Chapter 52: A Restless Night

Flora blinked down at Alistair as he balanced precariously on the ledge below, utterly astonished. Somewhere in the night-shrouded courtyard, the bell rang for the tenth hour; the sound echoing between the crumbling stone walls.

"You're turning into Zevran," she breathed after a moment, leaning out of the window to stare down at him. "What are you doing?"

"I wanted to come and see my bride," Alistair replied, taking hold of the balcony edge and using strong thighs to propel himself upwards. "Guillaume told me where you were staying. I've never been in this bit of the palace before!"

"Be careful," Flora said in alarm, aware that her long-limbed, broad-shouldered companion was not the most graceful being in Thedas. "Don't slip."

"I'm not going to slip – oh, shit – well, I'm probably not going to slip."

Now successfully perched on the balcony, Alistair grinned winningly up at her; the torch-lit exterior of the Royal Palace serving as a suitably dramatic backdrop.

"My love! No tradition can stop me from seeing you. If they catch us, I'll just plead ignorance due to my upbringing in Arl Eamon's stables."

"I thought you were the ghost of the Rebel Queen," Flora replied, leaning further out of the window as he reached up; one large, sword-calloused hand cupping the side of her cheek.

"Ah, Granny Moira," the king murmured distractedly, his thumb now tracing the planes and angles of her solemn face. "Sorry if I scared you. I just wanted to come and get my goodnight kiss. Or… I won't sleep well, and then I'll forget when to raise the sword during the coronation ceremony tomorrow, and Leliana might actually kill me."

Flora smiled down at him, strands of hair pulling loose from her braid and falling down beside her ears. Alistair gazed back up at her, the green flecks in his hazel irises standing out stark in the moonlight.

"By the Maker, you're so beautiful," he said unsteadily a moment later, shaking his head slowly. "You take my breath away, darling."

Immediately afterwards, his eyes widened in alarm as Flora hoisted the nightgown up around her thighs and swung her leg over the windowsill; his arms shooting upwards to steady her as she clambered out onto the balcony. This accomplished, she beamed in triumph, hair askew and nightgown half slipping from her shoulder.

"Ha! Haha."

A slightly traumatised Alistair drew her into his arms, making sure that she was safely positioned on the interior of the balcony. The beam slid away as Flora turned her face up to him; the metallic mote on her iris like a stray golden fleck from a painter's brush.

After a moment, the king's stare dropped from Flora's eyes to her full Cousland mouth, fascinated by the natural sulkiness found in its solemn curve. Wanting suddenly to see those lips part and shape his name, he bowed his head and pressed his mouth against hers. While his tongue worked busily alongside her own, one hand was already reaching to draw her nightgown up around her hips. Alistair's mouth made its way lower to caress her throat, lips suckling a series of gentle kisses into the creamy skin. Flora's thighs wrapped readily around his waist as he braced her against the wall, his own breeches partway down his thighs. She pressed her face into his shoulder, wide-eyed, not quite able to muffle her little noises of pleasure.

The moon gazed benevolently down from above; a pallid wash of nocturnal light illuminating both lofty balcony and the figures moving together upon it. As the king's thumb worked in conjunction with slow rolls of his pelvis, he felt his lover tense, a half-strangled plea escaping her lips.

"Say my name, baby," he instructed thickly with the Theirin dominance of his father, increasing the speed of his thumb.

Sure enough, moments later his name escaped Flora's throat in a desperate half-moan, her thighs clamping vice-like around his waist. Alistair held her through the shuddering climax, pressing tender kisses to her bared breasts.

As soon as the post-coital haze cleared from her mind, Flora blinked up at him in slight perplexion.

"You didn't…?"

"No, sweetheart."

She looked about the cramped balcony, wondering if there was space for her to sink to her knees. Reading her intentions clear on her face, Alistair almost gave into temptation. One hand hovered above Flora's shoulder, then drew back; the king forcing himself to resist.

"I'm going to save myself for the wedding night," he said, and then stifled a laugh, realising that he sounded like some blushing maid. "Maker knows I'll need all the help I can get, in the company of a wizened old crone from the Chantry and some fellow from the Landsmeet whom I'll never be able to look in the eye again."

Flora was unable to stop herself from cackling as he lowered her gently to the tiles. Alistair shot his best friend a faintly malevolent look, and then broke into a rueful laugh.

"I suppose we'll look back at this in years to come and laugh," he murmured, bowing to press a kiss against her forehead. "I'd better leave you to get your rest now, darling. It's going to be a long one tomorrow."

Alistair kissed her on the end of the nose and then once more on the mouth, fingers reluctant to release the folds of her nightgown. Only when Flora appeared ready to clamber back through the window unaided did he stop his affections; lifting her gently up onto the sill in strong arms.

"There we go," he murmured, manoeuvring each of Flora's feet back over the stone ledge. "Back to bed, and the bard will be none the wiser. See you at the altar, baby."

With a final kiss on the lips, the king was navigating his way across the rooftop, one hand on the wall to steady himself. His mistress, her face wistful, watched Alistair's progress until he disappeared into the shadows; presumably ducking inside another opened window.

Flora drew the shutters quietly behind her, and then turned back into the shadowed chamber that had once belonged to Ferelden's most revered queen. Leliana was still motionless in bed, facing the door with the blankets pulled up to her chin.

Creeping across the tiles, Flora slid back into bed alongside her; letting out a little grunt as the baby swung a foot into her kidney.

Don't you start, she thought sternly to her abdomen, tugging her nightgown back down over her knees. The next moment, she almost fell out of bed in terror as Leliana rolled over; raising her eye-mask to unleash a glower of epic proportion.

"Ma petite, the purpose of you sleeping in this chamber was to keep Alistair from seeing his bride until you come face to face in the Grand Chantry tomorrow. A purpose defeated if you allow him to illicitly grope you on balconies. You wanton little minx!"

"Yes… grope… that's all," said Flora hastily, worried that Leliana might have a minor heart attack if she discovered the full truth. "Sorry. It's the Herring girl in me. Shameless."

The bard let out a typically Orlesian sigh, plumping up the cushions before sinking back into them and replacing the eye mask. Flora eyed Leliana for a moment, then leaned over on her elbow and kissed her on the cheek.

"Lovely Leliana," she whispered, wistfully. "You're so clever. I wish we could keep you here forever with us. But I know you're going to be in demand all over Thedas."

"Ah, ma crevette!" The bard let out a soft laugh, her voice distant. "You are too kind. Do you really think that the Maker has some plan in store for me?"

"Definitely," Flora replied, immediately and without a shred of doubt. "There's lots of great things coming up in your future."

"Do you really believe so, ma petite?"

"Yes, of course!"

Leliana smiled at the young Cousland through the shadows, their faces resting a short distance apart on the embroidered cushions.

"I hope you're right, fleur. I am not yet ready to retire from His service."

A murmured prayer later and the bard was soon fast asleep, the eye mask firmly back over the upper half of her face. Flora rolled over, unable to get comfortable; the baby was digging itself into the base of her spine. Wishing that Alistair was there – his muscled chest was more comfortable to sprawl against than any mattress – she spent the next half-candle gazing gormlessly into the flickering hearth. A pair of servants entered a short time later, creeping across the flagstones with the breath suspended in their throats in an effort to be silent. They restocked the fire with new logs, sneaking out with equal care.

As the first layer of these fresh logs burned away, sleep continued to elude Flora. She turned impatiently from one side to another, until the furs tangled between her legs and she shoved them to the foot of the bed.

Finally, Flora clambered to her feet and went to the dresser, in the off-chance it would have some meagre contents. Sure enough, it contained a thick woollen dressing robe in an alarming shade of mustard. Pushing her arms through the sleeves, Flora shuffled across the flagstones and nudged the door open, inhaling the scent of mildew from the corridor. Immediately, the two guards posted at the entrance shifted their pikes from hand to hand to acknowledge her presence.

"Lady Florence," offered a Highever retainer, his loyalty recognisable from the navy livery he wore. "Is all well?"

"I'm fine," she replied, edging her way between them with a hand on her stomach. "I need to wait for baby to sleep before I can sleep."

Without any clear idea where she was going, Flora wandered barefoot down the corridor. Although Leliana had complained vociferously about the dampness, Flora had found it oddly comforting – almost reminiscent of Herring. The cold flagstones beneath her feet reminded her of the craggy rock protrusion that her home village was built upon. In the deceptive darkness, with the occasional call of a seagull drifting in through the arrow-slit windows; she could nearly imagine herself back home.

Except the air is too still for it to be the north coast, she thought idly to herself, continuing to wander without purpose. The air is placid and peaceful here, it drifts about aimlessly. On the north coast, it rages – whips itself into a frenzy and harasses the waves, pulls loose fishing nets and blows banks of sand up against the buildings.

By now Flora had emerged into a part of the palace that she recognised – the lofty minstrel's gallery that overlooked the great hall. Everything had been set up in preparation for tomorrow's wedding feast – empty plates laid with tankards nearby, unlit candelabras set at regular intervals. The tables were decorated with elaborate strands of woven laurel and crimson ribbons; a stage for additional musicians had been set up at one end of the hall. At the far table – which was raised on a low stone platform – two large wooden thrones stood side by side. They were decorated with laurel and ivy, crimson skeins of ribbon wound about their ornately carved arms.

After gazing down at the empty chairs in slight awe – there must have been at least three hundred placed there in preparation – Flora left the minstrel's gallery. She traversed a long passage lined with sculptures of figures from Andrastrian legend. Andraste stood at their head, her granite eyes staring sightless and accusatory across at Maferath, enclosed in an opposite alcove. Flora felt a little sorry for the prophetess, forced to gaze at her treacherous husband for all eternity.

The corridor branched into a torch-lit passageway that ran from east to west. Flora glanced from one side to the other; her eyes settling on a pair of guards clad in forest green livery stationed outside a nearby doorway. As she approached, the familiar portcullis emblem of South Reach came into view. Leonas did not usually stay within the palace, and Flora assumed that he must have relocated due to the coronation.

"Evenin', Lady Cousland," offered one of the guards, whom she remembered from Leonas' seat. He had often been posted outside the Wardens' chamber – and had thus been one of the first to suspect that the young redheaded Warden might be with child; having brought her water on more than one occasion after she had been sick.

"Hullo, Iain," replied Flora, summoning his name from the depths of her memory as she saw candlelight gleaming beneath the arl's door. "Is Arl Leonas still awake?"

The guard nodded, stepping forward to open the door as she advanced. The quarters lying beyond were plain and unremarkable, with cream-plastered walls and dark wooden beams running the length of the ceiling. A four poster bed stood in one corner, the blankets and furs untouched.

In the opposite corner, Leonas Bryland was sitting at a desk; pouring over a sheaf of papers by the light of several candles and the smouldering hearth. He was fully dressed, a quill clutched awkwardly in his maimed hand and a frown of concentration embedded across his forehead. A half-drunk bottle of ale rested at the corner of the desk, precariously close to the edge.

As Flora wandered in, the arl glanced up; one eyebrow rising at the lurid mustard wool of her dressing-gown.

"Something wrong?" he enquired with the usual rough brusqueness, making as though to stand.

"No, I'm fine," Flora replied vaguely, shuffling across to the desk and nudging the bottle away from the edge. "What are you doing?"

Leonas glanced down at the papers spread across the desk, each sheet covered with tightly-packed words and figures.

"Correspondence with the South Reach restoration committee," he replied, the corner of his mouth curling upwards wryly. "Doing some initial valuation. Everything costs twice as much as it did before the damned Blight."

Flora nodded, shifting from foot to foot. Leonas glanced at his old friend's daughter for a moment but did not raise any query; knowing that she would speak when ready.

"Can I help you?" she asked instead, eyeing the papers.

Leonas gave a small grunt of affirmation, handing her several sheets of parchment and an ink-pen.

"You can read figures well enough, eh?" he sought to confirm, fully aware of Flora's limited literacy. "Numbers?"

"Mm."

"Well, whenever you see any numbers – underline them."

Flora nodded, taking the papers and pen over to a nearby armchair. Tucking her feet beneath her, she rested the papers on top of her stomach and began to pour through them.

They continued in such manner without talking for a half-candle, Leonas scribing lines of text in his neat, efficient hand while Flora dutifully underlined every instance of sum and cost. The hearth hissed and spat gently in its stone confines; from somewhere outside the tower, a seagull issued a harsh summons to its mate.

Eventually, Leonas put down his quill and poured himself an ale from the precarious bottle. Without speaking, he retrieved a second tankard and poured a drink for Flora; knowing that she found the taste unpleasant, he added a large dollop of water from a nearby jug.

"Thank you," she mumbled, putting down the ink-pen and taking the tankard.

The general let out a grunt of acknowledgment. Flora took several large and unladylike gulps, then eyed the arl over the tankard's metal rim.

"Arl Leonas?"

"'Lady Florence,'" he replied with equal solemnity, putting down his tankard and turning in the chair to face her.

"What do you think… my parents would have thought about all this? Me marrying Alistair?"

Ah, thought Leonas to himself, here's the reason.

"Well, Bryce always planned for you to marry into the Theirins," he replied measuredly, dark Bryland eyes meeting hers without wavering. "So I'd imagine he'd be pleased, though he was never one for fuss and bother."

"He wasn't?" Flora perked up a little.

Leonas snorted, shaking his head. "He had simple tastes. He might've lived in a castle, lass, but he was still a northerner."

"By that measure, so is Finian," Flora countered, and the arl gave a snort of acknowledgement; aware of the Orlesian-educated Cousland's love of ornamentation.

"Aye, you're right."

"What about my mother?"

"I think she'd be happy that you were marrying for love, rather than for political gain," Leonas said, coughing to hide the uncharacteristic sentimentality of his words. "She chose freely to marry Bryce, and I don't think the betrothal of you and Cailen as children sat well with her."

Flora rolled her eyes, the concept of binding one infant to another for political purpose utterly foreign to her.

"I love Alistair more than anything," she said gravely, as Leonas tried not to laugh at this statement of the obvious. "I'm doing all this for him. This big, fancy… show. Me being queen will make him a stronger king, won't it?"

Leonas grunted once more in confirmation, eyeing Flora over the rim of his tankard. She was sitting cross-legged on the chair, stomach resting neatly within the cradle of her thighs, her face no less solemn in profile. The grubbiness of the bare feet, the ugly mustard dressing robe and the general dishevelment of her hair could not disguise the keen beauty of her classically Fereldan features.

"Aye," he replied, bluntly. "It'll strengthen his throne. Marrying a Cousland will win the north to his cause, and they've always been the most troublesome region- "

"Ha!"

" – and you're the ender of the Fifth Blight, slayer of the Archdemon."

The arl smiled wryly, replacing the tankard on the tray.

"Young, bonny, and the first royal baby for two decades lies snug in your belly. You're a valuable asset, Florence."

Flora wrinkled her nose; she did not like this attempt to quantify her worth. Still, Leonas' words rang true enough, and she bit thoughtfully at the wooden end of the ink-pen.

There was silence for a moment, the fire hissing as it belched gouts of sparks up the chimney breast. Outside, quiet voices murmured to one another as the guard changed watch.

"Are you nervous about tomorrow?" Leonas asked eventually, screwing the lid back onto the pot of Antivan ink. "Half of Thedas is going to be in that Chantry."

Flora tilted her face towards him, pale eyes aloof and ambiguous as sea-water.

"No," she replied, honestly. "I'm not nervous."

There are places I've walked and things I've done that are far more intimidating.

Leonas let out a hoarse laugh, sliding the ink-pot across the wooden surface of the desk until it rested beside its counterparts.

"Well, you let me know if there's anything I can do to make tomorrow easier," he said after a moment, the humour sliding abruptly from his face. "I mean it, Florence. You tell me, and I'll deal with it."

"Thank you."

"Bryce would be outraged if he thought that his daughter was anything less than perfectly happy on her wedding day. Since he isn't here, I feel an obligation to… well."

Flora glanced sideways at the arl as he coughed, uncomfortable but genuine in his offer. Privately, she wasn't sure of the accuracy of his words – her father, far from being concerned for his daughter's wellbeing, had sent her away to a remote village and severed all association – but she appreciated Leonas' offer nonetheless.

"Thank you," she repeated solemnly, then smiled at him. "I'm very grateful for everything you've done. You've always looked out for me, ever since South Reach."

Leonas let out a little embarrassed grunt. Flora heaved herself to her feet, ducking down to kiss him on the cheek on her way to the door.

"See you in the morning, Arl Leonas."

"Goodnight, pet."


OOC Author Note: OK I thought it was about time for the sequel to have an interestingly-located smut scene, since the Lion and the Light saw them getting down in stables, up trees, on demonic altars in abandoned mage towers… So I thought I would include a brief acrobatic balcony shag before the wedding. Acrobatic shag – ACROSHAG – I'll show myself out, lol. Actually, Acroshag would be an amazing chapter title!

Ten points for anyone who can work out the reference in the second part of this chapter – Flora underlining stuff on important documents for Arl Leonas, her noble father-figure. It's a nod to one of my favourite classics 90s films, starring Alicia Silverstone (literally no one will get this. And it's not Batman ahahaha)

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!