Chapter 50

"And in my darkest hour, I turned from Her and vowed that I would destroy Her."

Canticle of Maferath, Dissonant Verse

Alistair

Alistair did his best not to be upset or angry. Thus far, he'd failed miserably at it, but he really was doing his best. He'd run the approaching-tolerable-maybe Seeker Cassandra out of his study in order to let Eamon have whatever highly urgent audience he'd requested. That alone made him realize exactly how much he disliked the Seekers, considering he'd freely chosen to see Eamon in one of his 'must speak with you urgently' moments, which never tended to be fun. Alistair had discovered, of late, that he got along with Eamon much better when Eamon remained in Redcliffe, visiting only occasionally, and only when he did not have anything urgent to speak of. Of course, that rarely happened, and so their strained relationship remained strained. He truly wished he could repair it, that he could make it not be so tense between them, but happenstance always seemed to thwart his best intentions.

However, this time, it hadn't quite been Eamon who'd upset him. Sure, the news Eamon had brought had upset him, but Eamon hadn't done the thing that upset him.

Honestly, would it have killed Malcolm to have invited him to the bonding? Or at least told him? He immediately understood why—plausible deniability. However, he was sure that if they'd worked together, they could've figured something out so he would've been able to witness his only brother's wedding. But no.

Alistair would bet Ferelden's entire treasury that Fergus knew. That upset him even more, but he couldn't rightly name why. And now what really got to him was Eamon's insufferably pleased expression, because Alistair knew his own irritation plainly showed on his face. Gritting one's teeth to keep from shouting tended to do that.

"So you see what you will have to do, Your Majesty," Eamon said, continuing straight into the instruction phase that tended to follow his urgent talks.

Alistair frowned. "No, not really. I mean, I might need to go pound his face in, but I'm not sure what else needs to be done. Maybe arrange something official with the Chantry, if that's possible. Anora might be the best person to run that by, I think." He stopped with his plans when he noticed Eamon slowly shaking his head, which caused no small amount of dread to take root in Alistair's stomach. "What?"

"It is considered a punishable crime, perhaps even treason if it subverts the line of succession, for a member of the royal family to enter a marriage of any kind without permission of the reigning monarch. The provision even includes marriages considered invalid in the eyes of the Chantry."

So that was why Eamon was so delighted. Awesome. Luckily, even though Malcolm had neglected to tell him, Alistair had at least given permission in one way or another by telling his brother to propose. "Well, no need to worry about prancing our way around that pitfall," he said. "I did give him permission. With witnesses, no less."

"Royal permission has to formally be given in front of the Landsmeet after the intent for betrothal is declared. I believe I would remember such an occurrence, as I doubt it would pass unremarked by the Landsmeet."

"You're not going to make this easy, are you?"

"Your brother is the one who is not making this easy by willfully ignoring his duty to your shared line. The Landsmeet already granted far more leeway than was prudent in legitimizing the boy he had by the witch. And now, not only is he expecting a bastard by another mistress, but he's ignored the law and entered into a clandestine marriage. You must officially declare it null and void, backed by the Landsmeet, and marry him off to someone proper with all due haste."

Alistair resisted the urge to rest his head in his hands. Instead, he kept good posture in his chair behind his desk. "I take it you've someone in mind?"

"Lady Meghan Vael might be amenable to the idea, should you and Queen Anora speak with her."

"But we won't. Look, I gave him permission. In front of the Landsmeet or not, it was given. I'm not going to just take that back, and I certainly don't want to tear apart his marriage. He loves her. She loves him. It's kind of sweet, really."

For a moment, Eamon's hard expression softened. "Alistair, were he a Cousland as he was raised, and not a Theirin as he's become due to Cailan's death and you subsequently assuming the throne, this would not be the issue it is. There would be difficulties, yes, for Líadan is an elf. But even as a member of the nobility, it would not be impossible. As a member of the royal family, however—"

"You believe it impossible. That the Landsmeet won't agree to it."

"There's certainly not a precedent for it."

The papers on Alistair's desk suddenly became unimportant, and he shoved them to the side so he could have something to do with his hands. "She's been good for him, you know. Not sure if you've noticed, but he's grown up a lot, especially in the last year." He waved his fingers around and then pressed them to his forehead. "Ignoring those other little things you've brought up." He was doing his best not to recall the last time he and Eamon had had a good go-around about Malcolm. Nothing in the past year had even come close to approaching the epic-level clash they'd had in Highever right after Fiona had died and Malcolm had returned from an unscheduled trip to Cumberland. Whatever ills Alistair might have had with him, he could never bring himself to forget that Eamon had provided for him when he was a child. He'd been fed, clothed, and sheltered. Granted, the shelter was a barn, and that was before chucking him into a monastery, but Eamon hadn't been obligated to do anything at all, and yet he had. He owed him for that, even now, and so he kept his temper.

"One would have to be blind not to notice. Were she human and not a mage, no one would argue with the match, not even me. Yet that is not the reality, and we must face it for what it is. She is an inappropriate choice for wife to a prince of the blood. Their marriage contract was secret, without public permission, and therefore illegal. There are a few ways to salvage the situation as much as it can be, but they will require swift, firm action on your part. Namely, sending Líadan to live at Vigil's Keep and not here in Denerim."

"You'll have to take that one up with Warden Commander Hildur," Alistair said. "The Crown isn't in charge of Grey Warden postings."

Eamon did not hide his slight sigh of exasperation. "You cannot deny you haven't some influence with the Warden Commander."

"Whatever influence you think I—"

The door opened without a knock of warning, and Malcolm burst in, his breath coming in great gasps. For all the time he'd taken in not telling Alistair about his marriage, it certainly seemed to Alistair that he'd been in a rush to do so now.

Malcolm glanced from Alistair to Eamon and back again. "Shit."

Alistair slowly looked from his brother to the arl. "Eamon, you can go."

The arl stood, yet did not leave. "But—"

"Eamon, you have a younger brother of your own. Imagine Malcolm were Teagan, and he'd done something of a similar nature as my own brother has. Now, imagine you reacted to it purely as a brother would and nothing else."

"I see your point, Your Majesty."

"I thought you might."

Eamon nodded, and it was almost deep enough to be a bow. "Then I will speak with you later, Your Majesty." After getting acknowledgement from Alistair, Eamon walked out of the room, leaving Malcolm to Alistair's mercy.

Alistair reminded himself that mercy was a good thing, a fine trait for kings to have. And that he also loved his brother, and if he found himself having difficulty being convinced of such, that he really did think of Líadan as a sister, and that out of love for her, he shouldn't do anything too awful to his brother.

It was still a close thing. What saved Malcolm was that Alistair realized Líadan was now truly his sister-in-law, which pleased him to no end despite the circumstances. "It's a good thing I really like Líadan, you know," Alistair said out loud.

Malcolm, who was bent over, hands on his knees and still trying to catch his breath—Maker's blood, had he sprinted the entire way from Eamon's estate?—let out a strained laugh. "What? No headlocks? No punches?"

"Not in here. Warrick would have my head. Later, though, I might need you to show me what Thierry's taught you lately. And then show you that you still can't beat me in a sparring match. And by showing you, I mean give you bruises on your bruises, and send you flying back on your arse so many times that you lose count."

"Oh, so you are pissed."

"What gave that away? The scathing tone? The plans for your humiliation?"

"Your eyebrow, actually. Raised pretty high when I came in. Never bodes well, and you fixed it right on me."

Alistair finally gave into his urge to slump back in his chair. "Why didn't you tell me?" It wasn't like he didn't know the answer, but he still wanted to hear it.

Malcolm settled lightly into the chair across from the desk, taking great care to choose the seat Eamon had not been sitting in. "Because I couldn't. If the Chantry got wind of it and put you to question, it wouldn't have gone very well. I probably shouldn't have told Eamon like I did, but he was drawing actual, well-meaning people into his ideas of marrying me off, and I just couldn't take it anymore."

What Alistair really hated about the entire situation was that he'd been left out of things, once again, for his supposed own good. It had happened enough to him as a child and a youth that he wanted the choice to be his as an adult. That went doubly so when the people involved who decided to make the choice for him were younger than him."So your decision to break the news had nothing to do with not telling me?"

"I wanted to tell you. I did. I thought for sure that you'd somehow figure it out before now. You very nearly guessed exactly what we were doing, way back in Highever."

Alistair's slump disappeared and he dropped his hand from where it'd been massaging his forehead. "Wait, you got married back in Highever?"

"We did a Dalish bonding with Lanaya officiating, so it had to be done before her clan left in anticipation of the Divine's arrival."

"Right. Well, that makes sense." He wanted to ask, because he wanted to know, but at the same time, he didn't. "Who else knew?"

"The Dalish."

Like he was going to buy that simple, obviously not entirely true answer. "And?"

"Hildur and Wynne were there, as well as Nuala and technically Cáel, but he was asleep for the whole thing." Malcolm looked toward the window. While his hands didn't move, his feet scuffed at the floor.

Alistair wondered which of them the more abysmal liar. It didn't much matter, in the end, because they both were horrible at it. "And? Fergus was there, wasn't he? You told him."

"I didn't mean to. I mean, I didn't actually tell him, not really. He guessed, and then forced a confession out of me. There wasn't much I could do." He finally stopped bothering to look out the window and faced Alistair again. "I'm sorry I couldn't tell you. I am."

"I'm sure." Alistair did his best not to sound petulant, but the hurt crept into his voice regardless. It wasn't something he often dwelled on—and he'd certainly not mentioned it to either Fergus or Malcolm—but part of him still believed that Malcolm thought Fergus more important to him as a brother than Alistair. He could understand it, he could. Malcolm had grown up with Fergus. He and Fergus had done all those brotherly things that brothers did together. They shared memories and family and Alistair didn't have that with them. He had shared blood with Malcolm, and memories of being brothers since the start of the Blight, but that was it. Pretty much nothing when compared to a lifetime of such things.

Malcolm sighed. "You're upset."

"Did you honestly think I wouldn't be?"

"Well, no. I just... I hadn't..." He sighed and flopped his head back to stare at the ceiling in frustration.

Alistair ran a tired hand through his hair and decided he didn't want to think about the painful subjects anymore. "Eamon was kind enough to inform me that—"

Without warning, the study's door opened. When Alistair noticed it was Anora and Líadan who walked through, he placed his head face down on his desk. "Does anyone around here bother to knock? Was no one taught that as a child? I was raised in a barn and even I know to knock."

"Warrick told us to come in," said Anora. "He's standing right outside if you would like to verify."

"No, I won't question him and risk making him cross." Alistair lifted his head and studied the two women as they found chairs of their own. "I know why you're here, but how did you know to come here at the same time?"

"I had a page find Anora," said Líadan, who then gave Malcolm a dark look. "I was left behind by a certain someone who decided he'd sprint ahead to try to get to you before Eamon did."

Malcolm rolled his eyes. "If you could move faster than a bronto wallowing in mud, I wouldn't have gotten ahead of you."

Alistair wondered if his brother knew he was building his own funeral pyre, the way he kept going. Maybe he should just leave Malcolm to keep doing so, because he was proving spectacularly good at it, if Líadan's sharp glare was any indication. It could end up being punishment enough. Alistair sighed and glanced at Anora. Her brow was furrowed and her hands folded on her lap—well, what was left of it—which indicated she'd already gotten to planning what they would do going forward with this new information. "What are we going to do?" he asked her. "Eamon had a few ideas."

"I'm certain he did, and I'm not sure how many of the legalities will apply in this case. Am I correct in assuming he brought up the matter of it being a crime?"

"Alistair gave us permission," said Malcolm.

"Not in public, in front of the Landsmeet, as is required," said Anora. "As such, it still remains a punishable crime to sticklers like Eamon. For a clandestine marriage performed outside the purview of the Chantry, it is declared null and void. A marriage recognized or performed by the Chantry remains valid, but the royal in question is censured, and other punishments generally given. The listed punishments include exile, forfeiture of lands, goods, and titles, and imprisonment at the Crown's pleasure. None of those punishments are light."

Malcolm had ceased his fidgeting. "I don't have any lands."

"True," said Alistair.

His brother went on. "I suppose you could take my titles, aside from the Warden ones. I think I'd be okay with that. It'd mean Cáel would be out of the line of succession—also something I'd be fine with."

"Also true."

"I believe one of the traditional methods of exile is to force the person to join the Grey Wardens." Malcolm glanced down at the arming jacket he wore, one of his fingers drifting over the Warden griffon. "Hey, look at that. Problem solved."

His brother was going to be the death of him. Why had he ever even wanted a brother? A sister would have better. Well, if said sister wasn't like Goldanna. Maker's breath, perhaps it was best to be an only child. "You know as well as I do that the Landsmeet wouldn't remove you from the line of succession unless you committed actual treason, like conspiring with Orlais, and not for doing something stupid and shortsighted that can sometimes be named as treason in the worst cases." He considered the matter for a moment, and then said, "Imprisonment is still an option."

Malcolm's eyes briefly flicked toward Líadan. "You wouldn't imprison me."

Not that Alistair wasn't sorely tempted to toss him into Fort Drakon for no small amount of time to think about what he'd done, but Malcolm was right. For the sake of Líadan, Cáel, and Alistair's yet to be born niece, he wouldn't imprison his brother. Maker knew he wanted to, though. "No, I wouldn't." He looked toward Anora. "So, what do we do?"

"We bring the matter before the spring Landsmeet and let them decide, for the most part," said Anora. "I am not sure what they will do. I'm fairly certain they won't revoke titles or call for exile, but I'm not certain they will allow the marriage to stand, especially with it having been performed by a Dalish Keeper and not a vested priest of the Chantry."

"Wait," said Malcolm, lifting a hand. "Wait, wait. When I was telling Eamon about this, Meghan Vael was right there. She said that in the Free Marches, Dalish bondings are recognized by the Chantry, by declaration from the Grand Cleric of Kirkwall. So there's precedent for not having a basis for voiding the marriage. Not that I'd consider it null and void if they said so."

"I'm not Eamon," said Alistair. "My goal is to keep you together, not separate you. We just have to figure out how to get the Landsmeet to play nice."

Malcolm let out a laugh that sounded far too bitter to Alistair. "The throne has been trying to do that for ages, without any luck. I'll not get my hopes up for that to change."

"It may not turn out as negative as you seem to assume it will," said Anora. "The past few Landsmeets have returned unprecedented results, and mark a significant change in the Bannorn and its outlook. I suspect the Blight and the civil war had something to do with that, and that Ferelden's royal line was nearly wiped out. In addition, it isn't as if you've plucked some random woman from the forest—"

Líadan got to her feet. "You can just say it, you know. What this really comes down to is that I'm an elf, and not much else. Maybe a little with the mage thing, but that's the Chantry's problem and not the Landsmeet's issue. The problem here is that I'm an elf. Not that I'm considered a commoner or was raised in the forests or am a Grey Warden. The problem is that I'm an elf. It's the same problem that Fiona faced with Maric repeated all over again, except that I'm not Orlesian, and that might be the only thing I have going for me. Well, maybe having fought the Archdemon will hold some sway, but people seem to forget about that fairly fast. I'm not even sure Eamon ever realized I'd fought the Archdemon."

Alistair swore he could feel the blood seep from his face. He'd never told Anora about Fiona. Not one mention. It wasn't because they hadn't reached a certain point of trust in the matter—they had. It was because he'd shoved aside and packed away all the feelings he had over the matter of Fiona's short, yet not insignificant involvement in his life, and her altogether too soon death.

"Fiona?" asked Anora, because of course she would pick right up on that because Alistair had to go marry a very intelligent spouse. "You mean the Grey Warden who died last year? What would she have to do with this?"

Líadan whirled around to look at Alistair. "You haven't told her?"

Andraste herself could not fail to see the irony in this, he thought.

Anora turned as well. "Told me what?"

He exchanged a look with Malcolm, who shrugged, and then proceeded to study his feet. Right, a very not helpful brother he had. Alistair scowled at him and then turned to Anora. "Fiona is Malcolm's mother." He fervently wished that Anora wouldn't leap to the next conclusion—that Fiona was also his mother—but he held no hope that she wouldn't. She was too sharp not to.

Anora studied Malcolm for a moment before leveling her penetrating gaze on Alistair. "She is your mother as well, I presume?"

Alistair hadn't outright lied to his wife, not yet. And judging from the past weeks, he couldn't afford to start, nor did he want to. "Yes."

She strode over to the window, saying nothing for what felt like a very long time. Without turning, she asked, "Who else knows of this?"

"Fergus," said Malcolm. "Wynne, Hildur, Oghren. Morrigan and Nathaniel, but they really don't count at this point."

"Eamon," said Alistair, when it became obvious that Malcolm didn't want to name him.

Anora crossed her arms, her hands tightly gripping her elbows. "It is dangerous for him to know."

"We're aware, but his knowledge was unavoidable." Mostly because Eamon was too damn good at snooping, but during the Blight, they hadn't been as aware of the extent of Eamon's political savvy.

"It gives him too much leverage, should he be pushed."

He didn't mention what she'd just said was the very reason why Eamon got away with what he did; she had probably figured that out already, and to tell her would be taken as an insult. So he sought to reassure as best he could. "As long as he has no other Theirin options aside from us, he won't reveal the information." They were mostly sure he wouldn't. Mostly. Eamon had to have limits, and they didn't want to find out the hard way what they were.

"The longer he holds onto it, the less a danger it becomes. You're becoming a very popular king, Alistair. A few more years and the people, including the nobility, won't care enough to dethrone you or worse. Now is the most critical time."

"He'd still have to find a Theirin to replace me, and Malcolm or Cáel don't count. They aren't far enough removed from the magic. We've looked for other bastards of Maric's, but have yet to find any."

"And clearly, the issue of the lack of heirs was a fault of Cailan's, so I suspect he never left any of his own behind." Anora turned and studied Alistair once more, the look on her face frighteningly inscrutable. "You are certain you have none of your own, Alistair?"

If he hadn't known her as well as he did, he would not have recognized the sheen of hurt in her eyes. "I'm certain. Aside from you, I've one been with one other woman, and she's dead."

Anora nodded. "I had to be sure. I..." she trailed off and looked at the other two people in the room. "Could you excuse us, please? I mean no offense, but—"

"I understand," said Líadan. The immediate relaxation of her limbs gave away her relief at being dismissed.

"Thank you. If the two of you could find Lady Vael and convene in the solar for tea and further planning? We should be along in perhaps half an hour, at most."

With an unnerving quiet, Malcolm and Líadan departed, leaving a gaping silence in the room behind them.

Alistair had no idea what to think. He was afraid. Honestly afraid that he'd inadvertently broken the forming bonds of his marriage simply because he'd avoided a single thought about a troubling memory of his own. He had been selfish, and now the consequences of his shortsightedness would come to pass.

He said nothing. He'd already not said enough, and speaking now would only make it worse. After some time, as Alistair began to think he could see the rift forming between them, the solid earth that had been the foundation of their delicate trust rocked by the quakes from his own faults, Anora spoke.

She spoke in a tone of voice he hadn't heard in years, one so controlled and careful and precise that he almost felt like he was back at the Landsmeet before the end of the Blight, when Anora had spoken out against her own father. It gave him a chill, and it wasn't because of the memory of Loghain.

"I will not betray you," she said. At Alistair's confused expression, she pursed her lips before she went on to explain. "I will not subvert the throne. To do so would destabilize Ferelden."

When she fell silent again, Alistair felt a response was demanded of him. "Yes, it would. That's what keeps Eamon in check." Though she'd said the words, that she wouldn't betray him—or did she merely mean Ferelden?—his fear had not abandoned him, wrapping tight iron bands around his chest.

She nodded. Then, after another long period of time, the fear constricting Alistair's chest causing him to think of the giant snakes in Seheron, Anora asked, "Do you not trust me?"

"What?" This wasn't what he'd expected. He'd expected anger, not whatever this was.

"Not in the beginning, of course, but... I had thought we had formed a certain level of trust between us. You had even confided in me some secrets of your Order, trusted me with those, and yet, in all this time, you have failed to mention your mother."

The control in her tone was so brittle that Alistair feared it would shatter. "I take it you'd like me to be honest?"

"If it would please you."

She was being a baffling mix of courteous and personal, and it confounded him, muddling up his thoughts even more. "Of course it would," he said, and then sighed. "Look, I just... it wasn't intentional. I just didn't want to think about it. Her. How she had been absent all my life because of who she was, who my father was, and circumstance. And then she was here, right here—well, not here in this room, but you get what I'm saying—and just as quickly, she was gone again, for good." The words, scraps and slips of emotion and thought that'd spent the past year lurking in a dusty corner of his preoccupied mind, stumbled and slid as Alistair vocalized them. He'd barely let himself think them, much less say them out loud. Thoughts became real, then.

His wife, however, deserved to hear them. As unrefined as they were, they were the truth.

"It was like..." He reached out, grabbing the first metaphor he could think of. "It was like someone had started to stitch up a wound, and things started feeling all right inside. Then someone else came along and ripped out the stitches, leaving it more torn and gaping than before. For those kinds of wounds, on the battlefield, you stuff them with rags and put pressure on them until either the bleeding stops or a healer comes by. So, that's what I did, because that's what I've always done. That's how I survived as a bastard stable boy in Redcliffe, life as a reluctant templar initiate in the Chantry, life as a Grey Warden during the Blight, and then after, when I had to become king when I'd always been told I never would be, and that I was never worthy of it." He took a steadying breath. "So there you go. That's why I never told you. Not because I didn't grow to trust you—because I did. Have." He winced. "I mean, I do. I trust you."

Anora's brows had furrowed ever so slightly between her eyes. They moved back and forth over his own, assessing him as he'd witnessed her do over many a meeting with various banns. Then she asked, "Her death was not... planned?"

Not a question he'd been expecting. "The Calling? No. It... it's hard to explain." He hesitated only long enough for him to realize it was no time to hesitate. In for a copper, in for a sovereign. "Short of it was she was cured of the taint either just before or just after I was born. They never figured out how, but she was. She remained at Weisshaupt until she came here, after the Blight, as an active Warden once more. When she went into the Deep Roads to investigate some rather creepy darkspawn things that you really, truly do not want to hear, even if you think you do, she was bitten and tainted again. The only cure, as you know, is to undertake the Joining and become a Grey Warden." He did his best to curtail the amount of strain in his voice, but knew he failed as much as he had with not getting upset at his brother earlier. The rising note of hysteria didn't help, either, but without the humor, he didn't have the will to confront the sadness left in its wake. "Turns out, people don't survive a second time. Who knew?" He shrugged for effect, mostly because it gave his body something to do.

"You assumed she would live through it?" Again with the neutral curiosity, nothing more, and nothing less. He wished it were either instead of none because it would hurt less than whatever this was.

"She'd survived one, so we all figured another wouldn't be a big deal. None of us were prepared for the other outcome like we usually are for Joinings." He'd gone into battle naked, exposed, and left the battlefield flayed alive, all of them had. They'd been casualties of a war they didn't know they were in until they'd been defeated. "I wasn't. I thought we would have had more time to... I don't know. Something. She couldn't be my mother, not really, but..." He had no idea how he could miss something so much when he'd never had it. How did his mind even know about having a mother? How did it know what empty shape a missing mother left behind? And yet, it did. "Some semblance of it was and would have been far better than nothing." He wanted every instant of those last moments with her back so he could stretch them out over the course of a lifetime, a lifetime where he'd had a mother. The want for it beckoned him, as comforting and warm as a well-worn quilt wrapped around him on a cold, drizzly morning.

And this was why he tried not to think about it, didn't think about it, because it was a want that could never, ever be filled. The woman who'd given birth to him had never been a mother to him; she was never given a chance. No other woman had stepped forward to take her place. Then when his birth mother had reappeared, he hadn't given himself or her the chance, and neither had she, both of them too cautious until it was too late. This want, the empty part of his very being, would always be there, a mother-shaped nothingness that would never be filled.

It was far easier not to think about it, but Anora didn't know, so he talked about it. "There've only been a few times I've thought about her since she died." Right in front of me, tumbling to the ground faster than Riordan could move to catch her, the Joining chalice hitting the altar at the same time as her head smacked against the floor. Líadan saying something must have gone wrong, and me, for once, saying nothing, the fear absolutely choking in its uncaring grip.

Later, Wynne said that Fiona had been dead before she'd even dropped the chalice. The news hadn't helped any of them cope; the lack of preparation had left them bare to a reality that ripped them raw at the chance.

"Were you ever tempted to return to Ferelden and take us back?"

"Every day."

"I thought about her when I found out about Cáel, when Malcolm told me about his new child with Líadan, and when..." He dropped his gaze to where his and Anora's child grew in the slight swelling of her middle.

Anora shifted her hand to rest on it, but she remained silent.

He didn't. "I thought it would have been nice for her to experience grandchildren in whatever way she could have—certainly more than she'd a chance at being our mother. Then I'd remember she was gone, none of us would have that chance, and I shoved more rags into the wound and put even more pressure on it." He shrugged again. "And that's why I never told you. So, I'm sorry if... I'm sorry if finding out my true heritage ruins it for you. Having a child, I mean. I know you've looked forward to it, and not just for the heir aspect, and to find out partway through that your child will carry blood you'd not known, or carry the potential for an ability that's akin to a curse... I can see how that could change happiness to dread or revulsion or something." It was only slightly less unbearable to speak of the possibility of Anora feeling disgust toward their child than it was to speak of what she must now feel concerning him. He'd known she was fond of him, at the very least, but he suspected that was no longer the case, and feared what it might have changed into.

Still, Anora's look was inscrutable. Then she stepped forward and lightly pressed her hand to his chest.

Alistair nearly stopped breathing right there, because he had no idea, none, of what she intended.

"If I could heal your wound, I would," she said. "Yet, my touch hasn't the ability, and my words... I am good with words." She nodded, more to herself than him, and the confidence showed. "Words have always come easily to me, so long as they are not of a heartfelt nature." Her confidence waned. "Those words, ones from the heart, of the heart, I am not so good with. To both my detriment and yours, it would seem. I had not needed them before. My mother said enough for both of us, my father simply understood what neither of us could speak, and with Cailan, they were never truly necessary." Her hand pressed a little more, coming into full contact with his doublet. Her eyes darted upward to his, and then returned to her hand. "I care for you, more than I had expected. It did not happen immediately, and yet it did happen. Once, if I had come into the knowledge of your true mother, I would have done with it exactly as you would have expected—taken it to the Landsmeet, had you deposed, and then exiled or executed."

He stiffened at hearing such a fate, one that haunted to this day, falling from her lips.

In answer, she took his hand in her free one, her grip light. Yet, for Anora, the simple action meant as much as another gripping a lover's hand tightly. "Once," she said. "That is no longer the case. I could not betray you now. I will not betray you. I care too much, and such a feeling cannot simply be revoked, no matter how convenient it would be at times. And, before you ask," she said, and then tugged his hand downward to rest on her abdomen, "it is not just because of our child. It was—is—something about you that I cannot identify that brings out these feelings within me."

Alistair's eyes slid from holding her gaze to look at their joined hands and what they curved over. "What about the elven blood? What about the magic?" He wasn't so idealistic to believe that everyone was as open and uncaring of it as he was. Anora had horizons slightly more expanded that a typical Andrastian's, but there were limits, especially where potential children and heirs were concerned.

"You are human. I am human. Our child will be human. That is all the Landsmeet need know. The extent of your elven blood, or our child's, is not of their concern. At one time, the elven would have bothered me, but that was before I knew you, and before I had elven friends. Regarding the magic... I cannot say. It does not disgust me, yet the possibility frightens me, especially if this child should be the only heir we have. Should she—or he—turn out to be a mage, I will care for her no less, just as I cannot with you."

He began to wonder if Anora meant 'love' when she said 'care.' Well, she had told him that words from the heart were hard for her. At this point, he'd take what he could get, and decided not to dwell on that aspect of the conversation. "You fear magic?" he asked.

"Not magic, and not mages in general, no. What I do fear is what my child might suffer should she become a mage. What Ferelden might suffer should she be a mage, especially if Cáel becomes one, as well. Yet, there is nothing that can be done for it now, so there is no point in dwelling on it."

"I'm sorry that I carry that trait, dormant as it is within me." He felt guilty for carrying it, and then felt guilty over that because it meant he resented Fiona, in a way. The magic was her legacy left to him.

"You need not apologize. It isn't your fault, and you needn't sully your mother's memory with blame."

Perhaps Anora did understand, to some degree, his struggles over his missing mother. He felt a little better, but not much. "Are we all right? I didn't screw this up to terribly, did I?"

"A certain amount of irritation does not undo the foundation we have made between us, Alistair," said Anora. "I must admit, I do feel somewhat better that it was not distrust that kept you from informing me. My irritation now lies largely with your brother."

"You want to hit him? I'll hold him down." What he really wanted to do was jump about the room in celebration that Anora wasn't mad at him, and then go beat up his brother. However, he didn't want Anora to get the wrong idea, so he kept it to himself.

Her lips curled the tiniest bit upward. "Perhaps one day I'll take you up on that offer, but not right now." She sighed and stepped away from Alistair to pace in a small circle. "I had honestly suspected they had done such a thing, especially when we found out that Keeper Lanaya's clan would be leaving Ferelden for an unknown, likely long, amount of time. They are both still impulsive enough, even given their recent maturity, and even I have to admit our problems with the Chantry make a daunting task of gaining approval from the Divine. And there was a certain aura of contentedness about them, even with all the turmoil." She stopped her pacing to look at him. "Did you truly not notice?"

He crossed his arms and did his best to appear knowledgable. "Well, now that you mention it... no. I didn't notice anything. Maybe it's a secret power of yours. I've heard queens have such things." When she didn't crack, he kept on. "Or maybe a pregnant lady thing? It's a thing, I know that much."

"I think..." Anora stared at the closed door, and Alistair would have sworn to Andraste he saw her lips twitch. "I think we should find Malcolm, Líadan, and Lady Vael to discuss what we need do."

Mostly in agreement with Anora's suggestion, Alistair opened the door and motioned her through. "All right, but I still think our best course would be for me or you to hit him until he agrees never to do such a thing ever again."

"The thought is tempting enough."

"And here I thought you were the civilized one."

She laughed—actually laughed—and threaded her arm through the crook of his elbow as they walked to the solar.

When Alistair and Anora entered the solar, Malcolm, Líadan, and Meghan Vael were in the midst of conversation.

"The Chantry in Kirkwall can grant him protection they won't grant me unless I endeavor to become an affirmed—" Meghan stopped and stood at the quiet entrance of the King and Queen.

Anora waved off the gesture. "Please, continue what you were saying. I admit, I've been curious about why you couldn't remain in Kirkwall like your brother has."

Meghan nodded and returned to her chair. "Varric made some discreet inquiries about the possibility of my remaining in Kirkwall, under the Chantry's protection. Because they still have yet to recant their position on my being dead—which will take even longer now with the installation of a new Divine—their condition was that I become an affirmed sister. That condition was unacceptable to me, and Varric couldn't assure my protection in Kirkwall without the aid of the Chantry's massive influence there. His companions agreed with his assessment and sent me here. I asked them not to inform Sebastian that I was alive, because then he would feel compelled to leave the Chantry and come after me, which would put him in danger, as well." She paused and twisted her fingers in her lap. "Though my life is far less in danger here, the situation is far from ideal, I've come to discover."

"Eamon should treat his guests better. As in, not kick them out," said Malcolm.

Anora slightly quirked her eyebrow at Meghan. "Arl Eamon revoked your status as his guest?"

"I did not agree with his idea that I become betrothed to Malcolm," she replied. "Considering he is already wed, I did not think it wrong to decline."

Líadan nodded, and no resentment appeared in her expression until she looked elsewhere and swore under her breath in Elvish. Alistair caught 'Eamon' once or twice, and it didn't take much imagination to know at whom her anger was directed.

"Eamon thinks the marriage is invalid," said Anora. "It very well could be. We are not sure, because the situation is unique. Either way, the Landsmeet has to agree to let it stand, and that is only if the Chantry sees it as valid in the first place."

"It would be in the Free Marches," said Meghan. "Grand Cleric Elthina declared Dalish bondings to be recognized by the Chantry some years ago. Since I am from the Free Marches, I am beholden to that statute."

Alistair walked over to the window, rubbing at his chin as he did. "I still think it would be best if we kept you out of Eamon's sight for as long as possible. It won't make him forget, but it will put the notion of haste out of his head. He'll have to come around to that, anyway. The Bannorn really can't afford another early Landsmeet. The winter Landsmeet is at the end of winter for a reason—travel isn't the safest until then. We will have to put this before them, make no mistake, but it will have to wait. I don't intend to have the Seekers here for it, either."

"To bad we can't kick them out," said Malcolm.

Alistair sighed as he turned to respond to his brother. "Look, if we keep cooperating, maybe the Divine won't declare an Exalted March on us for kicking out her templars. Cooperation is pretty much our last chance." He didn't like the serious nature of the conversation, nor did his relish the idea of going against the wishes of his brother and sister-in-law, but he'd come to understand the necessities of what his country required of him and those close to him to do things they'd rather not. He kept his expression grave when he looked at Malcolm again. "And we'll need the Divine's good graces to get the dispensation. If we can get the Bannorn to agree to let your marriage stand—which is what we're pushing for—they'll want something officiated by the Chantry."

Malcolm's face remained neutral, but Líadan did nothing to hide her scowl.

"You take exception?" asked Anora. The queen did not sound angry; she sounded expectant, for she knew her friend well.

Líadan sat back and crossed her arms over her rounded belly. "Of course I do."

"Consider it a favor?" asked Alistair. "I didn't get to see you bond. I'd at least like to see your pretend-for-the-Chantry-and-Landsmeet wedding." For good measure, he mustered the best pitiful eyes he could.

She didn't outright reject his request, which he took as a good sign. She met his gaze for a moment before breaking off to look about the room, her fingers idly scratching at her forearm. Then she heaved a mighty sigh and looked at Alistair. "All right."

Malcolm snapped his head around toward her, his mouth slightly open in astonishment. "You agree to it for him, and kept refusing Hildur when she suggested it?"

She lifted her hands in a gesture of helplessness. "What? Hildur doesn't have the eyes! You saw how he looked at me. How could I turn that down? It'd be like yelling at a halla."

"Kicking a puppy, I would say," said Meghan, and showed the first hint of humor Alistair had witnessed in the princess. "I would suggest His Majesty employ that look in trade or peace negotiations in the future."

"If it would truly work, I would encourage it in an instant," said Anora. Then she turned to Líadan. "Thank you." More waited behind her eyes, but with a guest among them—one only newly trusted—Anora kept whatever else she had to say to herself.

Alistair clapped his hands together and looked at Malcolm. "So, how do you think Fergus would feel about a guest?"

"He likes guests," Malcolm said, drawing out the reply to sound like a question.

Alistair nodded. "Excellent. Then if Lady Vael is amenable to the idea, I'll have a contingent of my guards take her to Highever's estate as can be arranged with the teyrn."

Meghan began to nod, and then hesitated, doubt clouding her features.

"Teyrn Cousland is very nice, has good manners, isn't a lout, and won't kick you out for disagreeing with him," said Malcolm. "Highever is also by the sea, if he's able to get out of the city."

She finished her nod. "If the teyrn agrees, so will I."

"I'll speak with him later and make the arrangements," said Alistair.

Malcolm stood, looking as if he'd had enough pushing of boundaries for the day. "If that's all," he said, "we've got training to attend and oversee at the compound."

Oh, training. Alistair jumped at the opening. "I believe I'll go with you. Wouldn't want me to become rusty as a Warden."

Líadan shot him a glance that said she didn't believe him for an instant. Malcolm's look was wary, but he agreed. When they got to the compound, Líadan went to resume her research, and Malcolm set off to organize the recruits while Alistair waited in the yard. It was a nice enough day for it, chilly but he'd warm up once he started sparring. Oghren wandered out the door from the building and joined Alistair, but said nothing at first. After a few minutes of them both leaning against the fence and draped in a comfortable silence, Oghren dug a flask of ale from his pocket—Alistair hoped it was his pocket—and offered it to Alistair.

He accepted it and took a slug, wincing when he realized it was dwarven ale.

"You heard?" asked Oghren. "About the blighter and the elf?"

"Yeah."

"They didn't tell you, either?"

"Nope."

Oghren nodded. "I know why they didn't tell me, even though I know they trust me with their lives." He indicated the flask Alistair held before taking it back and studying it. "This is sodding why. Get enough in me and I can't keep a secret worth a nug's fart. Knowing that's harder to swallow than the cheap swill at Tapsters."

"Isn't that the one they make from moss and bronto droppings?"

"Aye."

"That's pretty bad."

"Yep." Oghren took another sip, and then offered the flask to Alistair again. "Another?"

"Please." It made Alistair's eyes tear up when he took a sip, but he didn't mind.

"Only thing that keeps me from spilling Warden secrets is I drink to forget 'em."

"I thought you drank to forget Branka?"

"She's tied up in all that Warden stuff, seeing how we found her."

"Ah." Maker's breath, but Oghren had issues Alistair hadn't even really thought about. He'd always assumed Oghren just... went with things. Instead, he buried them like the rest of them did, and then poured ale over the dirt.

"Yep. At least them not telling you wasn't self-inflicted. Be glad for that." Oghren took his flask back and tucked it away. "You going to beat him up?"

"Absolutely." The mere prospect of teaching his brother a lesson brightened Alistair's outlook. He grinned down at his friend. "Want in?"

Oghren returned the grin. "I'd be delighted."