Three hundred miles east of Skyhold, a marginally more intact Denerim Castle sprawled over a rocky outcrop overlooking the Fereldan capital. It was positioned so that it could survey the wide-mouthed river estuary that led out to the ocean, as well as the rolling grasslands of the Alamarri Plains. Akin to Skyhold, it was a structure built primarily for defence; a brutal, stone-walled cousin of the elegant architecture favoured by the Orlesians.
Denerim itself, lulled into security by many peaceful years, had expanded beyond the confines of the city walls. Now half of the grassland – once the site of the last stand against the Darkspawn forces – had been built upon; a marketplace surrounded by a warren of tightly packed dwellings. The spire of new Chantry rose triumphant amongst the shingled rooftops.
A decade had passed since the defeat of the Archdemon, harbinger of the Fifth Blight. The scars once luridly left on the city were fading; the walls had been rebuilt, Fort Drakon restored. The battlefield was now a bustling new district; the harbour thrived with ships from the furthest corners of Thedas. The troubles in the west of the nation – the outbreak of violence between mages and Templars – had not yet touched the nation's capital. Up until the past year, Ferelden had seemed extraordinarily fortunate; harvests had been bounteous, and they had escaped the outbreak of plague that killed thousands in the Marches. The towns destroyed by the Darkspawn – South Reach, Honnleath and Gwaren – had been resettled, thanks to their respective restoration committees. Even land tainted by the Blight had begun to put forth the first tentative sprouts of new growth.
Most Fereldans attributed this good fortune to a blessing from the Maker, His favour reflected by the queen's remarkable fertility. Every two years without fail, celebrations were held across the land rejoicing in an addition to the royal nursery. The young Theirin, who grew to resemble his father more with each passing year, was popular amongst the people for his earnestness and good humour. His queen – known as the Flower of Ferelden – was equally beloved, having once wielded a power great enough to slay a dragon. Now, a mage no longer, Florence Cousland was renowned for her beauty, and for the ripe fecundity of her belly. Eight children – one adopted, but counted as an equal in all ways – guaranteed the security of the Theirin dynasty.
Just as the lady Montilyet sat down at her desk to read of the royal family's impending arrival, the king of Ferelden finally finished kissing his wife. The midnight bell had just been rung to signify the change in watch. The night stewards yawned and exchanged idle conversation; the Royal Guard stood ever-vigilant in the corridor lined with portraits of previous monarchs. The royal bedchamber itself – a stark and high-ceilinged room dominated by a vast, fur-strewn bed and equally impressive fireplace – was located between the Cousland quarters, and the former Mac Tir rooms; now the royal nursery.
Amidst the sprawl of furs and embroidered blankets, the king raised himself on his elbows and gazed down at his wife of almost a decade. She was smiling back up at him, the corners of her full mouth reddened from being too ardently kissed, her pale eyes reflecting the flickering warmth of the hearth. Rich, oxblood ropes of hair flowed across the cushions, like streams of spilt Antivan wine.
"My sweet wife," Alistair Theirin breathed, his voice hoarse from their recent exertions. "Do you know, I'd swear to the Maker that you were still a mage?"
"Eh?" replied his sweet wife, with her customary northern eloquence. Despite ten years spent as a Cousland and perched on the throne of a nation, Flora's own speech was still irrevocably shaped by her humble upbringing; a fact that never failed to astonish visiting ambassadors and diplomats.
"Because, my queen," he replied, admiring the high, sculpted arc of her cheekbone. "There's no other explanation as to how you grow more beautiful every day. It must be magic."
Flora smiled shyly up at her husband, reaching to stroke the side of his bearded cheek. The sentiment was tinged with a streak of wistfulness; it had been ten years since her spirits had been purged from her, and the raw edge of grief had faded into a soft, blurred melancholy that struck her when she least expected it.
"You're more handsomer with each day that goes by," she began, and then paused; uncertain of her own grammar. "More handsomest. The most handsomest barracuda in the sea."
"Barracuda?"
Alistair pressed his lips to her neck with a little growl, inhaling the sweet, pear-scent of the soap that she washed her hair with. She giggled, squirming weak-limbed amongst the furs; lazy and sleepy and sated.
"You know what I mean, husband."
The king eased himself out of his beloved wife with a reluctant groan, rolling over and bringing her with him. Flora propped herself up and peered down at him, their previous positions now reversed. The broad muscle of her husband's chest had not diminished with a decade of peace. Old habits died hard, and he still spent two hours a day practising the Templar drills against an instructor, whose sole job it was to keep the king battle-ready. At thirty one, Alistair Theirin had grown into a likeness of Maric so uncanny that it never failed to draw remark. One minor reason that he had grown the neatly-trimmed, coppery beard was to distinguish himself from his father, who had kept a clean-shaven face.
Yet the main reason for Alistair's facial hair was that his wife liked it; it reminded her of Herring, and of the men who hauled in the boats there. Sprawled contentedly on top of his broad chest, Flora reached up to cradle her husband's cheek in her hand, tracing the line of his furred jaw with her thumb.
"How long will it take to get to Skyhold?" she asked, interspersing her words with a yawn. "As the fish swims."
Alistair stifled a laugh, interlocking his fingers across the small of his wife's slender, scar-mottled back.
"I'm not sure about as the fish swims, my love, but as the crow flies, it's about three hundred miles. The road is good, but we won't be able to travel as fast as a messenger on horseback."
Flora nodded solemnly: with eight children, sometimes even the journey between castle and city could take an Age.
"Taron, Ted and Kieran will be fine," Alistair continued, thinking on their eldest; who were now approaching a decade in age. "In fact, they'll probably go too fast. They'll be in Redcliffe before we've even reached South Reach."
The parents beamed at one another, proud of their eldest clutch of offspring. As befitted the children of royalty, the three siblings had learnt to ride almost at the same time as they had begun to walk. All three had been in the saddle from the age of two, riding full-sized steeds by the time they were five. They possessed Alistair's affinity for horses; while the queen still shared a saddle with the king.
Beside the fire, one of the Mabari – Cod, from the look of her tawny fur – stirred. She raised her head, noting the change of guard outside the door, then lowered her muzzle to her paws once again.
Flora let her finger drop to Alistair's chest, following the contours of muscle and bone that she knew as intimately as her own body. One by one, she traced the old scars – predecessors of her arrival into his life – with an absent-minded fingertip.
Should I bring it up? she wondered, having never lost the childhood habit of speaking to her spirits. The former mage had never quite abandoned the hope that, one day, her Silver Knight and Golden Lady might answer her once again.
…
After a pause, it became clear that tonight was not the night for a response.
I'm going to bring it up. He's all contented and happy from us lying together; he won't be too cross.
"Are – are we going to visit Haven after we leave Redcliffe?" Flora ventured. "I looked at a map. It's on the way to Skyhold."
Immediately, the lazy post-coital haze dissolved from her husband's face. His olive brow creased, his eyes widened and then narrowed in dismay.
Visiting Haven, meant visiting the Temple of Sacred Ashes. The place destroyed during the Divine's conclave. The place where – if circumstance had gone any differently –
Just as Alistair opened his mouth, an unhappy wail rose from the nearby cradle. All three Mabari beside the fireplace raised their heads, ears pricking. Identifying the cry as a demand for food – rather than fear or a need for comfort – they settled back down. Flora took the cries as an excuse to wriggle free from her husband's indignant stare; extricating herself from the furs and escaping the royal bed. Crossing the flagstones and grimacing at their coldness, she reached down into the wooden crib to retrieve their youngest.
"Gwyndolen," she whispered, lifting the year-old baby into her arms. "Wynnie. Are you hungry?"
The fat, chubby-thighed princess clung to her mother and yowled, suggesting that she was indeed hungry. Flora carried her over to the chair before the hearth, perching on the armrest. Tilting her head so that ropes of loose hair fell away from her breast, she leaned back as the baby fixed herself hungrily to the nipple.
The king raised himself up against the pillows so that he could gain a better view of his wife and youngest child, their bodies silhouetted against the flames. Wynnie was quiet now, her golden-curled head resting against her mother's shoulder as she focused on her meal. The fat baby seemed almost too heavy for the queen's slender frame to bear; narrow-hipped and slight in build. The robust fullness of Flora's hair, falling in a red-wine stream down to her buttocks, only emphasised the contrasting delicacy of her body.
Unprompted and unwelcome, the familiar fear flooded the king's mouth once more. He tasted a bitter tang of bile as he swallowed back dread. Ever since Flora had lost the only two magical abilities she had ever possessed – remarkable healing, and a shield through which nothing had been able to penetrate – he had borne an irrational fear for her safety. After her subsequent ordeal at the hands of a band of Carta dwarves, he had sworn never to let her leave his sight. True to his word, the king and queen were rarely seen apart – and even then, never more than the distance between chamber and courtyard.
Vulnerable thought the king feverishly, for the thousandth time in a decade. My precious, defenceless wife.
When the Divine had proposed a summit between the rogue Templars and the mages, to be held on the neutral ground of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, Flora had volunteered to attend the Conclave. As both a former mage and current queen, she believed herself to be a powerful advocate for reconciliation – and she had always taken an interest in the wellbeing of the Circles. It had broken the queen's heart to see such bloodshed on Fereldan soil, and she was desperate to play some role in bringing about peace.
Alistair – at first – had flat-out refused; his heart clenching in terror at the thought of his wife travelling hundreds of miles through a war zone, surrounded by enemies held only to a tentative truce. After weeks of persuasion, and the assurance that Leonas Bryland would personally accompany her with a whole host of the Royal Army, the king had finally, reluctantly given in. The night before Flora and her retinue were meant to leave; the infant Gwyndolen had woken with a flushed face and skin that was hot to the touch. The queen immediately delayed her journey and stayed in Denerim to nurse her sick daughter back to full strength; a process which had taken almost a month.
And during that time, the king recalled, dizzy with horror. The Conclave exploded, the sky tore itself open and demons began to rain down on the mountains.
If circumstances had been but a little different – my Flora would have been destroyed along with the Divine and hundreds of others. I would have lost my sweet wife, the mother of my children, the adored queen of my country. My best friend, my sister-warden.
Thrusting aside the wolfskin, Alistair rose to his feet, wanting suddenly to take Flora in his arms and feel the warmth of her flesh, the solidness of her bones against his. He strode across the flagstones, pausing briefly to scratch Barkspawn's enquiring head, then lowered himself to the armchair. A moment later and he had drawn his naked wife down onto his bare thighs, encasing both Flora and the feeding baby within strong arms.
"We can't go to Haven, Flo," he said softly into his wife's hair, inhaling the comforting scent of her. "There's nothing left of the Temple now, only ruins. And the occasional demon. I won't have you – or our children – put at unnecessary risk. Why do you even want to go there, anyway?"
Flora let her head rest back against his shoulder, lulled into the odd, peaceful drowsiness that accompanied an infant's suckling.
"I don't know," she whispered, watching the fire contort itself into strange shapes in the hearth. "To see it with my own eyes, I suppose."
Alistair let out a heavy sigh, running a thumb along the plump underside of Wynnie's foot until she shot him a malevolent stare; not appreciating the distraction from her feeding. It was a stare worthy of her namesake, who had passed away the previous year.
"I can't believe all this is happening again," he said after a moment, wry humour mixed with genuine sadness. "I truly thought that Ferelden would be left in peace after the Blight. Why do these things keep happening to us, baby? It doesn't seem fair."
Although it had been a rhetorical question, Flora tilted her head and gave it some genuine thought. The baby was beginning to fall asleep at her breast; she lifted the little girl to her shoulder and began to pat the air from her.
"Sailors say that at sea you get a big storm every ten years," she said eventually, turning her face up to his. "One that brings up wreckage from the bottom and hurls it onto the clifftops. One that forms great spouts of seawater that reach into the clouds. A truly devastating storm."
"And what happens after these super storms, my darling?" her husband asked, humouring her. "Everything gets destroyed, I take it."
"For a time," Flora replied, placid and inscrutable as ever. "But after that, ships are made better. Sailors are made tougher. After the storm weakens you, it makes you stronger."
Alistair felt his heart constrict with a sudden, powerful clench; one so strong that he had to blink back the emotion. He took a deep gulp of air as she slithered from his lap, padding across the room to replace the sleepy baby gently in the cradle.
Returning upright from kissing Wynnie's plump cheek, Flora felt arms slide around her waist; the familiar warm bulk of a man pressing against her from behind. She reached up blindly – there was over a foot between their heights – and managed to brush her fingers against a bearded chin. Alistair raised a hand to capture hers, the matching golden twists on their wedding fingers clinking together as they interlaced palms.
"How long has it been since I told you how much I love you?" the king murmured, bending to breathe the words into her ear. At the same time his free hand rose to cup the underside of her swollen breast, kneading the silky flesh with a thumb. "My sweet wife."
"Ages," his queen replied throatily, pressing herself back against him with an unsubtle keenness. "At least an hour. Tell me again."
Alistair lifted her up with ease, carrying her like a newlywed bride towards the bed. Lowering Flora amidst the rumpled furs, he took a long moment to admire her resplendent nakedness: the glorious turmoil of the rich crimson hair, the sculpted curvature of her body. The silvered scars left by the Archdemon were emblazoned across her collarbone, her hip, the outside of her milky thigh.
"Maker's Breath," he said, awed by the depth and potency of his need for her. "I love you, Flo."
Flora reached up both arms towards him, equally desirous. Alistair sunk readily into her arms, covering her with his nakedness as the mattress dipped beneath their combined weight.
"I love you too," she whispered, just before her mouth was once more claimed by his.
OOC Author Note: And this is why they have eight kids, they're still acting like newlyweds a decade after they got married, lol
I'm also trying to will my unborn baby into EXCELLENT BABY BEHAVIOUR by writing infants who settle down to sleep IMMEDIATELY :D I'm gonna wish it into being!
Wynne :'( :'( :'( Omfgggggggghhhhhh. Gwyndolen is named in her memory :'( Can't believe she got killed off in a book!
Also one of the main plot points in this story is going to be how overprotective Alistair has become of Flo in the past decade - that's going to be a major arc for both of them, especially considering the name of the story!
Flo is still well into her fish obsession :P And she still secretly hopes that her spirits might come back to her one day!
Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you 3 3