the throne."

"You think?" Alistair slid away, regarding her with doubtful eyes. "I'm not sure I'm doing much right."

"You're not doing much wrong, either." Wynne straightened his collar with a fond smile, the action so motherly it tugged at the corners of his mouth. The mage had taken all of them on as her children; it was no wonder she was so worried for Zevran.

"We'll tell you when we're leaving for Fort Drakon, Wynne." Lyra gathered her in for a hug as well, then Leliana and the mage slipped from the room.

The door had barely closed when it was nudged open again. Fiona's hand knocked as she entered, a timid look on her face. "Am I interrupting? You wanted to see me, Alistair?"

"Oh... yes. Lyra," Alistair faltered. He'd almost forgotten... the luncheon was likely breaking up, and he'd arranged a meeting with certain people regarding a certain situation. "I wonder if you might go to Fort Drakon alone today. That way, I can stay here and meet with a few advisors. I was hoping that, um, Fiona might have some... advice for me..."

Lyra looked as if she might protest, and Alistair braced himself. A host of possible arguments filled his head. He had to get her out of the castle, make sure she'd be gone for the meeting about Empress Celene and her weighty proposition.

She surprised him when her mouth closed, her eyes intent on his. There must have been something in his face that convinced her, for she nodded a moment later, then leaned in to kiss him. "Would you have me go now?"

"Yes, please," he said, relieved. "Oh! Um, actually. Eamon told me there's a tunnel leading straight there, to Fort Drakon. Some kind of private... I dunno. Escape route, I guess. Anyway, Eamon can tell you where it is. That way, you don't have to walk through Denerim... and you should take a few guards with you."

One eyebrow rose as she regarded him. "Why shouldn't I walk through Denerim?"

Because I don't trust Celene, Alistair thought grimly. "Uh... you'll stay warm that way?"

"Uh-huh. Okay."

"Look, it'll probably be safer," Alistair sighed. "After what Celene did last night-"

Understanding lit in his wife's eyes, and Lyra nodded again, cutting him off. "Maybe so. Very well. I suppose there's less chance of an assassination in a darkened, secluded tunnel then on the brightly lit streets of Denerim... oh, wait..." Mirth glittered in her blue eyes as she crossed the room to gather her cloak from the wardrobe.

"Hush you."

The wrap slung over her arm, Lyra brushed a kiss over Fiona's cheek, then exited. Fiona meandered into the room, every movement stifled, like a deer scenting the wind for danger.

Alistair resisted the urge to tug at his collar, feeling a bit out of sorts. He and Fiona had yet to be perfectly at ease with each other. "Thank you for coming."

"Of course," Fiona said simply. "I'm looking forward to hearing exactly what's going on."

.oOo.

The torchlight flickered against the rough-hewn walls as Lyra trailed the first guard through the tunnel to Fort Drakon. Another followed behind her, bringing up the rear and watching her back. It was chill down here, the air close and confining, and Lyra focused on deep breaths, her old claustrophobia creeping up and over her with cold fingers. How she wished someone was with her - Alistair preferably, but Kestrel would have been her next choice.

The dog had been spending most of his time in the kennels of late. The Master of Hounds had approached Lyra a month or so ago, asking to use her dog's bloodline to sire a new generation of "royal" mabari. Unlike regular dogs, mabari chose their mates with care, and though there was nothing in the way of commitment once the deed was done, the dogs needed to at least like each other. With this in mind, Lyra had gone to visit him a few times, but had been asked to stay away to allow the canines time to "get acquainted". Lyra imagined Kestrel was enjoying himself; Maker knew he hadn't gotten to do much since they'd returned to Denerim.

The walk seemed never ending, the guards silent and watchful. After being read the riot act by Alistair and Ser Cauthrien that morning, their hands had yet to leave their weapons. Lyra had strapped a dagger to her thigh, accessible through a slit in her dress. With luck, she'd have no need to use it.

A long stairway faded into view in the gloom, and Lyra climbed behind the guard, anticipating the return to the surface. Orzammar hadn't bothered her this much... though Orzammar's ceilings were fifty feet high or more. This was seven feet, maybe eight in places. If Lyra reached, she could touch the granite ceiling with her fingertips. Far too close for comfort.

Her hood she'd raised to cover her hair and face; no use advertising her visit. Not if she and Alistair were attempting to remain neutral. But apparently they'd not climbed to ground level, coming up instead into a basement - a place in Fort Drakon that Lyra hadn't been aware of. A single gaoler sat at an ancient desk, his feet propped up in a lazy pose on the aging wood.

Lyra hesitated. Reveal herself, or not? Well... surely the nobility couldn't expect them not to gather facts? As long as she didn't leave with the elves in tow, there could be no pointing of fingers. Not by logical people, anyway... Her mouth twisted as the wry thought crept through her brain. She stepped forward, lowering her hood to reveal her face. "I request an audience with the prisoners."

If you are not following "A Crow's Devotion" and you're curious about what happened during Lyra's visit to the prison, check out chapter 14 of that story now.